Page 25 of Forgiving Paris
9
They were an hour into the flight to Paris, but Ashley was still lost in the past.
That night on the porch in the snow, she had practically changed her mind about going to France. Ashley narrowed her eyes and looked across the vast ocean. If only she had done that. She could’ve held on to Landon and never let go… told him that she loved him and stayed with him forever.
But then… then she wouldn’t have Cole.
She would go through the pain of Paris all over again to have her oldest son. She pictured him. Tall and blond with tan skin and the fine features of the father he’d never met, never knew. Cole was a junior at Liberty now, dating his high school friend Carolyn Everly. Yes, Cole was golden. He loved God and his family, and he would’ve laid down his life for any of them.
For a stranger, even.
If she could keep her eyes on Cole, on God’s gift of her oldest son, she could survive any of the memories and moments ahead. Ashley smiled. She reached over and took Landon’s hand, sliding her fingers between his. They hadalways fit together so well. He was sleeping, but not so deeply that he didn’t notice her hand in his. His eyes stayed closed, but he squeezed her fingers and the hint of a smile tugged at his lips.
Even after being married to Landon these past eighteen years, Ashley still couldn’t believe God had led her back to him. Together they had raised Cole and Devin, Janessa and now Amy—her sister Erin’s daughter. Erin and her husband and three of their kids were killed in another horrible car accident just outside Bloomington. They had been coming home for a surprise birthday party for their dad when they were rear-ended by an eighteen-wheeler. Only Amy had survived, and Ashley and Landon had taken her in like one of their own.
And together she and Landon had lost little Sarah Marie—just after birth.
Yes, they had been through much, and always God was the constant. God and Landon. Because even when Ashley had turned away from the Lord during her time in Paris, He had never turned away from her. Landon hadn’t, either.
The seasons and years slipped away, and Ashley was back in time again, landing in Paris twenty-three years ago, sitting in a window seat much like this one. Rain had been falling that day, but Ashley didn’t mind. She collected her two suitcases from the baggage area and stood for a minute in the bustling concourse. The place where the various trains and metro lines intersected.
Ashley had purchased a book to help with some simple French phrases, and she knew which metro stop to look for. There was something exhilarating about standing there, in the heart of Charles de Gaulle Airport. She had done it! She had left Bloomington and her family and the wrestling match she’d been having with her faith.
Now it was just her.
A dark-haired man at least ten years her senior walked by and smiled. “You need a ride, ma chérie?”
She almost said yes. Why not? She could meet people in the city and get immersed from the first hour. But she remembered what her father had said. Not everyone who smiles at you has good intentions. She shook her head. “No, merci.”
The man gave a sideways nod of his head, as if to say her loss. But his smile remained.People are friendly in Paris,Ashley thought to herself. She was going to love this city. As she boarded the metro she realized something else. She hadn’t thought about the accident since she’d gotten off the plane.
Anna Martin was the woman Ashley’s teacher Helen Barr had connected her with. Decades ago, her teacher had been college roommates with Ms. Martin. Now the woman lived in the third arrondissement in a fourth-floor flat just fifteen blocks from the gallery where Ms. Barr had arranged for Ashley to work. The job was good for up to a year. That was all Ashley’s visa allowed for now.
Ashley felt like an entirely different person as she stepped off the metro twenty minutes later. She was not far from the flat where she’d be living, and just across theriver from Notre Dame Cathedral. The fringe of the Marais. Ashley had studied the map of the twenty districts that made up Paris. She’d read that each arrondissement had its own personality and flavor.
That wasn’t completely true for the third and fourth districts. Most of the historic buildings, quaint art galleries, and favorite tourist spots were in the third and fourth arrondissements. The Marais was most famous, but the third was in walking distance, alive and eclectic and charming, with colorful boutiques and a hundred sidewalk cafés.
Ashley hadn’t wanted to get off the metro any closer than this. From here she could see a long stretch of the Seine and now that the storm was letting up she wanted only to walk along the river and convince herself she was really here.
Her suitcases were large and cumbersome, but Ashley didn’t mind. She pulled them behind her as if they weighed nothing. She was in Paris! That was all she cared about.
The metro had dropped her off near the famous Pont des Arts that crossed the Seine near the Louvre. Ashley could barely breathe as she stepped onto the footbridge and stopped along the metal railing. Straight ahead she could see the world’s largest museum. She pivoted to the right and there again was magnificent Notre Dame. A turn to the left and in the distance she could clearly see the Eiffel Tower.
Just like one of the drawings she’d made when she was in fifth grade.
A quiet laugh escaped Ashley. She was really here.
A light rain fell on her cheeks and hair, but that didn’t matter, either. She had her red umbrella if she really needed it. For now all she wanted was to take in the sights and sounds and breathe the smells of the city. One of the girls in her art class back in Bloomington had warned her that Paris had a bad odor. “Between the catacombs and the public urinals… the romance will wear off quickly,” she had said.
The girl’s words hadn’t discouraged Ashley, and now that she was here, she could tell for herself. Her classmate had been wrong. Ashley could smell hot sweet beignets from a nearby food truck and even in the rain the aroma of a dozen different types of flowers wafted from an overflowing cart at the end of the bridge.
Her heart felt free and full and light. Ashley raised her hands over her head and twirled in two full circles. She might as well have been in her own movie scene, dancing here on the famous bridge. She had studied this. The Pont des Arts had been built in 1804 and during wartime, the base of the bridge had survived two bombings.
The one Ashley was standing on had been rebuilt in 1984.
A redheaded teenage boy on a bike rode by and tipped his navy beret to her.
Ashley nodded in return, then she laughed and stared straight up at the rainy sky. Two more twirls and she held her hands out to her sides. French guys were so friendly! People were kind and they liked her. No one felt sorry for her or looked the other way.
