Paris Is Always a Good Idea - Jenn McKinlay Page 0,10

the room, grabbed her coat off the hook, and shrugged it on. Without saying another word, she left.

Again, it was without saying I love you. What was happening to my family? I felt as if we were unraveling and I didn’t know how to stop it. I wanted to blame Sheri—I desperately did. If the woman hadn’t come into my father’s life, there wouldn’t be all these conversations, and things would have remained as they’d been. But I knew there was no putting that auction-paddle-wielding genie back in the bottle.

Happy. Annabelle had asked me when I’d last been happy. I knew the exact date and time. May 15, 2013, at 4:20 in the afternoon. The moment right before my father called me when I was in Italy, on my postcollege year abroad, to tell me to come home because my mother had only a few weeks to live. I got on the next plane out of Florence.

Three months later, my mother died with me, Annabelle, and Dad by her side. I had known in that moment that no one would ever love me as much as my mother did, and as the last breath left her lungs, so did the love and happiness leave my world. I didn’t know where they had gone, and I didn’t know how to get them back. I wished I could find them again, but it wasn’t that easy.

I opened the cover of the scrapbook, and my heart squeezed tight. I’d put this book together, a collection of moments from my year abroad, when I’d worked various jobs to pay my way across Europe to celebrate graduating from college. The book had given me something to do while I tended my mom. The very first picture was of my parents and Annabelle seeing me off at Logan International Airport in Boston.

I traced the photo with the tips of my fingers. I had my dad’s eyes and his stubborn chin, but my thick light-brown hair; tall and slender, albeit a bit bottom-heavy, build; and my wide grin were all my mom’s. I turned the page. London. Oh, how I had loved it. Big Ben. The Underground. Portobello Market. Next page. Ireland. Working on a sheep farm in County Kerry, I had stayed for the summer. When I closed my eyes, I could smell the sweet grass and feel the mist on my face and the warm sun on my shoulders.

I flipped through the pictures, most of which featured a redheaded boy with a wicked cowlick and a rogue’s grin. He beamed at me from the photos, inviting me into his mischief. Colin Donovan. I hadn’t thought of him in years, and yet I’d been utterly charmed by him and his shenanigans, like the time he’d convinced our crew to dress the entire flock of sheep in pajamas as a prank on Mr. O’Brien. I laughed at the memory.

I blinked and covered my mouth with my hand. I glanced back down at the book. I thumbed through more pages. There was Jean Claude in Paris. He had made me weak in the knees with his French accent and devastating good looks. I’d been a nanny to the Beauchamp family, and he’d worked as a designer for Monsieur Beauchamp’s fashion house. I’d been totally smitten with him, falling deeper in love every day we walked along the Seine, holding hands and sharing dreams.

I flipped through several more countries, the memories coming thick and fast. I’d loved Germany, Sweden, Spain, and Portugal, too, but Italy. Ah, Firenze. That was where I’d met Marcellino DeCapio. A dark-haired young man whose passions had been wine and me and whose chocolate-brown eyes had seen right into my very soul. He was a natural sweet talker who was rumored to be able to coax the grapes on the vines into ripening with a whisper. He’d charmed me into more than that. I could still feel his strong arms about me and the silky feel of his thick dark hair when it slid through my fingers. I sighed.

Marcellino was the only one I’d kept in touch with from my year abroad. Oh, we weren’t close. Our contact, which had begun with phone calls during my mom’s illness and then her passing, rapidly dwindled to annual Christmas cards once I started working. In fact, I think I just sent him corporate cards from the office because . . . lame.

I slumped back against the couch and closed the book. This. This was the last time