My Secret Guide to Paris, Page 2

  While Mom fiddled with the key and the lock on the front door, I wondered if she could hear my heart beating. I was so excited and nervous and scared and sad and just about every other emotion you can think of.

  I put my hand in the pocket of my sweater and felt the day’s button I’d put there after I had gotten dressed. It was one of my favorites: small and black with a decorative ridge and a tiny diamond-like jewel in the center. It was elegant, just like my grandma, with her pretty clothes and gorgeous apartment.

  She was only sixty-three years old when she died, which isn’t that old. She still loved to work. Loved to travel the world and meet people. It wasn’t fair, I thought for probably the hundredth time. None of it was fair.

  I followed my mother through the door. She stood there, taking it all in. I could still remember the first time I saw Grandma’s new place, after she’d moved out of Grandpa’s house. She’d told me she’d gone a little crazy with decorating, because it had felt so good not to have to answer to anyone.

  In the end, she’d created a home that looked like something out of a beautiful magazine. Everything was so modern and … white. White shelves filled the far wall of the living room, where vases and bowls sat on some of the shelves, and of course, some books, too. In the middle of the room was a white sofa and a square, glass coffee table with a variety of fashion magazines fanned across the top, next to a pretty set of bright red candles, the only bit of color in the room. A thick white rug lay on the polished wood floor, and sheer white curtains hung alongside the windows.

  I always felt so fancy staying here, but at the same time, very much at home, too. I could picture Grandma and me sitting on that sofa, looking at photos together or reading a book. I blinked back the tears.

  Mom didn’t seem to notice. She was still taking in the nice apartment. “Wow. It’s so … chic. Very pretty.”

  I wondered if she was having regrets about not coming here sooner to see her mom. I looked at her to see if she was starting to cry, but she seemed to be doing fine.

  “I think I’ll look around in the kitchen,” Mom said.

  “Okay.”

  Mom turned to our right while I went in the opposite direction, to the left, down the small hallway. Grandma’s bedroom was the first doorway on the right. I walked into her room, where the sweet, familiar smell of lilacs greeted me.

  I had always loved her bedroom, with the soft yellow walls and the pretty red-and-yellow quilt on her bed. Against one of the walls sat her dresser, the top of it covered with framed photos. They were pictures of my mom at different ages, and of Justin and me, as well. I picked up a small square frame that held a photo of Grandma Sylvia and me together. It was the day she’d given me the jar of buttons. I held the jar in my hands as Grandma leaned down, squeezing me tight. Grandpa had taken the picture, and the first thing I noticed was how happy I looked. The second thing I noticed was the dress I wore. It had been one of my favorites. Grandma had made it for me. It was white with a pink satin sash at the waist and pretty pink buttons in the shape of tiny flowers up the middle.

  I pinched my lips together and told myself not to cry.

  “Are you okay?” Mom asked. It made me jump.

  I didn’t answer the question, because I wasn’t sure if she really wanted to know the honest truth. “Check out all of these pictures,” I told her.

  She moved toward me and took the one I held in my hands. “Aw. Look at how cute you were.” She looked at me. “Do you want to keep this one?”

  I nodded and she handed it back to me. I stuck it in the messenger bag I’d brought along. Just then, Mom’s phone rang. As she stepped out in the hallway to take the call, I continued to look around.

  It felt a little weird to be in my grandma’s bedroom without her there. Like I was invading her privacy. Except, when you’re dead, the things you’ve left behind aren’t yours anymore. Because my mother was her only child, and Grandma wasn’t married anymore, everything Grandma had owned belonged to my mom now. Her last will and testament even said so.

  I gently pulled open a dresser drawer. It was mostly panty hose, all different colors. I shut it and pulled open another one. This time it was socks. I closed the drawer and turned around. All of those items felt so personal. I couldn’t look in any more drawers.

