Bring the Rain (22 page)

“Oh, Dad. I don’t need money.”

“Open it, Autumn.” He places the envelope face up in my palm. I slip my finger in and pull out thick card stock.

I choke back a sob. It’s an airplane ticket.

To Paris, France.

I’m leaving tomorrow morning.

“Dad…” I cover my mouth.

“I was wrong to put you in the position to decide. You should go to Paris. I know with Colt you can’t be here right now. Trust me, I understand. You need to go, but please,” he reaches out and squeezes my forearm, “consider this home.”

“I will.” I step into his chest, wrapping my arms around him. “Thank you for not making me decide, Dad.”

He pats my back. “Have you spoke with Colt yet?” He asks.

“No.”

“Well,” he says, “it’s not my business, but I think you need to chat before you leave.”

“I leave in the morning.”

“That’s eight hours from now. I’ve already got you packed up.” So that’s why he stayed home and sent me out to the barn this afternoon.

“I’m not spending my last night with Colt.” I put the ticket back in the envelope. “I want to be with you.”

The Louvre is gorgeous
. The back glass pyramid structure is stunning, but there’s something magical about its traditional stone side. It’s my favorite place to do homework. I swear, my math scores double when I’m near it. Three weeks in France and I’m already done with the first draft of my final history project, Art of the French Revolution. It’s easy to research when I can literally walk through my textbook.

I’ve been working on a sketch of
Psyche Revived by Cupid’s Kiss
for a week. The marble sculpture of the lovers has been nothing but distracting on my daily visits to the Louvre. I need to finish this sketch and move on. I study my lines, some too soft and some too blunt. They aren’t working. I can’t capture the way Psyche’s arm lifts in desperation for Cupid’s face or the way he cradles her, knowing his need to rescue her from the poisonous sleep of the underworld.

Ugh. This is crap. The way I slanted cupid’s nose makes him look like an alligator or something. The sketch is worse than my attempt back in New York when all I did was draw based off photos from my art textbook.

I erase my line, reforming the nose. Eh, it’ll do. I rise from the bench where I’m sketching, taking a step closer to get a glimpse of Cupid cradling Psyche from another angle. Maybe it’ll help. The way his palm presses into her cheek. There. That’ll help too.

I look down at my pad and let my fingers feather out some lose, wispy lines. Suddenly, I’m bumped and my pencil digs in deep, gashing a hole into my drawing. I glance over at a woman in a red trench coat who’s stepped into my view.

“Excusez-moi.” She mutters in perfect French, not bothering to look back to make eye contact. She also doesn’t move out of my line of sight.

I roll my eyes and step away. This isn’t a battle worth fighting. She’s not the first person to take my spot here. I’ll be back tomorrow. Hell, I’ve got all year.

I reach to grab my sketchpad off the floor before she steps on it. The book’s flipped to a side-view portrait of Dad. His wrinkles prominent, worry fixed in his brow. I remember that night on Todd’s deck. We sat, watching the sunset, in silence. It should have been awkward, but it wasn’t. It actually felt comforting, like it used to when I was little.

I thumb through the book. There’s a front view of Howdy’s face. His eyes deep and face struck with new scars. Colt’s tree is painful to look at, but it’s drawn well. Somehow captured the strength of the trunk in balance with the delicate leaves. Through the sketch of the tree, I can make out the sketch on the next piece of paper. Colt’s hand.

No. That’s not one I can see today.

I close the sketchpad and return it to its safe spot in the new hobo purse Mom got me. I need to get moving if I’m going to make our lunch date.

I open my umbrella and cross a few streets to the café where Mom and I meet for lunch a few times a week. I’m still not over the shock of watching the September rain run down my boots. If only I could send some back to the ranch—Dad’s reached desperation. He set up a meeting with potential investors, a last attempt at saving the place. Hopefully they’ll take him on while still letting him run the ranch the way he wants it. It all depends on if he can convince them the ranch is worth it. He ran into a guy at the bank who made him a nice offer to build a wind farm there, but that does nothing for the community. 

