Claire's Great Adventure

Chapter One

Claire's sixteenth birthday arrived without fanfare, just as she'd expected. It was, after all, a school day in late May, and with her Mom working late, a party was out of the question. Not that she wanted one, anyway; there was nothing to celebrate, she sighed, except the approaching end of the school year. That was the sole benefit of having a birthday in late May.

Her best friend Camden had remembered, of course, and slipped her a soft thin package wrapped in last Sunday's comics page. It was inventive of Camden, she thought as she fingered the slim rectangle, but it was also possible there was no wrapping paper in her family's cramped house. Claire knew it would be a homemade present, for Camden rarely had money; but she was very clever with needle and thread, Claire thought with a small pleasure, and maybe it's a coin purse.

Well, that's it, she sighed as she turned the corner to her street; this one little surprise. She already knew her Mom would buy her some practical item of clothing—a sweatshirt, or socks—and because she knew her Mom worked so hard to keep the roof over their heads, she would smile as if in surprise and delight to hide her disappointment.

If Mom repeats that idiotic "sweet sixteen and never been kissed," I swear I'll scream, Claire thought as she purposefully splashed through the puddles left by the day's Spring rain; how I loathe all that sappy romantic junk that I'm suddenly supposed to care about. Not that she didn't like a few of the boys, of course, but really, this obsession with having a b.f. was so incredibly small-minded.

Claire approached the front door of the modest row house and went over to inspect the spider family which had taken up residence in one of the blue shutters which faced the street. The tiny hatchlings were scurrying about the center of the lacey web, while the mom or dad spider—she could not tell which—was busy wrapping up a shiny fat fly which had become tangled in the web. Everyone has to eat something, Claire mused; without that fly, those babies might have starved.

Her mind switching to the burdensome task of finishing her biology paper, Claire absent-mindedly turned to the mailbox. Her Aunt May might have sent her a birthday card and twenty dollars, but then Mom always made her deposit the money in her miniscule college savings fund. As if twenty bucks is going to grow into twenty thousand in two years, she thought gloomily; they'll be no money for college, I already know that. Her Aunt May was her only relative; her father had a sister and brother, but she'd never met them, any more than she'd met her father.

He'd married her Mom out of a sort of gallantry, she'd supposed, and then tired of married life within a year. There was one photo of him holding Claire as a three-month old baby—a horrid, pasty little baby with hardly any hair, Claire recalled with dissatisfaction—and that was her only photo of her father. Her Mother had torn the rest to bits years ago, and it was not something Claire wanted to bring up in conversation. Nothing to be gained from that, she sighed as she opened the letterbox; she already knew her father was shiftless, conniving and might as well have horns and a forked tail like the Devil himself—at least in her Mom's eyes. And obviously he was irresponsible, for he'd never sent a dime to help her Mom pay the bills.

Claire withdrew the letters one at a time: a credit card offer, a bank statement, a flyer advertising an amazing bargain on a new muffler, and the expected card from Aunt May. Still, Claire consoled herself, it was nice getting a card, even if she couldn't spend the twenty dollars inside.

But there was also some sort of lumpy object in the bottom of the mailbox, and Claire wondered if one of the neighborhood boys had played some mischief. Reaching deep into the box, Claire gingerly pulled out a plump, unshapely lump of a mailing envelope. To her astonishment, it was addressed to her. She did not know the return address, nor recognize the strange scrawling handwriting, which read, "J. Prufrock Giddings, P.O. Box 19, Black Butte, Montana."

In a jumble of puzzled excitement, Claire opened the door, tossed the letters on the dining room table and retreated to her room. Carefully examining the package, she noted the postmark did not match the return address. While the sender lived in Montana, the package had been mailed three days before from Grand Central Station, New York. Odd, she thought, and then she could no longer stand the suspense. With a fast-beating heart she ripped open the padded envelope and slid the contents into her hand.

It was an unrecognizable lump, badly wrapped in newspaper, The International Herald Tribune, European Edition, she noted; this guy certainly gets around. Tearing off the newsprint, Claire found a brown lozenge-shaped jewelry case and a crumpled note written in neatly printed letters on light-blue paper:

"Dear Claire:

Your father instructed me to give you this ring and letter of instruction on your sixteenth birthday. Although you don't know me, I have known your father a long time, and would do anything for him. Please know that he does want to meet you, very much so, but he travels a lot and so it will take some effort to catch up with him. The enclosed bond will cover your initial expenses, but please don't hesitate to ask for more as you need it. My voicemail in Europe and email are written below. I am at your service— Most Sincerely, James P. Giddings"

"Dear CJ:

It is unforgivable how I have ignored you and your Mother all these years, and so I do not ask for forgiveness, as that would be too much to ask. However, I do ask to meet you, and by law you are now able to choose to see me, should you so wish.

