Chapter Six
Kayla Brock looked up at the Eiffel Tower as she exited the Pont de l’Alma RER train station. She still had to pinch herself at the realization that she lived here.
It had been another long day at work at the assisted-living home on the rue Royer-Collard, but at least she’d been able to spend some of the day with Celeste Didier, who had quickly become her favorite patient; the woman might not have much of her memory intact, but man, was she smart and feisty.
It boggled Kayla’s mind how someone who sometimes forgot the way to her room could speak flawlessly in a second language and could always guess the answers to the puzzles on the old reruns of French game shows that seemed to be playing at all hours of the day in the dining room.
How was it that some pieces of the brain seemed to vanish like mirages while others were always there?
And now Celeste was at the center of a love story that had captured Kayla’s imagination.
The man who’d come to see her had called her the love of his life and had said he’d spent a lifetime writing songs for her.
Kayla couldn’t imagine being loved that deeply; in fact, if you had asked her this morning, Kayla would have said she wasn’t sure she even believed in love like that at all.
Certainly her own parents hadn’t had it—her mom and dad had met here in Paris back in the late nineties and dated for just a few months before her mom had gotten pregnant.
Kayla’s dad—Simon—had wanted nothing to do with being a father, so Kayla’s mom had returned to the States and raised Kayla alone.
Kayla’s only connections with her father during her childhood had been a card every Christmas and the child support payments he sent to her mother monthly until she was eighteen.
The biggest perk to being his child was that his nationality had given her dual citizenship.
Her mom had always dissuaded Kayla from pursuing a relationship with him, but Kayla was twenty-six and trying to figure out who she was and who she was supposed to grow into, so when the opportunity had arisen to put her nursing degree to some use in France as a care worker at an elder-care facility in Paris, she had jumped at it.
She had emailed her father—a successful real estate agent—to tell him that she was thinking of spending a year in Paris and that she would love to get to know him.
He had written back to say that he would be happy to meet her.
Filled with hope, and ignoring her mother’s warnings, she had exchanged several emails with him, asking him advice about where to find a good apartment.
She’d ultimately chosen a chambre de bonne, a small converted maid’s chamber, on the top floor of a building on the rue du Général Camou, a few blocks away from the father she’d never known.
She had imagined long meals together, where she’d learn about his life and tell him all about hers, filling him in on all the years he’d missed.
But as it turned out, he was a workaholic, leaving early to meet with clients and coming home most nights after dinner, so she was lucky if they had a conversation with each other once a week.
She had always assumed that the lack of communication between them over the years was because her mother hadn’t wanted them to know each other.
But now that she was here and he seemed to be in no hurry to get to know her, she couldn’t help but feel the sharp sting of rejection.
Kayla’s mother was so annoyed at her for the decision to decamp to France that they’d hardly talked since she’d arrived in Paris.
Maybe Kayla should call her now and tell her the story of Celeste Didier and her long-lost American love; it was the kind of romantic story her mother would eat right up.
That’s what she was thinking as she hurried along the broad dirt path of the Esplanade David Ben Gourion, the Seine sliding by to her right, the Eiffel Tower slicing into the bright blue sky over the treetops to the left.
It was six o’clock in Paris, which meant that it was only noon back home in New York.
She pulled out her phone and was just about to tap Mom, the first contact in her Favorites list, when a deep voice just ahead of her to the left interrupted.
“Excusez-moi, mademoiselle.”
She looked up, startled, and saw a guy around her age, maybe a few years older, sitting on a bench facing the water. He had dark, curly hair, soulful brown eyes, and olive skin, and he was smiling right at her.
“Moi?” she asked, looking around to make sure he wasn’t talking to someone else, which seemed to make his smile widen.
“I don’t mean to impose,” he said in French. “I just have a question. Or perhaps you could call it a request for a favor.”
The small park bustled with tourists, so she felt comfortable stopping to talk to a stranger for a moment, especially because he looked pleasant. On closer inspection, there was a cleft in his chin and a dimple in his right cheek. Okay, so not just pleasant but cute. “Yes?”
“I was wondering,” the young man said, and it was then that Kayla realized that he was nervous, “if you’d mind stopping for a few moments. That is, unless you’re in a hurry to get somewhere.”
