We Were Here: A New Adult Romance Prequel to Geoducks Are for Lovers (Modern Love Stories Book 1) (38 page)

“Tough question since you’re my best friend and we’re on the other side of the planet together.” I nudged her with my elbow. “In all honesty, there’s not much you can do right now to make it better. Did you write him? Call? Have you heard from him?”

“No. I tried calling him from the free pay phone, but I’d get a busy signal or he was never there. I’ve wanted to call again, but I never had enough change for an overseas call.” She made the saddest frowny face.

I sighed. What a mess. It had already been months of no communication between the two of them. Selah had been pretty vague about Gil when we caught up on gossip. Maggie had asked about him, but in hindsight she acted pretty disinterested.

I exhaled and whistled while I formed a plan. “I think you need to set Gil aside.”

“What do you mean?”

“You two have had years to get together. Neither of you ever crossed a line until faced with separation. That tells me you were both pretty happy in the friendship and not wanting to lose it. Agree?”

“Sure.” Her voice sounded wary.

“Now you’re in Paris. Being flirted with by a gorgeous, albeit pompous, Frenchman.”

“I’m following, but what’s your point?”

“
Que sera, sera
.”

“Still confused.” She furrowed her brows and sniffled.

“I think it’s Latin for whatever will be, will be. Or it’s a Doris Day song.”

“Okay, I’m supposed to follow Doris Day’s love advice? Wasn’t she always married to Rock Hudson in all her movies? I’m not sure she’s really a good judge on men and relationships. Maybe I should date Quinn instead.”

“He wasn’t gay in the movies. He was charming in an abrasive, yet dapper way.” I poked her. “That’s not my point. I say don’t pine, stop moping and enjoy your year in Paris. Date the Frenchman. Hell, fall in love. It’s kind of mandatory when you are living in the city of love, right?”

“You make it all sound easy.” She dabbed her cheeks again, but the tears had stopped.

“Why can’t it be? Be a fish, go with the flow.”

“But what about Gil?”

“Whatever will be, will be. If you two are meant to be together, a year won’t make a difference. Hell, you’ve already waited twice as long. If he’s yours, he’ll wait for you.”

“And if he falls in love with someone else?”

“What if you fall in love with someone else? Le Fromage for example.”

“I’d still want him to be my friend.” She didn’t look thrilled at the prospect.

“Then that’s your answer.” I wrapped my arm around her shoulder. “We’re young. We’re beautiful. We’re in Paris.”

She nodded and hugged me back. “You should take your own advice.”

I froze and then laughed. “Maybe I should.”

“Although an affair with a Brit in France seems a little traitorous.”

“If Oscar wasn’t a little Napoleon, maybe we could double-date.”

“He’s not terrible.”

I slowly blinked at her.

“Okay, he is. He’s very bossy.”

“He’s not at all sweet like the dessert.”

“Heroes” ~ David Bowie

A GROUP FIELD
trip took us out of the city into the countryside to visit the small city of Rouen. Maggie ditched the trip, claiming she had a headache. The headache had a name: Julien. Being the best kind of friend, I’d promised to cover for her if anyone asked.

Christopher loped down the aisle of the coach and grinned when he saw me by a window. He lifted my bag out of his way, groaning under the weight, then folded himself into the aisle seat next to me.

“What do you have in here?” He spread open the top and peered inside.

I attempted to steal it back from him, but he held me at bay with his forearm. “Didn’t your mother tell you it wasn’t proper to paw through a lady’s hand bag?”

“Are you calling yourself a lady now?” He grinned at me again, his hand still in my bag. The smile faded as he pulled out Donnie.

“What’s the story with the Ken doll, darling?” Kit’s face displayed his disdain.

“It’s not Ken.” I snatched the doll from his hand and stuffed it back in my bag.

“Don’t be embarrassed about carrying your poppet with you.”

I wanted to wipe his smug dolly smile right off his handsome face.

“It’s not a poppet. If you must know, he’s Donnie Wahlberg.”

He stared at me with a blank expression.

My brows rose in disbelief. “Donnie Wahlberg?”

“Yes, I heard you. I have no idea who that bloke is. Someone from one of your American television series?”

“You’ve never heard of New Kids on the Block?”

Another shake of his head.

“Seriously?”

“Why would I joke about something as serious as a little shirtless poppet you carry around in your bag?” His lips twitched with amusement. “What other childhood souvenirs do you have in there? Jacks? Teacups?”

“Why would I have teacups in my purse?”

“For your doll to have a tea party.”

It made complete logical, illogical sense.

Like ninety-percent of our conversations I couldn’t tell if he flirted with me or teased me. Or both.