I had this ring cast for you in Shanghai six years ago. I had to guess on the size, and hope that you are about the same size as your Mother. This ring has little value in terms of its silver content, but in certain places you will find it has great power. Wear it always when you travel, as it could protect you in ways nothing else will.

Here is a bond in your name, which any bank will convert to cash. Use the money only for travel, as it may be difficult for Jim to get you more should you run out. I am sure you are careful with money, just as your Mom is. Have the bank convert the cash into traveler's checks, which can be replaced if you lose them.

Lastly, as it is your birthday, use the enclosed money to treat yourself to something when you get to Paris. The Metro tickets are special; save them until you meet me. Please come as soon as you are out of school, and inform Jim of the arrival date. He will get in touch with me.

Your Father,

Winston"

Inside the case was another tightly folded bundle; Claire carefully opened it, and stared at the colorful blue-tinted twenty-euro notes. The five bills were dated four years ago, Claire noted, which means her father had probably assembled this package for her when she was twelve. And he'd had the ring made when she was just ten. He may be a bad father, she thought, but at least he's a careful planner.

Inside the notes lay a small thick rectangle of hard green paper bound with a rubber band—the Metro tickets. They were marked with small round logos, the words RATF, carnet, and "dans Paris." Though she hated French class above all others, she'd picked up enough to know "dans Paris" meant "inside Paris." Each ticket was hand-stamped with a name—Pigalle, Odeon, Michel-Ange Molitor being the first three—which Claire reckoned a quick Internet search would illuminate; and indeed, an answer came in seconds: Paris Metro stations. Was each ticket only valid at that station? The mystery of what made the small tickets special would have to wait, for she quickly moved her attention to the ring.

For this held even greater mysteries. First, it was thick and heavy, more a man's ring than a young woman's. It was deeply embossed with two Chinese characters in an oblong cartouche; entwined dragons slithered along each side, and on the front, in small letters, were her initials, CJ and her father's middle name, Chuan-Yee. With a thrill of anticipation, Claire slipped the ring onto her third finger, and with a small sense of deflation found it a little too tight. No matter, she decided; I'll wear it somehow.

Recalling that a person's dominant hand was always slightly larger, she tried the ring on her left hand and discovered it fit perfectly. With a flush of embarrassment she wondered, will anyone think this means I'm married? I shouldn't think so; it's too big, and silver, and hasn't any diamond. Probably, she reassured herself, no one will even notice.

Claire knew that she should be angry with her father for being such an irresponsible parent, but she could not replace her excitement with anger. Before today, her summer had stretched out in weary boredom: oboe lessons (her Mother insisted on her learning an instrument, and she'd purposefully picked the weirdest one offered), advanced math to boost her SAT score (not that we'll have any money for university anyway), and maybe, if she was lucky, a few outings with her Mom or Camden's family on the weekends. The rest of the time she would be alone, walking to the library in the vain hope they had some new books, or playing with the neighbor's kitten Jacks when he slipped over the fence between their tiny backyards.

But now—Paris! It was beyond imagination or hope. But then a pall of doom came over her, for Claire knew that her Mom would never, ever, ever allow her to jet off to Paris alone, and especially not to meet her father.

One last wad of paper remained, and Claire smoothed this last bit out on her knee. It was the bond, an official-looking document dated five years ago, carrying her full name Claire Jane Samson, and the momentous words, "five thousand dollars upon maturity."

Five thousand dollars, in her name. While Claire knew it wasn't much in the world at large, it was an unimaginable fortune to a girl of sixteen. Now all I have to do is figure out a way to get to Paris, she thought. The idea scared her, more than any idea she'd ever had before; but it also pleased her, and she thought determinedly, I have to convince Mom I'll be OK—but will I?

Chapter Two: Claire's Plan

Gripping the letter tightly in her hand, Claire went out to the townhouse's tiny fenced backyard and sat down on the small patch of grass. The afternoon sun was still high in the sky, and Claire chose a spot partially in the shade of the neighbor's bright-green acerola tree. It was this tree, of course, which Jacks the neighbor's cat climbed up to get over the fence into her yard. Jacks was just between being a kitten and an adult, almost as large as an adult but still very much a frisky, inquisitive black kitten with a white face and white paws. Claire rustled the letter purposefully, hoping Jacks would hear her and come to visit.

