Chasing Paris Read online

  “People love to look at art and wonder. Think about the Mona Lisa’s smile. There’s something about it that no one can really explain.” He looked at Lizzie and smiled. “We all like a little mystery, don’t we? That’s why we push forward. Our curiosity drives us forward. I create art by adding a couple details that don’t quite fit. Facial expressions, colors, the direction of the wind, that sort of thing.”

  “You’ve created a formula out of something that isn’t supposed to be formulaic.”

  “Everything has a formula. Every feeling, every event, every conversation. Identifying the ingredients and their amounts is what makes formulas so difficult to crack. No one bothers to identify the ‘why’ part of the equation. They just try to identify the result. Life makes sense, though, if you understand the why.”

  “That’s not fun.”

  “Sometimes it’s not.”

  “So what comes after Paris?”

  “I don’t know.”

  They walked along in silence. “I don’t know how much of your story I believe,” Lizzie said.

  “Why is that?”

  “I think you leave things up to chance more than you analyze formulas.”

  He considered her words. “It’s possible to do both. There is a time and a place for everything. The beauty of knowledge is that I can choose when I want to understand and when I want to leave it up to chance.”

  They continued walking in silence. Lizzie wanted to ask Billy so many questions. She wanted him to teach her about wandering, about reading people, about understanding the world. She, however, knew she couldn’t. So she remained silent.

  ***

  Amy passed Will the last sheet of paper and waited. When he finished, she said, “I don’t know how that could be it. How could that be where it ends?”

  “This isn’t the end of the story. We just have to find the rest.”

  Amy leaned back on the couch, slouching down. “I can’t believe that’s it.”

  “It’s not the end. Come on, we just have to figure out how to get the rest. We know there’s more.” Will stretched his arms over his head and yawned.

  “I know. But where is it? Did Lizzie really take her parents’ money and run? Did she become an actress? And what happened with Billy? How did he go from a starving artist in Paris to a grouchy old man in Monterey?” Amy sat forward and straightened the stack of papers they just read. “Tomorrow I’m going to Nana’s after work. I’m going to ask her what happened.”

  “Good.” Will stood up. “That’s a good idea.” He picked up both his and Amy’s dinner plates and carried them into the kitchen. Amy followed.

  “Now that you have a basic idea of who Lizzie was,” Will continued, “when she was younger at least, you can think about the best way to approach Eva about her.”

  Amy stood at the kitchen table and watched him put the dishes in the sink. When he turned around, she nodded and then looked at the boxes on the table.

  “What do you want to do with those books?” Will pointed to them as he walked toward Amy. “Do you want me to take them to Billy tomorrow? Do you want to take a look at them first?”

  Amy opened a box and picked up a book. Leafing through it, she said, “I don’t know.” She put it back down.

  “Why don’t you sleep on it? I know you have a lot to think about right now.”

  Amy nodded.

  “Okay, so here’s the plan,” Will said. “Tonight and tomorrow you think about whatever you have to think about. Then after work, go talk to Eva. I’ll meet you back here tomorrow night, and if you want me to take the books to Billy, I will. If you want me to do something else, I’ll do that.” He picked up a book and flipped through a couple pages. “We probably should look through these before they go up to Billy, though—just to see if there are any letters or notes left in them, but,” he put the book back in a box, “that’s up to you.”

  He winked at Amy and then turned toward the front door. She followed him.

  “Thanks, Will,” she said. “It’s really nice of you to do all this for me.”

  He reached for the doorknob. “It’s much more interesting than looking for a job.”

  Amy smiled. “See you tomorrow. How does seven-thirty sound?”

  “Perfect. Good night, Amy.”

  She closed the door behind him and walked to her room. The clock on the nightstand reminded her that it wasn’t very late, but she threw herself across her bed, exhausted, wishing she didn’t have to change her clothes or brush her teeth.

  Eva’s words flowed through her mind over and over, over and over. She stared at the ceiling, wishing they would stop.

