Rendezvous Read online

  Finally, I decide it’s better to pray than cry. As we’re waiting in the tunnel to board the plane, I begin to pray silently. I continue to pray after I sit down by the window, leaving Paige the aisle seat so she can chat with Fran if she wants. I’m praying that all will go well and that Blake will be fine. But there’s a strange ache in my heart as we’re taking off. When I look down to see LA getting smaller and farther away, I wonder if this pain inside of me means that I care for Blake more than I’ve been letting on. How would I feel if I lost him?

  “Can you believe how nice this first-class section is?” Paige discreetly whispers to me. And as I look around, I realize that this is the nicest plane I’ve ever been in. The seats look like they could be in someone’s living room—a very nice living room. They have ottomans and nice side tables and everything. Yet this doesn’t even cheer me up.

  As we’re served a surprisingly elegant dinner, I remind myself of what Jesus said about not worrying—about how we should trust God instead. And, although I’m trying to do this, it’s hard. I know that this will be a very long trip. At least Fran’s assistant had the foresight to upgrade our cell phone plans so that we can use them in Paris, although she did point out that outgoing calls are more expensive than incoming calls.

  I see Fran making herself comfortable and I suspect she’s getting ready to take her long nap. She hands Paige a small bottle and nods toward me.

  “Fran said you should take one of these pills,” Paige tells me.

  “Oh no,” I say quickly. “I remember when you took some in New York and—”

  “No, these aren’t prescription sleeping pills,” she says. “It’s just Benadryl, an over-the-counter thing that people use for allergies.”

  “I don’t have an allergy.”

  “I know. But Fran says it will make you sleepy.”

  I take the bottle and carefully read the back. Finally, determining that it’s perfectly safe, I go ahead and take one tablet and hope it will do its trick. All I want is to go to sleep—the way I used to sometimes when my parents took us on a long drive, like to Grandma’s—and then I’ll wake up and suddenly we’ll be there. And I can call and find out about Blake.

  Somehow I do manage to sleep for awhile. Then I wake up and, although the plane is darkened and most people are trying to sleep, I feel wide awake. I wonder how Blake is doing. My watch is still on LA time and it’s past nine in the evening there now. Hopefully he’s feeling much better. Surely, he’s out of surgery. Maybe he’s sitting in bed eating ice cream. Although that’s more like they’d do for someone who’s had his tonsils out. Still, I try to imagine him smiling and joking. And it does not escape my attention that I’m obsessing over this guy. I can’t help wondering if I would be as obsessed over Lionel if he were in the same predicament. I’ve always attributed my feelings for Blake to the fact that he was my “first love.” What if he’s meant to be my only love?

  I don’t want to go there right now. I try to convince myself that my obsession over Blake is purely that of a caring friend who can’t be nearby to help out. I do hope that Mollie and Tony are there with him. Although if they are, they might not be speaking to each other. Maybe Benjamin will stop by to see him—after all, Blake visited Benjamin in the hospital after his car wreck. I can imagine the attention Blake would get from the nurses, the younger ones anyway, after word got around that he’s friends with Benjamin Kross.

  I can’t believe how antsy I feel when the pilot finally announces in both French and English that we’re getting ready to land at De Gaulle airport. The flight took a little longer than Fran had predicted. It’s past one in the morning in LA. And now I realize that I won’t be able to call Blake. Not at this hour.

  Strangely enough, the sun is shining in Paris. By the time we make our way out of customs and locate our bags and get to our hired car, it’s almost eleven in the morning. And I am exhausted.

  “We’ll go get checked into our hotel,” Fran says after we’re piled into the town car. “The crew arrived here really late last night, but they’ve had a little time to rest. They’ll be heading over to Salon Dominique around two to start setting up. Your appointment is for three thirty, so we have time to settle in and catch a nap if anyone is tired.” She yawns, then leans back and closes her eyes.

  “Are you going to call Blake?” Paige asks as the car pulls into traffic.

  “I wish I could,” I tell her. “But it’s almost two in the morning there now.”

