One Paris Summer (Blink) (5 page)

THE WEDDING OF
Eva Mercier to William Brooks was a small, quiet affair. Thankfully, only eighteen guests were present, three of which were the children of the bride and groom. An hour and a half before the wedding there was some question as to whether there would only be two, but Camille stormed through the apartment door fifty minutes before we needed to leave for the church.

I was in the bathroom finishing my makeup when she threw the door open and glared at my reflection in the mirror. We might have had a communication barrier, but I had no problem interpreting her intent.

I made one last swipe with my mascara wand and—heaving a heavy sigh—grabbed my cosmetic bag and started to leave the room. When I reached the opening, she blocked my path, her eyes burning with hatred.

I forced a smile. “If you want me to leave so you can use the bathroom”—I slowed my speech and enunciated every word—“you need to get out of the
way
.”

“I think we need to make some things clear,” she said in her perfect English. She had even less of an accent than her mother.

This girl pissed me off, but I wasn’t about to let her see that. I put a hand on my hip, jutting it out for effect. “Yes, I agree.” I lifted my eyebrows in an exaggerated manner, then said sweetly, “Since I seem to be the only one with manners, why don’t you go first, Camille?”

Anger flickered in her eyes before her expression settled into simple disdain. “This is my home. You are a guest here.”

“I couldn’t agree with you more.”

“I may have to share a room with you, but it’s
my
room. You’re only
borrowing
a bed.”

“How gracious of you.”

“And you will not touch my things again.”

I held up my free hand, clutching my cosmetic bag against my stomach with the other. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Good,” she said in a hateful tone. “Then
maybe
you will survive the summer.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” I pulled back my shoulders so I could look into her dark brown eyes. Thankfully, she was only a couple inches taller than me. “I don’t want to be here any more than you want me here. So we only have to endure the summer, then we can both go back to our regular lives.”

She didn’t answer. Instead, she stayed in the doorway, looking like she was about to throttle me. Perhaps she expected me to cower in fear, but I wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction.

“Are you going to stand there all day, or are you going to let me out?” I tilted my head and gave her a blank look that was intended to convey indifference.

She backed out of my way, then brushed her shoulder into mine as I walked past. She slammed the door behind her, and I stood in the hall for a moment, wondering why this girl hated me so much.

My father, dressed in his wedding finery, was standing in the open doorway to his bedroom.

I ignored the worried look on his face and marched into my—correction,
Camille’s
—room and dug a dress out of my suitcase. Of course it was wrinkled. After I put it on, I went into Eric’s room and found him with an open book.

I stood in the doorway, my eyes widening in surprise. “Are you actually reading?”

He shrugged and put it down. “I found it in the bookcase. It’s a Tom Clancy novel. In French.”

“You don’t even read Tom Clancy novels in English.”

He shrugged again. “I was bored. What do you want?”

“Our evil stepsister won’t let me unpack my clothes. Can I hang some things in your closet later?” At least then I wouldn’t feel like a hobo.

“Sure. Whatever,” he said, picking the book back up.

I gaped at him for several seconds. It would seem I had not only landed in a foreign country, but an alternate universe.

Camille finished getting ready moments before it was time to go, easing her mother’s anxiety slightly. Eva looked radiant in her short white dress, perfectly offset by her bouquet of red roses and white lilies. Dressed in the sophisticated gray dress I’d pulled out of the closet, Camille looked just as beautiful as her mother. Then there was me, little Sophie Brooks from Charleston, South Carolina, representing her southern roots in a pink sundress and white sandals—and feeling inadequate in so many ways compared to the two women in front of me.

Wearing gray dress slacks, Eric fidgeted with the red tie knotted at the collar of his long-sleeved white shirt. I almost mentioned that he and Camille seemed to have color coordinated their outfits, but bit my tongue. Eric had lost his apathetic mood from earlier, and the dark gleam in his eye and his clenched jaw suggested he was slightly volatile. I knew it wasn’t directed toward me, but I didn’t want to be the one to set him off.