Ten minutes ago, Claire was unhappy with her Mom working late on her birthday; but now she was relieved that there was time to think about the letter before her Mom got home.

Her first idea was to become an exchange student to Paris, and then look up her father after she got there. But I'm one of the worst students in class, she thought with sudden frustration; Ms. Malfleur would never recommend me for an exchange. And how would I explain to Mom how I have the money to pay for it? If there's anything I know about being an exchange student, it's that it costs a lot.

Even if I was the best student, Claire sighed, it's too late to sign up for a program in June; that's only a week away, and that sort of thing is finalized in February.

Extending her hand into the sunlight, Claire turned her wrist so the heavy silver ring glinted brightly. And how will I explain this? she mused. I can't just show Mom this new ring without an explanation for where I got it. I'll say Camden gave it to my for my birthday, she thought; but then what if Mom asks Camden? And since Mom knows they're poor, she might wonder how Camden could buy such a nice ring for me. No, I had better hide it, Claire, decided, and she felt an immediate pang of conscience. It was wrong to hide anything from her Mom, she knew, but revealing the letter and ring would just cause her Mom's blood to boil.

Claire could already hear her Mom's heated lecture: "After ignoring you for 15 years, leaving me to scrape up a living, then suddenly your Father sees fit to give you a ring and five thousand dollars to visit him in Paris? That money is going in your college fund, Missy, and you can tell your Father to visit you here, thank you very much. You are not wasting that money galavanting off to Paris!"

It was a terrible thing to lie, Claire thought with much foreboding, but there is simply no way I can tell the truth; the best I can do is tell most of it.

But what part won't drive Mom crazy? she thought miserably. I can't even tell her I got this letter, because if I tell her about the letter then she'll want to read it. And I can't tell her about the ring or the money without revealing the letter, because how else would I know the ring and bond were from Father?

Claire's excitement vanished, as if the bright sun had been obscured by dark thunderclouds. Even if I lie, there's no way I can go, she thought gloomily.

Flying alone didn't bother her, of course; she'd loved the one time she'd flown to see Aunt May. The bustle of the airport, the glamour of wearing her best jade-green dress and gold-leaf pendant, and the small pleasures of looking out the window as the jet lifted heavily off the ground and then climbed quickly, like a huge bird suddenly freed of a great weight. How insignificant the city looked beneath her, and how ordinary... yes, of course she could fly alone to Paris, but what if her Father wasn't there to meet her?

The letter said nothing about how to contact him; suppose there was some miscommunication between this James Prufrock Giddings and Father? I might not even recognize him, she thought worriedly; and maybe he won't recognize me, either. Then I'd be alone in a strange city; that would be dreadful.

All of Claire's initial hope now collapsed in a heap, like a house of cards hit by a stiff breeze; there was no way to get her Mom's permission, and no way to know her Father would be waiting for her, even if her Mom unexpectedly let her go. But Mom would never let me go alone, Claire thought with a sour wrinkle of her nose; never, ever, ever.

All the awful things which could befall a girl of sixteen in a strange city filled her mind, and she shuddered at the thought of being kidnapped, or robbed, or forced into some sort of servitude because she couldn't understand what people were saying.

Mom will never understand, Claire felt with even greater dejection; to her, Dad will always be the Devil for abandoning us—but then she's always had a Dad, so she'll never understand what it feels like to never have had one. So he's a terrible person and a bad parent, Claire thought indignantly; but he's still my Dad, and I'd like to meet him to make up my own mind.

If only there were a way to get to Paris, she thought sadly; but there isn't one. Just as her shoulders slumped in complete defeat, a merry little bell rang out from the fence, and Jacks the cat eyed her curiously.

"Come down, Jacks," Claire said in a friendly voice.

With nothing better to do, Jacks dutifully scrabbled down the wood fence and then bounded over the grass to Claire's knee. Claire rubbed Jacks behind his ears, and as he began purring, Claire thought, How easy to be a cat, and how difficult to be sixteen.

I just have to tell someone about the letter, Claire thought; if I can't tell someone, I may just explode. Suddenly remembering Camden's gift wrapped in the Sunday comics, Claire arose quickly, startling poor Jacks, and went back into her room. Retrieving the gift from her backpack, she tore off the colored newsprint and revealed a turquoise-beaded coin purse. Wouldn't this be perfect for those folded Euro, she thought as she fingered the small blue-green purse and admired the beadwork; I have to tell Camden about the Euros.