For the first week at the château, I swore he disliked me, maybe even hated me. After the party, I knew I at least amused him in a “silly American” way. I didn’t think much in his life amused him.

From our conversation at the party and subsequent ones, he seemed resigned to his life. Study business, work in business. Marry the right kind of girl, preferably with the right kind of family, bonus for nobility. Have perfectly respectable British children, preferably boys, who would wear short pants and knee high socks for most of their childhood. Everything had been planned for him as soon as he was christened Christopher Winston Liddell.

After listening to Madame Picou explain the importance of Rouen, its history and role in various political upheavals over the centuries, we were left to wander through the cathedral on our own.

I trailed behind the twins, half-listening, half-trying to ignore Christopher ahead of us. I didn’t think Joe or James knew I stood behind them while I pretended to study the tomb of Richard the Lionheart and read the sign. The tomb contained only his heart. The rest of him had ended up elsewhere. I could sympathize. Like many of us, he’d left his heart in France. I sighed over how silly my crush made me feel.

“Katie phoned twice yesterday. Kit’s grandmother is in hospital again.”

“Katie’s a saint to be concerned about his family . . . given what happened last summer.”

“You can’t be in someone’s life for years, have a long history, and not care.”

“The bastard doesn’t deserve her.”

“And you do? Sod off. You never stood a chance with her.” Joe knocked James off balance and the two of them scuffling caught the attention of an old woman in one of the pews, who stopped praying to shush them.

Breaking apart, James did a silly penguin waddle and salute in my direction. “Hello, Liz. Didn’t see you there.”

“I wasn’t eavesdropping. I swear.”

“It’s okay, love. We know Kit fancies you.” Joe received an elbow to his shoulder from James.

“Is everything okay?” I wanted to ask who Katie was.

“Nothing to worry yourself over.” James closed ranks. “Bit of family drama back home for Kit.”

Joe threw his arm around my shoulder. “The Liddells are a close, but estranged family.”

James walked on my other side. “Emphasis on strange.”

“He’s seems very normal to me.”

“If normal means boring, then yes, Kitty is.”

“Kitty?”

“Old nickname from our school days. You should have seen him then. All ears, teeth, and knobby knees.” James stuck out his front teeth and bounced his knees together as he walked.

I stifled a giggle, remembering we were in a church.

“Pity he never grew out of it. Have you ever seen him in shorts?” Joe made a very serious face.

As a matter of fact, I hadn’t. “It was fall when we met and then winter.”

“Yes, Elizabeth, that’s how the seasons work. First comes autumn, next winter.” He dodged my elbow and locked his arm around my shoulder.

“It’s a terrible curse to look like Kit. His mother suffers with worry over finding him a suitable bride. She frets the grandchildren will be as hideous.”

“Joe.” Christopher spoke from a few feet away, his voice unmistakable.

Joe turned us as one unit, awkward conjoined twins. “Ah, there’s Quasimodo now.”

Calling a man as beautiful as Christopher Quasimodo was too ridiculous for my self-restraint. Church or not, I burst out laughing, the sound echoing off the stone floor and pillars. Joe quickly stepped away and pretended to study some carvings.

Above me, some saint looked down from his stained-glass in disapproval. I squinted to see the figure more clearly. Oh, great. Not some random saint. No, she was Joan of Arc.

I said a silent apology to her for being a silly girl, then made the sign of the cross like I saw the little old ladies do in every church we’d visited.

“No curtsy for Joan?” Christopher whispered next to me.

“No, but I felt I owed her an apology for the giggling. I bet she never giggled around boys. Or in church.”

“She was human, not a robot. She probably laughed at some point. Maybe even liked a charming farm boy or two. You know, before going to battle and martyring herself.”

I stared up at the young face composed of glass. “I hope so.”

“She was burned not far from here.”

“That’s uplifting.”

“For her it was. Figuratively, speaking.”

I frowned at him. “That’s a terrible joke.”

“I know something to make you smile.” He bent his index finger to bring me closer.

“What?” I leaned in.

He mirrored me, bringing his face close to mine. “This church has a butter tower.”

I grinned. “Tell me more. Is it made out of butter? Or where they hoard the butter?”

“Neither.”

I pursed my lips at him.

“It was funded with butter. The church allowed its patrons to continue to eat butter during Lent if they promised to donate money for the tower.”

“Not nearly as good as actually being made of butter, but I approve.”

Amusement crinkled the corners of his eyes. “I thought you might.”

“I really love the stuff.”

“I know you do. Shall we ditch the tour and go see Joan’s church?”