Chasing Paris Read online

  Kim didn’t answer right away. She just nodded for a moment. Then she fiddled with her backpack’s zipper. “Good,” she said. “Good.” Another pause. “She just started dating some guy. They met awhile back. The other roommates and I aren’t sure about him yet.” She smiled and nudged her shoulder against Will’s. “He’s certainly no Will Chase.”

  “That’s probably good. I wasn’t the greatest boyfriend.”

  “No, you weren’t,” Kim laughed. “But you were fun to watch in a trainwreck sort of way. You drove too fast and got a fake ID too young.”

  Will’s sideways grin returned. “That’s what you always told me.” He shook his head and gazed across the quad. “I don’t know how she put up with it for so long. I don’t know how you and your other roommates put up with it, either.”

  “I introduced the two of you back when we were neighbors in the dorms, so I had to put up with it. It was my fault in the first place.”

  “I’m surprised the rest of them are still friends with you after that.” His eyes remained focused on Royce Hall across the quad. “It’s been, what, seven or eight months since Jos and I broke up? Seems like a lifetime ago. I don’t think I’ve even seen you since then.”

  “Has it really been that long since we’ve run into each other?” Kim thought a moment. “Wow, nearly the whole school year has gone by. And look at you sitting here studying with the rest of the responsible students. Of all places, this is the last one I would expect to find you.” She nodded toward the book in Will’s hands. “What’re you reading there?”

  Glad to have gotten the Jocelyn portion of the conversation out of the way, Will turned his attention to the Renaissance poetry book. “Check this out. It’s Chris’ book, but the person who owned it before him used it as a journal or something.” Will shifted the book toward her and leaned in. “Look at this.”

  Exclamation points surrounded a circled line of poetry written by a Renaissance writer named Sir Edmund Spenser. But let this day, let this one day be mine, Spenser had written. Next to it was the handwriting Will was becoming quite familiar with.

  I want that one day—that one special day—to be mine. But only if it’s captured in all its sweetness on a Grecian Urn. I want him to reach for me, I want to feel the first excited chill of him touching me, and I want THAT feeling engrained on a Grecian Urn so I can have it always.

  Kim finished reading and then looked at Will and pushed some stray hair behind her ears. She thought a moment before speaking. “I have a lot of questions.”

  “I know, me too,” Will said. “Why would someone sell back a book after writing in it like this?”

  “Maybe she didn’t mean to sell it back. I’ve done that before with literature books. Last quarter I had ten novels for an English class, and two got mixed into the stack of books that me and my roommates were selling back. It’s hard to keep track, especially when people are packing up to move home for the summer and there are piles of school stuff everywhere.” She looked back at the book, eyebrows furrowed. “What’s special about a Grecian Urn? What does it have to do with Sir Edmund Spenser’s poem here?”

  Will’s mind surfed back to a class he took on Romantic poets. “Well, it doesn’t really have anything to do with Spenser or Renaissance literature. The reference to the Grecian Urn is from a poem written more than two centuries later by a guy named John Keats. But maybe that doesn’t matter. Basically, the Grecian Urn poem is about a bunch of pictures on a big vase. I don’t remember exactly, but I think one picture showed a guy chasing a girl. And it’s supposed to be poignant because the picture captures the anticipation and excitement of reaching for the girl. But then there’s this whole debate about it, because even though anticipation and excitement are fun, if you’re stuck in that moment, you never get to see what comes next. You’d never actually get the girl and feel how great it is to have her—which, of course, is better than anticipation. But then at the same time, if you go past that moment of reaching for her, you might miss when you try to grab her. And that would be a whole lot worse than the anticipation and excitement of the chase. If you’re stuck in a moment, you never risk getting something better. Or something worse, for that matter. And it’s up to you to decide if you want to let things stay the same or take the risk of change.”

  Kim smiled. “That poem sounds like you. You’re the guy chasing the girl on the vase—always going after what you want.”

