Page 9 of After Paris

Chapter Nine

Ruby

Thursday, July 3, 2025

3:00 p.m.

The influx of information from Sylvia was intoxicating and overwhelming. Her English was perfect and her handwriting precise. I’d read the diary pages several times. Then, finally, unable to retain all the little details, I pulled out a pad and began taking notes. When I’d first had the idea for this article, I wasn’t sure what type of person I thought Cécile was. And I’d sure not expected to meet Sylvia. But I liked these women more than I’d imagined.

In the late 1930s, Cécile had been an outlier. Few women in that era escaped the rural southern farming communities. When she’d moved to the capital city, she’d shattered tradition in many respects.

I could imagine Cécile growing up with a restless spirit in a small community, always testing the bounds of society. Women in Paris enjoyed a more accessible lifestyle. They visited cafés, wore makeup, and even took lovers, but in the country, all this was taboo.

And for Sylvia, to travel alone from Warsaw to Paris was also unique. Her father had sent her away from family, friends, and Poland so she could have a better life. Sylvia’s father had seen the dark future coming and hadn’t been afraid to act on behalf of his daughter.

My phone dinged with a text from Jeff. I almost didn’t answer, assuming Jeff was checking on me so he could report back to Big Brother. Still, Jeff had never joined forces with Eric against me. He’d remained beautifully neutral or on my side.

I glanced at the text.

Jeff: I’m in DC today negotiating contracts. Please save me from a night alone and have dinner with me.

Cracker crumbs peppered my green oversize T-shirt from eighth-grade soccer camp. I brushed them away before I hovered nervous fingers over the keys.

Me: Knee deep in research. Fantastic finds.

Jeff: That’s Terrific. But you must eat. Crackers don’t cut it.

A smile teased my lips as I picked a few remaining crumbs from my shirt and dropped them onto a piece of paper.

Me: Very funny.

Jeff: But true.

He knew me too well. Eric and even Scott noticed some of my quirks and successes, but Jeff had an inventory of them all.

Jeff: There’s a French restaurant two blocks from your hotel.

I knew the place. It took months to get a reservation.

Me: If you can get a reservation, I’m in.

Jeff: See you at your hotel at 6:30 p.m. Reservations at 6:45 p.m.

Me: No way.

Jeff: Way. CU

I laughed. Leave it to Jeff to pull off a miracle.

Me: Done.

When I was in the throes of chemo, Jeff once texted me and told me to look out my hospital window. I was so sick and weak, but Mom pushed my wheelchair to the window overlooking the parking lot. And then I heard a horn and then a drum. And then, a marching band paraded across the parking lot and stopped below my window. The band played the Beatles song “Twist and Shout.” I’d laughed and clapped, and even though I still felt like shit, I was a little better.

Eric had asked me to find Jeff a woman, which seemed the least I could do for my best friend.

Dressing for a French restaurant on the eve of the July Fourth weekend required a cocktail dress. I selected a navy blue halter dress with small white polka dots. The full skirt skimmed my calves and flowed as I moved.

I wrapped a red belt around my slim waist, slipped my feet into tan pumps, and grabbed a sweater to hide all the IV scars on my arms. The doctors said to give the blemishes time and they’d fade, but they remained a tangible reminder that I’d nearly died. I slid on the sweater.

When I walked into the lobby at 6:28 p.m., Jeff was waiting for me. He was wearing khaki pants, a crisp white shirt with a red tie, and a blue blazer. Polished loafers and a short haircut completed the look. I almost didn’t recognize him.

“I’m sorry, I’m looking for Jeff,” I said.

He smiled, proud of his appearance. “Clean up pretty good, don’t I?”

As I straightened his already-square tie, the faint scent of aftershave wafted around him. “You’ve been talking to Eric, I see.”

“He gave me my marching orders yesterday.”

“That was a quick turnaround. You must be serious about finding a lady friend.”

“I am.”

“Well, you’ve come to the right place. I’ll be your teacher.”

He winked. “I’m counting on it. Ready for dinner?”

“We really do have reservations?”

“Of course. I wouldn’t kid about something like that.”

“How did you get a table on a holiday week? With such short notice.”

“Got lucky, I guess.”

“That’s some luck.”

We strolled down the brick sidewalk past sunburned couples dressed in shorts, T-shirts, and ball caps. I caught a few admiring glances directed at us. I smiled and slipped my arm into the crook of his.

“What’s so amusing?” he asked.

“The difference a year makes. I never could’ve pictured myself here last summer.”

“It’s been a long road.”