But then I might as well tell her the whole thing, Claire thought, and it was as if the dark clouds had scudded away from the sun. I never knew something which sounds so wonderful could be such a burden, she thought as she darted to the phone; even something wonderful is a burden if it has to be a secret.

Camden answered, and Claire thanked her rather too quickly for the gift before saying, "Can you come over to my house? I mean right away?"

"Why?" Camden asked suspiciously. "Do you have Andy Sanchez there?"

Shaking her head in disbelief, Claire thought, Oh, sure; just because you have a crush on Andy Sanchez, you think I'm arranging a surprise meeting for you? If Camden wasn't such a good friend, Claire thought, I would be completely disgusted with such boy-crazy ideas. Maybe I am disgusted, she concluded, but there's no point in wishing Camden were different; she is boy-crazy, plain and simple.

"Not that exciting," Claire said sarcastically. "But I just got a letter that's a secret, I mean an absolutely massive secret, and I have to tell you—that is, if you promise, and I mean really promise, to keep it an absolute forever secret."

"Of course!" Camden gasped. "It's Rick Overstreet, isn't it? He wrote you a love letter, right?"

"That arrogant creep?" Claire sneered. "He wouldn't dare. No, it's something way beyond Rick Overstreet or anyone at school."

"You mean someone in college wrote you?" Camden said in a hushed voice. "Let me guess, don't tell me."

"No, numbskull, it's not even about boys."

"Oh," said Camden in a voice of terrible disappointment. "Then why not just tell me over the phone?"

"Because there's also a ring," she said quietly. "And more than that, too."

"A ring?" Camden whispered excitedly. "So it is about a guy! I'll be right over."

Before Claire could explain, Camden had hung up the phone and was halfway out the door.

What a dodo bird, Claire thought with rising annoyance; here I have something important and Camden thinks it's some dopey love letter from some dopey guy.

Claire had barely enough time to decide on a hiding place for the letter—Mom will never look in my old children's book about unicorns, Claire reckoned—when Camden's rapid knock sounded at the front door.

Claire opened the door and Camden burst in, demanding, "Show me the letter."

"Fine," Claire replied curtly. "Here it is."

Camden snatched the folded paper from Claire's hand and read it hungrily. Then her face fell and she handed the letter back with a disappointed shrug. "I didn't even know you had a father."

"Everybody has a father, " Claire snapped.

"You know what I mean," Camden said, and then she sighed. "I wonder if Paris is as great as everyone says." Glancing at Claire, she asked, "Do you think you'll really go?"

"I can't," Claire said in a tone of deep resignation. "My Mom wold never let me go alone, and never to see my Father."

"Why not?" Camden asked.

"You know, the usual reason in divorce," Claire murmured. "He's the Devil."

"Oh," Camden nodded meaningfully, ad then added, "Adults are so weird, aren't they? I mean, first they're wildly in love, and then they hate each other."

Camden gazed at Claire and said, as if thinking to herself, "If you can't go to see your Dad, then you'll have to go for some other reason... hey, what about a 'study abroad' program? Lots of people go on those."

"I thought of that, too," Claire replied coolly, "but it's too late. Plus I'm horrible at French."

Camden pulled a lock of her curly dark-brown hair down her shoulder and frowned with deep thought. "Hey," she said, suddenly brightening. "Who said it had to be a real study program?"

"You mean just make one up?" Claire asked caustically.

"Why not?" Camden said defiantly. "It's only a white lie, anyway. You'll certainly learn something while you're there. It's hardly a lie at all."

With a sour expression Claire said, "Sure. Just make up some bogus program out of thin air, and it's not a lie."

"Do you want to go or not?" Camden challenged her. "Because if you do, you'll have to find someone to go with you."

"Great," Claire sighed. "What adult would go along with such a ditzy plan?"

"Who said it had to be an adult?" Camden said incredulously, as if Claire were a five year-old, and a rather stupid one at that.

"You mean you'll go with me?" Claire asked hopefully.

"Me?" Camden said quickly. "No way. I don't have any money, and I'm taking Spanish."

"I'd pay your way," Claire said enticingly. "You saw the letter. I have $5,000."

Camden released the lock of curly dark hair and said, "I don't think so... my parents would never let me go, either." Camden's fear was evident, and Claire wished she could somehow convince her. Before she could stop herself, Claire blurted out, "There'll be boys, you know. Tons of them. French, Spanish, Italian...."

Camden eyed her suspiciously. "You're just saying that, right, to get me to go with you?"

