P.S. from Paris(4)

“You know, if the guy behind me flashes me one more time, I’m pumping the brakes! I’ve got to stop talking to myself. Then again, who else am I supposed to talk to? The characters from my novels? God—I sound like an old man. At least they can talk to their kids or grandkids. I’d better get around to that, having kids. Before I get old and senile.”

He looked at himself in the rearview mirror again.

The Saab pulled up at an automatic tollbooth, and Paul grabbed the ticket from the machine. “Thank you,” he said out of habit, closing the window.



According to the arrivals board, flight AF83 was on time. Paul fidgeted and paced back and forth impatiently.

The first passengers began to enter the baggage-claim area, but only a few. Those in first class, probably.



Following the publication of his first novel, Paul had decided to put his career in architecture on hold. He had discovered an unimaginable freedom in writing. It was completely unpremeditated; he simply enjoyed the process of filling page after page—nearly three hundred of them by the time he typed THE END. Every evening, he found himself in the grip of his story. He stopped going out almost entirely and took to eating dinner in front of his computer.

At night, Paul became part of an imaginary world where he felt happy, in the company of characters who had become his friends. When he was writing, anything was possible.

It had all begun when that first novel was merely a finished stack of papers left on his desk.

Paul’s life then changed dramatically a few weeks later, when Arthur and Lauren had invited themselves over to his house for dinner. As the evening stretched on, Lauren received a call from one of the hospital administrators. She asked Paul if she could take it in his office so he and Arthur could continue their conversation in the living room.

While taking the call, Lauren spotted the manuscript and began reading it. She was so captivated that she lost track of her conversation.

After the call with Professor Kraus ended, Lauren went on reading. A good hour went by before Paul poked his head inside the office to check that everything was all right and found her there, smiling to herself.

“Oh, sorry, am I disturbing you?” he called out, making her jump.

“You do know this is brilliant, right?”

“It didn’t cross your mind to ask permission before you started reading?”

“Can I take it home to finish it?”

“Don’t answer my question with another question.”

“You started it! So can I take it home?”

“Do you really like it?” Paul asked, the doubt leaking through in his voice.

“Yes, I really do!” Lauren replied, gathering up the pages.

Then she took the manuscript and went back into the living room, passing straight by Paul without another word.

“I don’t recall actually saying yes!” he protested as he caught up with her.

And then, under his breath, he told her not to mention it to Arthur.

“Yes? Yes to what?” Arthur cut in, getting up from his seat.

“I can’t even remember,” Lauren told him. “Let’s go. Are you ready?”

And before Paul had time to react, Arthur and Lauren, already standing outside on the porch, thanked him for a lovely evening and were gone.



Other passengers appeared, in greater numbers this time. At least thirty, but still not the ones he had come to meet.

“What are they doing, vacuuming the plane? God, just thinking about these two brings back so many memories. Makes me think of what I really miss from back home. The house in Carmel . . . I used to love going there for the weekend, hanging out with them, watching the sunset on the beach. It’s been almost seven years since I moved to Paris . . . Skype is better than nothing, but it’s not the same as in-person visits. Actually, I should really talk to Lauren about my recurring migraines—that’s her field. No, she’ll want me to get them checked out. They’re just migraines. It’s ridiculous—not every headache means a brain tumor. And if it was a tumor, I guess I’d find out anyway, sooner or later. Are they ever going to get off that plane?”



That fateful night, Green Street had been deserted. After parking the Ford Focus in the lot, Arthur had opened the door for Lauren and together they had climbed the stairs to the top floor of the small Victorian house where they lived. It was unusual for a couple to have shared the same apartment before ever having met each other, but that was a whole other story.

Arthur had to finish some sketches for a major client. He apologized to Lauren and kissed her before sitting down at his architect’s table. Lauren wasted no time getting into bed and picking up where she had left off in Paul’s novel.

Several times, Arthur thought he heard laughter coming from the other side of the wall. Each time, he glanced at his watch, then picked up his pencil again. Later that night, hearing sobs this time, he stood up, quietly opened the bedroom door, and found his wife lying in bed reading something.

“What is that?” he asked, concerned.

“Nothing,” she replied, closing the manuscript.

She grabbed a tissue from the bedside table and sat up straight.

“Aren’t you going to tell me why you’re so sad?”

“I’m not sad.”

“Did you get some bad news about a patient?”