  “Oh, yeah.” She nods. “I’d rather not think about that. Otherwise I’ll start feeling sleepy.” Now she’s looking out the window. “Wow, can you believe it, Erin, we’re really in Paris.”

  “Not Paris proper,” Fran says sleepily. “But it won’t be long.”

  “How far to the city?” Paige asks eagerly.

  “About fourteen miles.”

  “You seem pretty familiar with Paris,” I point out.

  “I lived here for a year,” Fran tells me.

  “Well, you guys can sleep if you want,” Paige says. “I plan to see a bit of the city. And I want to get some lunch at a sidewalk café and then I’ll do some shopping and—”

  “Just don’t forget about the hair appointment,” Fran warns. “Stay close to the hotel and don’t get lost. We’ll meet in the lobby at three and ride over to the salon together. So don’t get carried away with shopping, Paige. It’s easy to lose track of the time in a place like Paris.”

  “How about if I hang with Paige,” I offer. “I’ll make sure we’re in the hotel lobby by three.”

  “Thanks.” Fran nods, then leans back, closing her eyes again.

  I realize if I’m going to keep Paige on schedule I had better set my watch to Paris time. I adjust it to 11:25 and suddenly wish I had one of those watches that keeps two sets of time so I’d know when I could call Blake. Then I simply do the math and decide that I’ll call him around six o’clock Paris time. That should be around nine in the morning in LA. I know waiting another six hours will not be easy.

  Soon we are coming into what must be the outskirts of Paris. Buildings become taller and are closer together, traffic gets thicker, and everything looks old and interesting. Now I wish I hadn’t put my camera bag in the trunk, because I’m missing some great photo ops. Fran gives Paige and me each a fat envelope.

  “Euros,” she explains. “I had Leah do the money changing for us. You’ll need cash for taxis and food because not everyone will accept credit cards.”

  Fran calls out something in French to the driver and he nods. “I asked him to swing by the Gare du Nord,” she tells us.

  “The train station?” Paige shows off her French.

  “Why?” I ask. “Are we taking a train?”

  Fran laughs. “No. We’re simply going by there because it’s beautiful—because we’re in Paris where beauty reigns. And because I have fond memories of it. You’ll see.”

  She’s right about the Gare du Nord. It is beautiful. It looks more like a palace than a train station. “Hopefully you’ll get to see the inside of the terminal too,” she says as the driver continues on his way. “The architecture is really lovely.” Now I know I’ll have to make a trip back here with my camera and hopefully get some interesting shots.

  “Our hotel is in Saint-Germaine,” Fran informs us.

  “Is that still in Paris?” I ask with concern.

  “Of course.” She pulls out her map and points to a place below the River Seine. “It’s this district on the Left Bank.”

  “And the Left Bank is south of the river?” I ask for clarification.

  “Yes. And the north side is the Right Bank.”

  “So I guess it makes sense as long as you’re looking toward the west.” I imagine myself on a bridge over the river looking toward a sunset.

  Fran nods. “That’s right. Anyway, I chose Saint-Germaine because it’s near the Latin Quarter and very historical.” She smiles at me. “And intellectual too. I think you’re going to like it, Erin.”

&
nbsp; “What about the shopping?” Paige asks.

  “Of course there’s shopping,” Fran assures her. “It’s Paris after all. And there are some lovely cafés and bookstores, and our hotel is very close to Jardin du Luxembourg.” I’m not sure if it’s my imagination or if Fran is actually starting to use a French accent.

  “She means Luxembourg Gardens,” Paige informs me like I didn’t know that jardin is French for garden. Okay, I realize her French is way better than mine, but I should be able to figure things out.

  “You’ll find lots of good photo ops around the hotel neighborhood,” Fran tells me.

  “But shopping?” Paige persists. “Is it really good?”

  “Saint-Germaine will give you an authentic taste of Paris,” Fran says as she folds her map. “We’re close enough to walk to see plenty of sites and museums. And there’s always the Metro, although I don’t think you should attempt it today. Let’s keep our exploring limited to Saint-Germaine.”