Claire shrugged indifferently. "Fine, don't go." Then she turned away and gazed with a hard expression on the sunny little backyard. "It's no use. I can't go, either. I need a reason and some adult to go with."

"Don't you have an aunt or something?" Camden asked.

"Yeah, but she's kind of ditzy, " Claire replied. "I don't think she'd understand."

"Ditzy?" Camden said with renewed excitement. "That's perfect! Maybe she'll believe you if you tell her about the bogus study program."

"Uh-huh," Camden said skeptically. "As if anyone would fall for some fake program. And how did I get the money to go?"

"A scholarship," Camden answered quickly.

"The worst student in class?"

"The one who needs it most," Camden said. "Look, there's no harm in asking your aunt, is there?"

"I guess not," Claire said with a worried expression. "But I've never lied before, and I'll probably be horrible at it."

"Just say it quickly, like you're all excited," Camden counseled. Seeing that Claire was silent, Camden said quietly, "It's really OK if you don't want to go. You're not obligated or anything."

But I want to go!" Claire insisted.

"Then you'll have to ask your aunt," Camden declared.

Claire turned to her friend and asked, "But will you go with me?"

"What, to protect you from your aunt?" Claire said mockingly.

"Yes," Claire answered. "I need someone I can trust."

Camden's mocking expression softened and she said with a hint of reluctance, "If your aunt goes for the phony scholarship and study program, then OK, I'll go—if my parents fall for the same dumb story, too, of course."

"Your parents are always working," Claire said, "Just like my Mom. They're too busy to think about it much, and as long as my aunt will be with us...."

Camden gave Claire a worried look. "Your aunt isn't one of those horrid old ladies who smells like lavender and talks every second, is she?"

"Not at all," Claire reassured her. "She's more like an old blue jeans hippie."

Camden paused. "Are you really, really ready to do this?"

"Yes," said Claire resolutely, but inside a flutter of fear raced through her.

Chapter 3: Aunt May's Dilemma

Claire continued looking out at the yard, for Jacks was scampering around with an invisible playmate; Claire couldn't tell if he was simply chasing his tail or if there was some wary insect he'd found for a temporary playmate.

Without looking at Camden, she said, "It's a terrible thing to lie, isn't it?"

"We're only doing it because we have to," Camden said, "because it's important to see your Dad."

"Is that really true?" Claire asked in a weak voice.

"Of course it is," Camden replied confidently. "What if your father gets killed on a motorcycle next month, and because you told the truth, then you'd never see him at all?"

Surprised, Claire asked, "What makes you think my father rides a motorcycle?"

"I dunno," Camden replied hazily. "He must make some money, and he must spend it on stuff other than you."

Claire turned accusingly to her friend and said, "You make him sound like a modern-day pirate."

"Maybe he is," Camden said. "I mean, he doesn't write you for 15 years. Doesn't that sound like what a pirate would do?"

"A pirate would never write at all," Claire said stiffly.

"You don't know that," Camden insisted. "Even pirates have feelings—especially when they get older."

"How did you become such an expert on pirates?" Claire asked caustically.

"Don't you remember that report I did last year?" Camden said with a theatrical wave of her arms. "It had everything: maps, the pirate who was actually a lady, the Pirate's Code of Honor, even a part on modern pirates. I got an A."

"Are there modern pirates?" Claire asked in a skeptical voice.

Camden widened her eyes in disbelief. "Of course there are. There's always been pirates. Only now they steal freighters and hold up oil tankers."

"Even pirates have gotten boring," Claire commented. "They should at least blow up a tanker every once in a while."

"Right," Camden sniffed. "And poison all the birds and fish for a hundred miles. Even pirates wouldn't be that stupid."

The two friends fell silent, and watched Jacks pounce on an invisible prey before dashing across the grass to the wooden fence, which he climbed in a mad scramble of black-and-white fur. Once on the top, he glanced at them one last time and then disappeared into his own yard.

Camden turned to Claire with solemn eyes and hesitated before speaking. "What kind of person is your Father?"

"I don't know," Claire answered uncertainly. "Even if he's as bad as my Mom says he is, he hasn't hurt anyone—I mean directly. He's just irresponsible."

"That's bad enough," Camden replied curtly. "I sure would hate to be married to someone who's living the plush life in Paris while I'm slaving away here."

"Maybe he's a starving artist or something," Claire said hopefully.

Camden paused and then looked away. "Maybe he's just a bum, like your Mom says."

"No one knows what he's like now," Claire protested.

