Come Fly with Me

Chapter Twenty-Nine Beverly

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Beverly

“This is going on Mother’s room charge, so please don’t skimp, Judy.”

My word, it feels glorious to be sitting in the dining room of George V. It’s been far too long since I’ve been to Paris. And since Judy came along—an addition we were more than happy to have—my mom splurged on a suite of rooms in our favorite hotel near the Champs-élysées.

The city of light has not lost its magic. It’s as wonderous as the first time I went and all the times since.

I’ve surprised myself, though. Last time I was here, I never thought I could be happy in anything less luxurious. High-thread-count sheets and room service at the tip of my finger. Now my favorite days are my Honolulu layovers with Ann and Karina in their duplex, or with Mark in his rustic ‘ohana.

I can hear a phantom of my father telling me, “How the mighty have fallen.”

But I don’t feel fallen.

I feel found.

“I don’t want to take advantage of this, Bev,” Judy pleads. I am torn from my thoughts by the sincerity of her words. “I’m perfectly happy with water and a croissant.”

I shake my head. “Well, they even charge you for water here, so you might as well order champagne. And yes—the croissants are out of this world. But you need some meat. And eggs. And butter on everything.”

“Surely that’s not how the French eat. Look at the women. They’re thin as rails. And—we can’t gain so much that our weigh-ins are problematic.”

“Fine,” I concede as I wave a hand to the waiter and point to a bottle of champagne at the next table. “Let’s compromise. One week of unbridled indulgence while we’re in Paris. That will give us four weeks to taper off, and we’ll be in flying shape just in time to return to work.”

“Fine,” she agrees. “But I still feel like I’m taking advantage of your mother’s offer to pay for all this.”

“Oh, please. Look. She’s never going to leave Mr. Wall Street. Her set doesn’t divorce. And Sami would put her head on a platter and spritz her hair in holy water if she did. She found religion after her ordeal last year. But there are better ways to get revenge. Like running up some credit-card bills. And whom has she enlisted to help her? You and me, baby. Cheers. We’ve earned it.”

The waiter comes by just in time to make our cheers a reality. I clink the crystal glass against Judy’s, and it makes the satisfying sound of a bell.

Judy must think the same. “That reminds me. I would love to see Notre-Dame while we’re here. My mother always wanted to go, and my father promised he’d take her to Paris on their twenty-fifth anniversary.”

I know that anniversary never happened. That she lost them both before they made it that far.

“Of course. You cannot come to Paris and not see Notre-Dame. But other than that, let’s leave the week open to where the brise takes us. Because if you arrive in gay Paree with an itinerary, you have missed the whole point.”

Judy sips the champagne and wrinkles her nose. The bubbles must have tickled her.

“Pan American has taught me a lot,” she says. “But among the most important is that not everything has to happen now. I have to believe that if there is a place I want to return to, I will. Look at us—how many times have you and I now been to Asia? Two women who had never been before. So, Beverly, I will do Paris your way. See where those breezes take us. Because I will return.”

“ We will return,” I correct. “I declare that you and I should spend the rest of our lives planning one trip a year. Girls only. Husbands and babies are all well and good, but there is nothing that replaces the unique comfort that is found in the company of a friend.”

I am saying this as much for myself as her. If not more. Now that we’re here, now that we’ve had the extraordinary experiences that we’ve had, I want to ensure that we will hold on to that long after we’ve left the airline behind.

“Is your mother joining us today?” she asks.

“Not until dinner. She has fittings scheduled at Burberry and Chanel today for her winter wardrobe. But she made reservations at a little place right near Notre-Dame, in fact. Au Vieux Paris. It’s been around since the sixteenth century. You’ll love it.”

Judy sits back in her chair, and her eyes glaze over. I can tell she likes the champagne. And I’m getting a kick out of indulging her like this. It reminds me of those tequila shots we had in Miami. It seems like it was so long ago. We were different girls then than the women we are now.