  “I think Saint-Germaine sounds perfect.” I’m looking out the window as our car slowly weaves its way down a narrow, charming street. I feel like I’m really in Paris now. “I wish I hadn’t put my camera in the trunk,” I complain.

  “You’ll have plenty of time to catch photos before we’re done,” Paige assures me as she glances at her watch.

  “Just don’t forget about Salon Dominique,” Fran reminds us as our driver pulls up to what appears to be the final stop. “Let’s all keep our phones on.” Fran gives some instructions to the driver about when to pick us up in the morning, then we wait for him to unload our luggage. He piles it right onto the sidewalk and Fran sends me inside the hotel to find someone to help us with our bags.

  I go to the desk and suddenly realize that my French is more than a little rusty. “Excuse me,” I say. “We need help with our luggage.”

  The woman gives me a very blank and slightly irritated look like she doesn’t understand a word I’m saying. I find it hard to believe that she doesn’t know at least a little English. Even so, I strain my brain to remember some French—help with bags, how hard can it be? “Uh…aide…um…avec…uh…bagages?”

  “Font vous ont besoin de l’aide avec vos bagages?” she says quickly—so quickly that I really don’t understand much more than avec vos bagages, which sounds close enough to me.

  “Oui!” I nod eagerly, “S’il vous plait!” At least please is fairly easy.

  She rings a bell, calling out to someone—in French, of course.

  “Je m’excuse,” I tell her slowly and apologetically. “Non parlez français…non bon.” My French isn’t very good.

  “Oui, oui,” she says with a tiny bit of empathy. “En fait votre parler du Français est terrible.”

  Okay, I’m pretty sure she just told me my French is terrible. Well, fine. But I’ll keep trying. A man comes out from a backroom and I call out, “Merci beaucoup,” to the slightly snooty woman. As I lead him outside I think maybe I should stick to three phrases: 1) please, 2) thank you, and 3) I don’t speak French too well. Although I suppose the old où est les toilettes? might come in handy too. In fact, I could use a restroom right now!

  Chapter 6

  Because this is a small hotel, we all have separate rooms, and I must admit that I don’t mind a bit. When I share a room with Paige, her stuff usually takes over. It’s rather nice having my own, albeit small, closet and bathroom. Fran pretty much just dropped her bags and took off. Paige thinks she’s off to meet an old French lover. I think she simply wants to experience Paris again without dragging us along with her.

  Paige’s plan is for us to get cleaned up, which means she’s redoing hair and makeup and changing her clothes, as well as putting some things away. At high noon, we will meet in the lobby and venture out to the streets of Paris. Naturally, I’m early. I dug out my English-to-French translation booklet and I’m walking around the lobby practicing phrases and hoping that I won’t embarrass myself too much today. If all else fails I might just keep my mouth closed and attempt sign language.

  “Prêt à aller?” Paige says when she joins me.

  It’s vaguely familiar, but I’m still not sure. “Huh?”

  “Ready to go?” she interprets her French for me.

  I nod. “Oui.”

  “Fran said Gerard Deral isn’t too far from here.” Paige pauses on the sidewalk to pull out her map.

  “What’s that?”

  “A très chic clothing store. Although you might even like it.”

  “How about if we get something to eat first?” I suggest.

  I can see Paige’s reluctance in the way she presses her lips together. Of course, she’d rather shop than eat, but my stomach is rumbling. “Come on,” I urge her. “You’ll need energy to shop.”

  We walk a ways and when I point out a charming café with linen-covered tables on the sidewalk, Paige can’t resist. Before long we are trying to interpret the menu. And, with Paige speaking for both of us, the waiter, an attractive older guy, seems to fall under her spell. No problem if her French isn’t perfect. He even attempts speaking to us in English, which I’ve heard is unusual in Paris. And he’s so enamored with my sister that he even brings us something we didn’t order.

  “Les hors-d’oeuvres complémentaires,” he tells Paige.

