Chapter 26 Spencer
TWENTY-SIX
SPENCER
They say money can’t buy happiness—and maybe that’s true. But it sure as hell can give you a nice nudge in the right direction. And this woman?
She’s the kind that dreams are made of.
So if I can help bring her closer to one of her lifelong dreams—Paris, fresh croissants, riverside walks—then sign me up.
Twice.
Yes. We’re going.
To Paris.
We’ll be wheels up from Maplewick by 7:30 a.m. EST on Friday. A quick flight to Boston. Then straight onto my jet, already fueled and waiting in the adjacent hangar.
If all goes according to plan, we’ll land at Charles de Gaulle Airport at 8:30 p.m. Paris time—just in time to see the Eiffel Tower sparkle from the back seat of our car.
Friday night, we’ll make a quick change and head out into the city.
A better view of the Eiffel tower and a dinner plan that I hope says I want her to have it all. An evening walk along the Seine, stop for crêpes or café crème if we’re still awake. Maybe we’ll even climb the steps at Montmartre if we have any energy left.
Saturday, we’ll sleep in if we’re able. Breakfast will be delivered to our room.
Then we’ll spend the morning at Musée de l'Orangerie, where her favorite artist, Monet, is waiting, followed by a stroll through the Jardin des Tuileries. Lunch by the river, shopping, or wandering—whatever she wants. I’ve booked a table at Le Clarence, tucked inside an 18th-century mansion just off the Champs-élysées.
Candlelight. A private corner table. Vintage Bordeaux. Something simple, yes. But unforgettable. Great conversation. Her smile.
On Sunday, we’ll take the train to Eure-et-Loir, the countryside just outside Paris, to visit my old rehab town.
The little village where we’ll visit Henri’s village bakery, share some laughs, and taste something warm and flaky. Show her where I healed. Let her see the quiet part of France—the part that changed me. The part that always makes me think of her.
We’ll board the jet again around 9:00 p.m. Sunday night, Paris time, fly through the night, and touch down in Boston at approximately 2:30 a.m. EST Monday, then hop a quick flight to Maplewick and be home by 3:30 a.m.
That’s the agenda.
Every detail’s in place. Gina made sure of it—securing everything from the in-flight menu to a perfectly fitted cashmere blanket in case Rhea wants to nap en route.
But when she boards the little plane in Maplewick, she has no idea, and she looks nervous. Her hand is clenched around her phone, trying to act calm for my sake.
“I’ve never flown in a small plane before,” she says, a little breathlessly.
I take her hand. “Quick trip.”
The flight is short, but pretty bumpy. Something not in my control.
We land in Boston just after 8:30 a.m. The hangar is mostly quiet, the sun starting to warm the tarmac. She walks down the stairs, looking around, a little disoriented.
“Lead on,” she says with a smile, “Show me your city.”
“Well, not quite yet.” I say, I take her hand again and point across the hangar.
The jet is gleaming. Larger. Sleek. The flight crew is already standing at the bottom of the steps. “This way,” I say, smiling. “I believe they’re expecting us.”
She stares at me. “What?”
I lean in and say with a wink, “That’s the one headed to Paris.”
She blinks once. Twice. “You’re kidding me.”
I shake my head. “Not even a little.”
And then she launches into my arms, sunglasses falling off the perch atop her head, and I twirl her once—ignoring the screaming in my shoulder—just to hear her laugh.
That look on her face?
Maybe money can’t buy happiness.
But it sure as hell can give you a place to start.