Page 2 of After Paris

Chapter Two

Ruby

Norfolk, Virginia

Monday, June 30, 2025

6:00 p.m.

My love of fashion reached beyond personal pride to obsession. I dressed well for any occasion and took too much time choosing the right dress, skirt, or slacks. Shoes, purses, and jewelry were never afterthoughts but well-thought-out parts of the ensemble. I never “threw on” sweatpants and a T-shirt, even if I was having drinks with my older brother, as I was tonight.

I scrutinized my off-the-shoulder black dress. I wondered if I should change into the red silk sheath. The black dress was more forgiving and draped softly over my thinning frame. The red dress didn’t draw as much attention to my diminutive breasts, which was good. All the Nevins women had arrived on this earth with the almost certain guarantee that their bosoms would be ample. I was the exception. That left a few female cousins to wonder if I was adopted, which my parents assured me I was not. I stayed with the black dress.

A teardrop necklace, created from a purple healing stone, dripped toward my scooped neckline and the PICC line scar inches below my collarbone. I tugged the fabric up and then slipped on lavender earrings that drew attention to my short black hair à la Leslie Caron in An American in Paris . Maybe I’d keep it short and not bother to grow it out.

After grabbing my purse, I hurried out of my apartment and headed toward my MINI Cooper parked out front. The normalness of this moment felt awkward. I’d grown accustomed to living with my parents over the last two years and had forgotten what it felt like to be alone. They’d wanted me to stay with them, but I’d countered their worries with assurances that I was ready to strike out again.

Three years ago, on a hot July day, I was newly graduated from college and working as a tour guide in Paris. My specialty tours focused on films made in the City of Lights. That day, I’d been escorting twelve people in their late fifties and early sixties. Most were from the East Coast of the United States, but there’d been a couple of Canadians and a gal from Texas there. This was their second or third day in Paris, and they’d shaken off their jet lag and were eager to explore.

Our tour had started on the Champs-élysées. I began with a brief film history in Paris. I spent extra time discussing movie production during World War II and the challenges of the German occupation. As we moved down the long tree-lined boulevard filled with shops and restaurants, I felt like I might have been getting a bug. I mentioned the films Taken (2008) with Liam Neeson, Charade (1963) with Audrey Hepburn and Cary Grant, The Bourne Identity (2002) with Matt Damon, and The Da Vinci Code (2006) with Tom Hanks. We moved down the iconic boulevard past the Place de la Concorde, and I pointed out the filming locations for Emily in Paris . I joked that my thick-soled athletic shoes weren’t nearly as posh as Emily’s high heels.

Usually, when I finished a three-hour tour, I was ready for a café, water, or maybe a croissant. And until the last couple of weeks, I could turn around and give another tour within the hour. But that day I was exhausted.

As I sat in the café with the group, I smiled but felt dizzy and was sweating too much. Many in the group lingered as they practiced their high school French, which was often difficult for French people to decode. When I finally said goodbye to my group, it took everything I had to get to my small fifth-floor walk-up apartment in the fourteenth arrondissement.

I’d assumed I’d have an energy rally. But when it still hadn’t arrived a week later, I found myself in the doctor’s office, waiting for a quick fix. When the doctors couldn’t figure it out, they sent me for more tests. Two weeks later, I was on a plane headed back to the States with my boyfriend, Scott, and a cancer diagnosis in hand. Mom and Dad picked us up at the Norfolk airport. Our journey through Cancerland had begun.

Now, my phone buzzed with a text from Scott.

He’d been good enough to travel with me back to the States. And he’d stuck around for two months, attending doctor’s appointments, comforting me after the grim forecasts, and bolstering my family with his positive visions of the future. But the demands of my failing health were hard on him, which he covered up with extreme positivity. And then one day, he said he couldn’t do it anymore and returned to Paris.

Scott: Going to be in DC this week. I’d love to see you.

His casual message glossed over my broken heart, which for a long time had been held together with gum and fragile stitches.

Sudden breakups, like ours, were usually final and complete. But our situation was more complicated. After my first consultation with doctors, I’d learned my treatment would leave me sterile. If I wanted children, I’d need to harvest and fertilize my eggs. Scott was enthusiastic about it. Using his sperm made sense, he’d said. We were a team. So, I had twelve eggs harvested. Six remained unfertilized, and to boost my odds of motherhood, I had six fertilized with Scott’s sperm.

Even if I never saw Scott again, our potential children would link us. I didn’t answer his text and shoved the phone in my pocket.

