She had just finished closing her suitcase, when Stevie walked into her bedroom to tell her that the reservations had been made. She was on a flight to Paris in two days, and the Ritz had a suite for her on the Vendôme side of the building. Stevie said she would drive her to the airport. Carole was all set for her odyssey to find herself, in Paris, or wherever else she went. Whatever other cities she decided to travel to, she could make the reservations once she was in Europe. Carole was excited now at the thought of going. It was going to be wonderful being in Paris after all these years.
She wanted to walk past her old house near the rue Jacob, on the Left Bank, and pay homage to the two and a half years she had spent there. It seemed like a lifetime ago. She had been younger than Stevie when she left Paris. Her son, Anthony, who was eleven then, had been delighted to come back to the States. Chloe had been seven and was sad to leave Paris and her friends there. She had spoken perfect French. They had been eight and four when they first went there, when Carole was making a movie in Paris. The film had taken eight months, and they had stayed on for two years after that. It seemed like a big chunk of time then, especially in young lives, and even to her. And now she was going back, on a pilgrimage of sorts. She had no idea what she'd find there, or how she'd feel. But she was ready. She could hardly wait to leave. She realized now that it was an important step in writing the book. Maybe going back would free her, and open the doors that were sealed so tightly. Sit ting at her computer in Bel-Air, she couldn't pry them open. But maybe there the doors would swing wide open on their own. It was what she hoped.
Just knowing that she was going to Paris, Carole was able to write that night. She sat at her computer for hours after Stevie left, and was back at it the next morning when she arrived.
She dictated some letters, paid her bills, and did a last few errands. By the time she left for the airport the next day, Carole was ready. She chatted animatedly with Stevie on the way to the airport, remembering last details, of what to tell the gardener, some things she'd ordered that would arrive while she was away.
“What do I tell the kids, if they call?” Stevie asked as they reached the airport, and she took Carole's bag out of the station wagon. She was traveling light, so she could manage more easily on her own.
“Just tell them I'm away,” Carole said easily.
“In Paris?” Stevie was ever discreet, and only told people, even her children, what Carole told her she could say.
“That's fine. It's not a secret. I'll probably call them at some point myself. I'll call Chloe before I go to London at the end. I want to see what I decide to do first.” She loved the feeling of freedom she had, traveling on her own, and making decisions about her destinations day by day. It was rare for her to be that spontaneous, and do whatever she wished. It seemed like a real gift.
“Don't forget to tell me what you're doing,” Stevie chided. “I worry about you.” Probably more than her kids did, who were sometimes less aware, although they loved her. Stevie was almost maternal toward her at times. She knew the vulnerable side of Carole that others didn't see, the frail side, the one that hurt. To others, Carole showed tranquillity and strength, which wasn't always the case underneath.
“I'll e-mail you when I get to the Ritz. Don't worry if you don't hear from me after that. If I go to Prague or Vienna or somewhere, I'll probably leave my computer in Paris. I don't want to bother with a lot of e-mail while I'm away. Sometimes it's fun to just write on legal pads. The change might do me good. I'll call if I need help.”
“You better. Have fun,” Stevie said as she hugged her, and Carole smiled up at her.
“Take care. Enjoy the break,” Carole said, as a porter took her bag and checked her in. She was traveling first class. He did a double-take as he looked at her and then smiled as he recognized her.
“Well, hello, Miss Barber, and how are you today?” He was thrilled to meet the star face-to-face.
“Just fine, thank you.” She smiled back. Her big green eyes lit up her face.
“Going to Paris?” he asked, dazzled by her. She was as beautiful as she was on screen, and seemed friendly, warm, and real.
“Yes, I am.” Just saying it felt good to her now, as though Paris was waiting for her. She gave him a good tip, and he tipped his hat to her, as two of the other porters rushed up and asked for autographs. She signed them, waved at Stevie one last time, and then disappeared into the terminal in jeans, her heavy dark gray coat, and a large traveling bag on her arm. Her blond hair was pulled back in a sleek ponytail, and she slipped dark glasses on as she went inside. No one noticed her as she walked by. She was just another woman hurrying toward security, on her way to a plane. She was traveling Air France. And even after fifteen years, she was still comfortable in French. She'd have a chance to practice on the plane.
The plane left LAX on time, and she read a book she'd brought with her as they winged their way toward Paris. Halfway through the flight, she slept, and as requested, they woke her forty minutes before they arrived, which gave her time to brush her teeth, wash her face, comb her hair, and have a cup of her vanilla tea. She was in her seat, looking out the window as they landed. It was a rainy November day in Paris, and her heart leaped just seeing it again. For reasons she wasn't even sure of, she was making a pilgrimage back in time, and even after all these years, she felt as though she were coming home again.
Chapter 2
The suite at the Ritz was as beautiful as she hoped it would be. All the fabrics were silk and satin, the colors pale blue and hushed gold. She had a living room and a bedroom, and a Louis XV desk where she plugged her computer in. She sent Stevie an e-mail ten minutes after she got there, while she waited for croissants and a pot of hot water. She had brought a three-week supply of her own vanilla tea with her. It was coals to Newcastle since it came from Paris, but this way she didn't have to go out and buy it. Stevie had handed it to her as she packed.
The e-mail said that she had arrived safely, the suite was gorgeous, and the flight had been fine. She said it was raining in Paris, but she didn't mind. And she mentioned that she was turning off her computer and wouldn't be writing to Stevie again for a while, if at all. If she had a problem, she'd call on her assistant's cell. She thought about calling her children after that, but decided not to. She loved talking to them, but they had their own lives now, and this trip belonged to her. It was something she needed to do for herself. She didn't want to share it with them yet. And she knew they'd find it odd that she was wandering around Europe on her own. There was something faintly pathetic about it, as though she had nothing to do, and no one to be with, which was true, but she was comfortable about this trip. And she sensed now that the key to the book she was trying to write was here, or one of the keys at least. And she knew her children might worry about her, if they knew she was traveling alone. Sometimes Stevie and her children were more aware of her fame than she was. Carole liked to ignore it.
The croissants and tea arrived, delivered by a liveried waiter. He put the silver tray on the coffee table, already laden with small pastries, a box of chocolates, and a bowl of fruit, with a bottle of champagne from the manager of the hotel. They took good care of her. She had always loved the Ritz. Nothing had changed. It was more beautiful than ever. She stood at the long French windows, looking out at the Place Vendôme in the rain. Her plane had landed at eleven that morning. She had gone right through customs, and was at the hotel at twelve-thirty. It was one o'clock by then. She had the whole afternoon to wander around and see familiar landmarks in the rain. She still had no idea where she was going after Paris, but for the moment she was happy. She was beginning to think she wouldn't go anywhere, just stay in Paris, and enjoy the time there. It didn't get better than this. She still thought Paris was the most beautiful city in the world.