That Weekend in Paris (Take Me There(Stand-alone) Book 3) Page 2

  “Sure,” he said.

  Billy Sumner, an exec at Pinnacle Records, stepped up next to me and handed Klein a card. “Love to have a conversation with you, man,” he said, ignoring me. “You got a minute?”

  Klein glanced from me to Billy. Lucky for me, his polite, Southern manners took precedence. “The lady here asked for a few minutes, but I’m free after that.”

  “My number’s on the card. Just give me a shout when y’all are done.”

  “Sure,” Klein said.

  Billy turned then and walked off, but not without first giving me a glare of disapproval. He wasn’t used to being bested by anyone in this town, least of all someone who had previously rejected his advances.

  “After you, ma’am,” Klein said, waving a hand for me to lead the way through the still-crowded bar.

  I walked with a deliberately measured pace, striving to appear less eager now that I had his attention. I’d learned from Josh that negotiating involved a skill set that wasn’t natural to me. I wasn’t very good at hiding my excitement when it came to discovering someone with talent.

  In the parking lot, I came to a stop next to the black 911 I drove with equal appreciation and awareness that some part of it wasn’t actually me. Josh had given it to me when I won songwriter of the year. I still felt more comfortable in the old Ford F-150 I’d driven into Nashville for the first time ten years ago. Still kept it parked in the garage. Still had it detailed once a month.

  “Nice,” Klein said, eyeing the car.

  “Ah, thanks,” I said, refusing the urge to apologize for the extravagance, another aspect of my past I still struggled with. It wasn’t that long ago that I was still putting five dollars’ worth of gas in my truck at a time and leaving my rent check at the landlord’s door at 11:59 P.M. when it was due at midnight. “Well, that was truly incredible in there. How long have you been performing?”

  He leaned against the side of the car, folding his arms across his chest. “Not that long, actually. I played baseball in college and actually got recruited to play for the Braves.” He raised his right arm, bent at the elbow, and said, “Blew out my shoulder, and that changed all that.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  He shrugged. “I figure there’s a reason why I’m not supposed to be doing that. I’ve been writing songs for years but never dared to play any of them in front of a crowd.”

  “That would be why you haven’t already been snatched up,” I said, even as I realized I wasn’t keeping my cards close to my chest.

  Again, I’d surprised him. I realized he wasn’t fully aware of his own talent. A better businessperson would have taken advantage of that insight. But I usually identified from the artist’s point of view, and if I couldn’t win him over with a fair offer, I didn’t want to win him over.

  He studied me with those intense eyes of his, as if he were trying to read my thoughts. I dropped my gaze, cleared my throat, and then looked at him directly. “My husband started Top Dog Publishing here in Nashville.”

  Recognition of the name flashed across his face, something like disappointment close behind it. “Some of my favorite writers are with Top Dog,” he said. “You, of course, being one of them.”

  He named three other writers, and I realized he’d done his homework before coming to Nashville. “They’re all great,” I said. “We’re lucky to have them.”

  “I never made the connection that you were married to―”

  He broke off there, and I finished the sentence for him. “Josh. Josh Cummings.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I’ve read a good bit about him. He apparently has a gift for spotting talent.”

  “In all honesty,” I said, “it’s not that hard to spot the talent. But maybe a little more difficult to know when someone has all the ingredients.”

  “And what are those?” he asked, giving me a level look.

  “A combination of things. A voice that stands out. Something to say. A vision of life that is both unique but layered with the things most people yearn for every day.”

  “What else?”

  “A hunger to be heard. And the drive to follow through on it.”

  He considered what I’d said, glancing off past me for a moment at the front door of the Bluebird, where patrons were still streaming out at the end of the night. “You think I have those things?”

  “The first three. The last one remains to be seen.”

  “Did your husband see those things in you?” he asked, surprising me.

  “I think so. Except I never really wanted to be a performer.”

  “Why did you sign with him?”

