Story Series | Chapter Five

Chapter Five | Now

There’s a knock on the door. 

Audrey puts down her dad’s autobiography, simply titled A Ghost Story (she’d always picked on him for that name choice), and dislodges herself from her squashy armchair next to the vacant fireplace. Opening the front door, she sees man standing in the courtyard, a few yards away, holding a package. 

“Salut,” she says, shielding her eyes from the sun. 

“Aubrey Boo-fill?” the technician asks, taking an apprehensive step forward.

“Sure.”

“I’m from Home Internet Solutions.” He hands her the heavy package, which she accepts with difficulty. “That’s all your new equipment. Set-up instructions are in there, too.”

“Oh,” she says, frowning. “I have to install it myself?” 

The man nods. His eyes flick apprehensively around him. “Oui — unfortunately this address is only eligible for self-install.”

“But—but aren’t you a technician?” she asks, eyeballing his uniform. “I mean, you’re here now—”

“Everything you need is in that box,” the man says, already backing away.  

“Well,” Audrey scoffs, “this isn’t much of a Home Internet Solution.”

“Very sorry, mademoiselle.” He glances up at the house, then turns and flat-out runs to his truck parked on the road. 

Audrey watches him through narrowed eyes, then, her hands full, manages to slam the door with a thrust of hre pyjama-clad butt. She heaves the box onto the ottoman by the fireplace and pries it open, picks up the instruction pamphlet and stares at it blankly for a moment before dropping it back into the box with a flourish. The internet will have to wait. Today is her first date with Paris. 

After getting dressed and locking up, Audrey enjoys the short jaunt into Montmartre, where she buys a scone and some coffee, then finds a shop that sells bicycles. By 11:00, she’s the new owner of a sturdy turquoise bike with a basket large enough to hold at least some of the junk she plans to buy today. 

She bounces along the cobbles, zig-zagging down the hill into the 10th arrondissement, then into the 8th, eventually slowing down along the Quai des Gesvres to spend some time picking through the wares of the various bouquinistes. 

As early evening wraps Paris in a warm hug, Audrey walks her bike across the Seine and around the ile de la cite, where she tucks into a sun-washed patio overlooking the cathedral for an early dinner and an Aperol Spritz. Sipping happily, she surveys the haul she’s collected in her bike’s basket (some small art prints, a shower curtain, dried florals, books) and runs through the list of larger items she’s ordered from shops all over the city (a vintage couch, a scrubbed wooden kitchen table, a white iron bed frame that cost about 200 euros more than it needed to, curtains, rugs). She’s just put her phone down when it dings with a message from an unknown number. 

Hey, Audrey — it’s Jay. 

Audrey grins. She was wondering when, and if, he’d reappear.

His next message pops up seconds later: Long shot, but what are you up to right now?

She sends him a sun-speckled photo of her drink, bike and the cathedral in the background. 

And you? she replies.

The guys just asked me to play at one of those floating bars tonight, his next text says. If you’re free in an hour, come! Please! 

Audrey peers around her to make sure no one’s looking before erupting in a brief, joyous dance in her seat. 

What’s the name of the bar? she replies. 

She pays her server and wheels her bike across the street, onto the grass behind the cathedral, thanking her lucky stars, or whichever guardian sex angel has suddenly decided to adopt her, for this idyllic turn of events. She unravels a silk scarf she bought a few hours ago and lays it down in a patch of sun, then spends the next hour reading one of the very dusty books she picked up. She doesn’t even put her headphones on; she lets Paris sing to her. 

Just before 6:00, she snaps her book closed and packs up her bike, still grinning from ear to ear. 

She finds the boat-bar along the Seine and parks her bike, unlatching the basket to carry it like a wicker purse. She hands some cash to the hostess and is ushered up a metal ramp onto the boat’s open-air restaurant, where tables are quickly filling up. She grabs a spot by the edge, with the Seine lapping and shimmering just beside her, and cranes her neck to examine a small stage at the far end of the deck, occupied only by an old piano. 

A waiter’s hand appears before her, placing a glass of rosé on her small table. 

“Oh — merci,” she exclaims, looking up in surprise, but laughs when she sees that the hand belongs to Jay. He grins kneels next to her, his own glass in his other hand. He’s wearing more black: a black button-down, black jeans and black sneakers. Audrey lowers the brim of her hat slightly to hide the flush she feels crawling up her neck. 

