Pamela Hearon - Moonlight in Paris

“That will run the cost up even more. Do you know anyone who might know somebody over there?” Emma drummed the desk with her spoon. “What about Josh Essex?”

Tara hadn’t gotten far enough in her planning to consider that the French teacher might have connections in Paris, but it was a good idea—he did usually take students to Paris during the summer.

“He was eating lunch in the teachers’ lounge when I got my soda.” Emma got up quickly, abandoning her soup and crackers. “Let’s go talk to him now.”

* * *

“CAN WE PLAY SOME CATCH, Dad?”

Dylan had disappeared a couple of minutes earlier, and now stood in the doorway of the flat holding a ball and wearing the St. Louis Cardinals ball cap, jersey and glove that had arrived from his grandmother that day.

Like I could refuse. Garrett gave a wry smile. “Sure. Just let me get the dishwasher loaded.”

Dylan set the ball and glove in the chair he’d vacated earlier and picked up his plate to help clear the table, something he rarely did. No doubt he was anxious to try out his new equipment.

“Watch your step,” Garrett warned as the six-year-old caught his toe on the frame of the sliding patio door.

When the Paris weather permitted, they ate every meal possible out here on the terrace. The wide expanse of concrete wasn’t anywhere near as large as their backyard had been in St. Louis, but life had its trade-offs. For a second-story flat, the extra living space the terrace afforded was well worth the small amount of extra rent. Although several other flats had windows that looked out on it, only one other had a door leading to it. And that one had been empty for over a year, so Garrett and his son had gotten used to having the entire space to themselves.

They made quick work of loading the dishwasher, and then Garrett grabbed his own glove as they headed back out to their makeshift practice field.

Dylan punched the new leather with his fist. “I’m ready for a fastball.”

That drew a laugh. “One fastball comin’ up.” Garrett made a wild show of winding up, watching his son’s eyes grow huge in anticipation. At the last second, he slowed down enough to toss the ball toward the boy’s padded palm.

Dylan kept his eye on the ball, stretching his arm out to full length and spreading his glove open as far as his short fingers would allow.

The ball landed with a thump, and a pleased grin split Dylan’s face as he hoisted the glove and ball over his head in a triumphant gesture. “Freese makes the play!” he yelled.

“How ’bout we send a picture of you and your new stuff to Nana and Papa?”

“And Gram and Grandpa, too.”

Garrett snapped the picture and messaged it to both his parents and Angela’s. Then he laid the phone down within easy reach to listen for the calls that were sure to come.

His mom and his deceased wife’s mother called every time he sent a picture of Dylan, which was often. The distance was hard for them.

They’d all done their damnedest to talk Garrett out of the voluntary move to Paris three years ago when the brewery he worked for was bought out by a Belgian company. Only his dad had fully understood his need to escape from the constant reminder of his wife’s suicide. And his guilt.

No matter how they felt about it, the move hadn’t been a mistake.

Dylan mimicked Garrett’s windup, minus the slow down at the end. The ball he released sailed wide past his father, who broke into a run to catch it on the bounce. His timing was off. He missed and wasn’t able to catch up to it until it hit the back wall.

“Dad! Your phone’s ringing,” Dylan called.

By the time Garrett got back to answer it, he was winded. “Allô.” He breathed heavily into the phone. “C’est Garrett.”

“Well, your French has definitely gotten better, but the creepy heavy breathing makes me wonder if I’ve caught you at a bad time. My math says it should be around dinner time there.”

Garrett laughed, recognizing the voice of his teammate from college Josh Essex. “Actually, it’s pitch-and-catch after dinner, Josh.”

“Is that the new French phrase for hooking up? ’Cause, if it is, my seniors will want to know.”

“By the time I get around to...” Dylan was within hearing distance, so Garrett veered away from what he’d been about to say. “To needing that information, the deed will probably be obsolete.”

“I can’t even bear that thought.” Josh chuckled. “How’s Dylan doing?”

“Growing too fast for me to keep him in jeans. We’ve resorted to rolled cuffs and belts.”

“Well, let’s hope cuffs, belts and, of course, the deed never go out of style.”

“I hear you,” Garrett agreed. “And to what do I owe the pleasure of this call, Monsieur Essex? Especially in the middle of your work day.”

“I have a friend—a colleague—who’s wanting to come to Paris in a couple of weeks and plans to stay a month. Does your building have any short-term rentals?”

Garrett’s eyes cut to the flat across the way, and then wandered on around the terrace to the window boxes devoid of flowers—a dead giveaway in spring and summer that spaces were empty. “Yeah, probably. Hold on.” He fished his wallet out of his back pocket and thumbed through the cards until he found the one he wanted. “You have a pen handy?”

“I’m just waiting on you.”

“Here’s the number to call.” Garrett read it off slowly. “That’s the main office of the company that owns my building. They’ll have listings of what’s available.”

“Got it. Thanks.”

“Will we be seeing you this summer?” For the past three years, Josh had brought groups of his students for ten-day tours of the City of Lights. The visits had certainly been the highlight of the summer for Garrett, who tried to deny to himself how much he missed the U.S.

Josh’s sigh was fraught with frustration. “I don’t have too many interested, and a couple who were had to drop out. June 20 is the cutoff, and I’m still not sure.”

Garrett didn’t know who was more disappointed, he or Josh. “That’s too bad.”

“Yeah, well, it’s the damn economy. How about you? You and Dylan planning a trip stateside any time soon?”

Garrett had been thinking this might be the year to go home for Christmas, but he was keeping mum on it in case he backed out. “Economy here’s just as bad. I might have to hock Dylan to buy tickets.”

Dylan perked up at the mention of his name, but not enough to tear his concentration away from his task. The ball he was bouncing off the wall shot back at him. He missed it, but not for lack of trying. Garrett took that as a sure sign his boy was meant for the big leagues, and the thought made him smile.

The familiar jangle of a school bell reverberated in the background. “Gotta go, man.” Garrett could tell his friend was on the move. “It’s the last week of school, and I’m showing The Diving Bell and the Butterfly to my third-year students.”

“Great movie.” Garrett motioned a thumbs-up to Dylan, who’d made a successful catch. “I hope you get enough students to make your group, so we’ll get to see you.”

“Me, too.” The background sounds heightened as lockers slamming joined the mix. “And thanks for the number. Maybe I’ll see you in a couple of months.”

“We’ll look forward to it. See you, man.”

“Later, dude.”

The call ended before Garrett realized he hadn’t asked who needed a flat for a month—hadn’t even asked if the interested party was male or female. Man, he was slipping.

While he liked the idea of having someone from close to home in the building, he hoped whoever it was wasn’t interested in the flat across from them. He and Dylan would hate to give up their private recreation area. Would hate to give up their privacy, in general.