  From the corner of her eye, she could see the book of Renaissance poetry sitting on the nightstand. She rolled over and reached for it. Since Will returned it to her, she hadn’t brought herself to open it. As she fanned through the pages, a flash of white caught her eye. She flipped back and realized it was the top layer of a napkin that had been torn away and folded in half. She pulled it out and opened it.

  Forget about Jos and that guy. Remember what Hollings said. The planets are aligned. You are going to find Amy tomorrow!

  Amy refolded the napkin and tucked it back in the book. She thought about Hollings and what it felt like to sit in a lecture hall, listening to him recite poetry that had been scrawled across parchment hundreds of years before. She remembered how hearing those words had caused her breath to catch in her chest—how those words had pricked her skin and consumed her imagination. She hadn’t felt that way since college. Not until tonight.

  And then there was Will. Who was this guy? Where did he come from? How did he find her?

  And who was Jos?

  She reached up to the lamp on her nightstand and turned it off.

  NINETEEN

  A

  my sat in the recliner across the room from Eva and Aidan. She traced the edges of the armrest with her fingers, listening to the evening news on the television. When she stopped by after work, she hadn’t intended to stay for dinner, but Eva insisted. Throughout the meal, she had tried to bring up Lizzie but couldn’t think of a good way to do it. Now that the dishes were done and put away, Amy knew there wasn’t much time. There wasn’t a way to ease into the conversation. She just had to jump in.

  She looked toward her grandparents. Aidan sat at one end of the couch reading the paper while Eva sat at the other end, her legs tucked beneath her and her fingers flying around a needlepoint design. Amy took a deep breath.

  “Nana?”

  “Yes, honey?” Eva’s eyes remained on her needlework, but her chin lifted toward her granddaughter.

  “I think I did something that’s going to make Mom mad.”

  “What was that?”

  Amy glanced at her grandfather. He continued reading the paper. “I took Lizzie’s books,” she said. “The ones that are supposed to go to Billy Strath. They’re at my house right now.”

  Eva continued to work her needle. “How did you do that? I thought your dad said the books were picked up yesterday.”

  Amy cringed. “I know. They were. But I have them now.”

  Eva waited a moment before responding. “Should I ask how you know about Billy Strath? Or how you got those books?”

  “Probably not.”

  Eva nodded. She didn’t lift her gaze toward her granddaughter, and Amy wondered if she was engrossed in the needlepoint or avoiding eye contact.

  “I think I know who Billy Strath is,” Amy continued. The words were slow and seemed to fill the air longer than she would have liked.

  “Oh honey, you don’t know who he is. And it’s better that way.”

  “He’s someone you and Lizzie met in Paris over fifty years ago.”

  Eva’s eyes rose toward her granddaughter. Aidan lowered his newspaper and looked in his granddaughter’s direction as well. Amy’s cheeks burned.

  “Honey, you don’t know who he is, and it’s better that way,” Eva repeated. She dropped her eyes back to the needlepoint.


  “Nana,” she sighed. “Please tell me about your sister. Please. Did you know that she was going to die? Did you know that she lived so close?”

  Eva nodded. “I did. I knew that she was dying.” She reached over to the end table and switched on a lamp. “I knew the cancer had spread too far, too fast. And I went and saw her everyday for a long time.”

  “Cancer?”

  Eva nodded.

  “Were you sad?”

  Eva nodded again. “I was heartbroken. I am heartbroken. She was my sister. She is my sister.” Eva continued to sew, silently, for a moment. “Where’s Miles tonight? I thought that you’d bring him with you.”

  Amy leaned back in her chair and stared at the ceiling.

  Lizzie died of cancer.

  Eva wanted to know about Miles.

  Amy’s focus was fading—she couldn’t think about Lizzie and talk about Miles at the same time. She closed her eyes, trying to untangle the competing thoughts. “Miles. I didn’t want to bring him over. I knew he’d get mad if I brought up Lizzie in front of him.”