“Thanks for coming,” he says. “This was super last-minute. The band I performed with at Le Consulat was supposed to play here tonight, but they were double-booked — so they asked me to cover for them here.”

Audrey nods excitedly. “That’s great! Do you think this could become a regular gig?”

“Well, the restaurant owner did tell me to, and I quote, ‘show them what I’m made of’ tonight,” he explains, using air-quotes, “and implied that if I impress them I might be invited to play again — probably with the band, not solo.” 

“Well, then, this should be quite the show.” 

“Should be. It’s great that you’re here.”

“Hey, it worked out perfectly — I was in town shopping for the house all day.” Audrey clinks her glass against his. “Thanks for this, by the way.”

“I said I’d get the next round.”

“You did.” 

“How’re you feeling today, by the way? My hangover was… exactly what I expected it to be after all those whiskeys.” He chuckles. 

“Oh, it was bad.” She laughs, too. “But I got some sun and some exercise — and spent way too much money on all this crap,” she adds, nodding at her full basket. “So, you know, that cured me.”

“Good, because I was going to ask if you’d like to grab something to eat after this?” 

Audrey whisks a hand to her chest and blinks rapidly as though in flattered surprise. “I say.” 

“I’ll take that as a…” 

“A yes, yes, a thousand times yes.”

“Yes.” Still grinning, he gets to his feet, and they both look to the stage as a microphone crackles. 

“Bon soir, everyone,” says a waiter, “Thanks for coming tonight. Our live music will begin shortly.” He repeats his introduction in English as the deck ripples with polite applause, then the waiter gestures to Jay, beckoning him over. 

“Well,” Jay says, downing the rest of his glass and leaving it on Audrey’s table. “Wish me luck.”

“I’ll send you a whiskey.” 

“That works too.”

Audrey smiles with her glass pressed against her lips as she watches Jay settle himself behind the battered piano. The crowd continues to chatter quietly, though some heads turn curiously toward the young pianist as he begins to play around with the keys, warming up, providing a little musical amuse-bouche, biting his bottom lip thoughtfully. Soon, Jay sinks into a few blues songs that complement the upbeat Saturday evening atmosphere and please the deck full of tourists, who are starting to clap and shimmy with the music. Each song seems to turn up the volume a notch or two, and by Jay’s third ballad, half the crowd is dancing. 

Before his fourth, Jay leans into the microphone, blushing against his audience’s cheers. “This one’s not very French, but it’s very fun. I was in New Orleans a few months ago, and if any of you have ever seen a live show in the French Quarter, you might recognize this song.”

Audrey cocks her head and watches as his hands skip into a new song, a rip-roaring Dr. John tune. After a few tumbling, bouncing, impressively played notes, she places it as Stack-A-Lee by Dr. John. 

“Claaa-ssic,” Audrey exclaims like she’s at a music festival, and thankfully her voice is drowned in the uproar of noise: people are on their feet, clapping, laughing, dancing across the deck. A few smaller boats have drifted close, their occupants peering out and listening. Jay, meanwhile, appears hard at work but happily so, his fingers flying over the keys. Oh, to love something this much, Audrey thinks; to be this good at something. She folds her arms on the boat’s edge and rests her head on them, staring out at the Seine glittering gold under the sinking sun, still tilting her head back and forth in a subtle sway to the music. She feels like her dad, like a young Jonah, making himself at home in this sparkly, wine-drunk city. 

The song ends, and this round of applause doubles the last one. The waiter quietly approaches Audrey for her next order, and she sends a whiskey to the pianist, who’s addressing the crowd again. 

“I’m new to Paris, so thank you, everyone, for such a warm welcome,” he says. “I was asked to play a few songs tonight and to, well, show you what I’m made of.” 

The audience chuckles and claps a bit more.

“And I am very much made of this last song. It’s a bit slower, but I promise you’ll stay awake.”

More cheers. Audrey sips her fresh wine and watches Jay pick up his whiskey, which the wiater left on top of the piano. Jay takes a deep, meaningful breath before emptying half his glass, apparently bracing himself. Audrey’s brow lifts in surprise, wondering what he’s about to play. 