“‘Ut-omn.” Zek, our usual server waves me over. “Votre siege.” My seat. He pulls out a velvet upholstered chair at a small round table. He smiles, his teeth glowing. “Vous etez bella aujourd’hui.” I pause, trying to translate.

He laughs. “You’re beautiful today,” he says as he pushes in my chair. “Everyday. True.”

“Thank you, Zek.”

“Thé au lait?”

“Oui, merci.”

He hands me a slip of paper before he walks away. I unfold it, kind of expecting this. He’s been asking me out since they day we met. 

“Please, Autumn, beautiful girl, have dinner with me tonight?” It’s written in small cursive. I smile, but a pit in my stomach burns. He nods back at me while he waits for the barista to fill my cup. His black hair is tied back today, usually he wears it down. The style’s so different from the preferred American shorter chop. All the guys here are growing their hair long. In about a year, I’m sure American guys will pick up the trend.

“Viola,” Zek says as he slides the cup of hot tea with a tiny pitcher filled with steamed milk onto the table. “What do you think? Come out tonight, meet my friends? You need friends ‘Ut’-omn. Paris alone is not fun.”

“You’re not giving up, are you?”

“Never,” he says with a smile, his deep-set dimples pop. “Do us a favor. Come, please?”

“I’ll consider it.”

He claps his hand, “Good enough. Ah, la mere,” he says, nodding to Mom running across the street. He squeezes my shoulder with one hand while he waves with the other.

“Welcome, Jessica. Un cafe?”

She tucks her hair behind her ears. I love seeing her with her hair down. It’s so much better than her New York business clips and up-do’s. She looks younger in France.

“Oui. Un double, s’il vous plait.”

“Double espresso? Mom, you’ll shake.”

“No, I need it.” She reaches out and squeezes my hand. “How are you feeling today? Another headache?”

“A small one, but not too bad.”

“Maybe they’re getting better?” She positions the chair closer to mine, so she can see the room too.

“Hopefully.” But I doubt it. Ever since I’ve arrived in Paris, I’ve been getting these pressure headaches at the base of my skull. They come and go without a trigger. She’s worried, but I’m sure it’s just my body’s way of transitioning to the damp weather. I don’t want to talk about it again. “So, how was your morning?"

“Wonderful. I landed Les Fées today!”

“The fairies? The new boutique on Les Champs Elysees with the glass orbs in the entrance?” I pour cream into my tea, the white swirling with the black water.

“Yes, and I’ve only got three weeks to market and launch their international website.” She pulls out her iPad and flips to her calendar. “I’ve already made an appointment in Italy for Friday.”

“This Friday?” I take a sip. Ack, still too hot.

“Yes. And then Sunday I’m popping over to London, and Tuesday I’m off to Norway.”

“So” I clear the tickle in my throat. “How long will you be away?”

“Six days.” She grabs my hand. “You’ll be okay, won’t you, honey?” She opens her briefcase and pulls out some papers. “Ambrose gets these perks with his company. He thought you would enjoy them. We’d love for you to use them while I’m gone.” She hands me gift certificates to some fancy spa. “I think they’ll help with your headaches a lot.”

“Thanks, Mom. That’ll be really nice.” I shift my fork so it’s more equidistant from the knife. Our relationship picked up exactly where we left it, meeting at restaurants, exchanging brief stories, and respecting one another’s space. It doesn’t feel as nice as it did before though. After spending so much time with Dad, now I feel like I’m living alone. My bed may have Egyptian cotton sheets, but when I roll over at night I miss the hiss from the deflating plastic air mattress in Todd’s office and Dad’s snores sliding under the door.

Zek slides two plates of salad onto the table. Fennel, arugula, brussel sprouts, cranberries and brie. Not a speck of red meat. Mom’s type of meal.

“Thank you,” I say to him. He smiles as he leaves, his eyes lingering.

“Oh, Autumn, he’s really cute. Don’t you think?”

My face heats and I roll my eyes.

“Come off it. I know you’re not blind. Why don’t you ask him out?”

I shrug, “Because he’s already asked me.”

“He has? Autumn, he seems so nice. Go out with him. It’ll make me feel better when I’m gone to know you’re meeting people and having fun.”

