One Paris Summer (Blink) (2 page)

“What?” I asked in disbelief. “No.”

He shrugged. “Believe what you want.”

I stared at him for several seconds before deciding he was full of crap. “Why do you always have to be such a jerk?”

Leave it to my brother to make a difficult situation even worse.

I WAS IN
no hurry to get off the plane, but Eric shoved me into the aisle. I was exhausted and unprepared for the long walk to the immigration lines.

Mom had warned us we’d have to talk to a customs agent before we could leave the airport. Since I was the one who had filled out the immigration card for our family, I handed it to the bored-looking man behind the counter, along with our passports. He riffled through the blank pages of our booklets, then examined the front page with all my information. “What is the purpose of your visit?” he asked, still studying the book.

“Uh . . . we’re seeing our dad.”

“Is he a French citizen?”

I shot a glance toward Eric, who rolled his eyes, apparently thinking I didn’t know the answer to the question. “No. He’s American.”

“Where will you be staying?”

“At his apartment.”

“How long will you be staying in Paris?”

“Too long,” I grumbled. When he looked up at me with a blank expression, I said, “Eight weeks.”

After a few more questions, he stamped a page in the middle of our passport books and handed them back. “Welcome to France.”

He might as well have said
Welcome to your summer of hell.

Eric took over and led the way to baggage claim. After instructing me to stay with the carry-on bags like it was an
important job, he proceeded to wrestle our three massive suitcases off the carousel.

“I’m not a kindergartner, Eric,” I said in a dry tone.

He scowled. “I never said you were,
Sophie
.” He pulled the second bag off the conveyor belt and shoved it toward me. “You wanna trade places?”

I caught it as it rolled to my side but didn’t say anything, tired of keeping up with him. He gave me an odd look, as though confused by my lack of reply, then grabbed the last of the suitcases.

We rolled our bags toward the exit in silence. Irritation rolled off Eric in waves. That, along with our bickering, made me realize he was nervous about seeing Dad too.

I wanted to turn around and beg my way back onto the plane for the return flight to New York. I’d never get away with it, which meant I had no choice, and that made me angrier than anything. It wasn’t my fault our father had run off and left us. Why should we have to change our lives to fit
his
schedule?

As I followed Eric, I took several deep breaths in a feeble attempt to keep myself together. It didn’t help that I was working on approximately two hours of sleep. I figured we had a several-minute walk, enough time for me to calm down, so I wasn’t prepared to turn a corner and find a crowd of people waiting behind a metal railing, many of them holding signs scrawled with passenger names. My eyes were drawn to the left, and I found him, peering over the head of a woman in front of him.

Dad.

The joy I felt at the sight of him caught me off guard, but it quickly slipped away, leaving fear in its wake. I wasn’t ready for this.

“Eric! Sophie!” he called.

Eric looked over his shoulder, making sure I was still behind him, then made a beeline for our father.

Dad closed the distance and engulfed Eric in his arms, holding him for longer than I would have expected. I watched them, realizing with sadness that Eric was now nearly as tall as our father. Then my gaze shifted to the black-haired woman next to them, who was studying me with open curiosity. Her scrutiny made me uncomfortable, but I felt compelled to return it.

She wore a royal blue skirt and a silky cream blouse. I wasn’t a shoe expert, but the cream leather pumps on her feet looked like they had cost a fortune. Her makeup was perfect, and her hair hung in loose curls that brushed her shoulders. But it was her face that captivated me the most. Her dark chocolate eyes were soft and kind, and her mouth tipped up into a warm smile.

I still stood on the secured side of the imaginary line, my feet anchored so that I blocked the traffic flow behind me. A middle-aged man bumped into my shoulder and broke loose into an angry tirade I didn’t understand, but I barely noticed. My breath was stuck in my chest.

I couldn’t move.

“William,” the woman next to my father murmured in a musical accent.