In the July-evening heat, the light cotton sweater felt heavy on my skin. I was already counting on the restaurant’s air-conditioning.

“It’s all in the past,” he said.

“That’s the hope.”

He frowned. “It’s more than hope. It’s science. Eric told me your last scans were clean.”

Hope and science were so tantalizing. I wanted to believe it was over, but I’d met several people on the ward who’d been, as they joked, “repeat offenders.” They’d all had at least one relapse and had rearmed to fight their newest brand of cancer.

One gal I’d met, Brenda, was twenty. She had leukemia, and she’d been fighting it since she was fourteen. She’d been cleared and declared healthy right up until six months before she reentered the hospital. We became friends as two young hairless women fighting cancer. Brenda beat the disease a second time, weeks before I received my all clear. We’d been out of the hospital for seven months by now, and as close as we’d been, we hadn’t talked since she’d left the hospital. I needed to call Brenda. She was turning twenty-one in a few days. How could I be such a bad friend?

“Where did you go?” Jeff asked.

I grinned. He’d caught me overthinking. “My mind has always drifted. It’s worse these days.”

Jeff opened the restaurant door for me. We walked up to the ma?tre d’, a tall man with jet-black hair brushed off an angled face. He greeted us with a wry smile as if braced to tell us there were no tables.

“Good evening,” he said.

“Good evening,” Jeff said. “Reservations for two, under the name Gordon.”

The man dropped his gaze to his computer screen. “Yes, it’s right here.”

The ma?tre d’ collected two menus and beckoned us to follow. I glanced at Jeff, shaking my head and mouthing, “Oh my God!”

He winked.

The restaurant was full of people, the din of their conversations, and the clink of glasses. A circular chandelier dangled from the center of the room and cast a warm glow over white tablecloths, sparkling glasses, and shiny silverware. We were escorted to a corner table covered with a crisp white cloth.

The ma?tre d’ pulled out the table so I could slide onto the cushioned seat backing up to a mirrored wall.

Jeff sat across from me and smiled. He had pulled off a miracle and was proud of himself. He accepted the wine menu and ordered red for me and a bourbon for himself.

After the ma?tre d’ left us, I leaned forward, feeling like a kid who’d sneaked into a room reserved for adults only. “Well done, Mr. Gordon.”

“Luck has always been on my side.” He looked a few years older with his short haircut, and his new tie added a flattering pop of color.

“We need to find you a woman. You’re quite the catch. Though I miss the Star Wars T-shirt.”

He chuckled. “I’ll never get rid of that shirt. It’s damn near sacred.”

“Like my soccer camp T-shirt.”

“You still have that?”

“It’s holding on by a few threads.”

The waiter brought us our drinks. In the French tradition, the waiter allowed us time to enjoy our drinks for at least fifteen minutes before the menus arrived. The French took their time with meals.

I sipped the burgundy and paused as the rich flavors rolled over my tongue. “Amazing.”

“Good?”

“Yes.”

He sipped his bourbon and set the glass down. “How goes the research?”

“This has turned out to be very fascinating.” I recapped my visit with Madame Bernard, the clothes, and what I’d read in the source material.

“Sounds like you’ve hit a gold mine.”

“There’s so much to dig through, but I’m getting an idea of what Cécile was about. I suspect she was complicated.”

“Well, she was French.”

I chuckled. “True.”

“Let me offer my data mining skills. I can dig through many historical statistics and digital records if you need me to.”

“That’s very kind.”

“Distilling information is my superpower.”

“Is that why you’re in DC on a holiday weekend?”

“Top secret business. Need to know, Nevins,” he joked.

I winked. “Ah, I got ya.”

The waiter arrived and gave us our menus. We chatted over the food selections, and I translated a few for him. He selected salads and the beef entrée. I chose the salmon. Once we were alone again, we chatted about Eric and his wine date with Susan. When he asked me about my parents, I shook my head.

“The purpose of this meeting, Mr. Gordon, is to find you a lady friend. Do you have a dating profile?”

He rolled his eyes. “I do.”

“But?”

“As a computer programmer, I understand the connections apps create. But I’ve always felt a little funny putting my data online.”

“It’s a few pictures and a bio,” I said.

“Understood. But discussing me feels awkward.”

“Can I see your profile?”

He removed his phone from his coat pocket, unlocked it, and handed it to me. I opened his profile. The picture of him looked like it had been taken in college, and his bio was nonexistent.

Shaking my head, I opened the bio and began to type: Owner of a software systems company, MIT graduate, triathlete, sucker for the original Star Trek. When I read it out to him, he laughed.

“Okay. That’s factually correct.”

