Moonlight in Paris

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He released her hand, and she stepped away from him quickly. Her eyes blurred as she leaned over to gather her dress, snatching it up and making a dash for the bedroom.

She slammed the door and locked it behind her, then collapsed against it onto the floor as the wave of understanding washed over her.

Sawyer—the only man she’d ever loved—couldn’t get an erection for her.

He didn’t want her.

And maybe never would again.

* * *

TARA SAT AT the café in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower, still ogling the beauty of Paris’s quintessential landmark while practicing her lines. The addresses of forty-three Jacques Martins were programmed into her GPS, and, though she was aware of the challenge she faced linguistically, she was armed emotionally for whatever happened. Or so she hoped.

Garrett Hughes’s stuffy behavior last night had been good practice, reminding her that first impressions weren’t always reliable. What a surprise he’d turned out to be—and not the pleasant kind. She’d been looking forward to some occasional American conversation while she was here, and yeah, maybe a little casual flirting, as well. But the guy had turned out to be a contrary curmudgeon who obviously resented her staking a claim to part of the terrace that he used like it was his sole dominion.

Well, he could go piss up a rope. She’d paid the rent for a month, and that gave her terrace privileges. Much as she liked the apartment, she wasn’t going to spend all her time inside when she could be taking her meals and her books outdoors.

Besides, Dylan was a delight. He made her feel at home. And from where she was sitting at the moment, looking out over a park that could very likely hold a huge chunk of Taylor’s Grove, it was obvious she wasn’t at home anymore.

She signed the receipt the waiter brought and picked up her things. The GPS dangled from her wrist, where she could check it often. She punched up the set of coordinates for the maybe-father closest to the Eiffel Tower and began her first search, following the map toward the blinking dot. It was just like the geocaching she’d explained to Dylan yesterday, but with what could be a priceless treasure as the find rather than a box of trinkets.

The exquisite beauty of the city with its wide, tree-lined avenues and perfectly proportioned balances of lines and curves, man-made and natural, tempted Tara to forget the hunt and give in to the desire to explore. But her mind kept running ahead to her destination, and her heart pumped fast to keep up.

The map guided her around the final turn to a street filled with small boutiques rather than homes. The internet search had yielded all addresses—business and residential—that had a Jacques Martin linked to it, but she was surprised nonetheless...and maybe a little relieved...to see that the first address was that of a shop. Walking into a store was easier than ringing a private doorbell.

She stopped outside the address and took several deep breaths before pushing the door open and stepping inside. The strong, pervasive scent of formaldehyde greeted her from the bolts of materials hanging from chains, which covered the walls in brocades, damasks and linens. Her eyes and nose started to water simultaneously. The reaction was familiar, and her memory scampered back to hours she’d spent in fabric stores with Grandma O’Malley. She’d had the forethought to bring tissues in case the reunion with her father involved tears...of any kind.

She snatched one from her pocket and dabbed, trying not to smear her carefully applied mascara.

Several customers milled about, eyeing the rich colors in the woven tapestries, running their palms over the nap to change the shading of the velvet. Tara ran her fingertips across a bolt of deep brown fabric—its hue reminded her of Garrett’s eyes.

Jerk, she reminded herself.

Soon, an elderly woman with silver hair pulled back into a severe bun turned her attention to Tara. A head-to-foot scan pinched her expression into a condescending sneer. “Bonjour, mademoiselle.”

“Bonjour, madame.” Tara’s eyes jerked involuntarily to the door—yes, it was still there—before settling back on the woman. “Je m’appelle Tara O’Malley. Je cherche Jacques Martin. Est-il ici?”

A short pause allowed the woman time to exchange her sneer for a knowing smirk. “Oui. Un instant.”

She disappeared into a back room, giving Tara time to become all-too-aware of the sound of her pulse swishing through her ears.

The woman appeared again, followed by a striking, middle-aged man in an impeccably cut gray suit that set off his salt-and-pepper hair, which was combed back and heavily gelled.

His age looked promising, and Tara’s breath stopped as she scanned his face for a trace of anything familial and stalled on his mouth. It was wide like hers, and it curved upward into a smile as he approached.

“Bonjour, mademoiselle.” His deep voice was pleasant and welcoming, and she felt her courage bolstered at the sound.

“Bonjour, Monsieur Martin?” He nodded and Tara extended her hand, pumping it a tad too enthusiastically when he took it. “Je m’appelle Tara O’Malley. I...uh...” She caught her breath before plunging into the script she had memorized. “Je viens des États-Unis, et je cherche un ami de ma famille. Il s’appelle Jacques Martin. Il habitait à Murray, Kentucky.” A family friend who had lived in Murray, Kentucky had seemed like the most nonthreatening approach. She watched him closely for a reaction.

The man’s gray eyes held a hint of disappointment as his smile thinned. “Ah, ce n’est pas moi. Je suis désolé.”