Scott and Cancerland were in the rearview mirror. The past was the past. Eyes forward. And until I opted to use one of the embryos, I owed him nothing. I slid behind the wheel of my car, started it, and pulled out slowly into traffic.

I hadn’t driven in three years, but I was relearning traffic patterns, left-hand turns, and parallel parking. The drive to Norfolk’s Waterside restaurant and bar district located on the Elizabeth River took twenty minutes.

When I pulled into Buzzy’s bar lot, I said a prayer of thanks when I found an end, pull-through parking spot, a rare beast this time of day in the city.

Out of the car, a warm breeze blew off the river, catching the edges of my A-line skirt as my heels clicked on the sidewalk. As I approached the bar entrance, a man dressed in khakis and a T-shirt paused to hold the door open. I smiled, thanked him, and noted interest flickering in his gaze.

Sandy-brown hair. Dimples. Clean shaven. He was cute. I could smile back. He could ask me to have a drink. I could say yes. We could chat and laugh and have a blast. And then there’d be the inevitable conversation about what each of us had done lately. I’d say “cancer,” as if it were a brief side trip to the mountains. He’d try to be cool about it. But reality would sink in, and then he’d ghost me. I wouldn’t be mad because life with me was too risky.

As the sun hovered in the sky, I breezed past him into the bar. I glanced into the crowd. It took me a moment to absorb the noise and chatter of people enjoying their lives. It was such a contrast to silent hospital rooms filled with beeping machines.

“Ruby!”

I turned and immediately spotted my brother, Eric. He was five years older than me, but he had a youthful, almost naive way that always made me feel as if I should take care of him. He was an electrical/mechanical engineer who was a rock star in his field. He was tall, with a runner’s build. His thick black hair swept across his forehead, drawing attention to vivid blue eyes. When he smiled, his cheeks dimpled.

As he swooped in for a hug, I noticed he’d taken my fashion advice. He’d swapped a favorite ten-year-old MIT jersey for a tailored shirt, new jeans, and docksiders. He hadn’t combed his hair carefully or straightened his collar, but he’d made great strides.

Crooked collar and flyaway hairs aside, Eric was the best catch. Still, he’d barely dated in the last few years. Part of his lack of feminine company was due to my illness. He’d dropped his personal life to care for me, just like our parents had. Now it was my turn to take care of him. Hence, tonight’s meetup was to plan Operation: Find Eric a Girlfriend.

I wrapped my arms around him, taking in the spicy scent of the aftershave I’d given him for his birthday. “My, my, you do clean up well.”

He grinned. “You spoke, and I listened.”

I’d been raising fashion standards since I was ten. Even when I was at my sickest, I always combed my thinning hair and donned a bright Hermès scarf and red lipstick. “Are you willing to admit that Ruby knows best about film, fashion, and love?”

“Yes to the first two, but the latter might be a bigger hurdle to jump.”

“Nonsense,” I said in all seriousness. “Finding love for you won’t be hard at all, especially since you ditched the MIT jersey.”

He pretended to look wounded. “I love that shirt.”

“You’ve loved it since college, and that’s fine as long as you don’t wear it around any woman who you’d like to have sex with.”

He grinned. “Duly noted. I got us a table, and drinks are on the way.” He led me to a round tabletop overlooking softening light dripping on the river.

“How early did you get here so you could grab this table?”

“I came by at lunch and tipped the headwaiter fifty bucks to hold it for me.”

“Wow.”

“Only the best for my baby sister.”

I looked out at what was one of my favorite views in the city. The river was always busy with tankers, ships, sailboats, and people traveling to far-off places.

A waitress arrived with three drinks: red wine, beer, and scotch. I accepted the wine and knew the beer was for Eric. “And who are the scotch and third chair at this table for?”

“Jeff,” he said.

“He’s in town?” Jeff Gordon had been Eric’s roommate at MIT. Since their graduation, he had set up a computer company in Washington, DC. Mom had said it was doing very well.

When I’d first met Jeff, I was in middle school and he was a freshman in college. Almost immediately, I’d developed a crush on him. But timing was never our strength. When I arrived in college, he was off building a new company. And then I was off to Paris. Then I met Scott, and then the cancer. Now we were both back in the same town. “I’ve missed Jeff.”

Jeff visited me several times when I was in the hospital. He’d always come armed with chocolates and an obscure French film he knew I would adore. “He’s thinking about setting up an office in Norfolk. Something to do with defense contracting. Hush-hush, from what he says.”