  “Merci beaucoup,” she says sweetly back. After he leaves she quietly tells me the appetizers are complimentary.

  “Does he think you’re a celebrity?” I quietly ask as I sample a tasty little parcel with mushroom, herbs, goat cheese, and a bit of pastry around it.

  “Perhaps.” She smiles.

  I laugh. “Well, actually you kind of are.”

  The waiter is very attentive, but disappointed that he can’t talk us into wine. I draw the line there for both of us. “We still have a show to do,” I remind her. “You can’t show up at Salon Dominique with a slur in your voice.”

  She gives me a disdainful look. “One glass of wine would not make me slur.” She smiles. “If anything it would only make me très Français.”

  “Even so.” I firmly shake my head. We do let the waiter entice us to eat dessert and we both order espresso to go with it.

  “I feel so Parisian,” she says as she holds up a tiny cup of coffee.

  Soon we’re done and I’m trying to keep up with Paige’s longer legs as she hurries toward the street where the “good” shops are supposed to be located. And while we find some bookstores, which interest me, and I even stop and get some photos of a very old church, Paige becomes more and more frustrated when we cannot locate the clothing stores.

  “You’re not helping,” she tells me as I continue shooting interesting angles of this old cathedral.

  “Hey, I’m just waiting for you to figure it out,” I tell her as I snap another one. “If it takes you much longer I might just decide to go inside this church to check it out even more.”

  “Go ahead,” she tells me in a cranky tone. “It’s not like you want to shop for clothes anyway.”

  “That’s true.” I consider this as I look longingly at the church. “Do you really want to be on your own? You’re not afraid you’ll get lost?”

  She nods firmly. “Even if I did get lost, my French is a lot better than yours and I can always ask for directions.”

  I check my watch. “Well, you only have about an hour now anyway.”

  She frowns.

  “We promised Fran we’d be at the hotel by three.”

  “I know. And right now we’re just wasting time.”

  “So you’ll be there at three?” I persist.

  She adjusts her Gucci sunglasses and nods. “Absolutely. I have my phone. Worst case scenario I’ll get lost and you guys can pick me up on the way.”

  That makes sense. I agree, and Paige and I part ways. My first stop is to see the interior of the church. I notice the international sign for “no photos” and so I put my camera in the bag and simply go inside the large stone building. Even though it’s Sunday, it seems to be the ti
me of day when no services are scheduled. The cavernous space is quiet and cool, and I decide to slide into a pew in the rear of the church. I don’t know what denomination it is, and as I sit down I realize I don’t care. To me it feels that God is here. And that’s all that matters.

  I bow my head and think of Blake. I’ve been trying to push worry about him from my mind, but now I want to take time to really pray for him. And, although I know that God listens to my prayers no matter where I am when I pray them, I feel like maybe this is even more special. I ask God to take good care of Blake, to help him to get well quickly, to not let any complications arise, and to lift his spirits. After I finish praying for Blake, I pray for Mollie, and Tony. I even pray for Mom and Jon and that God would help us all to get the wedding plans together. And then I say amen—aloud. The sound of my voice echoing in this large space actually makes me jump.

  I get up and walk around, admiring the tall stained-glass windows that depict scene after scene from the Bible. They’re really remarkable. And, if my French is accurate, according to a brass plaque, these windows are more than three hundred years old, although some repairs have been made in the past century. I’m amazed at how old everything is here. Compared to LA, where hardly anything is really old, Paris is ancient. It’s like I can feel the history as I walk down the narrow street. Despite the modern cars and Vespas and contemporary clothing, it’s like I can imagine the people of a bygone era going about their daily business.

  I’m about to cross the avenue to get a photo of a quaint-looking bookstore, when I notice a shop window filled with baby clothes and toys, and I remember my promise to Mollie. I go inside and, despite my lack of knowledge of babies as well as French, I emerge with a heavy bag and lighter purse. I know Mollie is going to love everything! I continue along, taking photo after photo and finally pause to check my watch to discover that it’s a quarter till three.