  Will laughed. “I never thought of that.” He pointed to the blue handwriting next to the printed Spenser poem. “No, I think I’m like the person who wrote in the margins here. I don’t want the chase pictured on the vase. I want the moment of getting what I want captured on the vase.” He turned the page, not waiting for Kim to respond. “Look at this.”

  Wrong.

  He left me in shades of gray.

  There were no lies. Just shades of gray.

  Kim took the book from Will’s hands and held it up to him. “What are you going to do with this?”

  “What do you mean? I’m not going to do anything. It’s not my book.”

  Kim gave him a look he was quite familiar with during his trainwreck years. “Chris may have bought it, but it’s not his. It belongs to the girl who wrote in the margins. You need to find her.”

  Will looked at the book and then back at Kim.

  “Well, come on. Why not?” she continued. “Do you really think that she meant to sell the book back?”

  He shook his head. “It doesn’t seem likely.”

  “Then this is exactly the kind of adventure you would love. You should go see the professor who teaches that class. Maybe he’ll recognize the handwriting and give you some clues.”

  “That’s a long shot. When was the last time a professor saw your handwriting?”

  Kim rolled her eyes. “Okay, so maybe that won’t work. But I know you’ll think of something.” She looked at the clock tower at the far end of the quad. “Hey, I better get to class. I’ve got History of Religion in five minutes.” She stood up and pulled her backpack over her shoulders.

  “It was good to see you, Kim,” Will said. As an afterthought, he added, “Tell Jocelyn I said hi.”

  “I’ll do that.” She pointed to the book in Will’s hands. “And you do something with that. Don’t kid yourself. You like the anticipation of the chase as much as you like getting what you want. You couldn’t have changed that much in the last year.” She began walking backward. “And tell me what happens. I’ve missed hearing about the exploits of the fantastic Will Chase.”

  Will chuckled. He nodded and then waved as she turned toward the far corner of North Campus.

  SIX

  LOS GATOS

  A

  my’s parents owned a Victorian-style house. It was smallish-looking, painted white with blue trim. A knee-high picket fence encircled the yard, and two white wicker chairs sat on the porch near the front door. Potted plants grew around the legs of each chair, and planted flowers lined the yard alongside the white fence. Wind chimes, a birdfeeder, and a decorative gray stone with welcome engraved on it garnished the home’s entrance. Amy felt its inviting warmth as she walked through the yard carrying a coffee cup filled with basil from her patio herb garden. She let herself in, knowing that neither of her parents was home yet.

  She set the basil on the kitchen counter and made her way toward the backyard. Outside, white wooden patio furniture covered with overstuffed cushions sat in a circle next to a pool. Amy took her messenger bag from her shoulder and dropped it on a side table next to her favorite chair. From the bag she pulled a notebook before sitting down. She looked at the pool, took a deep breath, and thought about her day at work. Then her pen began moving across the page.

  J—

  Sometimes I feel the day slip away from me. Sometimes I sit at my desk and think about all the things I let float by. All the stories that I didn’t write, all the dances I didn’t dance, all the music I didn’t hear. I think about the people in my life whom I’ve missed, a
nd I wonder how my life would be if I didn’t miss any of that. It makes me sad, but before the sadness turns to anger, I realize I have work to do. So, I go on about my day, pretending it’s okay and that I don’t hate my marketing job.

  A breeze blew through the back yard, sending ripples across the pool’s surface. Amy watch the ripples melt away as the breeze died, and she thought of all the summers that she and April spent there swimming until they were sunburned. As she touched the tip of her pen back to the paper, she heard her mom’s voice.

  “Hello out there!”

  Amy pulled her pen back and turned toward the patio door where her mother stood. She closed her notebook and set it aside. “Hey Mom,” she called, hoisting herself from the oversized cushions and walking to the patio door. “I brought you some basil.”

  “Thank you,” Debbie said. “It’ll be perfect in the salad I was planning to make for dinner. Are you hungry? Do you want to stay for dinner?”