  I started to go to her closet, like Lindy had suggested, when I noticed the large trunk at the end of her bed. It looked ancient, like maybe it had belonged to her mom or her grandma. I’d never asked her about it, and now I wished I had. The trunk had a keyhole, and I wondered if it might be locked, but when I went to lift the lid, it opened right up.

  I pushed it open, all the way, and peered inside. It smelled funny—musty or something. There were some scarves and gloves and other old clothes along with pieces of fabric. Lots of fabric. But I wasn’t interested in any of that. What caught my eye was what lay on the very top of the pile of items. A medium-sized gray metal box. I picked it up and tried to open it, but unlike the trunk, the box was locked. I gently shook it a couple of times, curious to know what Grandma might keep inside a locked box. Money? Valuable jewels? Old family recipes? Something banged around in there, but it didn’t sound like money or jewels. I decided I better not shake it any more, because whatever was in there, I definitely didn’t want to break it.

  I looked down into the trunk again and saw that the box had been set on top of a manila envelope. I reached down and grabbed it, thinking that maybe I’d find the key to the box tucked inside.

  Before I opened it, I turned it over to see if anything was written on it, and there was.

  In my grandma’s nice, neat handwriting, it said: Nora.

  Okay, honestly, I thought I might fall over when I saw my name on that envelope. It was almost like I was supposed to look in that trunk. Thank goodness I did. My stomach churned as I wondered why my name was written on the envelope and what might be inside.

  I glanced over my shoulder. Mom was still on the phone in the hallway, but I knew I didn’t have much time. Whatever was in the envelope, I didn’t want to share it with her. Grandma had clearly meant for me to have it; that’s why she’d written my name on the outside.

  I quickly emptied the contents of the envelope onto the bed. Three items fell out, none of them a key to the locked box. Before I investigated what I had, I took a few seconds to bury the metal box deep in the trunk, underneath the fabric and clothes.

  With the box hidden, I went back to the things on the bed. The first item was a small piece of paper and a bunch of smaller envelopes rubber-banded together. The piece of paper said, Nora’s Paris Adventures—to be opened ONLY by Nora and ONLY while in Paris! After I counted how many envelopes there were (seven), I stuck them back in the manila envelope and looked closely at the second item: a map of Paris. I unfolded it. Someone, I assumed Grandma, had drawn bright pink dots in felt-tip pen in various places on the map. I counted the dots, and there were six of them. The dots told me that somehow, those places were special or important, and I was dying to know why. I quickly stuck the map back into the manila envelope as well, and then shoved it all into my messenger bag.

  That left the last item: a letter-sized envelope. My hands shook as I opened it. When I saw what was inside, I let out a small gasp.

  “Nora?” Mom said from the bedroom door. “What’s wrong? Are you all right?”

  I spun around. “Tickets,” I said softly as I held the small envelope out in front of me. “Three airplane tickets. To Paris, at the end of March.”

  Mom took them from me and studied them before she looked up again. “Why did she buy one for me? Did you know about this?”

  “No,” I said. “I had no idea. Honest.”

  “Why in the world did she do that without talking to me about it? It’s so … strange.” I couldn’t tell if she was mad or sad or what. Confused, maybe. Like I’d just handed her a half-eaten Popsicle and she wasn’t sure what to do with it.

  “Well, come on,” she said. “We need to go down and as
k the apartment manager if he has some boxes. I want to take her dishes home with us. And some of her other kitchen items.” She stuck the tickets in her purse as she peered inside the trunk. “You found the envelope in here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Anything else interesting?” she asked as she picked up a strip of green-and-brown-striped fabric.

  “No,” I said. I told myself I wasn’t lying because, to her, interesting meant dolls or artwork.

  She put the fabric back and shut the lid. “Hmm. Too bad.”

  “Can we take the trunk home, though? I like it. Maybe I can put it in my room?”

  “Sure. If it’s too heavy for the two of us, I’ll see if the apartment manager can help us get it into the truck.”