“Even if you outlined all the details, I wouldn’t understand. Not my wheelhouse.” I sipped the wine, a smooth cabernet. “Delicious.”

“Have you called Mom and Dad lately?” he asked.

“We spoke two days ago, and they’re supposed to be on vacation.” I swirled the wine.

“And they text me every hour on the hour when you don’t touch base. You know Mom worries.”

I pulled out my phone. “Take a picture of us. Your arms are longer than mine.”

He held out the phone, both of us smiled, and as I held up a thumb, he snapped the picture. I texted the picture to Mom and Dad, and ten seconds later, a heart emoji popped up. That was Mom’s way of playing it cool, but she and Dad were in Germany, making it well after midnight in her time zone. I pictured the phone charging on a nightstand near Mom’s head.

“Does she sleep?” I asked.

“No. And those eyes in the back of her head still have twenty-twenty vision.”

“Good. She needs it to keep Dad from getting lost.” Ever since we were kids, Mom had been the navigator who kept Team Nevins on track. Dad was always the dreamer. A former navy sailor, he was the creative advertising executive who sketched squid and shells on our trash cans and painted a large-scale can of Campbell’s soup for my dorm room.

“Is he ever going to retire?” I asked.

“He’s talked about it enough,” Eric said. “But he still needs a place to be, so likely not.”

“His life is back to normal, and he wants to keep it that way.”

Eric sipped his beer. “A toast to normal.”

I raised my glass and clinked it against his beer bottle. “The purpose of tonight’s meeting isn’t about me but you. This is Operation: Get Eric a Girlfriend.”

Cringing, he gulped another sip of beer as he looked around the room. “I have no idea how to start.”

“That’s why you have me,” I said.

A midsize guy with light-brown hair brushing his shoulders approached us. He wore faded jeans, a black Star Wars T-shirt, and flip-flops. Five o’clock shadow darkened his chin.

It had been a few months since I’d seen Jeff, and I immediately smiled. I rose, ignored that he looked like he’d slept in his clothes, and hugged him close. The scent of soap lingered on his skin. He hugged me tight and lifted me off my feet.

“Ruby, you look amazing as always.” His voice was deep, rich, and full of joy.

“Of course I do,” I said.

He chuckled and kissed me on the cheek. “I gather we’re here tonight as Eric’s wing people. Operation: Get Eric Laid,” he joked.

Eric cringed. “Bro, that’s my baby sister.”

Jeff waited until I’d sat and then took the chair beside me. “She’s younger than us, but in the spectrum of life, she’s wiser than both of us combined.”

Jeff had a way of making anyone feel like they were the one. All the women he’d dated had said so. Anyone who did business with Jeff reported he could charm a $100 million contract out of the toughest CEO.

Jeff sipped his scotch, held it to the light, and admired the marbled browns and golds. “Nice.”

Eric held up his beer. “To my two favorite drinking buddies.”

I took a sip. “To the two best men in the world.”

“So, what’s the game plan?” Jeff asked. “How do we go about getting someone for Eric?”

My gaze roamed the room and settled on the long mahogany bar, where a group of three women stood. They were traveling in a pack. But I could tell by how they looked at the crowd that they were open to a lovely man approaching them.

The redhead in the group twirled her manicured finger around a thick curl. She shifted back and forth on her high-heeled wedge sandals. Her blouse was tight, her capri pants snug. The brunette wore an A-line dress that dipped past her calves toward sensible tan flats. Next to them was a blond in a pink sleeveless blouse that revealed muscled forearms and skimmed the top of white shorts. Flat sandals completed what appeared to be a relaxed look.

“There are three women at the bar,” I said. “Redhead. Brunette. Blond.”

“And your assessment?” Jeff asked.

“The blond. Pink top. One o’clock.” As Eric turned to look, I added, “Don’t look over your shoulder.”

“Why not?” Eric asked. “Is she looking this way?”

“She’s scanning the room. So be cool. Don’t turn this into a big deal,” I said. “The goal is to look confident. Self-assured.”

“What’s wrong with the other two?” Jeff asked.

“They’re putting off nervous vibes,” I said. “They’re lovely, but for the purposes of this exercise, I pick the blond.”

Jeff grinned. “You’re objectifying them.”

“We’re in a bar that caters to singles,” I replied. “We’re all doing it to each other right now.”

“Point taken.” Eric sipped his beer.

“Walk up to the bar and order a beer while standing beside the blond.”

“You make it sound easy,” Eric said.