  Amy joined Debbie in the kitchen where her mother was going through a stack of mail. A disconcerted look darkened Debbie’s face as she read a note written on blue stationery. Amy watched, waiting for Debbie either to finish the note or to relax her face. When neither seemed imminent, she picked up the torn envelope on the counter. In the upper left corner was a pre-printed address listing Billy Strath as the sender. Amy stifled a gasp.

  “Mom, what are you reading?”

  “Unbelievable,” Debbie muttered. “Unbelievable.” She glanced at her daughter. “Put that envelope down.” She took the envelope from her daughter’s hand before Amy could drop it and then she shoved the note back into it.

  “What was that?” Amy asked. “What did Billy Strath want?”

  “To be an eternal frustration,” Debbie breathed, staring at the window as though barely aware that Amy had asked the question. Amy thought about slipping the envelope into her pocket, but before she could do it, Debbie’s head snapped toward her.

  “What do you know of Billy Strath?”

  Amy lifted the palms of her hands toward her mother as if in surrender. “Nothing. I know his name is on that envelope.”

  “Oh.” Debbie shook her head as though trying to rid herself of the sour thoughts associated with his name. “I shouldn’t have opened it,” she said. “It was addressed to your father. None of my business.” She walked to the pantry and yanked open its doors. “Are you hungry?”

  “No, I’m going to head home soon. I think April’s already got something cooking for dinner.”

  Debbie began slamming cabinets, tossing spices from the rack to the counter, dropping mixing bowls on the floor. Amy was unable to remember the last time such a little woman created such great noise. She bit her lip, hoping to keep words from spilling from her mouth but knowing she couldn’t stop herself.

  “Mom,” she began, “what’s wrong? Is this about Lizzie?”

  Debbie froze, a knife in one hand and a cucumber in the other. Disgust colored her face. Turning her back to Amy and slicing the cucumber, she said, “I’d appreciate it if you never mention that name in my house again.”

  The statement startled Amy. “Mom,” she said, instinctively wanting to reason with such stubbornness. “I just—”

  “You just nothing,” Debbie said, turning toward her daughter and shaking the knife at her. “We will discuss neither this nor anything else regarding that woman. If you have a question about your money or the books, then,” she paused, not having thought through the idea before beginning it, “then, talk to your father. I want nothing to do with it.” She turned back to the cutting board and continued chopping.

  Amy didn’t speak. She silently slid Billy’s envelope into her pocket. Then she waited until the quickness of her mother’s movements slowed.

  “I don’t care about the money or the books,” Amy said. “I just want you to be okay. And I just want to help if I can. I’m sorry.”

  She watched her mother’s shoulders rise and fall one, two, three times. When Debbie turned to her daughter, her eyes had returned to the kind, clear blue that Amy was used to.

  “I’m sorry I snapped at you,” Debbie said with a deep breath. “I’m just a little on edge lately.”

  Amy nodded. “I understand. Sometimes it helps to talk, and if you want to talk, plenty of people are ready to listen. Me, Dad, April, Nana, whoever.”

  Debbie turned back to the cutting board.

  Amy tried to think of something comforting to say, but nothing came to mind.

  “What is it that Grandpa always says? This too shall pass?”

  Debbie nodded, her eyes on the cucumber. Amy approached her mother and squeezed her shoulders into a sideways hug.

  “I’ll see you soon.”

  Debbie nodded again. “Love you, honey.”

  As Amy walked down the front steps toward her car, she felt the blue stationery burning a hole in her pocket. It flamed with her curiosity and guilt, but she didn’t dare pull it out until she was in her car and halfway down the street. When she did, her eyes flew over its words, and suddenly her head was pounding.

  She drove home on autopilot, thinking about Billy’s message, over and over. When she parked in front of her house, she saw Miles standing at the front door.

  “Hey,” he said, walking down the driveway toward her. “I was beginning to think that you got lost on your way home. Did you get any of my messages?”

  Amy shook her head, grabbing her bag and sliding the blue paper into its front pocket. “No, sorry. My phone’s been dead all day. Everything all right?”

