Chasing Paris Read online

  CHASING PARIS

  Jen Carter

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  Text copyright © Jen Carter

  All Rights Reserved

  To my family

  Table of Contents

  PROLOGUE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  Remembering Summer Excerpt

  PROLOGUE

  E

  va stood at the end of a long, sloping driveway lined by linden and oak trees. She looked toward the house sprawling across the hilltop in front of her and thought about the silence filling that house. She thought about the loneliness emanating from it. Warm air whipped Eva’s hair against her face, and she thought about her sister’s last days taking place in that silent, lonely house.

  She clutched six envelopes, each containing her sister Lizzie’s final wishes and regrets.

  The notes are ready, Eva had said minutes before, standing beside her sister’s bed and noticing that Lizzie’s frail body was nearly swallowed by the pillows surrounding her. The one to Billy, Eva continued, the one to your friends in Paris, the one to your granddaughters, and of course the three separate ones to your children. I’ve done my best to mimic your handwriting, and they are all sealed away in envelopes, ready to be mailed.

  Lizzie had nodded, closing her eyes and straining to swallow. Her hair lay scattered across the pillows like silver strands of moonlight, a beautiful and unfair contrast to her gaunt, lined face.

  Don’t mail the one to the granddaughters, she had said. I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to end my life by beginning a family quarrel. Now is not the time. Please go send the others.

  Eva had nodded and left her sister’s room. Now, outside the house, standing at the bottom of the hill and next to the mailbox, she mulled over her sister’s words.

  And she thought about their seventy-five years as sisters. The laughter of their childhood. The freedom of their teenage years. The recklessness of their twenties. Lizzie’s mistakes. Eva’s faith. Fiercely protective, all they ever had was each other—from the beginning until now, when Lizzie’s cancer was about to declare itself victor.

  Eva looked at the six envelopes. One by one she placed them in the mailbox. Holding the last one in both hands, she studied the names on the front and thought about Lizzie’s words one more time. Don’t mail the one to the granddaughters. I don’t want to end my life by beginning a family quarrel. Now is not the time.

  Eva pictured the girls. Inseparable sisters. Fiercely protective sisters. Sisters whose love for each other rivaled that of Eva and Lizzie’s.

  Still picturing the girls, she put the final envelope in the mailbox.

  “Actually, now is the time,” she said under her breath.

  For a moment, she gazed toward the cloudless sky, feeling the warmth of late spring on her face and listening to the breeze push past her. Then she brushed wind-blown wisps of hair behind her ears and began climbing the hill back to Lizzie’s cold, silent house.

  It was time to say goodbye.

  ONE

  LOS GATOS

  “G

  et up.”

  The words flew from April Winthrow’s mouth as she swung open her sister’s bedroom door. Standing in the doorway with folded arms, she continued without pause. “We’ve got a problem, and Dad’s coming over right now to explain.”

  Amy was used to her sister’s wake up calls. Normally, however, they came on weekdays when Amy was going to be late for work. This was Sunday. She lifted her head and squinted at her alarm through the curly blonde hair criss-crossing her face.

  “It’s not even ten o’clock,” she groaned. “Why are you waking me up on a Sunday before ten o’clock?” Her head dropped back to the pillow.

  “It doesn’t matter what time it is,” April said, tightening her arms across her chest. “You need to get up. Now.”

  Amy peered toward the doorway with unfocused eyes just in time to see her sister’s fuzzy outline whip around and stalk down the hall. She yawned.

  “April, I don’t want Dad to come over,” she called. “I want to sleep.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” April said from the kitchen.

  Amy groaned again, rubbing her eyes. She rolled out of bed and found her way down the hall to the shower. Ten minutes later—with the help of a blast of hot water—she joined her sister in the kitchen, finally feeling like herself.

  “Coffee,” she muttered, breezing past the kitchen table where April sat and heading straight for the coffee pot on the far counter. She poured a cup and said over her shoulder, “Thanks for making this.”

  April didn’t respond.

  Amy sipped from her mug and walked toward the table. Sitting down, she said, “What do you have there?” She nodded at a piece of paper on the table.

  April slid the paper toward her sister until it touched Amy’s coffee mug.

  “This,” she said, “came in the mail.” She took a sip of her own coffee. “This morning I remembered that we didn’t grab the mail yesterday, so I went out to get it. And this is what I found.”

  Amy picked up the piece of paper. She scanned the longhand, trying to place the writing. The words didn’t compute the first time, but upon her second reading, she began to understand April’s less-than-cheery mood.

  To my granddaughters—

  My greatest sadness is in not knowing you. This I cannot change, but I do hope that you can forgive my absence. I have loved you from afar, and I have cherished the pictures and stories about you that Eva has shared with me. Please accept the gifts coming to you as a piece of my heart.