Dad set loose my embarrassed-looking brother and turned his attention to me, eyeing me as though I were a skittish wild animal. “Sophie.”

Less than a year had passed, but he looked older. New wrinkles were etched around his eyes and there was gray scattered throughout his dark hair, but his eyes had changed the most. I always remembered them filled with laugher and love; now they held only profound sadness.

I remained frozen, waiting on him. He was the one who had left
me
, and I’d waited ten months and six days for him to come back, growing angrier each day. Now I was facing him on unfamiliar turf. The unknowns of this trip scared me to death, and
all I wanted was for my dad to tell me everything was going to be okay—though
he
was the one who had done this to me.

I wasn’t about to make the first move.

Tears filled his eyes, although I was unsure why. Was it because I wasn’t running to him like I used to every night when I was little, greeting him with a squeal of delight when he came home from work, smelling of sweat and marble dust? Or was it because I’d grown an inch taller and my hair was three inches longer, and he now realized everything he’d missed? Had it hurt him to miss the father-daughter dance at my school? Did he long for our Sunday night ice cream dates at Cold Stone? Or the spring nights we’d sit together on the back porch, watching thunderstorms roll in? He’d stolen nearly a year of our lives together and I couldn’t forgive him for that, no matter how much my mother insisted I should.

But I loved him too. Still. In spite of all the pain he continued to cause me, and that pissed me off even more.

He took two steps toward me, crossing the line that separated my life from his, grabbing my arms and pulling me to him. I stiffened, then sank into his chest and fought the tears burning my eyes. My face pressed against his shirt and I breathed him in, taking in his changed scent. He had switched his usual musky shampoo for something lighter, and while I could still detect the crushed stone embedded in the fiber of his clothes, that was different too. And that was what broke loose my tears. His new smell. This man was no longer the Daddy I knew. He was gone from me forever.

“I’ve missed you, Sophie.” He clung to me, whispering in my ear as he smoothed the hair on the back of my head. “I’m so sorry.”

I could barely hear him through my sobs. He pulled me away from the crowd, still holding me close, and led me over to Eric
and the black-haired woman. I cried for nearly a minute before I settled down, now humiliated because everyone was staring at me . . . and because I had shown my father more emotion than he deserved.

Eric stood to the side, grimacing with irritation. I’d probably embarrassed him for life, but I didn’t miss the concerned lines around his mouth. When one of us was in trouble, we had the other’s back.

The black-haired woman held a tissue in her hand, but I could tell she wasn’t sure if she should offer it.

Eric took the tissue from her and held it out to me, searching my eyes for confirmation that I wasn’t about to fall into additional pieces. God forbid I should cause any more of a scene at Charles De Gaulle airport. He already had enough fodder for his “What I Did over Summer Vacation” essay without his irrational sister adding any more drama.

I snatched the tissue from his hand and swiped at my face, hoping I hadn’t smeared mascara everywhere.

Dad stood awkwardly at my side, as though unsure how to proceed. The woman gave him a pointed look, then her eyes darted to me and back to him.

He got the not-so-subtle cue and cleared his throat. “Sophie, Eric, I’d like you to meet my fiancée, Eva Mercier.”

Eric stared at her for a moment, then blushed and held out his hand.
“Bonjour, Madame Mercier. Enchanté. Merci pour m’accueillir en ta maison.”

Traitor.

Her eyes widened in surprise as she smiled and shook his hand, breaking into a musical burst of French.

Eric laughed and answered in her language, stumbling over several words, but she chuckled, and then said in English, “Your French is quite good.”

“Thanks. I’m hoping this summer will help me get an A in my AP French class next year.”

“AP French?” Dad asked, clearly impressed.

Eva cleared her throat, a delicate sound, but it stopped my father in his tracks. A warm smile lit up her face. “I’d like to say hello to Sophie. We don’t want her to feel left out.”

Dad’s face reddened, and he offered me an apologetic smile. “You’re right. This is my beautiful Sophie.”