She nearly chokes when she hears the first few notes of his grand finale: a song by the Riley Sheppard Band, possibly her favourite song ever, an emotional one about new beginnings. It was her dad’s favourite, too, and Audrey purposely hasn’t listened to it since his death. 

Audrey’s not sure she’s ready for this quite yet, but unless she walks out on Jay’s performance, she doesn’t have much of a choice. Besides, she thinks as she reluctantly re-opens her ears — he’s doing a very good job. He’s not singing the lyrics, of course; just weaving the notes out of his piano, lulling the restaurant into hushed contentment. As promised, everyone is still held captive by the music despite the quick-change in vibe, and folks slink easily into a slow, serene sway. Those who stamped their feet through the previous anthems are now slow dancing amongst the tables, wine glasses still in their hands.

Audrey’s initial discomfort seems to have melted away by the time Jay finishes the song. The whole vicinity applauds and whistles, even the neighbouring boats and a small crowd that’s gathered down on the boardwalk, as he coaxes out his final notes. A few of the slow-dancing couples collapse into spectacular displays of PDA.

“Thanks very much,” Jay beams into the microphone to a few last hoots and hollers. He gets to his feet and finishes his drink. With a resurgence of applause, he bends into a dramatic bow. Then everyone nestles back into their drinks and chitchat, and Audrey’s eyes follow the pianist as he maneuvers his way back over to her and promptly plants himself in the chair opposite her. With a sigh of relief, he removes his glasses to wipe the sweat off them. 

“Jay,” Audrey says breathlessly, and his eyes flick to meet hers. 

“How did I do?” he asks, sliding his glasses back over his eyes. 

“Perfectly. I’m astounded. Fuck you for playing an instrument that well. That last number,” Audrey breathes, “that’s my favourite song. Jericho White.”

“Jericho White!” booms a new, male voice from behind Audrey, and suddenly an enormous man in an old cream suit appears at their table. Jericho stands up again to shake his hand. 

“Monsieur Fontaine,” Jay says, “what did you think?”

“Excellent. I’m sold,” the man says, patting Jay on the back so heartily he almost thrusts him headfirst into the table. “Will you play for us again tomorrow night?” 

“I—I’d love to,” says Jay, straightening up with difficulty. “Thanks, Monsieur Fontaine, the opportunity means a lot to me.”

“Well, your performance meant a lot to me,” Monsieur Fontaine says gruffly. “Almost bawled my eyes out at that last one, to tell you the truth.” 

There’s a brief, slightly hilarious silence as Monsieur Fontaine stares meaningfully into Jay’s eyes, his large hand still on Jay’s shoulder, and Jay nods seriously, clearly trying to look more empathetic than awkward. 

“Oh, well, I’m really happy you enjoyed it, Monsieur Fontaine,” Jay says, clearing his throat. 

“Call me Frank,” the man declares, his volume back up. He notices Audrey. “Hello!”

“Frank, this is my friend Audrey.”

“And what did you think of your friend tonight?” Frank asks her. “Should we keep him?”

“You should keep him.” 

“Excellent.” Frank directs his moustached smile back to Jay, pulls an envelope from inside his jacket and presses it into Jay’s hand. “We’ll need to add your name to the performance list. What do you go by, professionally? Just Jericho White?”

“Oh, Jay White is fine,” Jay says, his eyes flicking to Audrey, who’s sure she looks as confused as she feels. “People get my full name confused with the song…”

“Quite right,” Frank says. “Well, I’ll let you two get back to your evening. We’ll see you tomorrow, then, same time. And bring more of that Riley Sheppard stuff, will you?”

“Sure, Frank,” Jay says as the man retreats into the crowded deck. Jay turns excitedly to Audrey. 

“Hold on,” Audrey says, holding up her hands and eyeballing Jay through narrowed eyes. “Jericho White?”

“That’s my full name,” he says. “I usually go by Jay.”

“You’re named after a Riley Sheppard song?” 

“It just sort of worked out,” Jay says. “My mom is a big fan, and her last name is White, so…”

“Wow,” Audrey breathes. “I come from a family of Riley Sheppard fanatics myself, so I apologize if I have stars in my eyes.” 