Tara swallowed her own disappointment, becoming aware of the way his thumb caressed her hand, which he still held, not even seeming to notice the missing digits. Obviously, they were coming at this conversation from very different angles.

She pulled her hand, but he gripped it tighter and leaned in to whisper something. She didn’t understand the words, but his tone took on a smooth and oily quality like his hair. His mouth curved again into a leer that drove the scene past extreme ick and into dimensions all its own.

Tara jerked her hand from his, mortified at the turn things had taken. “Au revoir, monsieur.” She didn’t say thank you or try to ask her other memorized questions about whether he knew any other Jacques Martins she could contact. All she could think about was getting to the door and into fresh air. Once outside, the shudder that passed through her could’ve rocked a seismic score on the Richter scale as she allowed herself to express it verbally with a loud “eww!”

She took off at a fast walk, not even stopping to get her bearings for a couple of blocks. When she did, she was in front of Rodin’s studio and museum—the perfect place to get her mind off of her creepy encounter with Jacques Martin number one.

The garden was especially inviting, quiet and relatively uncrowded compared to the area around the Eiffel Tower. She spent the entire afternoon in the shadow of Balzac and The Thinker, taking pictures of the statues and attaching them to text messages to family and friends.

Emma called as Tara boarded the metro late in the afternoon to head back home. She reacted with the proper “eww” as Tara related her tale of the first Jacques, and when she heard about Garrett Hughes’s request for privacy, she replied with “What a jerk!”

As she had so often in their years together, Tara reminded herself how fortunate she was to have a best friend who viewed the world with a similar enough perspective to her own to make them compatible, yet still different enough to keep their conversations interesting.

Back at her flat, Tara poured a glass of wine and took it and her journal out to the terrace to write about the experiences of her day—another of Emma’s suggestions to help her work through the emotion of her search for her birth father.

She’d thought the idea a little silly at first, but as she started to chronicle not only her emotions but her impressions as a first-time visitor to Paris, her hand flew across the pages, filling up one after another. She was especially surprised at the depth of disappointment today’s encounter churned up. But plenty more addresses remained to be searched.

“Hi, Tara.”

She looked up to see Dylan standing a few feet away, ball and glove in hand.

“Hi, Dylan. How are you today?”

“I’m fine.” He stayed awkwardly planted to his spot. “What are you doing?”

She held up the book she’d been writing in. “I went to the Eiffel Tower and the Musée Rodin today, so I’ve been writing in my journal about those places. Have you ever been to the Musée Rodin?”

“Yeah, lots of times.”

She patted the empty seat beside her. “Come tell me what you like best about it.”

He hesitated for only a second, then hurried to plop down in the proffered seat. “Dad says I’m not supposed to bother you, but I don’t guess I’m bothering you if you invite me. Isn’t that right?”

Tara smiled at the child’s honesty. “That’s right. If I invite you, it means I want some company.”

The warmth in Dylan’s smile thawed the icy coating that had surrounded Tara’s heart as she wrote her review of today’s father search.

“What I like best about the Musée Rodin is the ice cream,” he answered her original question. “But the statue I like best is The Burghers of Calais.”

“That was my favorite, too!” Tara was intrigued that she and the six-year-old were both taken by the same piece out of all the choices. “Why do you like that one best?”

“Because my dad told me the story about those guys being heroes. They’re not superheroes like Iron Man and Thor, but they saved a lot of people, so I like them.”

“Yeah, me, too...for the same reason.” Tara made a mental note to include this delightful conversation in her journal. “Is your dad home yet?”

Dylan shook his head. “He has to work late again tonight.”

“Well, I wouldn’t mind playing a little catch if you’d like.”

Dylan shot out of his chair. “Cool! I’ll get Dad’s glove for you.”

They played for almost an hour, but as it neared the time when Garrett had gotten home the night before, Tara thought about what the man had asked of her.

“Whew! I’m getting tired, Dylan.” She faked it a little, but not too much. “I think I’d better call it a night and go grab a bite of supper.”

“Okay.”

She handed the glove back to him and ruffled her hand through his hair. “Thanks for playing with me. It was fun.”

“Maybe we can play again tomorrow,” he said and then hurried to add, “if I don’t bother you.”

“Maybe.”

She gathered up her things and went inside as Dylan continued his game by throwing the ball against the wall by his terrace door.

Tara heated some soup and fixed a salad for a light meal. When she sat down at the table, she saw that Garrett had gotten home and was on the terrace playing catch with his indefatigable son.

The guy may be a jerk, but he was obviously doing something right. Dylan seemed well-adjusted and was a delight to be around.

Maybe giving them their private terrace time wasn’t such a big deal. She could sacrifice a little.

The Burghers of Calais had been willing to sacrifice everything for the people they loved.

Watching Garrett play with his son—a single dad in a foreign country, a young man who lost his wife—it struck her that Rodin could have immortalized him, as well.