“Stopping?”
“Er, yes.” The man cleared his throat. “I’ve been… I’ve been wanting to paint you. But you hurry by so quickly that I’ve never had the chance.”
Kayla blinked at him in confusion. “Paint me? I don’t understand.”
He gestured to the easel in front of him and the wide array of pastels laid out in a row beside it, which Kayla had only just noticed. “I come here nearly every evening to paint—and for the past two months, I’ve seen you most days, too.”
Kayla’s mouth fell open. She had never noticed the guy before, but he’d been watching her for two months? She didn’t know whether to be flattered or creeped out.
“You always look lost in thought,” he added after a pause. “And then, you look up and see the Eiffel Tower, and your face changes. I wanted to capture that moment. I’ve been trying to paint it, in fact, for the past few weeks. But you disappear so quickly.”
Kayla arched an eyebrow. “This feels like a really bad pickup line.”
The man laughed and turned his easel around to show her what he’d been working on. “See for yourself.”
Kayla stared at the half-finished painting, which was as beautiful as anything she’d seen in the Louvre.
It showed the Seine under a bright blue sky, the buildings of the Right Bank just visible across the water, and in the foreground of the picture, a dark-haired woman was walking along, her head tilted up.
But she could see what the man was saying; she recognized the body language as her own, but the face didn’t look like hers.
Still, it was stunning. “You painted this?” she asked.
He ducked his head modestly. “The look on your face, it’s hope and joy and optimism all wrapped into one perfect moment. I just can’t seem to get it right on the canvas.” He smiled and stood. He was taller than she’d realized, his shoulders broad. “I’m sorry. I should introduce myself. I’m Nadim.”
“Nadim,” she repeated, shaking his outstretched hand. His fingers were strong and callused, his palm soft. “I’m Kayla.”
“And you are not French?” he asked. When she looked at him in confusion, he clarified. “Your accent.”
“Oh. Right. I’m American, but my father is French. I’m living here for a while, trying to get to know him.”
“You do not know him well?” Nadim looked confused. “Your own father?”
“It’s kind of a long story.”
“I have time,” Nadim said. “What I mean is, perhaps you could tell me. I would love to sketch you, and we can talk as I draw.” He stopped abruptly and searched her eyes. “That is, if you want to.”
“Oh,” Kayla said. The fact that he’d noticed her—when her own father barely seemed aware that she was alive—meant more to her than she could say. “I mean, yeah. I can sit for a few minutes if you want.”
A look of relief swept over his handsome face. “Oh, thank you. I was worried that I’d scared you away.”
She laughed. “If you didn’t have the painting to back you up, you might have.” She glanced at his easel again. “You’re really talented, Nadim.”
He ducked his head again. “I am not as good as I would like to be.”
“Neither am I,” Kayla said quietly. When he looked up at her, confusion written across his face, she laughed. “Not at painting, I mean. I’m terrible at painting. But I mean at life, you know? None of us are ever as good as we would like to be, are we?”
“Indeed.” Nadim was staring at her as if seeing her for the first time, and they stood that way, for a long moment, looking into each other’s eyes.
It was Kayla who broke the silence by sliding her gaze away. “So where should I sit?”
“Oh. Um, just beside me here, if that’s all right with you.”
She nodded and sat beside him on the bench.
He sat back down, pushing his easel aside, and pulled a large sketchpad and several pencils from the backpack that lay at his feet. “So, tell me about your father, Kayla.”
She raised her eyebrows at him. “You really want to hear about this?”
He nodded. He hadn’t started sketching yet, but he was studying her face in a way that made her blush.
“Okay.” Kayla drew a deep breath. “I didn’t have a relationship with him when I was a kid, and I’ve always felt like that’s a piece of my life that’s sort of incomplete. Does that sound crazy?”
“Not at all,” Nadim murmured, still staring intently at her. “It sounds very human. Our parents are part of who we are.”
“I just—I thought he would feel like that, too, you know? But I’ve been here for two months now, and I’ve barely seen him. He’s always too busy. I just wish he’d make time for me.”
“Of course. Does he have other children?” Nadim asked.
Kayla shook her head. “He never married. I’m pretty sure he didn’t want kids at all. Maybe I’m crazy to think he’d want to get to know me now.”