  “The answer might seem obvious, but we weren’t actually dating when he signed me. I went with Top Dog because I did my research. I felt sure, based on the other writers who had signed with him, that was where I would have the most opportunity to get my songs in front of artists I would be thrilled to have record them. If you are looking to write and perform, I still think Top Dog will open the most doors for you in this town.”

  “I don’t doubt that.”

  “How old are you, Klein? If you don’t mind my asking.”

  “Twenty-three,” he says lightly. “How old are you? If you don’t mind my asking.”

  I’m surprised that he’s turned the question to me, but maybe I needed this dousing of comparison to squelch the fire of awareness zinging around me. “Twenty-nine.”

  His gaze stayed centered on mine, and I could feel a dozen unspoken thoughts ignoring the obvious fact that he was barely out of college and I was married.

  I reached inside my phone case, fumbling a bit, pulled out a card, and handed it to him. “If you’d like to talk further, give me a call, and I’ll set something up with Josh. Meanwhile, you should explore every option available to you, including meeting with Billy Sumner and anyone else who expresses interest in your work. I’ve found that’s one way to make sure you don’t have any regrets. To be honest, I’d love to sign you right now, but I don’t really think that would be fair to you because you don’t know what else is out there yet.”

  I walked around to the driver’s side of the car, hit my remote key, and opened the door. I saw the surprise on his face and wondered for a moment if I had just done something incredibly stupid. Josh would almost certainly think so. But everything I’d just said to Klein Matthews was true. What was that old saying? If you love something, set it free. If it comes back, it was meant to be.

  Maybe that applied to discovering talent as well. And as I pulled out of the Bluebird Café parking lot that night, glancing in the rearview mirror to see him standing exactly where I’d left him, watching me go, I had no way of knowing exactly how much of a crossroads in my life that night would end up being.

  Klein

  “We don’t receive wisdom; we must discover it for ourselves after a journey that no one can take for us or spare us.”

  ―Marcel Proust

  WHEN YOU’VE GROWN up poor, it’s not likely that you’ll ever be completely comfortable with the kind of luxury found in places like the Ritz Paris hotel.

  At least I don’t think I’ll ever be completely comfortable with it.

  The South Carolina trailer park where I spent my years before foster care is about as far from the Ritz Paris as it is possible to be.

  It’s way past dinnertime when I let myself inside the hotel room with its king-size bed, now turned down for sleep, its thick, satiny sheets beckoning me as if they are a magnet for the fatigue that permeates my bones.

  I’d landed in the city this morning, checking into the hotel and then heading for rehearsals with the band. We’d skipped dinner, and I’m starving now, despite how much I just want to drop into bed and go to sleep. I grab a menu from the desk in the corner of the room, pick up the phone, and order a salad and a sandwich.

  While I wait for the food, I head for the enormous bathroom with its gold fittings and walk-in shower. The label has definitely put me up in some beautiful places, but the opulence h
ere is beyond anything I’ve stayed in before. This stay is courtesy of Josh Cummings, in return, I suppose, for the two number one songs I’d been lucky enough to chart this year. It was a very generous gesture, but I feel a little out of place staying here without the band.

  When room service arrives, I answer the door in one of the hotel’s heavy white robes. The waiter, an older man with gray hair and an air of style that seems to be innate to the French, greets me a pleasant good evening. He carries the tray into the room and sets it on the corner of the king-size bed. He keeps his eyes politely averted in the way of staff trained not to let on their awareness of celebrity guests. It still surprises me to be treated like someone famous, always makes me uneasy, as if someone’s going to discover at some point that I’m actually an imposter. That my success has been a fluke.

  I ask him how the weather is supposed to be tomorrow, and he proclaims it will be early spring perfection. And since I’ll have most of the day free, I ask if he has any recommendations for nearby sightseeing. He immediately offers up, “The Louvre, of course. You can spend days viewing its treasures. But I recommend to pick your most intense interest and focus on that. You will not be disappointed. It is a most amazing place.”

