Page 95 of Sold to the Silver Foxes

Across from me, Erin waves her espresso spoon like a fairy wand. “Everything tastes better here.” She dips the spoon into her chocolat chaud, raises froth to her lips, ends up with a whipped-cream mustache. One year ago, she was clinging to hospital ice chips. Today, she’s licking Belgian chocolate off silver. My heart does cartwheels every time she swallows without grimacing.

Grandma Judy sits beside her, cardigan draped shoulders, chair angled toward the window as if she could embroider the entire street into memory. She’s halfway through a croissant the size of an opera hat. Butter flakes cling to her scarf—a violet-and-emerald curl she finished last night “just in case Paris mornings were chilly.” It’s a good call—the breeze sends shivers down my spine, making me chug my decaf cappuccino.

The guys—my guys—are nowhere near this scene, barreling through roller coaster loops at Parc Astérix. Last night, Dante sold Erin on the idea of a “hyper-launched multi-direction coaster” that would rip his eyebrows off. Erin squealed, vowing she’d ride it with him next time.

She’s not roller coaster ready yet. Hell, the flight over was hard enough on her. We’ve been here two days, and she slept for most of them to recover. But every day she’s brighter, stronger, clearer. That’s why we’re at the café today.

The waiter—a man whose mustache curls like accent marks—returns to check in on us. He says something about “le beau jour” and Erin tries out a shaky “merci,” cheeks flushing with pride. The waiter bows theatrically. Erin beams, tucking her barrette behind her ear as if she’s just been knighted.

Her hair has come in a little faster than expected. Now, she’s less chemo survivor, more Little Orphan Annie. It suits her and her collection of headwear.

I lean back, breathing pastry, traffic, violin—flavors of a dream resurrected by Sal. This is the café Erin talked about during her lowest days, when she could hold nothing down. She’d ask me to describe heroically trivial things—how a baguette crust crackles, how espresso smells when the barista slams the portafilter. She’d quote Hemingway lines about the Seine being left bank, right bank, and the world between. I’d pretend I could teleport us both.

Teleportation was surgery, patience, physical therapy, and blunt perseverance. And, apparently, three men who rewrote their fiscal year to include miracles.

Erin sets her cup down with exaggerated care. “Tabi, I can feel my toes.”

“I hope so?”

“I mean, I can feel the floor vibrations from the traffic.” She lifts a foot, wiggles it, laughs in astonishment. “Like micro-massage.” Her joy blooms so wide I fear she’ll dislodge her healing spinal cord. “Do you think that’s neurons rerouting?”

“Textbook neuroplasticity,” I say, though the only textbook I’ve read lately isHow to Choreograph a Global Campaign Without Losing Your Mind.

“Grandma, write that in my PT journal!” Erin hands her the spiral notebook decorated with Eiffel Tower stickers. Grandma obediently scribbles the note.

The clock on the wall ticks toward eleven. The café is filling with couples in Breton stripes, a trio of American college students filming croissant slo-mos for TikTok, a well-dressed woman reading Colette and smoking a clove cigarette in defiance of indoor-air norms.

I glance at Erin—flushed, eyes shining, posture still straight. Yet fatigue creeps into the slump of her unbraced shoulder. Nurse Rios warned us that excitement is a greedy thief of energy.

I catch Grandma’s eye. She nods. Time to pivot.

We settle the bill—my French numbers wobble in my mouth, but the waiter rewards the attempt with a polite smile—and exit into brisk air. Erin insists on driving her chair. We compromise. Sherolls half a block, and I roll the next to conserve her stamina. Focusing on using the joystick and the buttons takes a lot out of her mentally.

The sidewalk offers a carnival of obstacles. Cobblestones, café chairs, pigeons who refuse to yield. Still, Erin navigates like a tank commander. At Pont Neuf we pause. The Seine glints jade gray beneath ancient arches. Bateaux-mouches glide by, glass roofs reflecting sky like fragments of broken mirror.

“This is exactly how I pictured it,” Erin whispers, awe softening her voice.

“And we’re not even at the bookstore,” I say. Shakespeare & Company waits two streets away, but first, we promised the doctor no marathon touring on day one. Small bites. “Tomorrow.”

Grandma snaps twenty photos—Erin with the bridge, Erin with an accordion busker, Erin reflected in a puddle shaped like a heart. She passes me the phone to push the chair across a tricky lip. I capture a candid of Grandma, her profile silhouetted against centuries-old stone.

The pictures aren’t only for Erin. I’ve been bugging Grandma Judy to put together an online dating profile.

Halfway back to the hotel, Erin dozes slightly, chin tilting. I steer us over a curb ramp. A gust catches petals, and they swirl around the wheelchair like pastel confetti.

“Free parade,” I tell her. She cracks one eye, smiles, drifts again.

The elevator of the Hotel Des Études hums upward, doors opening to a corridor carpeted so thick the wheels leave trails like ski tracks. Our suite unfolds in muted taupe and champagnetones, cut by views of Notre Dame’s scaffolding and, further off, the Eiffel Tower.

Grandma Judy settles Erin onto the adjustable bed—thank you, Sal, for insisting on hospital-grade features at Ritz-grade addresses. I set the window shade to half-light so Erin can nap without missing the cathedral silhouette.

She’s asleep before we fix the duvet.

Grandma and I tiptoe into the sitting area. A tray holds a mini carafe of hot chocolate, a folded note from the front desk—La famille Moretti, bienvenue!—and a discreet envelope with vouchers for the spa’s lymphatic-drainage massage. Someone did their research.

“Merci,” Grandma whispers to no one in particular. Then, louder to me, “This beats the Motel Six.” Her eyes shine. We don’t need to say what we’re thinking—gratitude, relief, marvel.

“You rest,” I tell her. “I’ll check on…logistics.”

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