“Wow. The sixteenth century. It’s hard to even imagine. I think the oldest thing near Red Lion is a little colonial building in York. And even that is a re-creation of the building that was originally there.”

“Yeah. There’s something about being in such ancient surroundings that puts a lot of things in perspective. No matter my problems, these places were here long before us and will be here long after we’ve met the angels.”

“I like that. Met the angels.”

“I did that for your sake, Judy. You know my mouth. I can come up with all sorts of euphemisms. My favorites would make you blush.”

She puts up a hand, but does it in the lazy manner of someone touched by intoxication. “I can imagine. That’s all I need.”

I drink the last of my bubbles in one fell swoop and motion to the waiter for another.

“If you think this is all old, though, Judy, wait until you see Rome.”

“I can’t wait. And where should we go after that?”

I shrug my shoulders. “That’s as far as I planned. We don’t need to be back in Burlingame until mid-December. I’ve bid a route that will put me in Honolulu over Christmas. I know that you’ll want to spend time with Joe before we head back, though. So that gives us a few weeks. Where would you like to go?”

Judy pulls out her wallet and unfolds a piece of paper that is so worn it’s almost falling apart. I recognize it immediately. It’s not that old—just over a year—but it’s clearly something she has clung to. She hands it to me, and I read them off.

“Hawaii. New York. Paris. Capri. London. Vermont. Brazil. Mandalay. Chicago. It’s our list, Judy. From that day in the training hangar.”

She nods. “Mm-hmm. The places Frank Sinatra sang about on the Come Fly with Me album.”

I put an elbow on the table—Mother isn’t here to fuss about my lack of etiquette—and I lean in. “We can cross a few of these off. Hawaii. New York. And here we are in Paris. Not bad for only a year into the goal. And we can surely hit a few more of these before we return to California.” I fold it in half and look up at the gilded ceiling of the hotel before handing it back to her. “Okay. This is exactly what I’m talking about. Once a year, we resolve to see at least one of these places together.”

I see her eyes light up. “I’m in.”

“And we’ll have to add to it. We’re going to be friends for much longer than these will take.”

This time, her eyes get watery, and she slips her hand across the table to hold mine.

“Much longer.”

On our last evening in Paris, Judy insists that I spend time alone with my mother. I resist at first, not wanting to leave my friend alone in the city, but she tells me that she’d like to take a walk along the Seine and find some flowers to leave in the water for her parents. I realize that I don’t need to be so protective. Judy’s cheeks are rosy, and her steps are light. Mother treated us to a shopping trip to her favorite stores, and despite Judy’s protests, we managed to rack up some hefty bills for Mr. Wall Street at Hermès and Caron. I selected a burgundy scarf that looked stunning on Judy and exchanged a large bottle of En Avion for the small one she’d brought to the Parfum Caron counter. Named for the first female pilots, the perfume felt like an appropriate homage to our sisters in flight. And it smelled sensational with its notes of carnation, orange, and sandalwood.

Tonight, my mother has hinted at a surprise for me, and indeed, I do not expect the path we take. A taxi drops us off at the base of the Rue Foyatier in Montmartre. It is past dinnertime, and the streets are drowsy with flickering streetlights that are reflected in puddles. In all our times traveling to this city together, we have not come to this part of town, and the venture reminds me of our trips to Sami’s in SoHo. There is something clandestine about it.

As we ascend each step of the steep path that takes us deeper into the heart of Montmartre, I see the brilliant-white church of Sacré-C?ur reveal itself. If the Eiffel Tower is the heart of Paris, Sacré-C?ur—despite its name actually meaning sacred heart —is the city’s crown. I’ve seen it at a distance from many vantage points, but never this close.

It is remarkable.

“Are you sure you can walk well in those shoes?” I ask her, looking down at her slim heels. “Maybe we should go back down and take a taxi to wherever we’re going.”

She smiles, and I wonder why I ever doubted her. My mother can carry off effortless elegance as well as any Parisian native. “If my feet form blisters, I will consider it my penance.”

