Love Me in Paris Read online

  LOVE ME IN PARIS

  A Travel Romance

  D Pichardo-Johansson

  LOVE ME IN PARIS

  A Travel Romance

  © 2021 by Diely Pichardo-Johansson.

  Camilo Press

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any written, electronic, recording, or photocopying form without written permission of the author.

  ISBN: 978-1-951400-08-8

  Cover Design by Roland Hulme [email protected]

  Developmental Editing by Savannah Jezowski www.dragonpress.com/author-services

  Copy Editing by Krista R Burdine iamgrammaresque.com

  Proofreading by Marla Esposito www.proofingstyle.com

  Formatting by Champagne Book Design

  This Book contains descriptions of real places, but it’s otherwise a work of fiction. Names, characters, institutions, brands, media and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Epilogue

  Note from the Author

  Other Books by This Author:

  About the Author

  Dedication

  To David, my ultimate travel companion through life.

  To France, rising again.

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  Prologue

  Sophia

  (Six months ago)

  The full moon illuminates the beach where Iris, Mia, Chloe, and I stand barefoot around a fire. We each hold a box filled with souvenirs and handwritten notes.

  We all wear wedding dresses.

  I’m joyful because my best friends, three women I love and admire deeply, are here with me after a decade apart.

  I’m heartbroken because one of them is in danger of dying.

  “We’re here tonight to make a commitment to ourselves,” Chloe begins, her shoulders back, her head held high. The crashing waves serve as a white noise soundtrack for her soothing voice. “We’ve allowed the world to drag us into its senselessness. We’ve lost touch with who we really are, and now we’re reclaiming control of our lives.”

  It started as a joke. Last year, with no boyfriend in sight, Iris bought a wedding dress from Mia’s first fashion show. She decided to wear it tonight, on the eve of starting treatment, “just in case she never had a chance later on.” She declared it was time she stopped searching for the love that never came and treated herself to a wedding party.

  I, the incurable romantic, proposed that we three join her wearing bridesmaids’ dresses. Chloe, the eternal spiritual seeker, insisted we all wear wedding dresses and make it a ceremony of self-commitment—each one of us marrying ourselves. Then Mia, the unstoppable woman, made it happen; after a few phone calls to designer friends, she produced three wedding dresses from thin air and, in a single afternoon, tailored them to fit us.

  I still can’t believe how perfectly my dress suits my personality—Mia knows me so well. Not even the extravagant gown I tried months ago, when I considered marrying my ex, came close. This ethereal design of nostalgic lace and gauze reminds me both of fairy-tale princesses and confectioners’ sugar. The sweetheart neckline, the capped sleeves, the embroidered bodice, the full skirt are like me: classic (old-fashioned, some would say). There must be something magical about it because I don’t feel cold despite the night breeze.

  Chloe shines beautifully in her mermaid dress, its fluted sleeves lending a bohemian air that matches her style. As the ocean breeze tosses her long dark hair, she appears to me as a white-magic witch. “In our past, we thought we needed another person to complete us,” she goes on. “We gave up who we are, following a hunger for love. No more. Today we promise to be our own source of love. We promise to cherish and respect ourselves, and never again allow someone into our lives who doesn’t treat us as well as we deserve.”

  Next, we burn our lists of grievances in the fire, every regret from the past that we’re willing to release. And, boy, all four of us have them.

  This week has been an intense string of venting and confessions, as we catch each other up on the last decade of our lives. It took Iris’ breast cancer diagnosis to reunite us again—gosh, it’s so unfair! She’s only thirty-two! The years have also been life changing for the rest of us. Chloe faced serious professional dilemmas. Mia severed a toxic relationship and ended her modeling career.

  And me? I lost my last living relative, the aunt who raised me; the loss brought back tons of memories from the parents I lost in childhood. Along with the last straw of Iris’ diagnosis a month ago, it made me reevaluate my life and break my engagement.

  It’s my turn to read my list of grievances. The orange glow of the fire is barely enough to break the pitch darkness, but I’ve memorized these lines and can easily say them aloud. “I’ve never really lived,” I begin, and my voice cracks instantly. At once, Mia wraps her arms around me in support. She used to say those words to me when we were dorm roommates, trying to inspire me to be more daring.

  Soothed by her embrace, I go on. “I’ve allowed fear to control my life. I’ve taken no risks and had no adventures. I’ve spent my life being dragged by situations, never planning ahead, never taking control.”

  Mia frees me from her embrace and I have to stop to gather myself. After this weeklong retreat, seeing my story through the loving eyes of my best friends from college, I have a better perspective. I can’t condemn myself for being afraid of change when I faced senseless loss at such a young age. No wonder I’ve felt fragile all my life, since age twelve, the world has sold me the identity of powerlessness.

