Paris Is Always a Good Idea Read online

  The buzzer to my apartment sounded, and I said, “Hang on a sec.”

  I crossed the room and pushed the intercom. “Who is it?”

  “Me, actually.” My sister’s voice came out in stereo from my phone and the intercom. Leave it to Annabelle to be that hi-fi.

  “You’re here?” I asked.

  “Obvy,” Annabelle said. “I started over right after you ditched me.”

  “Oh.” I refused to feel bad, and hit the button to unlock the door. “Come on up.”

  “Thanks.” Annabelle ended the call, and I opened my door.

  She bounced up the staircase, not even breathing heavily when she arrived. I frowned. I’d lived here for five years, and I still huffed and puffed my way to the second-floor landing. I stepped aside, allowing my sister to enter, and then shut and locked the door. Annabelle slipped off her purple wool coat and tossed it onto an empty chair. Annoying. I picked it up and hung it on the door hook reserved for guests.

  When I turned around, Annabelle had flopped onto the couch in full sprawl. Dressed in black leggings, black ankle boots, and an oversized dark-gray tunic sweater, with her long dark curls framing her face, she looked like a spider. I knew this wasn’t a nice comparison, but I was still steamed at my sister right now so whatever.

  I returned to our conversation. “How long have you known?”

  “I helped Dad pick the ring,” she said. Her voice was soft, as though if she whispered, then I wouldn’t go berserk. Yeah, that was a solid no. Annabelle ran the side of her index finger over her eyelashes, back and forth. It was her tell that she was stressed. I didn’t care. Annabelle should be stressed—in fact, she should be downright petrified.

  “And when did that happen?” I growled. I turned on my heel and stomped into the kitchenette.

  “I don’t know.” Annabelle dropped her hand and shrugged.

  “When?” My teeth were gritted, making my jaw ache. I held up a coffee mug in silent question. Annabelle nodded.

  “I think it was a couple of days ago,” she said, but her voice went up as if it were a question.

  It wasn’t a question. She knew what day they’d bought the ring. She was trying to soften the blow, meaning it was going to hurt my feelings. I braced myself. I put the mug under the coffee dispenser and hit the button before turning back to my sister.

  “Do you need to check a calendar?” I asked. “Because there’s one on the wall.”

  Annabelle huffed out a breath and glared. “No, it was three days ago.”

  “And you didn’t tell me?” The hurt made my voice rough with jagged edges. I turned away, pulling the milk out of the fridge and grabbing a spoon from the silverware drawer.

  “Dad asked me not to.”

  I glanced up and met my sister’s sympathetic gaze, which grated.

  “So you didn’t? Does our sisterly bond mean nothing to you?”

  “Of course it means something to me, but—”

  “But what?” I pressed. I was feeling excluded, and I hated it.

  Annabelle was silent. I waited a few seconds and then snapped, “But what, Annabelle?”

  “Dad’s really happy, and I didn’t want you to ruin it for him,” she said.

  The coffee maker beeped, and she pushed off the couch and joined me in the kitchen. She took the mug from the machine, leaving me to replace the little pouch of coffee and put my own mug under the dispenser. So typical.

  “Ruin it? Why would you think I would ruin it? Just because they’ve only known each other for two weeks and this whole thing is stupid and crazy and dumb and ridiculous and—” I ran out of words and absolutely refused to acknowledge Annabelle’s point that I had ruined Dad’s announcement at the bridal salon with my surlitude.

  “How did it go when Dad told you he was getting married?” Annabelle asked. “Sorry I missed that, by the way, as I was busy trying on dresses to celebrate their day.” She sounded salty as she slid onto the stool at the counter. It put me on the defensive.

  “It was fine,” I lied.

  “Oh, so when Dad told you he asked Sheri to marry him and she said yes, you jumped for joy and gave him a hug?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Did you hold up your hand for a high five?” Annabelle narrowed her eyes over the rim of her mug as she took a sip. She drank her coffee black, because of course she did.

  “No.”

  “Fist bump?”

  “Stop it.”