"Just don't get starry-eyed," Camden admonished her. "I mean, what kind of Dad waits 15 years to write his daughter?"

Starry-eyed, huh, thought Claire angrily. She wanted to say, 'That's clever, coming from somebody who melts like Jello whenever Andy Sanchez walks by,' but she held her tongue because it was an unfair cut. Camden couldn't help being ga-ga over Andy Sanchez, Claire reminded herself; but why can't anyone understand that I hope my father's not a bum?

Sensing her friend's hurt, Camden quickly changed subjects and said briskly, "When does your aunt get off work?"

Claire glanced at the tall, dark-wood grandfather clock in the corner of the living room and said uncertainly, "I think an hour ago. Her job ends early."

Camden turned toward the front door and said, "You better get it over with."

"Wait," Claire said quickly. Camden paused, and Claire asked in a small voice, "Could you stay for just a couple minutes longer?"

Both girls knew what Claire was asking for—moral support for the difficult phone call, and Camden reluctantly nodded in agreement.

Feeling like she was about to be sentenced to some sort of unpleasant doom, Claire picked up the phone and hit the button to dial Aunt May's number. Gripping the phone tensely to her ear, Claire half-hoped her aunt wouldn't be home. After four rings, each seemingly longer then the last one, her Aunt suddenly answered.

"Why Claire, how nice to hear from you," she said warmly. "I saw your number on caller I.D. and wondered if you'd received my card."

Claire had completely forgotten about her aunt's birthday card, and she rushed to the table to hastily rip it open. "Thank you so much," Claire gushed as the $20 bill fluttered from the half-open card. "Mom will make me put the $20 in my college fund, of course...." her voice trailed off and her Aunt clucked her tongue in disapproval.

"That's for you to spend on a birthday present for yourself," she said reprovingly.

Camden moved in front of Claire and waved her arms in a "get moving" gesture of impatience.

Claire closed her eyes to steel herself, and then tried to launch the story about a scholarship for a summer study program in Paris.

"You know, Aunt May, speaking of college...." she started, and then froze. Opening her eyes, she found Camden facing her with an intense expression of expectation. Turning away from her friend, Claire formed the story in her mind and began to speak.

But it wasn't the story that came out of her mouth; it was the truth. She told her aunt about the letter from her Father's friend and the $5,000, and the instructions to come to Paris to see her father. Aunt May was silent after Claire's rushed explanation, and then Claire pushed ahead to the hard part.

"I was hoping you'd come with me and my friend Camden," she said hesitantly. "Then maybe Mom would let me go."

"I see," said Aunt May carefully. "Hmm, this will take a little thought."

Relieved that she hadn't said "no", Claire turned to Camden, who was gesticulating wildly in protest at Claire's rejection of their concocted story, and motioned her to calm down.

"You know the problem is Mom," Claire said.

"No," responded May acerbically, "the problem is your Father. Why couldn't he offer you $5,000 for your college fund, and come visit you like a normal person?"

"Maybe he can't," Claire said forcefully. "Maybe this is the only way I'll ever get to see him."

In a voice which sounded like she would never change her mind, Aunt May said, "Then you'll have to wait until you're 22 and out of college."

She might as well say 82, thought Claire bitterly; six years was so long away, it couldn't even be imagined.

"What if he's killed in a motorcycle accident next month?" Claire protested. At this, Camden covered her mouth and stifled a laugh, and Claire tried to kick her.

Aunt May's voice softened and she asked, "How do you know he rides a motorcycle?"

"Just a guess," replied Claire. "He has to spend his money on something."

"If he has any," said May sarcastically.

"Well, there's this $5,000 bond," Claire said defensively.

"Yes, and that has go directly into your college fund. You can spend the $20 I sent you on anything you want."

With great bitterness Claire said, "It's because of Mom, isn't it?"

Aunt May paused for a moment before saying, "You know he left her with a baby to raise and a big debt to pay off. Your father was a scoundrel, I am sorry to say, but there is no other way to say it."

Claire was silent, for she'd never heard about the big debt. Aunt May waited for her response, and when Claire said nothing, May added softly, "But people do change, and perhaps your father has finally grown up, just as you're turning a grown-up sixteen."

"Then you'll go with me?" Claire asked hopefully.

"I can't in good conscience help you waste $5,000, which would pay for at least one year of college if you live at home," May said in a very adult tone of voice. "It wasn't so expensive in our day...."

Claire imagined May with long jet-black hair and wearing torn blue jeans and a tie-die haltertop, holding a protest sign and chanting at neatly dressed college administrators in navy-blue suits and thick-rimmed glasses.