I scrolled through the pictures he’d selected. Nothing was acceptable. “Hold up your drink.”

He did, and I snapped a picture of him. The result was a super-hot blend of Data and James Bond. I swapped my image for the existing photo.

I swiped through his pictures. I selected images of him at a 5K charity race and riding on his mountain bike, and a PR photo of him working at his desk. “Too bad you don’t have a picture with a puppy.”

“I’m allergic.”

“I know. And cats give you hives. That’s okay.” I kept swiping until I came across a picture of the two of us. An Hermès scarf covered my bald head. I’d been in the throes of chemo treatment. He was wearing a red band leader’s hat and grinning like a fool.

I laughed. Tears welled in my eyes.

“What?” He took the phone. “Ah, I remember that day.”

“I’d been so sick to my stomach, and I’d been angry at the world. Not one of my finer moments.”

“I thought you were the bravest person I knew.”

“I didn’t feel brave.”

His gaze lingered on the photo. “You didn’t let it show.”

Even now, my stomach soured as I remembered the day. “I was trying so hard not to throw up on you.”

“You managed to keep it together really well.”

“You’re welcome.”

We both lost interest in his profile, and we spent the next twenty minutes discussing his hunt for new office space. I learned he now employed twenty people. The appetizers arrived. He had a pissaladière, a puffed pastry with cheese and olives, and I ordered the snails. We both marveled at the plating and presentation. When I was in Paris, food had been an obsession, and I was glad my appetite had returned.

Whenever I had an American tour group in hand, I had to remind them to slow down and enjoy the process. I fished out a snail, dipped it in garlic butter, and placed it on a small piece of bread. It melted in my mouth.

Jeff chatted about work, and his plan to buy houses in the Washington and Norfolk areas. The entire time, all I could think was that he would be a great catch.

Before I got sick, he’d told me a few times that he wanted several children. He’d worked hard to get through college and build his business, and he’d had no time for anything beyond work for so long. That obsession with work, he conceded, had been the cause of last year’s breakup.

Now, he was ready for it all.

If it were a different time, I might have made a move on Jeff. He was the real deal. But I likely couldn’t give him children, or even guarantee I’d be alive in a decade. He needed someone who was healthy and could give him what he wanted. I couldn’t be that person, but I could find a woman who could.

After what had turned into a three-hour meal, Jeff walked me back to my hotel room. The night air was exhilarating and the sky clear. Stars winked by a half moon. It had been a lovely evening.

“I feel normal,” I said.

Jeff’s brow rose. “You are normal.”

Memories pulled me back to the lost days. “I haven’t felt that way for a long time.”

There had been nights when my only companions were beeping machines and IVs. I’d been hairless, my blue-lined skin thin as tissue, and I’d felt closer to ninety than thirty. But tonight, a night I hadn’t dared dream was possible again, I was my old self.

Jeff tapped his finger against the side of his glasses, a nervous habit he’d always had. “It’s been a long road, but you’ve reached the end.”

“You’ve been talking to Eric too much.”

“What does that mean?”

“My parents and brother want to believe I’m perfect and all better. But there’s no guarantee.”

“No one is looking for assurances, Ruby. No one has one.”

“We all want them. We all want to believe in the proverbial happily ever after.” The best I expected was “happy for now.”

Jeff frowned. “No operating system is perfect, Ruby.” He tended to use my name when he had a point to make.

“But some systems are so flawed we must return them to the factory. They’re held together with duct tape and gum.”

The tension edging his smile carried hints of determination. “You had a close call. It’s normal to be apprehensive.”

Some fears couldn’t be discarded. “I’ll worry about every ache and pain for the rest of my life. My muscles were sore from a yoga class last week, and I freaked out and wanted to call my doctor.”

“Did you?”

“No, but I was close. I hate worrying because I never worried in the Before Times.”

“‘Before Times’? Sounds mystical.”

“The years on the other side of the Great Divide, before the Scorched Earth days, were magical and innocent.”

“You read those fantasy novels I sent you, didn’t you?” he asked.

He’d sent me twenty audiobooks. They all featured heroines who’d slain an actual or metaphorical dragon. Because the earbuds hurt my ears, I’d just let the books play on my phone. Often, a nurse or doctor would linger until the narrator had reached the end of a chapter. When I eventually checked out, the nurses had wished me, the Dragon Slayer, bon voyage.

“If a dragon showed up now, I could ride it,” I joked. “I know the moves.”

He laughed. “That, I would pay to see.”

A smile teased my lips. “Stop making me happy. I’m trying to wallow in self-pity and fear.”

