I thought I had cried all the tears I had in me, but more find their way down my cheeks. I wonder if I’ll ever stop feeling broken.
Mom hands me a tissue. “I wish there was something I could do to change this, but I spoke to Dad, and we both agreed. This can’t be the end of your summer in Paris. I know this won’t change everything, but I have a surprise for you. Your Paris adventure is not over yet.”
There is joy and excitement in her eyes, and, as hurt and confused and devastated as I am, I can’t help it; a small current of hope courses through me. Where are we going now?
OH. MON. DIEU.
As our taxi slows down in the middle of Rue de Rivoli, passing the Louvre and the Tuileries, my heart skips a beat.
I look over to Mom. “What did you do?”
She just laughs in response, looking quite pleased with herself. We come to a stop in front of a stone corridor leading to the entrance of Le Meurice. I’ve walked past it before on my Degas hunt with Louis, but mostly I know it because the girls were talking about it the other night at dinner: it’s one of the fanciest hotels in all of Paris, where celebrities stay.
Even though I’m acutely aware of my dirty hair and the sling across my chest, I feel a little lighter as a porter opens the door for me. He also retrieves our bags and follows us into the grand foyer. Opulent glass chandeliers dangle from the ceiling, and antique mirrors hang alongside museum-worthy paintings on the walls. It takes my breath away.
“Did you rob a bank?” I ask Mom when we’re finally alone in our room.
The plush armchairs are covered in pink velvet, and every piece of furniture is punctuated with gold. Thick curtains in a silky fabric frame the floor-to-ceiling windows, which let in a soft, glowing light. I feel like a princess.
Mom chuckles. “Nope. I just used every single credit card point I had and then some. But I didn’t book a suite. The concierge must have taken pity on you and upgraded us,” she says, nodding toward my sling.
Going over to the window, I notice a balcony. I open it wide, step outside, and gasp loudly.
“Mom! You’re not going to believe this.”
Mom rushes over and gasps. Before us is all of Paris, its creamy buildings, flowerpots hanging from railings, and slate rooftops. We can see the full splendor of the Tuileries leading up to the Louvre and the Musée d’Orsay’s famous clock directly ahead. That itself would put a smile on my face, but it’s the Tour Eiffel, standing proud in all its glory just to our right, that makes me forget all my troubles.
“Thank you, Mom,” I say. She smiles as she runs a hand through my hair. Her eyes get shiny, and she presses her lips to my forehead.
“I’m so glad you’re okay,” she whispers. We stand there holding hands for a long moment, a soft wind brushing our faces as the Tour Eiffel glints in the sun.
I’m still feeling a little tired, so Mom suggests we splurge and enjoy lunch in one of the hotel’s renowned restaurants.
“Are you sure you didn’t rob a bank?” I ask.
Mom laughs again. “I haven’t visited Paris since before you were born, and I’m only here for two days. I figure we might as well enjoy ourselves.”
* * *
The white tablecloths, intricate cutlery, and fine china would normally intimidate me, but today I’m not sweating the small stuff. Instead, I try to focus on the flavors—the freshest baguette I’ve had so far, and the salt flecks in the butter that melt on my tongue.
“Why were you always talking to me about a plan B, Mom?” I ask after the very formal waitress takes our order.
Mom frowns, but she doesn’t try to change the topic. “I only wanted to protect you.”
“But why? You knew I wanted to become a ballet dancer. It was my one and only plan. And now I do need a plan B.” I blink back tears. “How did you know?”
Mom takes a deep breath and looks around the room. Most tables are occupied, but it’s still pretty quiet. People speak at a low level and eat with measured, sophisticated gestures. Next to us, a man lunching alone picks up his white cloth napkin and carefully dabs the corners of his mouth. Then he lifts his wineglass by the stem with only two fingers.
“I was a dancer, too,” Mom says when the silence between has gone on too long. “I saw firsthand how competitive and ruthless it is.”
I knew that already, but I stay silent. I want to hear the rest of it.
“I don’t think I ever told you this, but I wanted to become a professional, as well. You and I are a lot more alike than you think.”