Meet Me in Paris

He gave an exaggerated shrug. “You get used to it.”

She looked down at the photo again. “Your dad’s white?”

He shook his head. “Not exactly, but he could pass, if he’d had a mind to. If my mother had a mind to let him.”

“Which she didn’t.”

“Nope.”

She set the photo carefully down in the area of the bookcase they’d set aside for display items. “Are your parents…”

“Alive and kicking. Both retired, still living in the house I grew up in, a few miles outside of Atlanta. Been there ever since, until now.”

“You’re a southern boy.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Thought I heard something in your voice.”

“Can’t shake it. Wouldn’t want to.”

She rummaged in the crate and withdrew a larger, professionally framed photo. He was all grown up, embracing a beautiful, long-limbed woman on a boat. One arm was around her waist, the other cradled her cheek as she leaned against him. The woman had striking, exotic features, perfect Brazil nut skin and cheekbones sharp enough to draw blood. Her mouth was like a firm fruit, and her makeup looked as if it had been airbrushed on by a fine artist. She bore herself with the poise and elegance of royalty. Kendra felt the slightest chill ripple through her. Trey’s wife, no doubt. She peered closer. Trey was relaxed, happy, smiling, gray eyes full of warmth, humor and life. His lips were parted, teeth white, Adam’s apple faintly visible past the button-down shirt he wore. She almost couldn’t recognize him as the same man.

“My wife died six years ago. Her name was Ashia. She was from Somalia.” Somehow, he’d managed to stand behind her without her realizing he’d moved. Watching her watch the picture. In her embarrassment, she almost dropped it. “I didn’t mean…”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he took the photo from her fingers and placed it tenderly on his desk. When she glanced up several moments later, he was still looking at it. She couldn’t read his face. She went back to work, feeling as though she intruded. Trey left the photo alone and joined her.

The next few boxes were full of model airplanes and ships. “Wonders never cease,” she murmured.

He laughed. “A passion I haven’t shaken from boyhood. I used to love making model planes and aircraft. These were modeled after authentic wartime craft.”

“You made these? From scratch? No kits?”

“Some of the older ones are from kits. Look, this is a German Dornier Do-17. See the fat snub nose? They called it the Flying Pencil. I made it when I was thirteen or so. It’s one of my personal favorites.” He took up a tiny one emblazoned with a rising sun. “This one’s Japanese. A Mitsubishi A5-M. Very fast. I made hundreds of kit models before I got bored. Drove my mother crazy.”

“I’ll bet.” She was warmed by the pride in his voice, and enchanted by the glimpse he was allowing her into the boy he had been.

“My room was so full of models I could barely move about. We used to have ring-down battles twice a year or so. She used to make me throw half of them out. Wasn’t prepared to live in a junkyard, she said.”

“Pity. If you’d saved them you could have made a fortune selling them alone.”

“I’d sooner sell my own soul,” he countered. “You can imagine what it was like when I started making my own out of whatever bits and pieces I could drag home. My mother’s junkyard metaphor took on a whole ’nother dimension.”

She found herself chuckling with him. When the box they were working on was empty, she lifted the lid off another, and unpacked a heavy, wrapped object. Peeling away the layers of bubble wrap, she discovered a ship in a bottle. A rather old ship in a bottle. The shape, the feel of it, transported her back in time. She held it up to the sunlight. The ship inside was exquisite, its sails fully raised, even slightly curved, as though billowing in a gentle breeze. She didn’t know the first thing about models, but she could see it was handcrafted. “This one’s a beauty. It looks old. Where’d you get it?”

He was on her like a pouncing cat, snatching it from her hands. “Don’t touch that.” She watched openmouthed as he picked up a new piece of cheesecloth and rubbed it down, as though her fingerprints would contaminate it. There was a wooden stand in the box where she’d found the ship. He pulled that out, dusted it off just as carefully and placed the ship upon it on the main shelf, at the center of his collection.

She didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how to react, feeling awkward and ashamed, but still unable to determine the exact nature of her crime. “I’m sorry. I…”

He wouldn’t even look at her. “Maybe we should break for lunch.” Not waiting for her response, he threw the cheesecloth aside and walked off. She followed, not bothering to hide her confusion. What had she done? What had she said?

As the wadding on the kitchen chairs hadn’t been removed yet, they ate Chinese take-out, cross-legged on the floor. Throughout the meal, and after, Trey tried to act as if nothing had happened, but the camaraderie of the morning was broken. She was glad when the afternoon was over. At five o’ clock he called it a day, and walked her to the door.

He handed her a plain white envelope, and she knew without having to open it what it held: half her day’s wages. She took it, face and neck hot with embarrassment over all it implied. She shoved it into her jeans pocket, out of sight.

“Thank you,” he told her. “You were a big help.”

She nodded wordlessly. They stood there on the doorstep facing each other, Trey appearing even taller because he was one step above. It was as awkward as that charged moment at the end of a blind date when both parties wait for someone to say or do something to break the tension…except she wasn’t waiting on a kiss, she was waiting on an explanation—or an apology. She didn’t get one.

Instead, he asked, “Tomorrow? I know it’s Sunday, but I’ll be home all day, and I was thinking we could get the living room straightened out.”

Like I have a choice, she thought. But there was a pleading in his eyes that gave her the odd feeling he didn’t just want her for her work. He wanted her for her company. Damn. Handsome, smart, self-assured, top of his game Trey Hammond is lonely. Don’t that beat all. She nodded. “Tomorrow.”

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