“Come on.”

“I’m serious.” 

Jay just chuckles, and folds the envelope into the pocket of his jeans. 

“How desperately do you want to open that envelope right now?” Audrey asks, leaning in. 

“Oh, quite desperately. This is my first paid gig in Paris. There’s probably, like, twenty euros in there.” His eyes widen dramatically. 

“Twenty euros,” Audrey whispers. “But what will you spend it on?”

“I have some ideas.” 

***

The envelope actually contains one hundred euros, which Jay spends on the both of them within the hour: already slightly drunk, the two walk Audrey’s bike to a café facing the darkening Seine and Jay orders their fourth-nicest bottle of champagne and some food. 

After clinking glasses, Jay asks for a status update on the house, and Audrey indulges him in a verbal tour of the premises. 

“There’s this tiny attic, and it’s actually very cute, but they left some old furniture up there that I’m having removed tomorrow,” Audrey is explaining.

“Mm?” Jay is sucking on an olive, and gracefully finishes it off before continuing, “They left stuff in there? But didn’t you say the place was sitting there for a long time?”

“Like, thirty years, yeah,” Audrey says with a shrug. 

“Yuck.”

“I know. But the furniture up there is surprisingly not very mouldy. It’s a couch, a table, some books and some other shit. You’d be surprised at the condition they’re in.” She pops an olive in her mouth. “Once it’s all gone, I think I’ll turn the attic into my office.”

“Ah,” Jay says, leaning back and surveying her through twinkling eyes. “And what kind of office would that be?”

“Er,” Audrey scrunches up her face in thought. It’s a valid question. “Well, considering I have no job, or any professional aspirations whatsoever — probably just — an office for — for — online shopping?” She winces at her own words, and Jay’s face mimics hers. 

“No job, eh?”

“No job. Jay, I’m telling you, I don’t know how to be an adult.”

“No one does. How old are you, anyway?”

“Twenty-three.”

“Twenty-three and you already bought a house?” Jay can’t hide his amazement. Audrey plunges into a semi-rehearsed explanation before he can start blubbering out incredulous questions. 

“I didn’t buy the house. My dad did. He died six months ago, and he left it to me in his will. Along with everything else.” Audrey gulps more champagne, not meeting Jay’s eyes, then trudges on: “His money is the reason I don’t work. It’s the reason I can live the way I live and always have. Dad and I lived in Brest my whole life, and we were really happy. Really close. I’m really lucky.”

“That is really lucky,” Jay says after a moment, his voice hoarse. Audrey peers up and sees his eyes are softer than she’s yet seen them. 

“So he bought the house sometime last year,” she trudges on. “I didn’t even know about it until his will was read after he died. We’re not sure what his plans were for it, but I decided to move in. Fresh start.” She releases a deep exhale and is surprised at the sensation it gives her; it’s like she just let go of a heavy armful of hurt. 

“Audrey, I’m so sorry,” Jay murmurs.

Audrey lifts her eyes to meet his again and smiles warmly. 

“Here,” he says suddenly, and refills her glass to the brim. She laughs. 

“Oh, good, all my problems are solved now,” Audrey says, clinking her glass against his again. 

“Well, yeah, it’s their fourth-best bottle.” 

There’s a brief, serene silence as they both sip their champagne and chew olives, listening to the twitter of fellow diners and the light tinkle of piano music. 

“Well,” Jay says finally, seemingly having recovered his boisterous energy. Audrey snaps to attention and blinks at him expectantly over her glass of champagne. “I don’t know you that well yet, but I think you’re adulting pretty well, all things considered.”

Audrey snorts and puts her glass down. “Thank you. I appreciate that. Really. Although I can’t even install my own internet. The guy came today and said I have to set it up myself, but the instructions—”

“Hey, I can install it for you,” Jay says. 

Audrey lifts her brow. “Really?” 

“That was my college job, remember?” 

“That’s right!” Audrey smacks her own forehead. “Why didn’t I think of harassing you into installing my internet for me? Oh, that would be a huge help. I’ll pay you in beer.”

“You don’t have to pay me anything. Not to make you feel inept or anything, but it really does only take about ten minutes.”

“Well, I’ll still give you beer. And I can show you my house.”

“I’d love that.”