Chasing Paris Read online

  I miss having you here. I look forward to the day that you’re rich and famous with your own private plane—so that you can come visit me at my every whim.

  Lizzie, don’t be stupid.

  Love,

  Eva

  January 18, 1956

  Elizabeth,

  I will be in Paris until something calls me away. Right now, I’m content with my surroundings, although as the weather continues to cool, I find myself wishing for the days of summer. Tourism slows this time of year. Fewer visitors mean less money in hand. The artist stations thin out as the air begins to bite, and those of us who stay also thin down without the extra money for lunch or breakfast. But we stay because we know that all will improve on the other side of May. The tourists will appear, money will feed us, and our Lizzies might, if we are lucky, return.

  Billy

  February 27, 1956

  Elizabeth,

  Certainly I did not offend you with the last letter I wrote. I cannot think of a hurtful statement I might have made. Is there another reason I haven’t heard from you?

  I’m hoping that your life in Los Angeles has swept you away into a whirlwind of work and happiness. Yet if you have the chance, I would very much enjoy getting a note from you—to know we are still connected, though more than five thousand miles away.

  Billy

  April 1, 1956

  Oh Dear Billy,

  You didn’t offend me, and I’m so sorry for my delayed response. You might have noticed from my return address that this letter was not sent from lovely Los Angeles. I’m back in Northern California—against my will.

  My parents discovered my ploy, and through a long and devastating process, they took me home. I do understand their anger, but only to an extent. They have more money than is imaginable, and they’ve never taken an interest in my sister or me before. Keeping me from Los Angeles is only a way to control me. They have no reason to worry about the money I’ve spent or the “danger” they say I was in.

  But because I have no money of my own and I couldn’t find a job on such short notice, I resigned to return with them. I will have to finish school and find my way back to Los Angeles on my own one day. It will be suffocating. They do not trust me to live on campus. I now have to live under their roof and commute to school.

  This sudden concern about my life infuriates me. And Eva is so far away. She can’t intervene on my behalf the way she did when we were younger, and she can’t keep me company in my infuriating, suffocating loneliness. I miss her so much.

  They are also making me work to pay back the money I “squandered” over the few months I was living my dream. I secured a job in the library at the University near my parent’s home—Stanford. I tried to get a job at my University but could not. My reputation seems to have preceded me. No one thought it wise to put me on payroll, nor did they have a problem telling me so. It has been hard to hear that the fun I had in my prior life has had such a drastically negative effect on the present.

  I hope that spring brings you joy and warmth.

  Forever yours,

  Lizzie

  Amy folded the letter and held it to her chest. “She got caught,” she breathed. “I don’t know if I should feel sorry for her or not.”

  “I’m rooting for her,” Will said. “She’s crazy, but I want her to get her way. Most people don’t have the guts to pull the stunts she tried.” He leaned back in his chair and rested his hands behind his neck. “I wish she were still alive. I bet she had some incredible stories.”

  Amy nodded and placed the folded letter in the stack of already-read letters. She stared off toward the kitchen window. “I wish Nana would talk. She’s the only one who can fill in the blanks.”

  Will lifted the next letter. “We’ll figure out how to tackle that once we’re done here. Let’s see what Billy had to say in response.”

  May 6, 1956

  Elizabeth,

  Perhaps because of your determination, your strength, and your slight, endearing insanity, I thought you would become a wildly successful actress before your parents found you out. How could I have been so wrong? How could they have found out?

  I hope working at the library does not bore you. I’m sure it doesn’t. How could it? Being surrounded by books—great books—must make your punishment a little more bearable. I’m impressed that you chose such a place to work. It reminds me of all the reasons I enjoyed spending time with you. Your intelligence, your sharpness, your beauty—they are all qualities I found in books and knew I wanted to see in real life. That you appeared, embodying them all, was quite a delight to me. I hope knowing this helps you see how lucky you are to work in such a place. If I were not working in Montmartre, I would be jealous.

  Tell me stories about your new life.

  Yours,

  Billy

  May 10, 1956

  Lizzie,

  Is it as awful as it seems? Our parents’ house must be like a prison. Between college and the boarding schools, it’s been years since we’ve lived there consistently, yet I still remember the heavy chill that always filled that house. It was so dark, so expansively dark. There’s no need for me to describe this to you—you’re living it and need no reminder. My heart goes with you. I wish that I could kidnap you and bring you back to Paris with me. I’m not sure that our parents would really miss you.

  Enclosed are some pages that I wrote about your last summer here. If you’d like to change anything in them, they are yours to change. I just thought I would send them—perhaps to cheer you up. I hope the memories do not make your heart ache any harder.

  Love,

  Eva

  June 16, 1956

  Oh Eva,

  Your words are perfect, and I love you so very much for sending the manuscript. (Is that what you’d call it?) I had no idea you were documenting. It’s fascinating to see your interpretation of the summer. You are both insightful and imaginative in ways I was unaware. I will certainly cherish this. As much as I hate living at home, I love the escape you’ve provided me through these words.