“It is. Order the beer. The woman will notice you, and then you say, ‘I’m Eric, what’s your name?’”

“And what if she doesn’t tell me?” Eric asked.

“She’ll bite.”

“I’m not so sure.”

“ When she tells you her name, tell her you’re here with your sister. Otherwise, you’d buy her a drink now. Could you get her number for coffee or a drink later?”

“‘Sister.’” Jeff chuckled. “Good play. Sounds disarming, bro.”

“Exactly,” I said. “It’ll make you sound like a good guy. And if you want to mention we’re celebrating me beating cancer, then do it.”

Eric’s forehead furrowed. “Not funny, Ruby.”

I smiled. “Too soon?”

“It will always be too soon,” Eric said.

Joking about cancer had been my default from day one. I’d refused to cry or cringe. “Now that you’re pissed and not nervous, go talk to her.”

“Fine, I will.”

“Good.”

I sipped my wine as my brother moved toward the bar. Annoyance tightened his spine, and he reminded me of the guy who could design complex engineering systems.

“You think he’ll get her number?” Jeff asked.

“I’m about seventy percent sure.”

“I’m glad you didn’t tell him that. He’d spend the next hour analyzing the remaining thirty percent.”

“He tends to overthink.”

Jeff chuckled. “I’m cursed with the same kind of brain. We operate in facts, methods, and systems.”

“And you both have done well with those brains.” Jeff had put himself through college and risen to the top of his class his freshman year. He’d earned his PhD by twenty-five. I was always so proud of his accomplishments. “Eric tells me you might open an office in Norfolk.”

“I’m here enough for work. It makes sense.”

I held up my glass. “Welcome to the beach.”

“Thanks.” He clinked his glass against mine. “Looks like you’ve gotten back to yoga. You look great.”

I smiled, realizing the compliment felt good. “I rejoined the studio about a month ago. I’m getting fitter and back in the swing of things.”

“You got the all clear from the doctors?”

I glanced toward Eric at the bar. “I’m not sure I’ll ever get an ‘all clear.’ But so far so good.”

“Well, you look great.”

“Thanks.”

“What’re you working on these days?” Jeff asked.

Mention of work was now actually a welcome topic. Like Dad and his job, I needed to work. “The Virginia Tourism Bureau has hired me to write a series of articles for next year’s spring French film festival. They want me to write a profile on their feature film, Secrets in the Shadows , which stars the French actress Cécile.”

He met my gaze, his interest keen. “A woman with only one name is always a little dangerous.”

I laughed. “Cécile was the ‘it’ girl from 1938 to 1942. She burst on the movie scene in 1938, made five films, and then, after shooting Secrets in the Shadows , she vanished in 1942.”

He swirled his glass. “A dangerous woman who disappeared. The world loves a mystery.”

I pulled up a picture of Cécile on my phone. Her blond hair swept in gentle curls over high cheekbones and an angled jawline. She’d painted her full lips red, and diamond teardrops dangled from her earlobes.

“Wow, she’s a looker,” Jeff said. “Why did the festival choose her?”

“I pitched the idea during my interview. If this gig works out, I could end up with a full-time job with benefits.”

“Score.”

“Cécile was beautiful, mysterious, talented, and she vanished during World War II. She’s the complete package.”

He handed back my phone. “How do you even start to write about someone who went missing in 1942?”

“Sylvia Rousseau, her dressmaker, moved to the United States after the war. Rousseau’s passed away, but her daughter lives in the DC area. I contacted her, and she’s agreed to see me. I’m driving up tomorrow.”

He raised a brow. “Does Eric know?”

“Not yet.”

“I’m not trying to get into your business, but you should tell him. He worries.”

“I want to be the girl no one stresses about. I want people to say, ‘Ruby is skydiving? No worries, she’s got that. Snake wrangling? Knife throwing? She’s a natural.’”

A slight smile tipped the edges of his lips. “You’re cursed with people who care.”

“Not complaining. But I want to be the girl I was before Paris.”

“That’ll require a time machine. And even if you could go back, the future would always loom on the horizon.”

“Stop being analytical.”

“Don’t get me started on the complexities of time travel.”

If I could look into the future, would I? Doubtful. Too much downside. I looked toward the bar. “Eric and the blond are chatting. Both are smiling.”

Jeff didn’t bother to glance over his shoulder. “Your matchmaking skills are legendary. How many couples can you claim as yours?”

“A few.”

“Twelve by my count.”

“You’re keeping score?”

