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The loudspeaker blares with the announcement of an incoming train.
“That one’s yours. You better run,” he says, passing my ticket into the turnstile and handing me my suitcase.
I walk through the sliding gate, suitcases following behind me, and turn around to give him one last smile. He waves and turns, heading toward the stairs and taking them up, two at a time. Damn, he looks good from behind.
I hustle through the station and slide into the train car at the last minute. Luckily the train is empty, and I find a seat with plenty of room for my bags. I settle in for the ride to my rental. The hardest part of this trip is behind me, soon it will just be fun and relaxation. But my body hasn’t caught up with my mind. My heart is pounding and I feel warm, but I don’t think it’s from the weight of my bags and the run to the train. It occurs to me it’s Chris who has me like this. He’s put me in a different, very particular mood.
2
Chris
I’m a gentleman and I would never hope to see a woman topple down a flight of stairs, but my run-in with Weaver Jones has certainly been the highlight of my day. It’s probably because I know I’ll never see her again that keeps her on my mind. Her smile, her sexy body, her completely surprising personality keeps playing on a loop in my head as I walk back upstairs to the train north, to Lille.
It hadn’t been my choice to come to France. I was looking forward to a skiing trip with friends in St. Moritz this weekend, but family obligations always take priority in my life. When I received the phone call that grandfather had summoned the family to his estate in Lille, there was only one thing to say: “Of course, Grandfather.” I know the visit won’t be pleasant, it rarely is, but I owe it to my family to show up, or else they’ll all suffer the consequences of my absence. The Beliem family name has given me many advantages in life, the least of which isn’t the bank account that allows me to jet off to St. Moritz or France on a moment’s notice, so I have a sense of obligation to the family, no matter how onerous their demands.
I’d told my friends to go on without me even though I’d paid for the chalet. They’re a good bunch of guys, true friends, and if I can’t join them at least I know I won’t be ruining their trip. I learned early in life that just as there are benefits of having so many zeros at the end of your bank balance, there are pitfalls too. I’ve been through a couple of relationships with women that ended badly when I discovered they were only in it for the money.
That’s what strikes me about Weaver: her complete distaste for receiving any kind of help, whether it was carrying her bags down the stairs or taking a stupid twenty euros. That’s a girl who won’t use me for shopping trips on the Champs Élysée or flights to Bali. And now I’m thinking about Weaver in a bikini on the beach in Bali, with me beside her, chivalrously offering to spread tanning oil over her legs…
My phone rings, interrupting that daydream. It’s my oldest brother, Martin. He’s already in Lille with my parents. I’m a good grandson but Martin is ideal. He probably hopped on the first flight as soon as my grandfather called, leaving his lovely wife Millie behind with all three of their kids. But like I said, when grandfather says “jump,” the only acceptable answer is “how high?” Our fortunes, our lives, he holds the strings like a puppet master. So here we are, in France, heading to his estate for the latest critical emergency.
“Martin,” I bellow into the phone, “long time, no speak. What’s it been? Twelve hours since you last called me in a panic?” I should soften my tone. Martin has a lot on his plate, unlike my other brother Ryan, whose only responsibilities are a seemingly unending smorgasbord of young, available women. Ryan doesn’t mind throwing money around if it means he has his choice of ladies.
“Chris, good to hear your voice too, brother,” Martin says sarcastically. It makes me smile. If I have to be here in France and subject myself to my grandfather’s latest manufactured crisis, at least I’ll get to catch up with Martin.
“I’m about to hop on the train north now. Tell the old man I’m on my way, okay?” I say.
“Sure thing, Chris,” he replies. “Listen, I’m sorry you had to cancel your plans this weekend. But you know grandfather, there’s just no predicting what he’d do if we didn’t come. Remember the great will rewriting of 2014? The estate attorney made a fortune when Ryan blew off Christmas dinner.”