  I resume reading. “I once saw true love; I saw it in my parents. Yet I settled for less and came close to marrying the wrong man. I will never again forget what I want.” I throw the page into the crackling fire and see it blacken, crinkle, and be consumed, disappearing from my sight.

  After the four of us have read and burned our grievances, we take turns to read aloud the vows of commitment to ourselves.

  “I, Sophia, promise you, Sophia, that I’ll always listen to your voice and honor your instincts. I’ll never again allow anyone to ignore you or bully you. Especiall
y not myself.”

  I can’t believe I’ve managed to finish the ceremony without sobbing. Surprisingly, the person crying the most today is Mia, the one who brags about being tough and worldly. Iris, precisely the one who should be terrified, dreading the start of her chemotherapy tomorrow, seems the most relaxed of all.

  Iris’ treatment will take roughly twelve months, with an interruption in between for surgery, and we’ve decided to make it a time of introspection. We’ve taken the plan from her most recent book, The Self-Vow. The first month will be an intense fast from anything that distracts us from our real essence—even the Internet! We’ve all decided to take “The Ultimate Challenge,” the extreme version of the program, which includes celibacy for a whole year.

  Chloe and Iris claim that releasing those distractions will create space in our lives to attract good things. To be honest, I’m not doing it for that. A childish, superstitious part of me believes that by depriving myself I’m contributing to Iris’ cure.

  As the last step of our ceremony, Chloe invites us to write in the sand our dream and our cause for this year. Holding up my skirt to keep it clean, I use my finger to write my cause.

  “I want Iris to live.”

  I hesitate for a moment before I move on to my dream. I scribble, “I want to find the love my parents had.”

  Stepping back, I watch the waves wash away the words as a symbol of surrendering those wishes into the universe.

  Chapter 1

  Trevor

  The Louvre museum is torture.

  Call me an uncultured swine if you wish. I’m standing in a corner of the museum staring at yet another oil on canvas, The Turkish Bath, by some French artist. This painting is supposed to be some form of glorious art piece—but I can’t get past the fact that it’s a bunch of naked women.

  The curvy ladies lounging around in their birthday suits haven’t missed a meal. They unapologetically flaunt voluptuous hips, generous behinds, and round, soft bellies—and I’m fine with that. What surprises me is how little is left to the imagination. There’s not even a silky drape in a strategic location, like on most statues I’ve seen today. Nope. There must be two dozen female bodies in this painting and they’re all glaringly exposed (1).

  “Don’t get me wrong; I’m not a puritan by any means,” I complain over Bluetooth to my cousin, Dr. Maxwell Steele, who’s calling from Chicago. “But was every artist in the old times a perv? What’s up with all the naked people?”

  Maxwell’s laughter on the other side of the phone call is the only brightness I’ve experienced this gray Paris day. “I guess back then no one had the Internet or Playboy magazines,” he observes.

  “Yeah! With women walking around with skirts long enough to cover their toes, if men wanted to see anything interesting, they had to get Michelangelo to paint them a ceiling.”

  Max laughs again.

  After an entire morning of this, I need a cold shower. Heck, I needed a cold shower even before coming here. The past few weeks have been quite slow in female companionship.

  I stroll down the crowded exposition halls, looking for my way out, often stumbling against people as I can’t keep my eyes off the incredibly high, carved and painted ceilings—no two of them alike. (2, 3) In my opinion, the building housing the Louvre is more impressive than any art I’ve seen today. (4)

  Why am I at the Louvre today? Well, it’s actually Maxwell’s fault. Why am I in Paris? In Europe? It’s a long story. “Tell me again, Max, why do you nag me so hard to visit these art museums?” I ask.

  “Because you can’t live in Europe for a whole year and not visit at least one culturally enlightening site. Pubs don’t count, you know.”

  I find a wide marble staircase and head down, seeking some food and hopefully a place to sit for a minute before heading home. After a morning getting lost in these labyrinths, my eyes and aching feet need a break.

  “I appreciate a dose of culture,” I tell Max as I follow the signs to a cafeteria. “But after the millionth room packed with white marble statues, it all starts running together.”

  “Hey, on another topic…” Max’s tone changes slightly and a gut feeling tells me what he’s about to say. “Uncle Craig called me yesterday.”

  Craig Lawson, aka my father. The first “Lawson” in Lawson, Collin and Lawson.

  “Did he torture my whereabouts out of you?”

  “No, he tried to bribe them out of me. But give the man a break. He has surprised me with his understanding.”

  I scoff at the word understanding. “Dad’s convinced I’ve lost my marbles, as is everyone else at the firm and all my friends in the US.”

  “Can you blame them?”

