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I’LL NEVER FORGET THE moment my phone rang.
The house was finally quiet, in a good way.
Flying out of bed this morning to the smoke alarm was never a good way to wake up, but the scene in the kitchen had made it worth it. Michael, my adopted nephew who I had raised like a son, swirled my daughter around the kitchen. They smiled and laughed, their eyes bright and shining with love, while the bacon burned behind them. Smoke swirled around the kitchen, nearly hiding them in a haze.
I quieted the smoke detector, hiding my smile. It was hard to believe that this time last year I was missing her, my only daughter, wondering what kind of girl she would turn out to be. Now I knew. I had missed out on most of her life, but I had to admit that Rochelle had raised a beautiful woman. Over the last nine months, I had watched Elise blossom, fill with love, and stay strong in the face of tragedy. I didn’t want to lose her after such a short time, but we had got to know each other, and our bond was deep. Seeing her with Michael made me feel like I had succeeded as a father, though my experience was sparse. He was the best man for her, in the end.
Happiness had finally returned to our house.
At least for Elise.
I hadn’t heard from her mother in six months; after Jon’s funeral, she had returned to France with her husband, our final falling out cementing a loss that I never could cope with. I had buried myself in my books, writing to heal a broken heart that was twenty years in the making. I had checked my email obsessively, and run to my phone every time it rang, only to be greeted with disappointment.
Elise wasn’t the only one in the house nursing a love lost.
My phone clanged, interrupting my thoughts. I reached for it absently, wondering who would be calling so early. The clock hadn’t even ticked by five thirty, and the sun was still to make its appearance.
“Hello?” I mumbled at the early hour.
The most beautiful sound in the world greeted me, but it was broken, cracked. “Elijah?”
I sat up. “Rochelle?”
Her sobs greeted me on the other end of the phone. Twenty years of our friendship came flooding back all in one swoop. The first day I met her in college, the day she moved in with me, the tragedy that almost broke us on Christmas day. Her frantic calls from London when she didn’t know if she was strong enough to make it abroad. Working at the magazine, dancing in her office and sharing all my hopes and dreams wit her. Even the day I found out she left for Paris, and I knew I had lost her forever. Our first book signing where she told me she loved me all along.
I was on immediately alert. “What’s wrong, are you okay?”
“Oh, Elijah. I need to hear your voice right now.”
I was fully awake now. “What’s happened?” Had she been in an accident? Had one of the children? My son, Renee, was he okay?
“It’s Marceau,” she said, through a voice choked with tears.
I dropped the phone to the floor, and it crashed with deafening silence, the case splitting in two. I scrambled for it, abandoning the broken plastic on the carpet.
“What?”
“There was a fire,” she said, her voice brittle and sore, “At the restaurant. They got him out, but he went back in to save Renee....”
It took a minute to find the words. “My son, is he...”
“He’s fine, Elijah, but Marceau... he didn’t make it out.”
I knew her next words before she uttered them.
“He’d gone, Elijah, he’s gone!” Her sobs were loud and unrestrained.
I couldn’t answer. My breath caught in my throat. “Oh, God, Rochelle... I’m...I’m so sorry...”
“Will you come? I need you. Renee needs you. I don’t know how to tell Elise... I haven’t spoken to her since we returned to Paris.”
My heart hurt for her, my only love, but how long had I waited to hear those words?
“I’ll take care of it,” I soothed her, knowing it wouldn’t be enough until I could hold her in my arms. “I’ll come.”
“Thank you,” she said. There was a flurry of commotion on the other line, and the voices of many children. “I have to go. Text me your flight number, and I’ll send Sean to get you.”
“I will,” I said. “Be strong, buddy.”
“I always have been,” she said, and I knew then it was true. “I will see you soon.”
We bid our goodbyes, and the activity began. I packed a bag quickly, shoving clothes and toiletries into a suitcase that was too small to fit. The sun crept over the horizon now. I sat on my suitcase to zip it shut, and dialed my travel agent, Mercedes.
“When’s the next flight to Paris?” I asked her.
“For business or pleasure, sir?” She answered, too perky for this early in the the morning.
“Pleasure,” I said, but it was ironic there would be no pleasure in this trip, not this time.
“It looks like there’s one at seven thirty,” her voice was so cheery I nearly wanted to wring her neck. “Is that too early, sir?”
“No, book it,” I said, but then I remembered. “Book three seats.”
“Three?”
“You heard me.”
“Alright.” I could hear her typing away in the background. “Three tickets booked on the seven-thirty to Paris, France, Sir. They will be waiting for you at the gate.”
“Thank you.”
I rolled my heavy suitcase to the top of the stairs and leaned over the balcony. “Michael, get up. We have to go!” I yelled.
A groggy response. “What, uncle?”
“We have to go. To Paris.”