  Elizabeth Hathaway

  Amy’s eyes met April’s. They had lived side-by-side most of their lives—throughout childhood, most of college, and even now after college—and despite their different personalities, they often could read each other’s thoughts. Amy knew April was as confused as she was, but she couldn’t stop herself from asking the obvious question.

  “What is this?”

  April shrugged.

  Amy read the note again, slowly, focusing on one word at a time. It didn’t help.

  “This is why Dad’s coming over—to explain this? When is he getting here?”

  “He’s already here,” their father said, letting himself into the little house his daughters rented. Spenser Winthrow smiled at Amy and April as he turned the corner to the kitchen, but the smile looked painfully uncomfortable. “Good morning,” he said.

  He sat down across from them at the kitchen table. His often-sunburned skin was redder than normal, and dark circles rimmed his blue eyes. He was a big man, solid and strong, who most often carried his bulk with the energy of a man half his age. As a professor of Classics, he claimed it was the combination of old philosophers and bright young
minds that kept him on his toes. This morning, though, he looked tired.

  “Who is Elizabeth Hathaway?” April asked. She leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms in the same manner she had when waking up Amy.

  “May I see what came in the mail from her?” Spenser asked.

  Amy handed him the note. He studied it, taking his time to read and reread it.

  Amy and April exchanged glances.

  “Dad, it doesn’t matter how many times you read it,” April said. “The words aren’t going to change.”

  “Okay,” Spenser said, placing the note on the kitchen table. He sighed, leaning back in his chair. “Okay, here we go.”

  Amy crossed her arms to match her sister’s.

  Spenser cleared his throat. “Elizabeth Hathaway,” he paused, eyes still on the note, “is your mom’s mother. Her biological mother. She is,” he paused again, “Eva’s sister.”

  He lifted his eyes toward his daughters and waited for a reaction, but none came. Amy and April stared at their dad, each sure he would say more. When they realized his explanation was over—that it really was as basic as it sounded—April broke the silence.

  “What?”

  “I guess there’s no way to sugar coat this.” Spenser leaned forward, clasping his hands and resting them on the table. He kept his eyes down. “Your mom had it tough when she was a little girl, and she doesn’t like to think about her childhood. Her father died, and then her mother abandoned her and her sisters. Elizabeth’s sister—Eva—stepped in and adopted them. Eva became your mom’s mother. She became your grandmother. Your nana. But biologically speaking, Nana is really Mom’s aunt.”

  Amy and April’s eyes grew. They continued to stare at their father, but they could feel each other’s surprise—a strength in their shared confusion—which grew with every passing second.

  Spenser continued, “No one even knew where Elizabeth was until about the time that you girls were born. We imagine—” He stopped himself and shook his head. “It doesn’t matter what we imagine was going on while she was gone. When she did return, she wanted to make amends with your mother, but too much damage had been done. There was no relationship to recover.”

  Spenser picked up the note again. Amy and April watched their father as he fiddled with its corner.

  “So Nana’s not really our grandma?” April asked.

  Spenser shook his head. “Not technically.”

  “Mom really didn’t want a relationship with her mother when she came back?” Amy asked.

  Spenser shook his head again. “Would you?”

  Amy looked at her sister. “I don’t know. I might want to find out if there was a reason she left in the first place.”

  Spencer placed the note on the table and leaned back in his chair. “I suppose your mom had put enough pieces of the puzzle together as she was growing up. Enough to know that she didn’t want to have a relationship with Elizabeth—or, Lizzie, as Eva always calls her.” He pointed to his daughters. “And I suggest that you don’t bring this up to your mom. I can promise you the conversation won’t go well. If you have any questions about the items Lizzie left to you, go through me. I’ll be working with Nana to sort out her sister’s things.”

  “Speaking of that,” April said, “do you know what was left to us?”

  Spenser nodded. “I spoke with Nana yesterday when we found out Lizzie had passed away. She gave me a run-down of the will. Lizzie put money into special accounts for each of you. It has to be used for education. She will pay for you to go back to school for a graduate degree, wherever you want, whatever degree you want, no matter the cost.”

  Amy’s eyebrows rose.

  “Ugh,” April muttered. “That’s wasted on me.” She looked toward her sister. “You can get two degrees and take the money set aside for me.”

  Amy’s eyebrows rose higher. “Really?”

  “Sure.” April turned back to Spenser. “Anything else?”

  Spenser nodded. “Yes, but April, if you didn’t like the money, you’re not going to like the rest.” He looked from his oldest daughter toward his youngest. “Amy, it’s right up your alley, though. She also left you a library full of books to share. Over a thousand books. But it’s complicated—so you won’t get them right away. Of all those books, about fifty were left to someone else. We have to go through and find those particular titles and deliver them to their new owner.”

  “Can we help?” Amy asked.