His brow furrowed as he studied me. “You’re not doing an excellent job of it.”

I drew in a breath. “Give me a minute or two. I’ll get the self-pity back.”

A breeze caught the scent of his aftershave. Maybe it was the wine or my very long sexual dry spell, but he struck me as so sexy. When I first met Jeff, I was thirteen, and he was eighteen. He’d treated me like a kid sister and teased me like Eric had.

When I was eighteen and he was twenty-three, we were going our separate ways. I went to college, and he set off to create his company. And then Paris. And then The Cancer.

For a long time, I’d listed him in the brother-ish column. But now, fraternal love was the last feeling that came to mind. And now here we were. I was twenty-five and he was thirty. And we were both dressed and ready to impress the opposite sex.

“Did I tell you how nice you look?” I asked.

“You did.”

“It’s worth noting twice.” I leaned closer. Suddenly, kissing him made total sense. The combo of alcohol and a desire to feel alive had created a potent mixture. I would analyze it later during one of my many sleepless nights.

But for right now, I wanted to know what he tasted like. When we reached the entrance to my hotel, I asked, “Can I kiss you?”

He stood very still, barely breathing. He didn’t say yes, didn’t say no, but he wasn’t backing away.

I stepped toward him and, rising on my toes, pressed my lips to his. I savored hints of bourbon and traces of chocolate cake.

His hand came to the small of my back as he stared at me. Was he steadying me or himself?

“You can kiss me back,” I said, my lips close to his.

He tilted his head and kissed me. It was slow and steady, executed with the technical precision of a computer expert, and it felt good.

“Is this part of helping me find a date on the app?” he asked.

“A girl likes a guy who can kiss.” I pressed my body against his and wrapped my arms around his neck. I’d missed intimate human contact.

“Practice makes perfect?” His voice was rough.

“Exactly,” I murmured as I kissed him harder.

“Get a room!” a guy shouted from across the street.

I didn’t immediately break contact before whispering, “Kids today.”

“Can’t do anything with them.” His hand remained on my back, his nose inches from mine.

“I had a perfect time,” I said.

“You said that.”

Had I? “Want to come upstairs?”

His gaze sharpened, and I’d never seen him look so sexy. “You’ve had three glasses of wine tonight.”

“It was so delicious. And what’s wrong with me being a little tipsy?”

“Nothing. You’re very charming. But I’m going to table your request. I want to revisit this proposal when you’re sober.”

Only he could make a rejection sound okay. “Why?”

“We both have early-morning meetings, and you’ll have a better time in bed if you’re sober.”

“Not my first rodeo.”

He traced his finger along my jawline. “I want it to be special and unforgettable.”

I found his confidence hot. “You’re that sure of yourself?”

“I am.”

“Now I really want you to come upstairs.”

“Anticipation is half the fun.” He kissed me again on the lips. “Call me after your meeting tomorrow. I’m fascinated about this history mystery you’re chasing.”

“It’s odd how people who lived so long ago can now feel so real and suddenly mean so much to me. I’m not sure Cécile was the heroine I first thought she was.”

“No one is perfect.”

“There’s not so perfect, and then there’s ties running deep with the Nazis.”

His head cocked. “Do you think Cécile collaborated?”

Cécile suspected Emile’s meetings wouldn’t have met with German approval. She’d already noted that Sylvia wasn’t born in France and carried a dangerous secret. All this pointed to a softness toward the Resistance. Yet she worked for Continental Films, a German-owned and -controlled company designed to spread propaganda. “Like I said, complicated.”

“Complicated sells tickets, right?”

“Very true, though it could destroy the whole ‘Cécile the headliner of the festival’ narrative.”

“Story’s not over yet.”

“How long are you in town?” I asked.

“A few days. The big presentation is on Monday.”

“Got time for another date? Doesn’t have to be as fancy as this one.”

His gaze grew questioning. “You didn’t like it?”

“I loved it. But you don’t have to go all out like that all the time.”

“Why not?”

“Dating lesson number one. A date doesn’t always have to be a huge extravaganza—although extravagant can be amazing. A date can be quiet and simple.” I glanced toward the hotel.

He chuckled. “That falls under the ‘extravagant’ category.”

I laughed, but suddenly I was unsure. Had I overplayed my hand? Perhaps Jeff felt weird about the kiss and was trying to be nice. “Simple can also mean a walk in the park. Pizza. A drink.”

“Ah. Understood.”

I’d agreed to find Jeff a girlfriend, not make a run at him myself. He was letting me down easy. Swallowing some disappointment, I smiled. “Jeff Gordon, any woman who doesn’t swipe right is a fool.”