  Miles reached for her bag and slung it over his shoulder. Amy nearly protested, not wanting Billy’s note to leave her possession, but managed to stay quiet.

  “Everything’s fine,” he said. “April’s been holding dinner for you.”

  “That was nice of her.” They walked up the driveway together. “How long have you been here?”

  “About half an hour. Long enough to wear out my welcome.” Miles rested his hand on her shoulder as they approached the porch.

  Amy grinned. “Is April a bit testy? Maybe she missed her afternoon nap. All kindergarten teachers need those.”

  “Remind me never to suggest different cooking techniques to her.”

  Amy cringed. “Oh, yeah. Not a good idea. The kitchen is her domain.”

  “Apparently she knows everything there is to know about basting barbeque ribs.”

  Amy reached for the front door handle but paused before pulling it open. She scrunched up her nose, almost apologetically. “She actually does. You should know that, though. Haven’t you had her ribs before?”

  Miles rolled his eyes.

  As Amy stepped into the entryway, she breathed in the smell of espresso barbeque sauce. “April, it smells amazing in here,” she said while walking toward the kitchen. “Thank you for holding dinner for me.”

  Miles placed Amy’s bag beside the front door and followed her into the kitchen. “Yes, it really does smell amazing in here,” he said. “And thank you for holding dinner for me as well.”

  April looked up from the kitchen table where she was laying out silverware and napkins. Her eyes narrowed, but the faintest hint of a smile danced at the corners of her lips. “You’re welcome. But I’m warning you now—I’m not in the mood for dinnertime conversation.”

  Amy had no problem with the idea of a quiet dinner. As they sat down to eat, she thought about the note from Billy Strath and pondered her next steps. She couldn’t contact him. She knew that for sure. But maybe there was something else she could do. Idea after idea flitted through her mind, none of them solid enough to materialize into a real plan. By the time she finished eating, she still didn’t know what she wanted to do.

  “Does anyone want to watch a movie?” Miles asked before biting the last bit of meat from his barbeque ribs. “April, you can pick one while Amy and I clean up here.”

  “That sounds good,” April said. She wiped her hands on a napkin and leaned back. “I’m feeling like something clas
sic. Maybe something from the 1950s. And while we are watching the movie, you two can help me cut out a thousand stars and stripes for my kindergarten class’ upcoming Flag Day celebration.”

  Amy suppressed a smile. This was retribution for Miles’ culinary suggestions earlier. He couldn’t stand the slow pace of old movies, and helping April with kindergarten prep was low on his list of priorities. “Flag Day, huh?” Amy said. “Sounds like fun.”

  April winked at Amy. “You know it.”

  With the pots and pans scrubbed, dishes loaded into the dishwasher, and the kitchen wiped down, April announced that the night’s movie would be Rebel without a Cause.

  “Who doesn’t love James Dean and Natalie Wood?” she asked, flashing the movie case at Amy and Miles before walking into the family room to set it up.

  Miles eyed Amy and threw away the paper towel he was holding. “I don’t.”

  “This was your idea.” Amy took his arm. “Come on, let’s get in there so I can grab the good construction paper scissors for you.”

  Like their silent dinner, Amy was glad to engage in a quiet activity so she could daydream about her long lost grandmother. Having been unable to come up with a plan involving Billy Strath, she focused her thoughts on Jean and Marie Lambert. Who were they? She wondered if she could find them. Was there an app she could download to her phone and use to communicate with them? There must be plenty of translation apps. Would she need to learn some French? And on that note, how was anyone in her family going to communicate with the Lamberts about Lizzie’s will? None of them spoke French as far as she knew. Maybe the Lamberts spoke English. That would solve a lot of problems. Nana might know…

  She tried to imagine what a conversation might be like. Hello, Mrs. Lambert. I’m Elizabeth Hathaway’s granddaughter, and I was wondering if I could ask you a couple questions about my grandmother.

  What would come next? She couldn’t find the right words.