  Spenser shook his head. “No.”

  “Okay, wait,” Amy said. She cocked her head to one side and narrowed her eyes. “You found out yesterday that this Elizabeth-Lizzie person died, and you didn’t call us about it?”

  Spenser shifted his weight. “Well, if she hadn’t sent you that note in the mail, I don’t think you’d know even now. Mom got something in the mail from Lizzie yesterday, too. When we saw it, we thought she might have sent you something. But then we didn’t hear from you, so we figured we were in the clear. We probably would have told you the gifts from Lizzie were from a long-lost relative and left it at that.”

  The sisters looked at each other. April stood and walked to the counter where they kept their coffee pot. She poured herself another cup. Then she reached for another mug and filled it.

  “I’m done here,” she said, walking back to the kitchen table and putting the second mug on the table in front of her father. “Books, school, and a woman who we shouldn’t mention to Mom. That’s all I needed to know.” She paused and pointed first at her father and then at Amy. “But, Dad, I think you might be here awhile answering her questions.” She nudged the coffee cup toward Spenser. “Drink up.”

  And April was right—Amy had a lot of questions. Spenser wasn’t surprised by his daughters’ reactions. While they had similar appearances with their blonde hair and green eyes, the similarities stopped there. April was headstrong and abhorred change. She would convince herself that nothing was different and remain happy that way. Lizzie would have no impact on her life. Amy was curious and often let her imagination sweep her away. She would mull over the situation and play out a thousand scenarios in her head.

  If Mom never forgave Lizzie, did Eva ever forgive her? Amy asked. Did Lizzie leave Mom anything? Do we know why she wants us to further our education? What was special about the fifty books that Lizzie didn’t leave to us? Did Lizzie live nearby?

  Spenser couldn’t answer many of her questions, but Amy continued for twenty minutes, rewording and rethinking the questions, hoping to trigger a couple satisfying answers from her father.

  When the questions slowed and Amy began staring out the kitchen window in thought, Spenser rose from the table. “I better get back to Mom and Nana,” he said.

  Amy turned from the window and looked toward her dad. “When is the funeral?”

  He shook his head. “No funeral. That was stated in the will. She’ll be cremated, and we’ll do as she asked with her ashes.”

  “What’s happening with the ashes?”

  Spenser halfway smiled and patted his daughter’s shoulder. “I don’t know yet.”

  “Are we going to have dinner tonight at Nana’s like we normally do on Sundays?”

  “I don’t think so, honey. I think everyone needs some time to process Lizzie’s death.”

  Amy nodded and said goodbye as her dad headed for the front door. She stared at the kitchen table where Elizabeth Hathaway’s note lay. She picked it up and read it once more before folding it and sliding it into her pocket.

  TWO

  A

  ll day, Amy tried to put Elizabeth Hathaway out of her mind, but the words of Lizzie’s note rolled around her head, pulling her from everything happening around her. By dinnertime, April was tired of Amy’s random, rhetorical questions about the mysterious Lizzie Hathaway.

  “Enough already,” April said, handing her sister a set of car keys. “Go drive around or get a cup of coffee. Get out of here, and get that woman out of your head. Go. Before I strangle you.”
<
br />   Amy knew April was right. She needed some fresh air to clear her mind. But instead of going for a drive, she put the car keys down, packed her messenger bag, and went for a walk.

  By the time Amy arrived at the park, dusk was falling. The streetlights cast orange circles in random sidewalk squares up and down the street, giving the impression that night was closing in. People moved all around her as she sat down on a bench, and for a moment she watched them coming and going. Then she reached into her bag, rummaging around for her notebook. She pulled out a novel and looked at the cover for a moment, smiling, and then put it on the bench next to her so that she could continue looking for her spiral notebook. Upon finding it, she flipped to the page she had used to store Lizzie’s note.

  To my granddaughters—

  My greatest sadness is in not knowing you. This I cannot change, but I do hope that you can forgive my absence. I have loved you from afar, and I have cherished the pictures and stories about you that Eva has shared with me. Please accept the gifts coming to you as a piece of my heart.

  Elizabeth Hathaway

  She read it twice, each time hoping to find something in it that she hadn’t found the last two hundred times she read it. When nothing jumped out at her, she folded the note again and touched the tip of her pen to the notebook.

  A single letter inked the page. J. Amy followed it with a dash, not bothering to write out the whole word. Looking at the paper, she paused, collecting her thoughts. Then the pen began moving across the next line, like it always did, seemingly without any encouragement.

  April doesn’t understand why I like to come out here sometimes, especially during spring and summertime. She thinks it gets too crowded, and she thinks that we exhausted and exploited this place by the time we graduated from high school. But I don’t know. It just feels like home to me, and so I can’t help but continue to come here, especially when I need to sort out my thoughts.