  “Did you congratulate him in any way?” she persisted.

  I said nothing. I hated it when she was right.

  On the entire planet, there had never been two sisters more different than me and Annabelle. Three years older, I had been the good girl who got straight As, was involved in extracurricular activities, and existed primarily to please our parents. Annabelle, not so much.

  Annabelle, now a graphic designer living in a loft on Newbury Street, was the wild child. The impulse-driven, it’s-better-to-get-forgiveness-than-permission, miniskirt- and combat-boot-wearing, inappropriate-language-using artsy type who thought rules were merely guidelines.

  She got her first tattoo at sixteen, illegally; got arrested for the first time at seventeen, for underage drinking; and now, at the ripe old age of twenty-seven, had recently divorced her second husband, a guy she had known a whole two months before they eloped. It wasn’t exactly a huge shock that our father had gone to her first, given that Annabelle seemed to think marriage was meant to last only as long as her running shoes.

  I knew the thought was mean, but I refused to feel badly about it. I was too pissed.

  “Chels, hello? You in there?” Annabelle waved her hand in front of my face.

  “Yes, I’m here.” The coffee maker beeped again, and I retrieved my own mug. The ceramic felt hot in my hands, making me realize how chilled I was.

  “So, did you congratulate Dad in any way?”

  “If by ‘congratulate’ you mean stood there with my mouth hanging open in shock, then yeah, I nailed it,” I said.

  “You didn’t say anything?” she gasped.

  It was virtually impossible to shock Annabelle, and at any other time, I would have felt victorious. Instead, I felt a flicker of shame deep inside, which I dealt with by adding two sugars and a healthy dollop of milk to my coffee.

  “I guess you missed that part, too,” I said. “Here’s a question. Whose brainiac idea was it to spring this on me in a bridal salon? I mean, there was no warning, no prep, no easing me into the idea that Dad’s going to throw his life away by marrying a perfect stranger. I mean, really, do you people not know me at all?”

  Annabelle nodded. “That’s a solid argument. Truthfully, after Dad picked the ring and proposed, we all just got so excited . . .”

  Her voice trailed off, so I filled in what I knew my sister didn’t want to admit. “You got so excited you completely forgot about me.”

  “No, we . . . That is to say, okay, yeah,” she admitted. “We did.”

  “Ouch.” I dragged the word out for maximum guilt impact. Annabelle blanched, so it was a direct hit.

  It didn’t make me feel better, and I desperately wished I had two more mimosas in hand. Instead, I went for comfort food, desperately needing a snack to fill the gaping hole of sadness in my soul. I opened the door to my pantry and stared at the neatly stacked boxes of oatmeal, the loaf of bread, and the jar of peanut butter. There were no cookies. Damn it! This was pitiful. I slammed the door.

  “I’m sorry, Chels. We should have looped you in sooner,” Annabelle said. “But can I ask you something?”

  “What?” I asked. I was checking my freezer to see if a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Karamel Sutra had miraculously appeared. It hadn’t.

  “If we had told you a few days ago, would you have reacted any differently?”

  I slammed the freezer and stare
d at my sister. “I guess we’ll never know.”

  “Really?” Annabelle asked. She sipped her coffee. “I think we know.”

  Her lofty attitude caught me on the raw. “The woman bought our father at a bachelor auction for prominent Bostonians two weeks ago. He doesn’t know her well enough to marry her. How can you be okay with this?”

  “Because I like her,” she said.

  “Like her?” I asked. “You don’t know her either!”

  “I know her better than you do,” she said. Her voice was superior. So annoying.

  “Right.” I rolled my eyes and took a bracing sip of coffee. It chased away any buzz that had been left behind by the mimosas, which was probably a good thing but felt like a shame.

  “I still bring my laundry over to Dad’s, so we visit on Sunday nights when I’m doing my wash,” she said. “Sheri’s been there the last two Sundays, and we’ve hung out. We even hit a show at the Museum of Fine Arts the other day.”

  “You’re friends with her,” I accused. Oh, the betrayal!