His laugh was full and deep. “I’ll call you tomorrow after your meeting.”

“Sounds like a plan.” I kissed him on the cheek and moved through the hotel’s revolving doors.

I was halfway across the lobby, but despite my best efforts to play it cool à la Cécile, I stopped and glanced back. Jeff smiled, waved, and turned and walked into the shadows.

I immediately stepped out of my heels and rubbed my toes when I walked into my room. I hung up my dress before stripping off my shapewear and bra. I then slipped on my oversize soccer camp T-shirt. After I washed my face, I brushed my teeth and took my nightly meds.

I clicked on the TV in bed, muted it, and opened my phone. I’d missed three calls. They were all from Jason. We’d been chemo buddies last year. For hours, we’d sit side by side, our arms hooked up to IVs, chewing on ice chips or ginger chews and trying not to be ill.

“You’re such a vixen,” Jason said. Before cancer, he’d been a muscular six-foot-two man with a washboard stomach. (He had the pictures to prove it.) He and his boyfriend had broken up the previous year. And our relationship miseries had bonded us in a way the cancer could not.

A red, white, and brown Hermès scarf covered my bald head. Gold hoop earrings dangled from my ears. I’d always insisted on dressing for events and had determined that chemo treatments would be no different. “Thank you. That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me today.”

“You have standards, kiddo.” He, too, was bald, and though some men could pull off a bald dome, it made him look sicker.

“ You can rock a suit. I’ve seen the pictures. ”

“ Hard to get motivated when I feel like a truck hit me, backed up, and ran over me again. ”

He was right. The endless cycle of sickness, semi-wellness, and more illness was exhausting. “When’s your last treatment?”

“Two weeks,” he said with a smile.

“ And what’s the first thing you’re going to do? ”

“ Fly to the Caribbean, order a large mojito, and find a hot guy. ”

I barely had the energy to tie a scarf and put on earrings, let alone fly to an exotic beach. “What about Robert? He’s called you a few times.”

“ No. He doesn’t deserve this. ”

I didn’t know what to say. Scott couldn’t do this, and maybe Robert couldn’t either. “What movie are we going to watch today?”

He chuckled. “I’m into a classic phase. The Way We Were.”

Barbra Streisand and Robert Redford played the unfortunate lovers. “Ah, Babs. She’s always a classic. But the title is too obvious.”

“How so?” He almost sounded offended.

“ Who cares about who we were?” I asked. “It matters who we are now. ”

“ Speaking of now,” he said, “Robert texted me. ”

“ Robert, the ex? ”

“ He wants to see me. ”

“ You broke up with him. You just said— ”

“ I know. But I want to see him. But God, I look like a horror show. ”

“ You look fine. ”

Jason laughed.

“ Hey, if he dares enter the inner sanctum of the cancer ward, let him see you. Not everyone is so brave. ”

“ I don’t know. ”

“ Introduce him to me. I can spot when a couple belongs together. I’m a bit of a matchmaker in my circles. ”

He laughed. “It would be nice to have backup.”

“ I got you. Now find a new movie. One that’s a love story with a happy ending. ”

“ Why are you so convinced we’ll have a happily ever after? ”

Negativity and nausea went hand in hand. I got it. I’d had my share of my own fears, but I’d refused to acknowledge them out loud. “At the end of every day, we will feel something, Jason. We can choose to feel bad or good and optimistic.”

He was silent for a moment.

“ Get a spray tan, a mani-pedi, and drink sparkling water with a slice of lime. Then tell Robert you want to see him. ”

He cleared his throat. “And the movie selection?”

“ About Time, with Rachel McAdams and Domhnall Gleeson. The men in the hero’s family are time travelers. But there’s a hitch.”

A wry smile tugged his lips, adding a slight spark to his pale-blue eyes. “There’s always a catch.”

“ It’s what makes life interesting. ”

“ If you say so. ”

I hadn’t seen Jason in over a year. That was our last shared treatment together. Before Robert could visit, he’d been released. And though we’d promised to write and keep up, we hadn’t. Everyone on the ward desperately wanted to get well, and when health was finally before us, it was hard to look back to those who were still so ill.

And now he’d called but hadn’t left a voicemail. I could almost imagine Jason and Robert sitting on a Caribbean beach, sipping umbrella drinks. I could also picture him lying in another hospital bed, drained of color and dying. The second image terrified me. It brought home the fear I doubted I’d ever shake.

Right now, with my world feeling so normal, I couldn’t bring myself to call him yet.