  No, I can’t. Why else would a successful lawyer in New York City, making money faster than he can spend it, suddenly announce he was dropping out of his firm and taking a sabbatical year?

  “Are you doing okay?” That’s Dr. Maxwell Steele’s code for, Do you need me to overnight you a shitload of antidepressants?

  “I’m okay.” It’s not untrue, I haven’t had the nightmares or disabling headaches for weeks. I’ve come a long way from the man who arrived here, walking around like a zombie, unable to feel any enthusiasm. Who cares if I’m still numb in front of the most beautiful sights? Who cares if I disgust myself a little because the deepest human interaction I’ve had in months is picking up strangers for hookups?

  “Well, if you need anything, I’m a Skype call away.”

  I finally spot the café and head in that direction. Fortunately, this time in Europe has allowed me to relearn how to feel pleasure through my taste buds—at least a few minutes at a time. “I’m fine, man. Really. I’m going to get some fine Parisian coffee and pastries and ruminate on all this culturally enlightening torture you’ve put me through today.”

  Max’s laughter drifts over the phone. “Go ahead. But, seriously, Trevor, I’m here if you need me.”

  We disconnect the call and I pause in front of the glass door. Max is the only person in the States I’ve kept in touch with and talking to him always gets me thinking. Three more months before my sabbatical is over and I’m still trying to figure out what to do with my life.

  In a way, you could say I’m on this trip looking for my future.

  I push the glass doors open and step into the café. There’s no way this can be the main eating venue here. It’s mostly a long counter offering pastries, drinks, and sandwiches. Like every corner of this damn museum, it’s crowded and there’s nowhere to sit.

  On the counter, next to the cashier, a sign in French announces the credit card machine is out of service, but no one seems to notice it. I can tell the lady’s patience is wearing thin from repeating the explanation.

  I’m ready with my bills when she rings up my ridiculously expensive cappuccino and baguette ham sandwich. “C’est ton jour de chance.” Proud of my improved fluency, I address her in French. “It’s your lucky day; I rarely carry cash.” As I hand her the euros, I can’t help the reflexive flirty twinkle and wink.

  She smiles back at me, eyeing me with appreciation. She’s what, maybe fifty? Like most French women, she’s slender and better preserved than many younger American women. Maybe I should widen my criteria and hit on her. Because, God, I need some.

  I stow my change into my money belt under my clothes and walk away from the counter. The place has no real chairs, but a few high seats aligned in front of flimsy tables outside the café—backless and uncomfortable, to discourage people from lingering. As I settle onto one and sip my cappuccino, I scan the area for American tourists. Even with my improving language skills, I still find French women a little intimidating—too well-dressed, too put-together. Maybe now, as spring warms up and tourists return, I’ll have a better chance of getting lucky again.

  “You’re American, aren’t you?”

  The petite brunette with a pixie haircut beams at me and I return my best smile. Usually I’m the one who starts with that opening line, wiggling myself i
nto conversation. I nod, and she sits down.

  I extend my hand. “Hi, I’m Trevor. From New York.”

  “I’m Chrissie, from San Francisco.” She shakes it.

  Perfectly far away. No need to try to keep in touch after we hook up.

  And then she turns around and gestures to some dude to come over. “And this is my husband, Luke.”

  My enthusiasm deflates.

  She continues, “I was just telling Luke you’re too tall and well-built to be a French man, but dress too well to be an American tourist.”

  I suppress a smirk at her frankness. It’s true, the average French man is small-boned, and the average American tourist dresses like a slob. Since arriving here, I’ve almost unconsciously adopted the Paris costume of dark-colored dress clothes with a fitted jacket or trench coat.

  She continues, “So, you’re an American who lives in Paris?”

  “Kind of,” I answer.

  “We were hoping you could give us some recommendations for where to eat. Food is so expensive here!”

  I sigh. Whenever I take the time to orient people about the city, I usually do it with secondary intentions; it’s my way to pick up women. But the possessive arm the big guy wraps around this gal’s waist announces I won’t get anything back for my time and effort.

  But it’s okay.

  I unfold her huge city map and circle my favorites places to eat, then shift into mentor mode and start sharing my pearls of wisdom about the city. “Don’t waste money on taxis, the Metro and RER train systems are excellent and no harder to manage than the New York subway—just keep an eye on the news for the frequent strikes. The closer you are to attractions, the more expensive food gets; pack some bread and cheese for a lunch picnic in one of the gardens and save your money for dinners.”

  They seem like a nice couple and grateful for my advice. At the end of my crash course, Chrissie kisses Luke on the cheek and heads for the restrooms. For some reason the simple gesture makes my chest a bit heavy. Public expressions of affection are not something I saw much while growing up.