  “I’m trying to be,” she said. “Honestly, I like Sheri. She’s quirky and fun.”

  “She wants us to be flower girls,” I snapped. “That’s not quirky—that’s weird.”

  Annabelle frowned. “Well, I think it’s fun. She’s never been married before. She’s excited.”

  “Ugh,” I grunted. Truly, I was beyond words.

  “So what if she wants us to wear matching dresses and scatter rose petals? Who cares, so long as she makes Dad happy.”

  Well, wasn’t that some shit. Annabelle sounded like the altruistic one, when I’d always been certain that was my role as the older sibling. Of course it made me even crankier about the whole situation.

  “Well, that figures,” I said. “It’s been you and Dad against me since Mom died. I don’t know why I thought you’d suddenly be on my side about him marrying a perfect stranger.”

  “Chels, come on. That’s a load of crap, and you know it. Dad and I have never been against you,” she said. “You know, if you’d ever take a day off work and hang out with us, you might be more in the loop.”

  “Don’t patronize me. What I do is very important.”

  Annabelle was quiet for a moment, and then she said, “So is family.”

  “I know that,” I said, seething. “I know that better than anyone. That’s why I do what I do.”

  “Listen, you aren’t the only one who lost Mom.” She pushed her mug aside and leaned forward, getting into my space. I refused to back up. “What about the family that’s still here, still alive, still wanting you to be a part of it? You’ve been cutting us out for years, just like you have your friends. You live in this self-imposed solitude, refusing invitations to weddings, parties—life! How much longer do you think we’re going to keep reaching out to you?”

  “What are you saying?” I asked. Now I did back up, trying to look casual about it. “If I don’t go along with Dad’s wedding, you’re going to disown me?”

  “Would you notice if we did? Look, I love you. You’re my big sister and you always will be, but you’ve changed, Chels. You started withdrawing after Mom died, and you never stopped. I don’t even recognize you anymore. You shut everyone out.”

  “No, I don’t,” I protested. “Besides, this isn’t about me.”

  “Yes, it is. It’s one hundred percent about you. Do you realize the only relationships you’ve had happened before Mom passed?” she asked. “You haven’t been on a real date in years.”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “How can you possibly understand how Dad feels about Sheri when you haven’t been in love since . . . I don’t even know when.”

  “This is ridiculous,” I said. I needed some space. I took a restorative sip of coffee and left the kitchen to go sit on the couch. I pulled my knees up to my chest, pretending it was the cold making me hunker down.

  “Look at you!” Annabelle gestured to my curled-up position. “You’re doing it right now. You look like a hedgehog, and your posture positively yells, Don’t come any closer!”

  Even though I knew my sister was right, I wasn’t ready to surrender. “You know what? I should have known you’d spin all this around in your usual Annabelle way.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” She picked up her mug and moved to the far end of the couch.

  “I’m trying to discuss Dad’s marriage, and you turn it into a monologue about what’s wrong with me,” I said. “For your information, there is nothing wrong with me.”

  “Great, then you’ll be at the wedding.”

  Panic hit me like a double punch in the face. “No! I’m not . . . I didn’t mean . . .”

  “Chels, I’m going to lay it out for you,” Annabelle said. “Dad is in love, and he’s getting remarried. You can either buck up and be a part of it, or you can continue to slowly fade from the family, as you’ve been doing, until we are a family in name only. Is that what you want?”

  “No, but I can’t . . . What about Mom?” My voice cracked, and I took a deep breath, trying to ease the tightness in my throat. I lowered my knees and put my mug down on the coffee table.

  “This isn’t about Mom,” Annabelle said. “This is about you.”

  “What are you talking about? This is absolutely about Mom.”

  “Chels, Dad is fifty-five years old. This may be his last shot to find a woman to spend his life with. Are you really going to deny him that because you want him to cling to the memory of Mom as tightly as you do?” she asked. “Mom wouldn’t want that for him, and neither should you.”

  “You don’t know what she’d want.” Fury pounded through me. I hated this conversation, and I wanted to toss Annabelle out, but my sister wasn’t done yet.

