Page 68 of That Weekend in Paris
For promis’d joy!”
?Robert Burns
IRONICALLY, I AM writing an email to Klein when I feel the first pain slice through my midsection. It completely takes my breath away. I gasp, short and hard. I sit for a moment, wondering if it could be something I’ve eaten that upset my stomach and has nothing at all to do with the baby. I wait a full minute for the pain to recur, but it doesn’t. I sit still for another full five minutes, finally breathing a sigh of relief when it doesn’t happen again.
I glance at the screen of my laptop, reread the words I have written to Klein, an explanation of the truth about our baby.
I agonize for a bit over the inability I seem to have for conveying the why behind my actions. But then I wonder if that really matters because I know one thing for sure. When Klein learns of the existence of this baby, he will be willing to forgive me anything. I guess, truthfully, that is all that matters.
It might just be that the one smart thing I’ve done is to pick a guy with a conscience, with a heart that always wants to do right. He will hate me at first. There’s no denying this. But his relief at learning the truth will win out. Klein is a strong man. There’s nothing soft about him when it comes to getting the things he’s wanted in life, chasing after the career that defines him. But he and I are different in this one respect.
I’m willing to do whatever it takes to get the things I want in life. Klein has limits, morals, you might say. Places he’s unwilling to go. A shimmer of pain ripples through me, but it’s a shadow of the one from a few minutes ago. I close my eyes and wait, letting myself wonder for just a moment what will happen if I actually lose this baby.
I cannot imagine having to start over again, find another man who can give me the things I want. Just the thought is exhausting, and I vow anew to take care of this life inside me. I rub my belly, as if the baby can actually feel this. I resolve to eat better, get a book, and read up on whatever nutrients this baby needs. I will do all of that and more. I’m not sure if I’m making this promise to myself or a god I don’t believe in. Either way, I will not let anything happen to this baby. I will not.
Dillon
“Let us read, and let us dance; these two amusements will never do any harm to the world.”
?Voltaire
THE PLAN IS to meet André downstairs at eight. I had decided to take a nap, and it’s nearly seven when I wake up in a panic. I jump into the shower, wash my hair, and do my fastest version of getting ready.
Klein knocks on the door between our rooms a little before eight. I pull it open to see him standing there looking hotter than ever in faded jeans and a white collared shirt.
“Hey,” he says, “you look great.”
“Thank you. I wasn’t really sure what to wear,” I say, running a hand across the short skirt I’d found at the bottom of my suitcase.
“I think you nailed it,” he says, his gaze warm on mine. “Ready to head down?”
“Let me grab my purse.”
I duck back into the room, throw a lipstick and my phone inside the clutch, and head for the door.
André is waiting for us downstairs. A young woman in her twenties stands next to him. André makes the introductions with a smile. “Elizabetta, these are my new friends, Klein and Dillon.”
And to us, “Klein and Dillon, this is Elizabetta. She couldn’t believe I met the two of you here, so I had to bring her along to prove it.”
Elizabetta laughs a shy laugh. “Believe it or not, I had tickets for your concert in Paris, but my mother was in a little car accident, and I did not want to leave her until I knew she was okay.”
“I’m sorry,” Klein says. “I hope she is all right?”
“She is, thank you. But I thought André must be kidding me to say that you are here at the château. And you,” Elizabetta says, looking at me, “you write songs?”
“I do,” I say.
“That is amazing. We love music, André and I,” Elizabetta says, waving a hand between them. “We will have so much fun tonight. Shall we go?”
We follow André and Elizabetta down the broad stone steps of the château entrance to a dark gray Range Rover waiting at the center of the drive. André thanks the valet who has pulled the vehicle to the front and gets in the driver’s seat. Klein and I slide in the back, and then we’re heading down the long drive that leads to the main road.
“The place where we are going,” André says, “it will take thirty minutes or so, but the drive is beautiful during the day. At night you can’t see as much, but I will still point out a few things of interest along the way.”
It is clear as we go along that André loves his country and the town and surrounding countryside where he grew up. He regales us with stories from his childhood and some of the things he used to do as a boy with his parents and grandparents. We pass a wonderful-sounding farmers’ market where the fruits and vegetables for the château restaurant are still bought today. And farther on, a beautiful, small stone church where his parents were married and the elementary and high schools he attended as a student.
“I understand why you always want to come back,” Klein says. “We are in a different country, of course, but so much of what you’ve said reminds me of small towns in the United States.”
“I love in country music,” Elizabetta says, “how so many songs are stories of life in small towns. Did you grow up in a small town, Dillon?”