  I thank him for the recommendation and hand him a tip.

  “Merci beaucoup, monsieur,” he says, and with a nod, leaves the room.

  I sit down on the chair by the window with my food, tapping into the search engine on my phone and typing in “Louvre.”

  I spend a few minutes scanning the different areas of the museum, decide on the two things I most want to see: the Mona Lisa and the Venus de Milo.

  The food is delicious, and once I’m finished, I sit back in the chair and scan through emails on my phone.

  Most are work-related. But there’s one from Riley. I consider scrolling past it, then tap in before giving myself a chance to change my mind.

  “Hey. I know you’re not reading my texts. Or I assume you’re not because you’re not answering. So here I am resorting to email. I’m sorry, Klein. I’m so sorry. I should have involved you in the decision. I just didn’t think you were ready. Or that I was ready. You were touring. I tried so many times to make myself tell you. I wanted to. I really did. I just didn’t want the two of us being together to be about anything other than you wanting to be with me. I didn’t want you to come back to me out of some sense of obligation.”

  I stop reading there, clicking out of the mail app, and throwing my phone on the bed. I stand at the window, staring out at the Paris night. I feel as if a knife has been inserted straight through to the middle of my heart and is slowly being turned, the pain excruciating.

  I keep thinking that time will make this feel better, bring me to the conclusion that she was right not to include me. But it’s not a place I’ve been able to get to. There’s just a gaping hole inside me, raw with grief and anger.

  Was she right to question what my response would have been? Can I say for sure I would have done the right thing? Knowing I’d already decided the two of us weren’t right for each other?

  There’s no law that says I had a right to know. A right to do anything other than go along with her wishes, whatever they were.

  I just don’t understand how that can be. How I could be fifty percent of what was needed to create that tiny life and not have any right whatsoever to be its father? Pictures play through my head, images of a baby boy or a baby girl. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to turn them off. Tears leak down my cheeks, and I wipe them away with the back of my hand.

  The minibar glares at me, beckoning me with assurance that it holds the key to turning off my thinking. I know I only have to open the door to find a row of small bottles that will provide temporary numbness, anyway.

  The desire to give in to them yawns wide inside me. But that is a hole I do not want to jump into. Instead, I open the drawer in which I had thrown my running clothes, grab some shorts and a T-shirt. I throw them on, find my running shoes in the closet, and a couple of minutes later, take the stairs to the lobby and hit the cobblestone street outside the hotel at a pace certain to put my focus on the next breath and not the next thought.

  Dillon

  “When I dream of afterlife in heaven, the action always takes place in the Paris Ritz.”

  ―Ernest Hemingway

  NEVER ONE TO skimp on luxury, Josh had made a reservation at the Ritz Paris located in the 1st arrondissement. I’d done some research on the hotel during the flight over, not surprised that he had chosen what was notably the most elegant hotel in the city, in most of the world, in fact. I wonder if he would have taken me here if he’d ever agreed to that second honeymoon.

  The Mercedes taxi I’ve taken in from Charles de Gaulle turns onto the enormous square that stretches out before the architectural wonder that is the Ritz Paris. I’m admittedly a little fascinated by its history and the fact that it had been closed by its Egyptian billionaire owner for a nearly four-year, $450 million renovation, the effects of which are easy enough to see.

  A black Rolls Royce sits at the entrance, the sportiest version I’ve ever seen, and I wonder if it belongs to the owner of the hotel, or if it is a perk for super notable guests. Just behind it is a black Range Rover, equally eye-catching. A driver stands by the back door, apparently waiting for his passenger.

  I am welcomed by the dark-suited staff out front as if I am arriving royalty. I wonder if they have confused me with actual royalty who are booked to stay at the hotel. A Frenchman with beautifully accented English takes my bags, and another leads me to the front desk. I’m checked in by a lovely young woman with long dark hair and vivid blue eyes. Her French-accented English provides a distinct contrast to my Nashville-twanged responses, polite as I try to make them.