  As I followed her downstairs, I thought about the locked box. I didn’t have any proof that the big envelope with my name and the box were connected, but I had a feeling they were. The box had been placed in that spot on purpose, I was sure of it. If they didn’t belong together, Grandma would have hidden the locked box farther down in the trunk. After all, it was locked for a reason. Whatever was inside, she didn’t want just anyone to discover the secret.

  My heart told me Grandma Sylvia wanted me, and only me, to unlock that special box. That’s when I realized the map must be like a treasure hunt. She’d probably been planning to give me the box before our trip to Paris. I bet she would have told me that in order to open it, I had to go around Paris, using the map she marked up as a guide. Somewhere in Paris, I would find the key.

  The more I thought about it, the more it all made perfect sense. Every year on my birthday, she had created a treasure hunt for me to find my gift. One clue would lead to another clue and then another clue after that, until finally, I found the wrapped gift in the most unusual place. One year it was hidden in the clothes dryer. Another year, she hid it in a box of Christmas decorations stored in the hall closet.

  She’d said the trip to Paris would be a belated birthday gift. She must have decided to invent the biggest treasure hunt ever, in the city of Paris.

  As my mom talked to the apartment manager, I longed to be at home where I could study the map more carefully. But then what? I was like a pirate stuck on a boat in the middle of the ocean. A lot of good a map did me when I was thousands of miles away from Paris.

  Unless …

  Maybe my mom would take me to Paris with the airplane tickets I’d found. Traveling with her wouldn’t be the same as traveling with Grandma Sylvia, but the thought of not going at all made me so sad.

  With cardboard boxes in hand, we made our way back upstairs to pack up some of Grandma’s things.

  “Mom?” I asked.

  “Yes?”

  “What are you going to do with those tickets?” I asked.

  “I’ll try and get a refund,” she said matter-of-factly. “Given the circumstances, I think they’ll be willing to do what’s right.”

  My heart sank. Hadn’t it even occurred to her that I might still want to go? Or did she know and simply not care?

  It seemed so wrong that Grandma Sylvia had left me something special, and I might not ever know what it was. Would I live out the rest of my life wondering what was inside of that metal box?

  I could hardly stand the thought.

  * * *

  On Monday, I told Lindy about the map and the box and everything else I’d found.

  “Did you look inside the small envelopes?” she asked.

  “No. I can’t. The note said they’re to be opened only in Paris, and obviously, I’m not in Paris.”

  “But who would know?”

  “I would know. Besides, maybe I can get my mom to change her mind about the tickets. I’m just not sure how yet.”

  “Well, if you can’t get to Paris, you should pick the lock on the box. You know, with a credit card.”

  I stuck a straw into my carton of milk. “I don’t have a credit card. Besides, I’m pretty sure no one has ever picked a lock with a credit card. I think that’s something that only happens in the movies.”

  “You don’t know until you try,” Lindy said.

  “The map and the envelopes she made to go along with it look like so much fun,” I said. “Each envelope has a number written on it, and there are seven of them. For some reason, there are only six dots on the map, but I just know they have to do with the envelopes somehow. I mean, obviously I want to know what’s in the box. But after spending most of yesterday looking at the map, it feels like it’s just as important for me to go to Paris and go to those places as it is to open the box.”

  “Then go,” she said. “Ask your mom to take you.” Her face lit up. “I know, you can take me with you! Your mom could do what she wants to do, and the two of us could go off and have our own fun.”

  “By ourselves? Wouldn’t that be kind of scary?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t think so. I think it sounds fun. A big adventure in one of the greatest cities in the world.”

  “But what if we got lost? We couldn’t ask anyone questions because we don’t speak the language.”

  She sighed. “Nora, stop it. You’re being a scaredy-cat again. We’d be fine. You know, I’ve always wanted to see the Eiffel Tower and Notre-Dame, and eat lots of delicious cheese and bread.”

  I told myself to let her mean comment slide off my back. I knew she was right about being afraid, it just hurt to hear it. “We could sit at a café and watch all of the French people walk by,” I said.

  “And when two cute French boys ask if they can sit with us and buy us more bread and cheese, of course we’ll say yes.”