  “That Miles boy is a goofball,” Aidan said over his newspaper, turning the page.

  Amy lifted her head toward her grandfather. “Grandpa! What do you mean?”

  “Exactly what I said. He’s a goofball. Doesn’t he know that you’re only young once? He’s so darn serious all the time. Where’s his energy? He should be running around and having fun. Not working so hard. You want to hear something about Lizzie? I’ll tell you something. She was a wild woman, kicking and screaming until the end.”

  “Aidan, stop now,” Eva said. “Read your paper.”

  Amy grinned at her grandfather, watching his eyes crinkle into a smile behind the newspaper.

  Eva looked at Amy. “Lizzie,” she paused, choosing her words, “She took a lot of chances in her life, and she paid dearly for some of them. Your mother paid for some of Lizzie’s choices as well, and for her sake, let’s just let this go.”

  But I don’t want to.

  Amy felt the words rise to her throat, but she stopped them from coming out.

  Upon seeing Amy’s fallen face, Eva continued, “Honey, just give it time.”

  Amy looked at the clock on the far wall and jumped out of her chair. “Oh no—I’m supposed to meet a friend, and I’m going to be late.” She walked to her grandparents and gave each a hug. “I’m sorry to run out of here, but I better get going. I can’t believe I lost track of time like that. Thank you so much for dinner.”

  Eva and Aidan stood up and followed Amy to the front door.

  “You’re welcome any time,” Aidan said, “with or without that goofball boyfriend of yours.”

  Amy laughed as she walked to her car. “Goodnight, Grandpa. Goodnight, Nana.”

  Aidan and Eva stood in the doorway watching Amy as she backed her car out of their driveway.

  “Do you think she’ll give up?” Aidan asked.

  Eva shook her head. “No.”

  “Me neither.”

  Amy put the car into drive and waved to her grandparents before heading down the street.

  “I’m proud of her,” Eva said. “She’s figured out more than I expected in such a short period of time. And I’ve barely had a hand in it.”

  “It seems like something is waking up inside her.”

  Eva nodded and watched Amy’s car shrink with distance. “We just have to keep her going.” She thought about Lizzie, wondering what exactly Amy knew and how she figured it out. “History is a terrible thing to repeat.” She turned and walked back into the house. “I’m going to call April.”

  ***

  Will pulled up to Amy’s house, glancing at the time displayed on his dashboard before turning off the truck. He was fifteen minutes early, but he jumped out anyway and walked up the driveway.

  He knocked on the front door and waited. Then he knocked again. He couldn’t hear anyone moving around inside the house. Impulsively, he turned the doorknob. It clicked open.

  “Hello? Amy? April? Didn’t your mom teach you never to leave your house unlocked?” He stepped through the door and into the entryway. “You guys are home, right?” He was answered with silence.

  In the kitchen he saw the boxes of books that he figured he would be taking to Billy Strath the following day. He sat down at the table and thought about opening up a book or two, just to see if Lizzie wrote in the margins the way that Amy did. He decided against it.

  “No one’s really here?” he said aloud, looking around the kitchen. “Really? You’re not in a back room, are you?” He stood up, looking at his watch. Seven-twenty. “Okay, I’m walking to the back, just to see if anyone’s here.”

  At the end of the hallway stood a room on either side, both their doors open. The room on the left was neat and clean. The bed was made and the desk was lined with perfect stacks of papers and books. Will assumed from the crayon drawings hanging on a bulletin board that the room was the resident kindergarten teacher’s.

  Through the other door, Will could see that Amy was clearly the messier of the two sisters. He walked in, feeling like he just entered into his cluttered, disorganized Westwood apartment. A ball of sheets lay at the end of her bed, clothes spilled out of a laundry basket onto the floor, and fallen over stacks of books covered her desk.

  “Amy? Are you in here somewhere? Under all these clothes or something?”