I didn’t have time to dwell on my insecurities or the fact that everyone seemed to match but me, because we were hustled out the door and down to two waiting taxis. Eva and Camille got into the first one, and we piled into the second—Dad in the front passenger seat and Eric and me in the back.

We rode in silence, my father’s leg bouncing slightly—a telltale sign of nerves. If he was so anxious, why was he doing this? I wanted to ask him, but I didn’t want to fight. We’d spoken barely twenty words to each other the night before—and that word count was generous—making it apparent he was already tired of dealing with my attitude.

The service was held in the chapel of a centuries-old Catholic church. Eric stood in as my father’s best man, and Camille was her mother’s maid of honor. I sat on a hard wooden pew, bored and . . . hurt. My father hadn’t even found a role for me in the wedding. I wasn’t sure why I cared. Hadn’t I told Eric I wouldn’t do it even if he made me?

A photographer took photos afterward, and I learned that Eva’s sister and brother were in attendance with their spouses and children. My father worked with one of the other guests, but it seemed like most of them were Eva’s friends. It suddenly occurred to me that we were the only ones from home here for Dad. The sadness I felt for him caught me by surprise before I quickly tapped it down. There were several children ranging from preschool age to preteen, but I had trouble putting together who belonged to whom.

Since the wedding party was so small, the photos didn’t take long, and before I knew it we were being taxied off to a restaurant. I ended up in a cab with Eric and one of Eva’s friends. Dad had gone with Eva and Camille after someone reassured him my brother and I would be right behind him. Eric spent most of the ten-minute ride conversing with the woman in his broken French while I leaned my forehead against the window, staring out at the Parisian streets.

I’d never felt more alone in my life.

After we pulled up to the restaurant, I made a quick visit to the restroom. I stared at my reflection in the mirror, fighting the tears building behind my eyes.

“You will not cry over that jerk who calls himself your father,” I ordered.

But tears swam in the eyes of the girl in the mirror anyway.

I spent several minutes thinking of things that would dry my eyes, potential methods of torturing Camille Mercier ranking high on the list. When I finally got my emotions in check, I found the small private room for the dinner. What I saw there made me blink back new tears. Dad and Eva were seated together on one side of the table, and Eric and Camille were right beside them, but the lone empty chair at the table was down by Eva’s nieces and nephews at the opposite end.

My father glanced up when I walked into the room, and his eyes filled with guilt and horror when he realized where the seating arrangement had left me. He leaned close to Eva’s ear, presumably filling her in on the situation. Panic flashed in her eyes as she scanned the seats around the table.

“Sophie,” she said, standing. “We’ll move you closer.”

My father had arrived in the first taxi, and I’d arrived in the last and proceeded to spend several minutes in the restroom. In all that time, it hadn’t occurred to him to save me a seat.

I stared into his face. “I’d rather sit down here.”

He started to say something, his guilt obvious, but I ignored him and sat by the preschool-aged girl who was playing with a small doll. She spoke to me in French as I scooted in my chair, and I repeated the phrase Jenna had taught me before I left: “
Je ne parle pas français.
”

She looked slightly confused by this and quickly forgot about me, but the preteen boy next to me said, “I speak English.”

I offered him a smile.

He grinned, his cheeks tingeing pink. “I’m Michel. I can translate if you’d like. I need the practice.”

I didn’t really care what anyone had to say, but it beat doing nothing for the next hour or so. “Okay,” I whispered. “But I’m most interested in anything that’s said about my father or my brother and me.”

A sly grin spread across his boyish face and he winked at me conspiratorially. “So I’m James Bond,” he said in a thick French accent.

I lifted my eyebrows at the comparison. “Yeah. Exactly like that.”

Michel helped me order from the menu and then told me about the new bike he’d recently gotten for his birthday. I nodded and tried to look interested, especially since it was obvious he had a small crush on me. I wasn’t a complete ogre. Talking to Michel was better than sitting there in silent despair. Besides, he was sweet and easy to talk to.

