It Started in Paris

Chapter Six: Meeting Jean

I  peeked  at  the  digital  clock  on  my  bedside.  The  clock  read  11:04.  I  slowly  got  up  and  studied  the  slight  mess  around  us.  The  white  sheet  was  covered  with  old,  decaying  letters  and  an  empty  pizza  box  from  last  night.  Then,  I  realized  that  I  wasn't  able  to  send  a  report  to  Margaret  last  night.

"Leila!  We  forgot  to  send  a  report  last  night!"

"Oh  my  God!"  Leila  sat  up  without  delay.  "We  should  send  in  a  report  now."

"What?"  I  said  ludicrously.  "What  are  we  going  to  report?  That  we  found  old  love  letters  from  an  old  French  grandpa?"

Her  expression  snapped  into  realization.  "You're  right."

"What  are  we  going  to  do  now?"  I  said,  uneasily.

"What  we  can  do  right  now  is  take  a  shower  and  clean  this  mess  up,"  Leila  stated  calmly  as  though  everything  was  under  control.

I  took  a  shower  and  changed  into  skinny  jeans  and  white  tank  top.  I  blow-dried  my  hair  with  Leila's  blow-drier  and  wore  my  wavy  dark  blond  hair  down. I  hung  a  black  scarf  at  the  back  of  my  neck  and  slipped  into  my  Ivory  Gucci  Logo  Thong  flat  sandals,  wore  a  couple  of  bangles  on  my  right  arm  and  started  cleaning  a  part  of  the  mess  I've  made  while  Leila  had  her  turn  in  the  shower.If Leila is going to take pictures of me for a portfolio, I better look my best.

While  putting  the  letters  back  to  their  appropriate  decomposing  envelopes,  the  white,  new letter  that  arrived  yesterday  was  completely  out  of  place. I  removed  its  seal  and  pulled  out the fresh sheet.

Dear  Helen,

Remember  the  bench  where  I  first  met  you?  It  was  gone.  The  park  has  been  under  renovation  for  the  past  eight  months  and  everything  has  changed.  The  only  thing  that  hasn't  changed  is  my  love  for  you.  I  want  us  to  meet  under  the  Eiffel  Tower  this Saturday.  I'll  be  the  man  in  white  suit.

Love,

Jean

I checked the date on the letter and the date today. I grabbed  my  Chanel  bag  strewn  across  the  bed  and  put  on  my  shades  that  was  lying  on  top  of  the  nightstand.

"Leila?"  I  called  out.

"Yes?"  she  said,  popping  out  of  the  bathroom  in  a  white  towel  with  a  pink  one  wrapped  around  her  hair.

I  looked  at  her.  "I  think  I  know  what  we're  gonna  do  today."

 Leila  flaunted  her  long  brunette  curls  with  a  gray  shirt  and  baby  blue  denim  shorts  matched  with  a  pair  of  blue  closed-toe  wedges  teamed  up  with  her  SLR  camera  hung  around  her  neck.  We  rode  the  bus  to  the  famous  tower.

We  walked  along  the  grounds  of  the  high  tower,  keeping  an  eye  out  for  a  man  in  white  suit.

"Do  you  see  any  old  man  in  white  suit?"  I  asked  Leila.

"Nope,  you?"  she  said.

"Neither."

A  moment  later,  she  tugged  at  my  elbow  as  she  stared  at  a  distance.  "I  see  him."

I  followed  her  gaze  and  there,  sitting  on  a  bench  by  the  side  of  the  Eiffel  Tower,  was  a  man  in  white  suite  that  matched  his  white  hair.  The  character  lines  on  his  face  weren't  just  simply  signs  of  his  age  but  he  looked  like  a  man  who  used  to  smile  a  lot.  He  must've  been  a  good-looking  man  back  then.

"Are  you  ready?"  I  asked  Leila.

"Why  are  you  asking  me?  You're  the  one  who  dragged  me  into  this."

"Right."  I  breathed.

I  started  my  way  towards  the  old  man.  I  think  I  have  caught  his  attention  as  I  was  on  my  way.

"Excuse  me?"  I  said  anxiously.

He  looked  up.  "Yes?"

"Are  you  Jean?"

He  stood  up  with a mixture of astonishment and hope on  his  face.  "Do  I  know  you?"

"I'm  here  for  Helen."

"Helen?"  he  expressed  his  recognition  by  the  sound  of  her  name.  "How  is  she?  Where  is  she?  Are  you  his  granddaughter?  You  look  beautiful  just  like  her."

"Thank  you  but,"  I  hesitated.  I  didn't  know  how  to  break  it  to  him  gently.  "Helen..."

There  was  a  long  pause.

"What  is  it?"  he  urged.

"Helen  is...she's  not...she  doesn't  reside  in  that  apartment,"  I  finally  said.  "We  don't  know  who  she  is  or--or  who  you  are.  We  just  saw  the  pile  of  letters  outside  our  door  and  we  got  curious  so...so,  we  read  the  letters."

He  looked  crestfallen.  "Oh."

Oh  God.

I  think  I  broke  the  old  man's  heart.

What  am  I  going  to  do  if  his  heart  suddenly  fails  and--and--and--

We  better  make  a  run  for  it  while  we  can.

Despite  the  anxiety  I  was  feeling  that  he  might  collapse  because  of  a  heart  failure,  he  chuckled  and  said,  "Well,  at  least  I  know  now  that  she  doesn't  live  there anymore."

"We're  terribly  sorry,  sir,"  I  said.

I  turned  and  as  we  were  about  to  leave,  he  called,  "Hey."

We  looked  back.

"Maybe  I  can  invite you  for  lunch?  It's  been  a  long  time  since  I've  made  new  friends."