  Love,

  Lizzie

  “She’s got to be referring to what we read last night.” Amy leaned back in her chair. “Insightful and imaginative,” she continued. “So, what does that mean? Are we not supposed to believe everything that Eva wrote? Insightful and imaginative. Was Eva’s Words exaggerated? What do you think?”

  “I think we can only believe what is there on the paper. Maybe you can ask Billy about it—what’s true and what’s not.”

  Amy studied the kitchen window. “Insightful and imaginative,” she murmured. “It was beautiful, wasn’t it? Eva’s Words—it was beautiful.” She drummed her fingers on the table. “I wish I could write that way.”

  “You can—”

  Amy shook her head, cutting him off with the gesture. “No.”

  “Just because you don’t doesn’t mean you can’t. You just have to have a reason to.”

  Amy nodded and turned to the next letter.

  June 16, 1956

  Dearest Billy,

  I miss you. Will you ever come for me? Will you ever take me out of this hellish world otherwise known as my parents’ house? Their sudden interest in my life is stifling. Eva and nannies raised me because our parents were so distant—their new-found desire to know everything has born a resentment in me I never knew I could harbor. I could have used parents for the first fifteen years of my life. Now is not the time. It’s too late.

  I do, however, understand their distrust. I have given them reason to doubt my character. Still, I feel imprisoned. I work at the library more than necessary—only to evade their constant watch. Just yesterday I found my mother going through the shoebox of letters you’ve written to me. I fear I will need to keep them under lock and key—or burn them. I have to keep my parents away, somehow.

  When will you come for me?

  Forever yours,

  Lizzie

  TWENTY-ONE

  A

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nbsp; my flipped through the letters they had just read. “That’s it—no more letters from the Huck Finn book.” She reached for The Odyssey and fanned through the letters it had held. “It looks like these are all from Lizzie to Billy. There aren’t any that he wrote back to her. That’s strange. I wonder if we’ve misplaced them—or if they’re somewhere else.”

  “Or maybe they don’t exist.” Will looked over Amy’s shoulder as she flipped through the letters a second time. “They all look really short. What do they say?”

  Amy scanned them, shuffling through them yet again. “Billy, I miss you…Billy, when are you coming to California…I miss you…I don’t think my parents will let me visit Eva this summer…Billy, why haven’t I heard from you…Eva says you are still around…Billy, I hate working…I always thought you might just magically show up one day, but it appears you won’t…I’ve been so foolish to think about you so much…Billy, how could you abandon me…I hate my job, the books, the people who read the books…Eva was right about you...I think I’m going to stop writing to you…Billy, do you want me to stop writing to you…Billy, if you would just answer me once—to tell me I must move on or I must continue writing…Why haven’t you come for me…” Amy shuffled them one final time. “That seems to be the gist of them.”

  “Desperate.”

  “Yeah.” Amy put the letters back in the Odyssey book. “Hey, I’ve been thinking about what you said earlier. What did you mean when you said that I’m not this generation’s Eva? What’s wrong with being like Eva?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with being like Eva. I just think April is more like her.”

  “Well, I’m not like Lizzie.”

  Will grabbed The Divine Comedy and handed it to Amy. “Maybe you could just be you and not worry about being like any of your older relatives.”

  “Yeah, okay.” She took the book from Will and pulled out the stack of letters. Flipping through them, she said, “The letters in here are from both Lizzie and Billy. Good.”

  December 15, 1956

  Billy,

  Your surprise visit was the highlight of, well, my year. I know that it took a lot of money and a lot of time for you to come to California and find me at this little library where I work. Thank you, again. Being near you felt like an escape to this morbid reality, even if it were only for a few days. I imagine the look on my face when you walked in was that of complete shock. I’m sure it was funny to you—seeing me so ruffled with disbelief. After all the letters I sent with no response from you…I now realize you were probably planning your trip during that time and wanted to surprise me. Billy, how I adore you.

  I only wish that you could have stayed longer. It saddens me that you needed to return to Paris so quickly. Why is it that you needed to return to Paris at all? I know we’ve already discussed this, but why? Your answers never satisfied me. Why can you not stay here? Then I could truly escape from my parents forever. We could run away. We could go anywhere you want. It doesn’t matter if I go back to Los Angeles right now. I could go anywhere. As long as I’m with you, and as long as we can find a place for you to practice your trade, we will be fine. In my spare time here, I’ve learned where my parents keep a secret stash of money. We could take it and never look back.

  I miss you, yet again. Please come back.

  Forever yours,

  Lizzie

  January 20, 1957

  Elizabeth,

  I’m glad that you are still reveling in the surprise of my visit. I’m glad that I was able to come and see what you’re doing and how you’re living. Stanford University certainly is very different from the Sorbonne, is it not? The students are so very different. I recall your sister recently telling me that she spent a great deal of time choosing between those two Universities after both acceptance letters came. I believe she made the right choice.