  The bookcase next to the closet was the only neat part of the room. Each shelf displayed a different genre of books alphabetized by author. He noticed a few empty spots on the bookcase and guessed they were for the books strewn about on her desk. He walked over to them. Marketing for Dummies, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone, A Guide to Italy’s Northern Coast. Will sifted through the top layer and wondered if she was reading them all at once. Below The Poetry of Langston Hughes and The Tales of Sir Lancelot, he saw a notebook. He picked it up, knowing that he had seen her writing in it before. He opened it. In short sections across the first page he saw her familiar handwriting.

  Last night, I had a dream about you. You were standing in a courtyard, smiling at me. That was the whole dream. And then when I woke up, my alarm clock was playing that song from our first date. It reminded me of you. I don’t know if that meant today was supposed to be a good day or a bad day. And I don’t know if today has turned out the way it was supposed to, either. I miss you.

  Wasn’t it John Milton who wrote, “What hath night to do with sleep?”

  Here I lie silently, the dark my companion, and I realize that night once held so much more than sleep for me. But now, sleep is all I hope for. A break from being awake.

  I hate Milton.

  J,

  The hardest part of last year was that when we were together, I felt like I could share my whole life with you. I felt like you were there listening and understanding. But then, you left.

  I hear people talk about having ideas for stories—they say these stories are bursting out of their heads. But they never write them down. And me, I don’t have stories bursting out of my head. But I write anyway. Am I jealous? Or are they liars?

  Will turned the page.

  J—

  Sometimes I think you’re near me. If I turn around, or look to my left, even if I look down the path, you must be there. Sometimes I scan a crowd, knowing, feeling your presence. But somehow, my eyes can’t find you. Still, it’s okay, because I know you’re there. Somewhere.

  “Do you really think you should be letting yourself into our home and going through our stuff?”

  Will whirled around.

  “April, you scared me,” he said.

  Her eyebrows furrowed. “Says the guy found breaking and entering.”

  “I didn’t break anything. The door was unlocked, and I thought you were home but couldn’t hear me knocking.” He dropped the notebook on the desk. “Hey, why don’t you lock your door anyway?”

  April turned and headed for the kitchen. “Talk to your friend Amy about that. She’s always forgetti
ng to lock the door after herself. It’s a trait she picked up from our mother, unfortunately. Are you hungry, by the way? I can grill up some onions and make you a sandwich with the leftover sausage from last night.”

  “I already ate, but thank you. That sounds better than what I had.” Will looked through the kitchen to the front of the house. “Where is Amy anyway?” He looked at the clock on the kitchen microwave. “She was supposed to be here by now.”

  April glanced at a teapot that she had placed on the stove before finding Will in the back of the house. “You never know what you’re going to get with her. She could be a half hour early or an hour late. There’s no rhyme or reason to how she keeps her schedule.”

  “Messy, late, and absent-minded about locking doors. I never would have guessed that about her. She seems so put together.”

  April pulled a mug from a cupboard and made a face. “Have you met my sister? Miss Head-in-the-Clouds?”

  “Barely, I guess.” He sat down at the kitchen table and pushed a box of books aside so he could see April standing by the stove. “Hey, I thought she was going into journalism or something. But I saw a book on her desk about marketing. Is that what she’s doing now?”

  April nodded. “How do you know about the journalism thing?”

  “A professor told me. It’s a long story. What happened there? Why is she in marketing?”

  April grabbed a small, yellow box on the counter and pulled a tea bag from it. “Want some tea?”

  “No thanks.”

  She poured hot water into her mug and laid a teabag across the top, watching it sink to the bottom. She walked to the kitchen table, her eyes on the mug.

  “I don’t know.” She sat down across from Will. “I get the feeling she didn’t like having to pay her dues.”

  “Really? Our professor made it sounds like she was a really hard worker.”

  April sipped her tea. “Again, have you met my sister? She doesn’t seem like the kind of person who wants to jump right to the top without looking back?”