It Started in Paris

Chapter Seventeen: Jean Lost Everything In One Day

The sun has showered its warmth on my face.  Everything seemed like a dream if not only for the exquisite flower lying beside me that served as a proof that everything that had happened were real.

"Good morning, sunshine," Leila said as she dove beside me.  She picked up the blue blossom and studied it.  "How did yesterday go?"

I turned to her.  "Horrible."

She dropped the flower back into place.  "What?!  But, why?"

I told her everything: hitching from one of Jean's tour buses to another, dropping off at Au Duc la Chapelle Patisserie to pick up a basket of pastries, eating at the peak of the Eiffel Tower, receiving the most lovely flower that I've ever seen from Jack, strolling down Rue Mouffetard, and slow-dancing on the Seine.  After that romantic dance, he weaved his fingers through mine and walked me back to our place.  Before I could take a step inside our apartment, he gently pulled me back.  He took a step closer and leaned until our lips were just millimeters apart and said, "Good night."

Leila's expression shifted from "Awe!" to "What?!" and said, "He didn't kiss you?"

I rolled my eyes.  "No."

She shrugged helplessly.  "Did he ask you out again?"

I felt my heart sink.  "No," I said a little softer than my usual voice.

"So, what do you plan to do today?"

"I want to start looking for Helen.  I promised Jean and I don't want to disappoint him.  He's been disappointed for over six decades of his life."

Leila nodded considerably.  "Seems like the right thing to do," she said.  "Can I come with you?"

"Sure."

I got up and headed to the bathroom.  After taking a shower and drying myself, I put on a white tank top worn underneath a green cardigan paired with black pleated shorts and black Havaianas.  I wore my hair down and headed out to the dining area.  There was no sign of Jack here but Leila in her belted ruffly dress and gladiator sandals.

"He's not here?" I tried to hide the disappointment in my voice but failed.

Leila shook her head as she took a bite of a pizza slice in her hand.

"God, I must've been a horrible date,"  I said as I sat dejectedly on one of the designer dining chairs.  Then, I looked at Leila with oddity.  "How did you come up with a box of pizza?  I don't remember ordering one last night, nor the other night," I said.  "And the night before that," I added.

Leila smiled.  "I find the pizza deliveryman cute.  What's wrong with that?"

"Right."  I laughed.  I stood up and walked to the counter and grabbed a gigantic slice of pepperoni pizza.

"So, where do we start looking for Helen?" Leila said in between chews.

I breathed.  "I don't know."

Leila's face brightened up.  "Oooh!  Why don't we start by asking Gertrude about Helen?"

I felt my expression mirror hers.  "Great idea."

We finished off our pizzas and went down to the lobby where Gertrude was sitting behind the small counter.

"Bonjour, ladies," Gertrude greeted in a genuine French accent with a warm smile.

"Uhm, we just want to know something," I said.

"Yes?  What is it?"

"It's about Helen Conrad."

Her bright expression suddenly darkened.  "What about?" she said cautiously.     We told her about Jean Hughe.  We told her everything about  the letters and their love story and how I promised Jean to find Helen.  She patiently listened without showing any change of expression on her face until we have finished.

"That's sad," she said forlornly.

"And we were hoping that you know where she is after living here for quite some time," I said.

"I wish I knew," she said.  "When they lived here, I would always see her crying by the stairs.  She never wanted to talk about her problems.  She just kept everything to herself.  I would hear their mother scream and shout whenever I pass by their room."

"Wait," Leila's first word came out after a long time.  ""Their" mother?  Does she have any siblings?"

"She has a sister," Gertrude said.  "That's all I know."

"Thank you so much."  I gently touched the old woman's hand across the counter.

She placed her other hand over mine.  "I wish I could help, dear."

"Hey," Jack's voice was suddenly behind us.

"Hey."  Leila beamed at him.

"What are you guys doing here?" he asked.

"We were asking about Helen.  We want to start looking for her today.  We've got a few more days left here at Paris before we head back to New York."

His expression suddenly dimmed.  "Oh.  Right."

There was a long moment of silence.

"Do you know where she is?" he asked.

"No," I answered.  "But, Gertrude has told me some things."

"Why don't you guys talk about it along the way, 'kay?" Leila flashed a wide smile.

As we walked along the Parisian pavements, I told Jack everything that I've learned about Helen's past at the apartment from Gertrude.

"We still don't have a clue on where to find her," Jack said.  His eyes raised a bit higher than me and said.  "Oh, I just want to show you something.  Just real quick."

We entered the gates of Pére Lachaise cemetery.  We walked by some graves and from afar, I could see a kid partying around a colorful gravestone.

We stopped in front of the colorful gravestone which turned out to be graffitied with spray paints.

"Paris celebrates the dead," Jack said informatively.  "That one right there is Jimmy Morrison from the band The Doors."

I'm sure I've heard of The Doors before.  It's probably what my mom and dad listens to when they were younger.

Leila took a photo of the rockstar's grave before we walked over to a farther one.  "This one's Auguste Maquet--"

"Co-writer of The Three Musketeers," I finished then looked at him.

He was dumbfounded.  "You knew?"

I smiled.

We walked over to another gravestone.

"Suzanne Flon from A Crime in Paradise," he said as we stood before a headstone.

I've seen mom and dad watch the same movie over and over again when I was younger.  I could recall her elegant beauty and convincing acting.  She was remarkable.

We were on our way out the famous cemetery when we passed by an old woman lamenting and reading a letter to the dead.  The epitaph read:

Helen Conrad

Born: May 18, 1941

Died: March 9, 2003

I couldn't believe my eyes.  My vision blurred in tears as I stood their in front of the gravestone.  Jack followed my gaze.  It took time before he realized what was written on the headstone.  He embraced me tight that kept my knees from collapsing.  I didn't know what to feel.  I felt crushed because I wouldn't be able to bring Jean good news.  On the day of March 9, 2003, Jean Hughe lost everything and was only left with Jack to treasure.