Lisa leaned down to wipe her daughter’s tears. “Who’s not coming, love bug?”
“Scarlett Rose Poésy.” She said her name with the perfect French pronunciation, like she had to get it right.
“Why would she?”
“During our last class Ms. Clarice said that she might. And if she did, we would get to see her.”
“Meet her!” Her friend corrected with a wild throwing of the arms.
“But…but she just told us that she’s not!”
“She’ll be back. I’m sure. She has roots here.”
The four began their trek again, this time each mother holding a daughter’s hand. They didn’t notice me, at first. I caught Madeline’s eye when they went to pass. She nudged Lisa. Both women looked my way, smiling.
I turned my face, reaching into my jeans for the blue ribbon. I held tight to it and then started for Snow Street.
I knew that, of course. That she wouldn’t be coming back. She hadn’t, since she left for Paris. The thought hollowed me out, but instead of getting stuck in the misery, I thought back on all the promises I had made after she left me out in the snow years ago.
Chapter Two
Scarlett
Maggie Beautiful,
I made it to Paris, the City of Light (La Ville Lumièr) and Love. For me, dance (danse). I’m sorry this letter hasn’t come sooner. After I arrived, I moved in to my parents’ place. I took two months to settle in, into my new routine, the new routine that has become my life, and all the while I slowly severed the parental strings.
I found my own place, Maggie Beautiful!
It was too expensive for my salary, so I found two girls to share the place with. We’re all around the same age, except for Emilia. She’s twenty-four. Emilia is a German implant/florist who’s obsessed with her steady boy toy. (He’s an artist! Who in Paris isn’t?) Colette works at the local café.
Emilia owns the flower shop. Colette makes a meager wage, so I sense a story there—it seems her parents are similar to mine and she’s just trying to make her own way. But I’m not too sure. Colette and Emilia talk more than I do.
If I’m not rehearsing, I’m traversing the city, just to take in the sights with a cup of coffee and my vintage Leica camera (responsible for all of the photographs I’ve been sending to you on the regular), or catching up on this or that.
I’ll fill you in onthis and thatnext time I write. It’s too early to say where it will lead.
I’ve been getting your letters. I can’t begin to tell you how much they mean to me. Your photographs—the one of Brando’s profile is art. I bought a very Parisian looking box just to keep them in. I’ll get you one too.
Perhaps some day you’ll put your new superpower to use, buy a few maps, and then come and find me. I miss you terribly, Maggie Beautiful.
And I miss him. But don’t tell him I said so. I refused to give him my address for a reason. I love him but he let me go. I’m not sure if that part of me will ever recover. Still, he found me. I’ve been getting a dozen red roses every month on the eleventh ever since I left. On December the eleventh you’d think our entire apartment was a rose garden. I can’t keep up with them.
A reminder is what he set me loose with.
I need to ask a favor of you. Do you remember Jane Jones? If not, ask Violet. She’ll fill you in. Well, Violet told me that she’s working at the local diner and she’s looking for another job. Hire her. For me. Don’t tell her or Brando why. I think you know why—put those superpowers to good use. I need to know, Maggie Beautiful, if something between them begins.
I love how you’ve been ending your letters—secret or promise. It seems like a more romantic game of truth or dare.
I’ll start ending mine the same way.
Secret (Truth) or Promise (Dare).
I pick Secret (I have two): I’ve never played truth or dare. (Well, not in the real sense.) And. I’m lost without him. (Surprised?)
Love,
Scarlett Gorgeous
