Romancing the Dark in the City of Light

Romancing the Dark in the City of Light

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS.

An imprint of St. Martin’s Press.

ROMANCING THE DARK IN THE CITY OF LIGHT.
Copyright © 2015 by Ann Jacobus. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www.thomasdunnebooks.com

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The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

ISBN 978-1-250-06443-1 (hardcover)

ISBN 978-1-4668-7050-5 (e-book)

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First Edition: October 2015

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

To Jake, John, Caroline, and George

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This novel was started in 2006, but some elements and characters are recycled from a shelved manuscript that dates back to the late 90’s. So many people helped bring this story to life, and others helped resuscitate it when there was no discernable pulse. Each deserves not only acknowledgement but all-you-can-eat Nutella cr
ê
pes.

On the journey with it longest and closest is Erzsi De
à
k, who was my Paris BFF and critique group partner long before she was my agent. And she doesn’t even like dark stories.

Gros bisous
and a lifetime supply of assorted French pastries to Kat Brzozowski, my editor, for falling in love.

Champagne for everyone at Thomas Dunne Books/Griffin St. Martins! Special thanks to Mitali Dave, Stephanie Davis, Eva Diaz, Justine Gardner, Stephanie Howard, and Jessica Katz.

Tim Wynne-Jones read a nascent draft while he was my advisor at Vermont College of Fine Arts and encouraged me publicly. Paris writing group members Claudia Classon, Sandra Guy, Pedro de Alcantara and Melissa Buron gave me excellent input on early drafts, as did Tracey Adams and Emma Dryden, Psychologist Dr. Alex Cook, and Lacy Jacobus.

VCFA readers Stephanie Greene, Miriam Glassman, Nancy Bo Flood, Stephanie Parsley Ledyard, Dianne White, Candy Dahl, Jen White, Caitlin Berry Baer, Angela Morrison, Jonathan Rich, and Kelly Barson all provided invaluable direction and encouragement.

I’m especially grateful to Jane Resh Thomas who gently counseled me on delving into the dark heart of my protagonist, and to Richard Peck who shared his story-telling genius repeatedly.

My San Francisco writing group, Beyond the Margins, lavished me with guidance and support. Cases of Bordeaux and
mercis
to Annemarie O’Brien, Christine Dowd, Frances Lee Hall, Linden McNeilly, Helen Pyne, and Sharry Wright.

Joy Neaves of namelos helped deepen this story significantly, and Deborah Halverson’s expertise polished the manuscript to a shine.

I had astute young adult readers along the way including Caroline Kordahl and Jessie Papaglia for early drafts, and later, Nell Dayton-Johnson and Jacqueline Wibowo—thanks to Nancy Sondel’s PCCWW.

Un grand merci
to Chef de Service of the Police Municipale de France, Jean-Louis Le Touze who advised me on all things criminal in Paris, and Dr. Christian Jacobus, MD, who was cheerfully on call 24/7 for his expertise in medicine and emergencies.
Shukran
to Zayna Hindi and Shoka Marefat who assured me that Moony was all I believed him to be.

In memory of Mom and Dad, and their unending faith in me; and with devoted love to Catherine, the Kordahls, my wild and crazy sibs, my dear kids; and of course, to Jim, who has been stalwart, patient and beside me every step, in this as in all things. Chihuahua Louis XIV kept me company (slept) through countless hours at my desk.

And finally, to the grand, eternal and dazzling City of Paris, with undying admiration and respect—I trust it can handle the optic of a depressed adolescent that results in something a little less flattering and laudatory than usual. Summer’s views are not mine.

Romancing the Dark in the City of Light

ONE

Paris M
é
tro Charles de Gaulle-
É
toile

The train rounds the turn in the tunnel and the interior lights flicker off. Summer Barnes, pressed by the crowd against the doors in the second car, regards the brightness of the station ahead. This must be how it looks when you have an NDE, she thinks. A near-death experience. You’re rushing through a dark tunnel toward
The Light
ahead. Where Dad and Grandma wait with smiles and open arms.

A whiff of the garlicky breath of the old lady leaning into her brings Summer back to the moment.

Nearby, a young Goth girl lays her head against her boyfriend, closing her kohl-rimmed eyes. His pierced and studded face softens as they entwine like tangled wire.

That’s the answer, Summer thinks. Three feet away.

Love.

If you’re passionate about someone, and they feel the same, everything else must fall into place.

And have purpose.

She’s in the most beautiful city in the world and all she can think about is finding a pair of ruby slippers and tapping her heels. Or getting on the next flight out. It’s not that she doesn’t appreciate it. Paris!
La Ville Lumi
è
re
. City of Light, endlessly cool. Where Mom lives, although seems to spend very little time.

Maybe being
stuck in the tunnel
has to do with coming to Paris unexpectedly. One minute she was sprawled on her dorm room bed, the next she was staring out an airplane window at the icy black north Atlantic far below.

Or maybe it has to do with the fact that lately, she’s always solo. Whatever, the November cold and the short, sunless days weigh her down like a ton of snow.

She just needs to find someone in Paris to hold hands with.

A train thunders by in the opposite direction. Her ears pop.

Brakes screech. Her train jerks to a halt and Summer slams into the garlic lady. They’ve stopped before reaching the end of the crowded platform.

A woman screams. The rawness vibrates through the station and tunnels.

A trill of panic zaps her. The train doors open and no one moves for two beats. Then she and the others rush out. What if it’s a bomb?

No, there’s been some accident. Two M
é
tro employees jog down the stairs and force their way through the jittery crowd. One opens the white electrical closet against the wall and the other scurries down the stairs at the end of the platform to the tracks.