“I have met people, Mom.”

“The old tour guide from Le Louvre doesn’t count.” She sighs as she dabs her napkins against her lips. “I wish I’d enrolled you in one of the French American schools. Maybe we should pull you out of that online post secondary school? You need friends.”

“Mom, I like the online school. Plus, I’m nearly done with my math course and I’ve drafted one of my final projects. I’ve been working hard so I can finish up and enjoy my time here, ya know?”

“Well, ease up. Don’t work too hard and miss your life moments, all right? Promise me.” Mom’s adopted the French attitude of life for me, but constantly ignores her own advice, unless it involves Ambrose. Their dinner dates are like seven hours long.

“I promise. Actually, Zek invited me to out to dinner tonight.”

“Wonderful! I’ll be swamped preparing my proposals anyway. You’ve been amazing at understanding the time I have to put into this work.”

“It’s all right. It’s your dream, right Mom?”

“Since I was a little girl.”

“Then go for it.” I pick at the hard shell on my slice of baguette. “It’ll pay off.”

We chat about the rain while we sip butternut squash soup. I tell her about sketching the Eiffel Tour and the rude lady at The Louvre and she tells me about her date last night with Ambrose. It’s weird to talk to Mom about dates. She dated in New York, but never was excited enough to talk about the guys with me. Ambrose is special though, always sending her flowers and leaving little notes around our apartment. It’s softened her in a way. I like it.

And I like Ambrose. He treats me like an adult and listens to me ramble about how I’m structuring my essay for my final project. We can have intelligent conversations, but he never shoves his intellect in my face. He calls before he stops in and doesn’t hang out at our place when Mom’s not around. I've also never found the toilet seat up.

“I’ll see you in the morning?” Mom asks after she pays her bill.

“Oh, are you staying at Ambrose’s?” I pretend to stay casual, covering how awkward the question is.

“No. I’m staying in tonight to work, but you’re going out, right?”

“Yeah, but not all night.”

“Well, obviously I want you to come home. That’s non-negotiable. I imagine, however, the hour when you return I’ll already be sleeping. What time should we meet for brunch tomorrow?”

“Nine thirty?”

“Can’t, I have a conference call with J.J. Johnson. Can we make it ten fifteen?”

“Sure, I’ll sleep in.”

“Great,” she gives me a hug, kissing my cheeks like the French do. “I love you. Have fun tonight and be safe, okay?”

“I love you too. I will.”

I remain seated, sipping my tea. Zek grins at me as he watches Mom leave. He approaches the table with a sly grin. “Does this mean yes?”

“Oui,” I say as I lean forward, forcing myself to turn on my flirt. It’s time for me to move on from Colt. “Where should we meet?”

“Bien.” He’s already reaching over the table now, grasping my hand and his thumb tracing a circle on my wrist. “Here. Eight o’clock.”

***

I hop out of the taxi and pop open the purple and white polka dot umbrella Mom gave me as a welcome gift to Paris. Mom laid out a blue dress with lace for me on the bed. She bought me a whole wardrobe with capped sleeves to cover my scars. It’s one perk of being a daughter to a fashion marketer. I always have something to wear. I chose cream pumps to compliment the dress, but they make me wobble a bit as I cross the street. After a summer of wearing flats, it’s hard to get used to being back in high heels.

Zek’s leaning against the café’s brick wall wearing an open cardigan, v-neck t-shirt, and a loose long scarf. Most of the guys accessorize with scarves here, all looking like they are trying to step out of a magazine, but the difference with Zek is that he actually is doing that.

Mom recognized him the moment he walked away to get our first café order. Calvin Klein, last spring issue, denim and underwear. I didn’t care at the time. It’s Paris—there are models everywhere. Zek’s never mentioned modeling though, which makes him much more appealing. There’s definitely something more to him than a handsome face and hot body.

“Ut-omn.” He pulls me into his chest, kissing my cheek. “You came.”

“Were you worried I wouldn’t?” He takes my hand in his and we walk. My palm tingles in all the right ways. Mom’s right. This will be good for me.