Chapter One
Juliet
Don't get me wrong, I love my heavily forested, weed-infused college in the middle of the California redwoods. It's peaceful, the people are nice and remind me of old school hippies with a modern edge, like the purple-haired, sarong-wearing guy who skateboards barefoot. What's not to like? However, going home for the holidays is iconic. My quaint Rhode Island hometown has it all: a small fishing village, a snowy getaway, a European style Christmas market.
But, this year, my parents decided Aruba was the cure for seasonal depression and full enjoyment of their empty nest years. I don't think they got the memo that your kids will come back for Christmas because my parents jetted out of town.
I'm an only child and I always kind of thought that my parents were more into each other than they were into being parents. This trip to Aruba confirms that for me considering they didn't even ask if I wanted to go. That being said I was excited to travel to my grandma's house in Rhode Island and spend the Christmas holiday with her considering she just lost grandpa last spring after being married to him for fifty years. I can't imagine how sad that must be to lose your life partner after so long. I left most of my stuff in my dorm with Kelly, my adorable roommate whose parents live in town and she promised to keep an eye on our things. I just brought a backpackwith some essentials considering I was only planning on being gone for a week.
I was looking forward to crisp winter weather and Gran’s Christmas cookies. She wasn’t much of a cook, but her Christmas cookies slapped. My grandma's home always has a warm feel and a cinnamon smell to it. She has homemaking down to a science: everything feels cozy and perfect. Despite being a little sparky and not knowing how to cook, she makes a person feel welcome no matter what is going on in her life. My grandmother is a bookworm like me and has four bookcases filled with hundreds of volumes from floor to ceiling. I cannot wait to get into her little library nook and dig into a classic.
“Make sure you call me when you get there. Say hi to Gran and have the very best time, Jules,” Kelly says as she drops me off at the San Francisco Airport that took us nearly two hours to get to.
I love that she wants me to say hi to my grandmother even though she's never met her.
“Thank you so much for shlepping all the way out here for me. I’ll repay you when I get home. We can have all you can eat sushi all night long, my treat.” I flash her a devilish smile because on our college budget, all you can eat sushi is expensive at eighty-nine dollars a person but Yokohama Sushiville has the very best in town. Perhaps that’s because we don't get much great food out where we're living or maybe it truly is the best sushi ever. Who knows.
“My pleasure, and I’ll have sushi with you any day of the week.” Kelly’s smile is so sweet.
I board the plane, which is totally full, ready to have a wonderful holiday. Because finances are always a challenge, I wasn't able to buy my ticket until the last minute. I had to wait until I got paid from my job at the coffee house on campus; that meant I got the middle seat. I found my seat pretty easily; 22G, and discovered that I was sitting between a father and a mother holding their very wiggly toddler son. I think they were hoping that the middle seat would stay vacant but I looked at my boarding pass again and confirmed that I was the proud owner of seat 22G. I really did not want to engage with these people. I simply wanted to read my book, have the complimentary soda, and perhaps get some shut eye on the very long flight from San Francisco to Rhode Island.
Their toddler squirms in his mom’s lap, already kicking my arm with sticky socks. I smile politely, dig my book out, and tell myself I can survive a few hours sandwiched between domestic chaos. That optimism doesn’t last. Just before takeoff, the kid turns his head, leans over, and sprays a crap ton of partially digested Cheerios onto my shirt. I scream, actually scream as the wet liquid seeps into my white linen blouse. The mother gasps and the father fumbles with a packet of wet wipes as if he’s never used one before.
The flight attendant rushes over, eyes wide, already bracing for whatever emergency she thinks she’s walking into. Instead, she finds me dripping in sour-smelling, half-digested breakfast cereal. “Oh honey,” the attendant says, face softening as she takes in the disaster zone. “Come with me. We’ve got some open seats in first class.”
The parents look mortified.
“We are really sorry,” the dad jumps in. “Dougy hasn’t been feeling that great.” I wrangle out of my chair and grab my backpack.
“It's okay,” I try and offer a sweet grin, but I’m sure it’s more of a grimace because I am sicked out by the smell and the feel of my shirt clinging to me. I’m not mad though, they are drowning in toddlerhood; I’m just collateral damage.
“No problem,” I say to the parents as soon as I’m able to parkour my way out of the seat then look at the flight attendant. “Do I have time to change before we take off?”
“There’s a bathroom in first, go ahead and use it, then I’ll show you to your seat.
“Thanks,” I say and duck into the bathroom, peel off my shirt, and try to salvage some dignity.
My shirt didn’t fare as well as I did; there’s no way it will ever be wearable again. I pitch it into the trash. This leaves me wearing a camisole and my hoodie zipped up to my chin like some weird, nervous squirrel. At least I’m clean-ish after an airplane soap spritz and paper towel bath.
“Right this way,” the chipper attendant says when I exit the tiny room.
First class feels like stepping into another universe. Wider seats, quieter air, and no sticky-footed toddlers in sight. I slide across an aisle wide enough not to disturb my neighbor who, at first glance, is a sexy silver-haired hunk in an expensive suit with a faraway look on his face. I tuck into the window seat, tugging my hoodie tighter, and turn to get a better look at the hot man sitting next to me and promptly forget how to breathe.
He’s the kind of man who makes you rethink every male standard you’ve ever held. Silver at his temples, jawline that could cut glass, and a kind of elegance that makes the cramped cabin feel like a Paris runway. When he glances at me, I catch the hint of a French accent as he says, “Marcel Dubois.” And offers a half smile that melts me.
Marcel. Of course his name is Marcel.
“Juliet Limons,” Ugh, why does my name sound like a cleaning product and his like a gateway to Heaven?
He nods and that’s all he does.
I’ve already managed to make a fool of myself; if my wearing a hoodie doesn’t scream, ‘I don’t belong here,’ my awkward demeanor sure does.
“Can I get you something to drink before we take off?” The nice dark-haired flight attendant in her late forties asks.
“What do you recommend?” I ask after she hands me an extensive wine and champagne menu.
“Do you like red wine?” she inquires with a playful smile.