Everyone waits. No one leaves. Nearby, a little saucer-eyed girl grips a man’s hand. Summer smiles reassuringly at her. That stupid dad needs to get his kid out of here instead of gawking at the show like a big-mouthed bass.

The Goth girl points at the tracks, her face frozen with shock.

The edgy mob surges forward and people crouch to peer between the cars at something under the train.

Probably a person. Summer struggles to think of … Little Red Riding Hood, equilateral triangles, unfurled lilies.

It doesn’t work. The tracks are practically yelling,
Look over here!
Plus people are hyperventilating up all the oxygen. She gropes for the silver flask of mandarin orange vodka in her pocket, unscrews it, and takes a deep swig.

Time to
partir
. She turns and collides with a tall guy in a dark wool coat and hat. “
Pardon,
” she mutters, looking up at him.

He’s her age and breathtakingly gorgeous. The kind of guy who would normally look right through her.

“Do you speak English?” she blurts out.

“I do.” His dark, sympathetic eyes seem to say,
Isn’t this strange, isn’t life awful?

“What happened?”

“That’s a woman on the tracks,” he says somberly. “Were you on the train?”

“Yeah.” Summer rubs her eyes with her gloved hand. It’s weird, but she’s close to tears. “Did she … fall? God, I hope she wasn’t pushed.”

“Here,” he says. He nudges people out of the way by the edge of the platform between two cars. She leans in to look. Two M
é
tro guys are straightening the cloth that is already covering the body.

A black, patent-leather, low-heeled pump lies on its side in the gravel between the rails. “Oh,” she breathes. That solitary shoe makes her knees go rubbery. “How awful.”

The guy tilts his head. “Not necessarily. If she jumped, it may have been a release.” He pauses. “A deliverance.”

Summer blinks at him, then pivots and pushes her way to the exit stairs, heat creeping up her neck. That’s exactly what she was thinking—that the lady is so lucky to be out of here. She knows the guy can’t read her mind and doesn’t mean anything by those words, but there it is: the real, and growing reason why she’s got to find someone to love.

TWO

The next day at lunchtime, Summer stands in the skylight-lit atrium of the Paris American International High School (aka PAIS). She’s pretending to study a large bulletin board. Her search for someone to be with ought to start here even though she’s likely the oldest student in the building. She’s scoped out the guys in her classes, but needs to look again.

She puts in her earbuds. Her favorite urban blues singer-songwriter, Kentucky Morris, croons to the cello riffs and gospel back up on “Love Me Back 2 Life.” She hums under her breath.

Her thoughts drag to the incident in the M
é
tro the evening before. It’s like a piece of chewing gum stuck to her shoe.

That round-eyed little girl couldn’t see the body, she’s sure. Still—people shouldn’t off themselves where little kids are, for chrissakes. But what’s the best, surest way to do it?

“Ever been in a musical?” says a deep American voice over her shoulder.

She spins around with a frown and steps back. “No.” She pulls her earbuds out. “Are you joking?”

“Nope. You were reading the announcement.” A guy with a big smile, olive skin, and dark hair that covers his ears stands a little too close. One brown eye looks off about ten degrees in another direction.

“Actually, I wasn’t.” She had noticed it though:
The Unsinkable Molly Brown.

“Going to be a great show. Tryouts Tuesday.” He lists slightly to one side. His right arm hangs limp, the fist curled in a tight knot. And his words have the faint imprint of an old speech impediment.

“I’ll, uh, make a note of that.” She touches her nose ring. He’s the guy who limps in the halls. He’s in one of her big classes, too.

He grins good-naturedly, warm and real. “You’re Summer, right? Got Concert Choir with you.” A fern behind his head gives him a bright green aura. “Just arrived?”

She can’t help but smile back. “Day eleven, but who’s counting?” He’s a nice guy for a drama geek, and is obviously making an effort.

“From where?”

“Boarding school.” She wants to bolt, the better to avoid any questions about flaming out of St. Jude’s School for the Hopelessly Messed Up. But a pack of guys leaving the gym look toward them and one yells, “Yo, Moony!”

“Moony?” she asks. Must be a drama nickname.

The guy jogs over. Three more follow, but hang back. The jock—blond, meaty, and undoubtedly A-list—leers at Summer. Her whole body tenses. She knows what comes next.

“Aren’t you going to introduce us?” he asks Moony.

With reluctance in his voice, Moony says, “Uh, Summer Barnes, meet Josh MacDougall.”

Josh says, “Hey, hey, hey, Summer breeze, where have you been all my life?”

Heat floods her face. “Seriously?” That’s his setup for the punch line?

He blinks. Leans back. “Wait,” he says, frowning. He puts his finger to his chin. “Aren’t you related to the chicken Barnes? Weren’t they, like, giving the birds bad drugs, and exploiting illegal aliens?”

Somebody must have googled her. Few people have the nerve to bring up the family chicken business notoriety to her face—poultry mistreatment and undocumented worker scandals from long ago. It was her grandfather’s business.

“Josh?” she says, through gritted teeth.

“That’s me.” His lips stretch back from his teeth and, unbelievably, he makes a soft hen-clucking noise. “Bawk bawk.”

“Clearly, your
mother
was given bad drugs. Or you’d know not to freaking accost someone you just met with such rude questions. Oh, and dumbass sound effects.”

The other guys laugh. So does Moony. “Burned you, Josh,” he says.

“Wha?—I—no.”

“My god. Look at that top hat,” Summer exclaims, pointing. When they all turn, she disappears.

So much for holding hands with any high school boys.

THREE

Summer’s phone dings in the rest room where she’s hiding. A text from Missing Mom, who, as far as Summer knows, is on another continent. But on top of certain details as usual.