  Perhaps I will make another trip out there one day. Perhaps you will make a trip out here. We both must follow whatever paths lay before us. If they converge, then they converge—and we will be richer in life experiences, won’t we? Perhaps we will both steal away from our responsibilities for a time and meet in Los Angeles. You could then show me your life there.

  I do hope that you’re concocting more plans to escape your current situation. You do not need to live under such an oppressive rule.

  Yours,

  Billy

  February 26, 1957

  Dearest Billy,

  Your last letter leaves me tentative. I realize that it could be interpreted in various ways, and I’m sure that was intentional. My uncertainty does not come from being unable to interpret your true feelings, but instead it comes from being unsure as to why you’d write in such a way. Do you not want to be with me? Do you not know if you want to be with me? Do you not know if it’s possible to be with me? I would like a straight answer. I am confused.

  Do you want me to escape my current situation with thoughts of you leading my way? Or do you think any escape would suffice? If you could not tell by my letters, you certainly could tell from your visit that my life has shrunk considerably since being forced to live with my parents. My freedoms are minimal, and this current state is killing my spirit. Aside from Eva, you are my only outlet. My only joy. My only hope for something better. I feel helpless and small as I write this. I’m not the girl you met in Montmartre, yet I’m still me. And I must be truthful with myself and with you. To ever be the girl I was in Montmartre again, I must break free. I am unsure, however, how to do that without you.

  Forever yours,

  Lizzie

  March 30, 1957

  Dearest Elizabeth,

  Your desperation will not give you the strength to overcome your unhappiness. You are a strong and passionate girl. You must draw on that to come through this unhappiness. I am not the only answer. Relying on me would be a mistake. You are right. You are not the girl I met in Montmartre. She did not need me. And should our paths ever cross again, it cannot be because you need me. A relationship of any kind based on need would not work for either of us. You know that—somewhere in your soul, you know that.

  I do hope that our paths will cross again.

  The sun is beginning to shine a little more in Paris these days. It is beautiful to know that spring is edging near. The new life, new growth, new colors remind me of you. Of your eyes, your hair, your skin, your smile. You are springtime in so many ways.

  Billy

  May 3, 1957

  Dear Billy,

  Would it surprise you to know that I was somewhat insulted by your last letter? It shouldn’t surprise you. You’ve always had a knack for insulting me.

  More importantly, would it surprise you to know that I’m engaged? It should—you rarely ask about my life outside the misery associated with living under my parents’ rule.

  Well, I thought it was quite time I told you. I am to marry a man who attends law school at Stanford. He will be graduating in late June, and soon thereafter we will have our wedding. Shall I send you an invitation?

  Lizzie

  “What? Engaged?” Will asked, slamming his hands down on the table. “What is she doing?” He looked at Amy, waiting, as though she had an answer. “What’s wrong with your grandmother? Is she insane?”

  “I think it’s been established that she is insane.” Amy threw the last letter across the table and slumped down on her chair. “She couldn’t have married someone else. How could she do that? Who could she possibly marry?” Amy pushed her hair behind her ears. “Did she go out and grab the first guy she saw at the Stanford library and demand he marry her? She seemed like she was so devoted to Billy. How could this happen?”

  Will didn’t answer right away.

  “Maybe it’s a game, just like how she moved to Los Angeles and told her parents she was going back to school.”

  “For some reason,” Amy said slowly, “I don’t think so. Faking it wouldn’t be hurtful enough.” She pushed herself up in her chair and eyed the only letter that came from the final bo
ok. “And this,” she nodded toward the letter, “is all we have from Canterbury Tales.” She picked it up, scanning it. “More than two years separate the letter we just read and this one. How can that be? There must be so much more to say.” She looked at Will. “We must be missing something.”

  Will shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  August 15, 1959

  Elizabeth,

  Eva tells me that your second child is on the way. I believe congratulations are in order. I do hope that you’ve found some semblance of happiness with the first child, if not with your husband. How is he these days, by the way? Has he managed to get any sun, or do you find paleness to be part of his charm?

  I am in New York now. I’m no longer making money from artistic ventures. My work is currently far more tedious, but now is not the time to go into that.

  As you can see, enclosed are the letters you’ve written to me over the years. Certainly they are better left in your possession than in mine.

  Should you feel the desire to contact me, you know where I am. I may be on my way to the west coast soon—for business dealings, of course.

  Billy

  TWENTY-TWO

  W

  ill watched Amy return the letter to the Canterbury Tales book. She rubbed her eyes, and he wondered if she was physically tired or mentally tired. Or both.

  He looked at the clock across the kitchen. It was getting late.

  Without thinking, the first words that came to mind left his mouth.

  “What hath night to do with sleep?”

  “Hmm?” Amy yawned. She looked at the clock as well. “Ah, yes. What hath night to do with sleep. One of the few lines by John Milton I actually like. Begrudgingly. What made you think of that?”