"It sounded like it was more fun in your day, too," Claire said, and then instantly regretted saying it. Oh no, Claire thought with suppressed horror; now she's going to repeat one of those stories about dedicated activists and demonstrations.

The only story she liked was the one about building a replica of a tiger-cage torture cell in front of the Federal Building to protest some evil foreign government, and everyone in May's group taking turns living inside it for a day; at least that sounded interesting.

The problem, Claire had decided, was Aunt May's work. All day long she wore headphones and sat at a computer, typing the stories that people had recorded when they were old. It wasn't bad to keep the stories, of course, because many were one-of-a-kind, but Claire reckoned that listening to the past all day had made her aunt live in the past, too.

Buy May surprised her by saying, "Maybe so, but we need to focus on your problem. I'm afraid we'll just have to write your Father and insist he visit you here. You simply can't sacrifice a year at university just to see your Father. If he's grown up even the tiniest bit, he'll understand that."

Claire wished, with a great bitter disappointment, that she'd tried the overseas study lie instead of the truth; maybe Aunt May would have fallen for it, and she could have gone. Now there was no hope.

"Thanks for the card, anyway," Claire said listlessly, and then hung up the phone.

"What a dope!" shouted Camden. "What did you think she was going to say?"

"And what was I going to say when she asked to speak to the program director, or asked where we were staying, or how long we'd be in class everyday? Huh?"

Camden fell silent, and then asked in a small voice, "Will you get to spend any of the five grand?"

"No," muttered Claire. "Every cent has to go into my stupid college fund."

Claire sat down in the kitchen table chair, utterly defeated in spirit, and Camden sat down across from her.

"If only one person could understand how I feel," Claire said miserably. "But only someone who's never had a dad could possibly understand."

"I can," Camden said, but Claire knew her friend couldn't really understand. Still, it was nice of her to say so.

"Your line about my Dad maybe getting killed on a motorcycle is the only thing which almost convinced her," Claire said with a sly smile. "That was the best idea yet."

"Sorry it didn't work," Camden said sheepishly. "Well, I better go home. I have to finish this dumb report on Neanderthals."

"You can start with my Aunt May," Claire said sardonically, and Camden laughed. It was so unfair, but neither could stop laughing.

Camden left and Claire returned to her room in a state of deep gloom. I might as well get it over with, she told herself miserably. Turning on her hand-me-down computer—the printer always balked just when she needed to print a book report—Claire retrieved the letter from James Prufrock Giddings and typed in his email address:

Dear Mr. Giddings:

Thank you very much for the letter and the ring from my Father. Unfortunately, I cannot use the money you sent to visit my Father in Paris. It has to go into my college fund, which currently has—

—$123.67. I feel bad that I won't be able to visit Paris, but there's nothing I can do about it. My Mom and aunt feel very strongly that I need the money for college. Please explain this to my Father.

Yours truly,

Claire

I can't do it, she thought; I can't act cheerful, but then I can't tell her why I'm so depressed, either. There's never anyone to share the disappointments with, is there?

Her unremitting misery was interrupted by the beep of an incoming email, and Claire eased off her bed to look at the message. Probably a happy birthday card from a friend at school, she told herself; nothing could cheer me up now.

To her surprise, it was an email reply from J. Prufrock Giddings.

Dear Claire:

I understand your dilemma, and your Mother and Aunt are perfectly correct. I apologize for being so blind. Of course you must go to university, and $123.67 will buy little more than a book or two and a pad of notepaper. Here is my solution to the problem. If you go to Paris to visit your Father, I will send you $10,000 for your college fund. Your Mother and Aunt will surely see the wisdom of letting you go. If you don't go, I cannot give you the money, because you didn't do anything for me. Please explain this to them, and notify me of the results. Time is of the essence, and we cannot afford to dally over a mere $5,000.

Sincerely yours,

J. Prufrock Giddings

P.S. please find attached a brokerage statement, which I offer as proof that I can indeed send you the $10,000 immediately upon your return home from Paris.

Now what do you think? Claire.

Let me re-think this. Where there's a will, there's a way. May.

Chapter 4: Aunt May's Plan

Claire's mind raced with possibilities: what did Aunt May mean by "If there's a will, there's a way?" Did that mean she had a plan to get Mom's approval? But how could slightly ditzy Aunt May come up with a better plan than Camden and me? Maybe, Claire reckoned, Aunt May would simply tell Mom she was going on vacation to Paris and she wanted to take me with her. How she would explain taking Camden, Claire couldn't guess, but her Mom could hardly complain about that.