I don’t understand what she means, but I don’t press it. Instead, I distract both of us with chatter about Ann and Karina and their parents and a recent trip where I met them in Las Vegas. I know my mother is excited that we have connected and that I’ve finally found the piece of myself that was missing. She mentions wanting to come out to Honolulu with me, and I assure her that they will welcome her as warmly as they have me.

At last we reach the top, and despite how many hours I spend on my feet as a stewardess, I am breathless from the effort. I look back and marvel at how far we came. Easily over two hundred steps.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” my mother says. The lights illuminating the church send a sparkle to her eyes as she gazes at it. There is a look on her face that I have not seen before. I might call it—reverence?

“It is,” I say slowly. The church revealed its magnificence bit by bit with each approaching step, but here, up close, it boasts a splendor that defies words.

I am still trying to figure out why this is our destination.

“I have always avoided coming here because it’s overrun by crowds,” she whispers. “Or so I’ve heard. But my priest told me about a beautiful way to see it away from people. It’s why I wanted to come on this trip. And I’ve wanted to see it with you.”

I hear all the words, but the only one that stands out to me is priest . Since when did my mother become religious? But I like it on her. Something that is separate from my father. Something that can be her own.

I wonder if this is Sami’s doing?

She pulls a piece of paper from the pocket of her mink coat and reads the directions that are printed on it. She takes my hand as if I’m a child, and I find myself liking the feeling that it evokes. I wouldn’t have known that such a simple gesture could carry several meanings. I recall her holding my hand when I was an actual child and something about it felt like I was being corralled. This time it feels—it feels loving.

I let myself be led. Every step that we take toward the church, and then around to its side, feels full of purpose.

At last, we come upon a wooden door. We are so close to the church that in looking up it seems like it pierces the sky, which is brightly lit by the overhead moon. It must be ten o’clock, if not later.

My mother knocks and the door opens. Standing in the doorway is a small nun, clothed head to toe in a white habit topped with a black veil. It is striking in its contrast, but not only the colors. I am flooded with a sense of contrast to the world itself. The nun’s face is radiant and peaceful even as she herself is simple. Behind her, there is a white room, sparsely adorned, but quite welcoming. It is nothing like the opulent Paris that I am used to. And her look of contentment is one we used to spend countless hours and dollars chasing in Fifth Avenue stores.

The nun has been expecting us.

“Good evening, Mrs. Caldwell,” she says in French.

“Good evening, Sister Catherine. Thank you for having us.”

I follow them both into the room. It is a warm haven when the night outside is so cold.

“As we discussed in our correspondence, it is typical for our pilgrims to stay overnight at our guesthouse. But I appreciate that you are in Paris with your daughter and that it is her friend’s first time in the city. I can well understand why you would want to be closer to the center of the city. We’ll ring a taxi for you when you’re ready to go back. I do hope you will consider staying on a future trip, though.”

“I would love to,” my mother responds. And I can tell that she means it. All my life, I have been able to detect the tone in her voice that says just what the listener expects to hear. But this is not one of those times.

We follow Sister Catherine down the hallway and pass several other sisters identically dressed. Two are wiping down dining tables. Four are gathered in prayer in a small chapel.

I am reminded of our Pan Am uniforms. Our version of habits, but with shorter skirts and fitted blazers. But a symbol that announces that we are a team. We are family. I can see that these nuns are similarly fulfilled in their cozy austerity.

The whiteness of the convent rooms gives way to a gray-stone hallway that looks far older than the rest of it. And beyond that sit two wooden doors that frame an elaborate stained-glass scene.

Sister Catherine folds her hands, and they disappear under the billowing fabric of her habit. She nods her head and says, “I will leave you here so that you can contemplate in privacy.” She turns and leaves. Her footfalls on the stone floor are so silent that I could almost believe she is a ghost.

My mother opens the door and lets me go in before her.