  As she checks the computer screen, I glance around me at the elaborate lobby, its high ceilings and marble floors, the elevator that leads to the hotel’s renowned spa. I feel alone for the first time since I’d left my car in the Nashville airport’s long-term parking lot. Maybe it’s something about checking into a hotel by yourself that does that. And maybe I’m a little intimidated by the luxury of this place and the realization that I would never choose it for myself because I would never think I deserved to stay somewhere reserved for the world’s wealthiest people.

  From first glance, the Ritz Paris is everything the reviews had raved it to be. It had first opened in 1898, and never once closed for over a hundred years. The current owner had apparently wanted it to remain the choice for the world’s most affluent travelers and embarked on a renovation that ensured it would remain the destination for five-star luxury. Judging from the hustle and bustle of its extremely well-to-do clients this morning, it’s clear he has succeeded.

  “Ah, here we have it,” the young woman whose name tag reads Céline says. “And it appears you’ve booked a suite. Excellent. You will be so happy there.”

  I’m tempted to ask her the rate, a little surprised Josh would have gone that elaborate in a hotel already so obviously expensive. But then he’d planned to bring her with him. The suite had been meant to impress his twenty-something girlfriend.

  “We have your American Express on file, madame. Will that be sufficient, or would you like to provide me with another card?”

  “The American Express is fine,” I say.

  She types for another minute or so and then hands me the key. “Henri will be escorting you to your room, madame.”

  She waves a hand toward an older gentleman standing at attention. He gives me a courteous smile, offers me a nod, and beckons me down marble steps to the rug-adorned marble floor and past the Bar Vendôme, which he points out as one of several beautiful places in the hotel to have a drink.

  Farther down, he motions toward the hotel’s Michelin award-winning restaurant where I could have breakfast, lunch, or dinner. As we continue along, he asks if I know of the hotel’s history.

  “A little,” I say.

  “You might know then that your Ame
rican novelist Ernest Hemingway spent time here at the Ritz Paris. Our most well-known bar is named after him. It is an excellent spot to have a drink in the evenings.”

  “Thank you. I will have to try it.”

  We take an elevator to my floor, and the luggage arrives at the same time.

  Henri points to the right and says, “After you.” He takes the key from me and opens the door, waiting while I step inside. Since I’d taken an overnight flight, it’s only a little after eight Thursday morning, French time.

  A silver tray with a matching pot and a white porcelain cup sit on the table in the middle of the room.

  “For you, madame,” he says. “There’s also a basket of buttered toast and jam. If you should like anything else from room service, please call that extension. We will be happy to bring it to you.”

  The coffee is a welcome sight. I wait while he pulls my suitcase from the cart and arranges it next to the luggage stand by the closet. He asks if there’s anything else he can do for me. I tell him no and thank him, handing him a tip. He takes it without looking at it, nods once, and lets himself out of the room.

  I take off my lightweight coat, drop it on the bed, and immediately pour myself a cup of the steaming coffee. The tray holds heavy cream and white sugar cubes. In a moment of indulgence, I add a bit of both, taking a sip and closing my eyes for a moment against the wonderfully robust flavor.

  I carry the cup to the balcony, staring out the window at the magnificent city before me. Cars, taxis, and mopeds, horns honking, all vie for position on the street below. It’s early June, and vibrantly colored flowers adorn the window boxes of the building across the street. The sky is a vivid blue today, the sun lending its light to a late spring day.

  My thoughts veer back to the realization that Josh had intended this room and its incredible views to be for his girlfriend. I wait for the familiar stab of hurt that always accompanies reminders of his infidelity, but it isn’t as sharp this morning. I wonder why. Is it because I’ve one-upped him by coming to Paris to meet with Klein? Righted the ship of justice a bit?