  I giggled. “Of course!”

  We both got quiet for a minute, lost in our thoughts. I ate my pizza and Lindy ate her hummus, carrot sticks, and crackers.

  “Why did my grandma have to die, Lindy?” I asked softly.

  “I don’t know. But I think she’d want you to go to Paris without her, even if it’s not the way it was supposed to be.”

  I nodded. “That’s what my brother said.”

  “Will you do me a favor?” she asked.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Let me know when you’re going to talk to your mom about it. I’ll just happen to show up that day with her favorite kind of cupcakes, and as you talk about what to do with the third airplane ticket, she’ll get the brilliant idea to invite me to go with you.”

  “You should make her a pie,” I said. “She doesn’t really like cupcakes.”

  Lindy looked at me like I just told her the sun was falling from the sky. “She doesn’t like cupcakes? Isn’t that, like, illegal in America?”

  I thought of all the delicious desserts Grandma had described to me over the years that were popular in Paris. Things like tarts and éclairs and opera cakes. My mother would probably be in dessert heaven.

  There had to be a way to convince her to go on this trip with me. There just had to be.

  My grandpa came to our house for dinner that night, like he does every Monday night. My dad knows to be home early from work because if he isn’t there on time, Mom gets upset. It’s the one night a week she insists everyone be home for dinner.

  I love my grandpa Ted, but he talks a lot. I mean, you can be talking about how good the corn is that you’re eating and suddenly he has a story from when he was a boy, growing up in Kansas, and the corn reminds him of the time when … And we all have to listen to the story.

  So we were sitting there, eating our lasagna and salad, when Mom asked me if I’d taken all of the stuff out of the trunk, to make sure there wasn’t something really great hidden at the bottom.

  “What trunk is that?” Grandpa asked before I could reply.

  “It was in Grandma’s bedroom,” I said. “It looks really old.”

  “Yes,” he said. “I know the one you’re talking about. It was in our attic for the longest time. It belonged to her grandparents, you know.” He looked at my mom. “Faye, it’s quite the antique. Probably worth some money. Why, I remember the tim
e when I found this old—”

  “Dad,” Mom said, “I’m sorry to interrupt, but do you really think the trunk might be valuable?”

  “Absolutely,” he said, leaning down to take a bite of his lasagna. “Wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t think it was true.”

  “But I like the trunk, Mom,” I said. “I don’t want to sell it.”

  “She didn’t say we’d have to sell it,” my dad replied. “It’s just good to know if something is valuable. For insurance purposes and things like that. Nora, did you find anything interesting inside?”

  “It’s mostly old clothes and fabric scraps. But I did find three tickets to Paris.”

  “Three?” Dad asked. “I thought just you and Grandma were going.”

  I shrugged. “She bought one for Mom, too.”

  Dad looked at Mom. “How come you didn’t say anything, Faye? Are you going to use the tickets?”

  “Hey, if you’re going to use them,” my brother said, “can I go, too? I think going to Paris would be awesome.”

  This was my chance. I had to get her to change her mind. “You know I’ve wanted to go for a really long time,” I said. “Can we go, Mom? Please?”

  I held my breath and waited for her to respond. She took a drink of water and then looked at my dad. “I thought I’d try to get a refund.” Then she turned to me. “I’m just not sure I’m up to planning a trip right now, with everything that’s been going on. I know it’s probably disappointing, but I hope you can try and understand.” She spoke to Grandpa next. “I’m sorry, Dad. We’re not being very considerate of your feelings. We should talk about something else. Please, tell us what’s new with you.”

  “Well, speaking of trips,” he said, “did you know I’m planning a trip to Ireland?”

  I looked down at my plate and picked at my lasagna. Of course she’d do that. Change the subject. For years, I’d sat here, every Monday night, listening to Grandpa talk and talk about everything from poker night to new brakes for his car to the results from his cholesterol test. The one time there was something I really wanted to talk about and managed to speak up about it, she turned the conversation back around to him.