Suddenly, we are transported into what feels like another world. It matches the opulence of the city, but in this case, the eye is directed upward rather than outward. We are inside the colossal basilica and we are alone. Alone, save for statues and candles and two people praying in the pew closest to the altar. Above us, we are surrounded by mosaics and at their peak, a dome. The one that seemed to pierce the sky in the moonlight does the same by candlelight.

My mother links my arm with hers, and we stroll around the perimeter of the nave. She takes slow, deliberate steps, and I suspect she is trying to avoid the sound of her heels echoing in the vast space. Perhaps she needs—or is seeking—a dose of that serenity that made the nun’s gait silent.

I inhale the scent of incense, candle smoke, and history. It is an intoxicating blend.

My mother whispers, but even then, her words echo into the nearby side chapels. “The irony is not lost on me that it took you going away for us to become close.”

I nod. These sentiments are many years late. But I find myself void of resentment. As if regret cannot exist in this hallowed space.

“I’ve made mistakes, Beverly. I’ve chosen security over love, comfort over relationships. But I’d like to believe it’s not too late for me to rectify that.”

“You already have, Mom,” I say. “Look at us.” I glance down at our intertwined arms.

“I spent several nights at Sami’s bedside when she was in the hospital. And more at the Waldorf while she recovered. Being with her—made me feel like my old self again.”

“Are you going to leave Father?”

My mind races with the implications. It would certainly make headlines, to say the least.

She shakes her head. “No. Nothing like that. I made a vow and I take that seriously. He’s not a bad man, Beverly. He is a driven one. Maybe that’s my mission in this stage of my life. To help him discover what I’m relearning. The beauty of slowing down. Of appreciating the little joys in life rather than missing them while achieving more.”

“Stop-and-smell-the-roses kind of stuff?”

We pause, and I look up at a statue whose shadow is elongated by the candlelight. The tarnished brass plaque reads Saint Francis of Assisi. I think I remember reading about him. A rich Italian boy who gave up everything—even the literal clothes on his back—to serve the poor.

“Something like that. I’ve realized that riches are their own kind of poverty. Certainly, material needs are met with an ease that others struggle for. But inside—in the soul—there is a restlessness for more that can never be achieved because it is impossible to ever have it all. There is always more to acquire. Something newer. Someone with an even grander fortune.”

“I don’t know, Mom. You have me worried that you’re going to fling off those Christian Dior heels and don a veil to live with the nuns here.”

She laughs and again it echoes, this time enough that the couple of worshippers in the front pews look back at us.

“Maybe in another life I would have. But no, this is the life I shaped for myself. And it’s had beautiful moments. The best of those being with you, even if I didn’t show it well. Now it’s time to soak it in rather than miss it.”

I think about Mark and his little ‘ohana on Sunset Beach. The happiest days of my life have been spent there with him, even though there have been too few of them. But they’ve made me care little that my father cut me off from my accounts. And they’ve even tamed the wild independent streak that jetted me off quite literally into Pan Am’s open arms. Maybe my mother and I are coming to the same conclusions at the same time, though I have a head start of a couple of decades in life.

The truth is, if Mark Oakley proposes to me, I will be quite happy to become Mrs. Oakley. Cheering him on from the stands at championships. Lobbying Pan Am to change their policy on married stewardesses by demonstrating that women can, in fact, give quality attention to both.

Interestingly, by expanding my world, I’ve come to appreciate the small spaces in it.

As if reading my mind, she says, “I feel the need to give you the motherly advice to pursue love over money, but I have a feeling that you have already set yourself on that path.”

I have told her little bits on the phone about Mark, but have hesitated in giving more because the telephone lacks the intimacy that such conversation needs. But this—this beautiful church—evokes the gravity and comfort that makes it feel like the perfect setting.

Our stroll has taken us to the back of the church, so I lead my mother to the last pew, and we sit down.

“You’re right,” I say. “I’ll tell you more about Mark.”