“I track everything. For example, it’s been exactly sixty-nine days since I last saw you. I logged fifteen miles of jogging last week. The cost of bread has risen twenty-six percent in the last four years.”

I was touched he remembered our last meeting. He was in town for work. Mom and Dad had hosted him, Jeff, and me for dinner. I wore a red crocheted bucket hat to cover my sprouting hair. He wore his Star Wars T-shirt, and I thought he looked amazing. “Do all those facts bump into each other as they rattle in your head?” I asked.

“It gets crowded up there sometimes.” A waitress arrived with a tray of appetizers. When she set them down, Jeff thanked her. “I called ahead and ordered. I can’t drink and not eat.” He handed me a stack of cocktail napkins. “Eat. You look thin.”

“I’ve gained five pounds,” I said with pride.

“Still a tad underweight.”

“I thought I was looking sleek.”

He lifted a fried shrimp. “Your Cécile had curves.”

I took a shrimp. “How can you tell that from a headshot?”

“Eric might have mentioned the project, so I might have done a quick online search.” He took a bite of shrimp.

“I didn’t think you’d be that interested.”

“Why wouldn’t I be? It’s a fascinating topic.”

When Eric returned to the table, his cheeks were flushed. “Susan is meeting me for drinks tomorrow.”

“Susan?” I said, as if testing the name. “Nice.”

Eric crunched a nacho chip. “Yeah.”

“What can you tell us about Susan, other than her name?” I asked.

“She’s an attorney. She’s new in town. The rest to be determined.”

“Excellent,” Jeff said.

I took another shrimp, realizing I was hungry. I listened as Jeff and Eric discussed office spaces and places to live. “By the way, I’m heading to DC tomorrow. I’m freelancing an article.”

Eric paused midsentence. “By yourself?”

“I’m twenty-five, Eric. And I’ve been to DC before.”

My brother reached for his phone. “I can clear my calendar.”

“No,” I said. “I’ll be fine.” Before he could make a rebuttal, I added, “And if I feel bad, I’ll call you.”

Eric frowned. “No, you won’t. You’ll tough it out like you did in Paris.”

“I called when I needed help.”

“You ignored the problems for too long.”

“Well, I’ve learned my lesson. For the most part.”

Jeff tore off a piece of bread and buttered it. “She’ll be fine, Eric. DC is a four-hour drive away with traffic.”

“And there’s always traffic,” Eric muttered.

“Aren’t you going to ask me what I’m writing?” I asked.

Eric shrugged. “The French actress, right?”

“You make it sound boring and sad,” I said, laughing.

“Not at all,” Eric said. “I know France and film are your things. This article should be a cakewalk for you. Am I wrong?”

“I’m not going to get rich writing this piece, but I’m reclaiming my life.”

“Can’t you do this via Zoom?” Eric asked.

“No.” And the point was to get out of town on my own. “The woman I’m interviewing doesn’t do technology. She has a landline and an answering machine. It took me several days to set up this appointment.”

He took a long drink from his beer. “I won’t tell Mom and Dad.”

“I mean, you could, but it might be easier if you don’t,” I said. I felt a little like the kid who’d opened all her Christmas presents early, rewrapped them, and put them back under the tree. Everyone knew what I’d done, but everyone pretended I hadn’t.

“You’re going to have to call in each day,” Eric said. “And how long will you be gone?”

I looked at Jeff. He looked amused. “Are you going to help a girl out?”

The grin tugged Jeff’s lips higher. “She’ll be fine, Eric. She said she’ll call you if she needs you.”

“I will. And I’ll be back Sunday or Monday. And I will call if I need help.” It would have to be a five-alarm fire for me to call for help, but if a raging inferno broke out, I would at least text. Brush fires I could handle.

“Fine. But be careful.”

“Look at it this way: If you’re stressing about me, you won’t be uptight about your date.”

“‘Date’?” Eric asked. “I’d already forgotten about that.”

“Put a reminder on your phone,” I ordered. “This is going to be a good thing. I have a great feeling.”

“Ruby is part white witch when it comes to making couples,” Jeff said. “Trust her.”

Jeff had always taken my side when Eric was overprotective. It was one of many reasons I adored the guy.

Eric rubbed his index finger over his left eyebrow, like he did when he faced a problem that he couldn’t fix. “Okay. Go to DC, and I’ll go on a date with Susan. But I’m going to worry.”

“Worry is your thing,” I said, smiling.

“Your next project will be Find Ruby a Guy,” Eric said.

“Right.” Scott’s unanswered text on my phone was proof that I could choose for others but not for myself.