  “Yes, I do. Mom loved us, and she wanted us to be happy. If you want to honor her memory as much as you say you do, then you should get your shit together and figure out how to move on with your life, just like Dad and I have,” Annabelle said. “When was the last time you were happy or had a big, belly-cramping laugh?”

  “I laugh all the time,” I insisted.

  “Really?”

  “I’ll have you know I follow several online personalities that are hilarious,” I said. “There’s one that features tiny hamsters eating tiny food, and then there’s a whole bunch of kitten videos—oh god.”

  “To answer your question, yes, it’s as pathetic as it sounds.”

  I dropped my head into my hand.

  After a moment, Annabelle said, “I know the last time you were happy.”

  I lifted my head and looked at my sibling in surprise. “Really? Because I don’t.”

  “Yes, you do.” Annabelle put down her mug and rose from her seat. She crossed the living room, her boot heels clacking against the hardwood floor as she approached the bookcase that stood between the two large living room windows. She squatted down and scanned the books.

  “There it is,” she said. She pulled out a scrapbook covered in dust from the bottom shelf. She returned and dropped it into my lap. “The last time I saw you smile with your whole heart was in these pictures.”

  I glanced at the book. It sat like a cinder block on my thighs, holding me down.

  “You spent the last three months of Mom’s life sitting by her bed, telling her stories about your year abroad, while you pasted this together. She loved your stories.”

  Annabelle’s voice cracked. She swallowed hard, and I could see the grief in her eyes. I wanted to reach out and hug her, but I didn’t.

  “You promised her you’d go back,” Annabelle said. She tapped the white leather cover of the scrapbook. “Aren’t you still in touch with some of these people? Maybe it’s time.”

  “I don’t . . . I can’t,” I protested. “I need to think.”

  “I’m sure you do.” She sighed, cross
ed the room, grabbed her coat off the hook, and shrugged it on. Without saying another word, she left.

  Again, it was without saying I love you. What was happening to my family? I felt as if we were unraveling and I didn’t know how to stop it. I wanted to blame Sheri—I desperately did. If the woman hadn’t come into my father’s life, there wouldn’t be all these conversations, and things would have remained as they’d been. But I knew there was no putting that auction-paddle-wielding genie back in the bottle.

  Happy. Annabelle had asked me when I’d last been happy. I knew the exact date and time. May 15, 2013, at 4:20 in the afternoon. The moment right before my father called me when I was in Italy, on my postcollege year abroad, to tell me to come home because my mother had only a few weeks to live. I got on the next plane out of Florence.

  Three months later, my mother died with me, Annabelle, and Dad by her side. I had known in that moment that no one would ever love me as much as my mother did, and as the last breath left her lungs, so did the love and happiness leave my world. I didn’t know where they had gone, and I didn’t know how to get them back. I wished I could find them again, but it wasn’t that easy.

  I opened the cover of the scrapbook, and my heart squeezed tight. I’d put this book together, a collection of moments from my year abroad, when I’d worked various jobs to pay my way across Europe to celebrate graduating from college. The book had given me something to do while I tended my mom. The very first picture was of my parents and Annabelle seeing me off at Logan International Airport in Boston.

  I traced the photo with the tips of my fingers. I had my dad’s eyes and his stubborn chin, but my thick light-brown hair; tall and slender, albeit a bit bottom-heavy, build; and my wide grin were all my mom’s. I turned the page. London. Oh, how I had loved it. Big Ben. The Underground. Portobello Market. Next page. Ireland. Working on a sheep farm in County Kerry, I had stayed for the summer. When I closed my eyes, I could smell the sweet grass and feel the mist on my face and the warm sun on my shoulders.

  I flipped through the pictures, most of which featured a redheaded boy with a wicked cowlick and a rogue’s grin. He beamed at me from the photos, inviting me into his mischief. Colin Donovan. I hadn’t thought of him in years, and yet I’d been utterly charmed by him and his shenanigans, like the time he’d convinced our crew to dress the entire flock of sheep in pajamas as a prank on Mr. O’Brien. I laughed at the memory.