I bristled. My father used to call me
my beautiful Sophie
all the time. He had no right to lay claim to me now. He’d relinquished that right the day he left.

Eva took a step toward me, and to my surprise she wrapped her arms around my shoulders and pulled me close. She gave me a tight squeeze and then leaned back, still holding my upper arms. “Sophie.” My name sounded sophisticated in her accent. “You’re just as lovely as your father said.”

My tongue lay in the bottom of my mouth like a slug.

She kissed both of my cheeks and then dropped her hold. “I’m so happy you’re here and so grateful to spend the summer with you.”

“Thank you.” I knew I should offer more—tell her I was excited to be here or I couldn’t wait to get to know her, but I couldn’t summon the energy to lie.

Eva seemed undeterred by my lack of enthusiasm. “Are you two hungry? Thirsty? You must be exhausted.”

Eric glanced to me and then back at Eva before taking over as the Brooks siblings’ spokesman. “We’re fine. I don’t know how much Sophie slept, but I had a long nap on the plane, so I’m good.”

Eva gave us a motherly smile, full of tenderness, and something prickled in my heart. I wanted to hate this woman who was stealing my father from me. She was supposed to be the
wicked stepmother from fairy tales. Of course, Dad hadn’t married her yet, so maybe the welcoming act was just that—an act. She didn’t want to give him a reason to back out of the wedding.

But even
I
doubted that possibility. Something about her seemed genuine.

“Why don’t we head back to the apartment,” she said in flawless English. “Your father and I have the morning off, so we’ll get some lunch with you before we head off”—she paused, then added—“to work.”

He was going to work? He hadn’t seen us for nearly a year, and he was leaving us already?

He must have read my thoughts, because he grimaced as he took the handle of one of my suitcases. “I don’t have enough vacation time built up yet, and we’re in a critical phase of the restoration of one the gargoyles on the south side of the church. I just need to drop by for a few hours and then I’ll be home.”

Home?
Home was four thousand miles away.

But if he sensed
that
sentiment, he ignored it. He and Eric led the way to the parking garage—both of them tugging a suitcase. I trailed behind with Eva. She was probably worried I would have another mental breakdown and try to run away.

“May I take your suitcase, Sophie?” she asked sweetly, giving me her full attention.

My grip tightened. “No thanks. I’ve got it.”

I knew I was being a brat—but my entire life was in utter chaos, and the only thing I had control over was the stupid suitcase my mother had lent me for the trip. I hated the ugly brown-and-green print, which made my attachment to it even stranger, but it contained half of the personal belongings I’d packed for the next eight weeks.

As we walked into the parking garage, my father broke into a mini-lecture about the best way to overcome jet lag. He stopped
at the back of a black sedan that was sleek and shiny and totally unlike anything my father had ever driven. He and Eric wrestled the luggage into the trunk. After he closed the lid, he seemed to notice my confusion. “It’s Eva’s brother’s car. We don’t need a car in the city.”

My eyebrows lifted in surprise. He’d mentioned that he took the Metro to work, but it had never occurred to me that he didn’t also have a car.

My father opened the back passenger door and ushered me in. I glanced up at him, but he was looking over the top of the car at Eva. I immediately slid into the backseat, smashing up against the lone suitcase that didn’t fit in the trunk. My brother got in next to me and shut the door.

A few minutes later, Eva guided the car out of the parking garage and into the gray morning, all of us mired in silence. Eva was the first to come to her senses, and she started to ply us with questions about our flight, our schoolwork, and our friends. Our lives. Eric, the traitor, gave her detailed answers and added information in response to Dad’s follow-up questions. He seemed suddenly accepting of our incarceration. My answers were short and concise, and despite how it probably looked, I
was
trying to be as polite as possible. It was hard being civil when my father kept staring at the woman he was marrying the next day like he couldn’t wait for his wedding night. It made me want to barf. Once I got the nausea part under control, tears began to burn my eyes again.