Blame it on Paris by Lise McClendon

Author:Lise McClendon [McClendon, Lise]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Thalia Press
Published: 2018-08-23T22:00:00+00:00

The lovebirds went out to the fabulous restaurant about seven-thirty. Francie spent some time changing her clothes before they left and told them she needed to clear her head so was going for a walk. They all went down the stairs together then called out, “Bonsoir!” and went their separate ways.

The spring air was moist and heavy, laced with exhaust and the rank smells of the Seine. Francie headed toward the river anyway, going down the steps to walk along the lower quai, the sidewalk along the water, despite banana peels and fish odors. She liked looking at the houseboats and the bicyclists and the occasional large freighter tied up on the edge. The night sky turned purple and a crescent moon rose over the Louvre, the old palace of kings long dead.

She tried to shun thoughts altogether, to truly clear her head. The determined walking helped, keeping the pace focused her. The cobblestones were no challenge for her new walking shoes yet she did almost twist her ankle by walking too briskly. A picture of Merle and Pascal sitting at their table, in candlelight, sharing bites of delicious food and drinking amazing wine, popped into her head. She banished it. She wasn’t jealous of her own sister. Stop.

She walked faster, off to that bridge with the locks. Which pont was it? How far down the Seine? She craned her neck as she passed under a bridge, unable to see any locks. She kept going and suddenly, there she was at the bottom of the steps where she’d seen Dylan Hardy. Where she’d talked to him after so many years.

Bounding up the steps with uncharacteristic speed, Francie reached the top, breathing hard. She had to put her hands on her hips and bend forward, catching her breath. Gasping, she straightened, telling herself she needed to get into shape for once in her life. Maybe she’d start jogging like Merle.

She glanced around to make sure no one was paying attention to her wheezing then walked to the jumble of locks. They were all still there: no surprise. What did she think had happened? A crackdown on love? She walked across the bridge to the center, near a large statue of a soldier or king, somebody on a horse, where on the spit of the island below she’d seen that flash of white or pink trees, a portend of spring. From up on the bridge the tree was invisible so she walked down another set of steps to the grassy park in the middle of the river.

Walking all the way to the pointy end of the island she looked in vain for a flowering tree. There was a gnarled old one that may have recently bloomed but nothing now. Not even a smushed pile of old petals. She frowned. How long had it been since she’d seen it? Since she arrived in Paris? A week, not more. Yet, the bloom was off. That wasn’t true, was it? The bloom wasn’t off Paris. She still loved Paris.

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