I studied Camille out of the corner of my eye. After our encounters, I suspected she probably flew a broom all over the city instead of taking the subway, so her behavior surprised me. She spent most of her time talking to her aunt and uncle, smiling sweetly and speaking without the sharpness that edged her voice whenever she spoke to me. One of her cousins got up and wandered around the table, stopping next to Camille’s chair and asking her something I obviously didn’t understand. Camille laughed and touched her fingertip to the little girl’s nose, then pulled her onto her lap.

Maybe Eva was right. Maybe Camille and I could become friends after all. We both just needed some time to get used to all the changes.

Camille turned to face her aunt halfway down the table, and her gaze landed on mine. Her soft smile fell and her eyes turned hard as they pierced mine, making it very clear that she wasn’t having the same charitable thoughts.

Whatever
. I found myself okay with that, which was uncharacteristic. I usually wanted everyone to like me.

After we ate, the waitstaff brought out a small two-tiered cake and bottles of champagne. Only the two youngest children were deemed too young to be served champagne flutes. The rest of us lifted our glasses to toast the bride and groom. I had to admit my father looked happy when he stared at his new wife. I honestly couldn’t remember him ever looking at my mother that way. That knowledge hurt worse than anything else.

“What was the toast?” I asked Michel, my curiosity getting the better of me, especially since Eva and her sister had teared up and Camille’s scowl was deeper than ever.

“My father said he hoped Aunt Eva and Camille will find the happiness they once knew.”

“Before Camille’s father died?” I asked. As ticked as I was at my dad, I couldn’t imagine how I’d handle it if I lost him forever. Sure, he lived thousands of miles away now, but at least we could talk.

“Yes. They were very happy before—
oh
!” Michel said, licking frosting off his fork. “Uncle Thomas is now talking about your father’s civil service yesterday.”

I turned to the boy in confusion. “What civil service?”

“The marriage service.”

I shook my head, wondering what had gotten lost in translation. “But we just went to their marriage service.”

Michel’s mouth puckered. “No. In France, the church service is”—he struggled to find a word—“extra. Here, you must get married in the court. My uncle said it was a lucky thing the magistrate relaxed the four week bans rule.”

I took a deep breath. “Wait. One thing at a time. What are bans?”

“When a duo applies for a wedding, they post the ban. It must post four weeks before the duo can get married.”

“Four weeks? But your uncle said they relaxed the bans. So was it shorter?”

He listened for a moment and shook his head. “No. It was four weeks, but since your father is American, it should have been posted longer.”

I grabbed his arm, desperation washing over me. “You’re telling me they applied for the license
four weeks
ago?”

“Yes.” He nodded with earnest eyes, oblivious to my inner turmoil.

“And they were really married yesterday afternoon.” I swallowed, trying to dislodge the lump in my throat. “Everything today was superfluous.”

“Sur-per-flus?” he asked in confusion.

“Unnecessary.”

His confusion remained, but he finally seemed to understand that I was unhappy.

“Not needed,” I supplied.

“I . . .” Uncertainty wavered on his face. “No. Many Catholics do it this way.”

The walls were suddenly closing in around me. “I need to go to the restroom.” I scooted my chair out and glanced down at my father, who was deep in conversation with someone at the end of the table, but Eric’s gaze lifted to mine with a questioning look.

I shook my head and left the room, heading for the front door. I walked several feet down the sidewalk and rested my butt against the building.

He’d lied to us.

My tears broke loose, silently streaming down my face. If the bans were posted four weeks ago, that meant he’d asked Eva to marry him over a month ago. But when he called a week ago, he said he’d
just
proposed. Why hadn’t he told us earlier? And why
hadn’t he taken us to his real wedding yesterday? We were here, so he’d willfully dis-included us.

I leaned the back of my head against the building, wondering what had happened to my previously perfect life.

“Vous allez bien?”

I turned to face a guy close to my age, standing to my right. He was a good six inches taller than my five four. He had dark, wavy hair and deep blue eyes that were filled with concern.

I wiped my face with the back of my hand, released a tiny sob, and said, “I don’t know what you said. I don’t know what anyone is saying here.” I started to cry again.