Meanwhile, I have to figure out a good place to hide this ring and the letters, Claire thought; she didn't like having to hide them, but she didn't want her Mom to get angry and take them away from her, either. Claire had read that the best way to hide something was to put it in plain sight, and so she slipped the ring off and nestled it into the jumble of beads, pins, marbles and foreign coins she kept in an old wooden cigar box. Mom will never look in here, she thought with some satisfaction, and if she did spot the ring, I'll say it's some old thing I found.

Of course, I'll have to hope Mom doesn't see my initials on it, Claire thought, and a new anxiety came over her. It was dreadful to have a secret, even one as small and insignificant as this ring; but if I show Mom the ring and said, "look what Father sent me," that would be like setting off a bomb.

With a deep sigh, Claire unzipped her backpack and removed her biology textbook and notes. I still have to finish this report on nematodes, she told herself grimly. What horrid little creature they are; I know they're useful, but why couldn't the assignment be about owls or stingrays or giant squid?

Try as she might, Claire could not concentrate on nematode worms, and she thought, It was wrong of me to make fun of Aunt May; she doesn't have any children, or husband, and so she can't possibly understand what I feel.

At that moment her computer beeped, and Claire turned to open the incoming email. It was from Aunt May, and Claire was surprised by its length; her aunt had never written her more than a few lines.

Dear Claire:

I am having a very difficult time deciding what to do about Paris and your Father. I believe it is your right to see your Father, and somehow he has arranged to send you the money for the trip. . . but I think it would be better to postpone seeing him until you are older and stronger. . . until after you graduate from college.

But you are sixteen now, and no one can make the decision for you. We can try to persuade you, but it is still your decision.

So I have decided to tell you the truth about your Father. If you still want to see him now, I will fly in this weekend and try to convince your Mom that it will be OK because I will accompany you. She will not like it, but I hope she will trust us—both of us—that we are not making a foolish decision.

The most important thing you must know about your father is that he is what we call a con man. This does not mean he is a crook, or steals from people. . . it means that he takes advantage of people who want to believe something very badly.

I know you know about boys, about how some will try to impress you, or tell you how pretty you are, in the hopes you will let them kiss and touch you. . .

I haven't seen your father in 15 years, but back then he was quite good-looking and very charming. When he focused his attention on a girl, he could make her feel very special and very good about herself. Then, because the girl didn't want to lose this good feeling about herself, she would go along with what he wanted, even if she wasn't sure it was a good idea.

You see, Claire, there are two kinds of men in the world, and two kinds of women. I know you are very clever, and will think this simplistic, but it is true nonetheless. One kind of man is not good, because he tries to convince people to do things for him through tricks, lies and half-truths which he twists to his advantage. He will take advantage of women, and men, who want someone else to make them feel good.

The other kind of man is good, because he never wants a woman, or another man, to do anything that isn't in their best interests. He wants them to decide for themselves.

One kind of woman falls for the bad men, because she doesn't feel good just being herself; so when this con man tells her how special she is, then she comes to believe she needs this man to feel good. Then, she does whatever he wants. She thinks she is falling in love, but love never forces someone to do something they don't want to.

I am afraid your Mother was this kind of woman, and so she fell very easily for your father. When he wanted her to get married, she said yes, even though she had doubts, because she wanted to keep him.

The other kind of woman is like me, women who see that the con men are as phony as three-dollar bills, and are never to be trusted. It's not that men like your father lie. . . though many do . . . it's that they believe a lie so much that they convince other weak-minded people that it is true.

We don't pick our parents like we do our friends, of course, and so you cannot change that your father is a scam artist and not to be trusted. He is what he is, and you must accept that about him. Your Mother is still very bitter because he promised her a life together, with happiness and children and everything he believed in at that moment. But when he stopped believing, then he left her with all the hard parts of life . . . making money, and raising you.

So you must understand that your Mom will worry, more than you can ever imagine, that your father has now appeared just as you turn sixteen to convince you of some wonderful-sounding fantasy about himself. . . and that you will believe him, like she did, and your life will be ruined.

I am sorry the truth is unpleasant, but you must know it before you decide, and be ready for what your father really is. That is why I must come with you, because your father doesn't fool me, and he never will.

Send me your decision. If it is 'yes,' I will see you this weekend.

love,

Aunt May

And most important, she thought with a glow of hope, I have an ally now—Aunt May. Even if Aunt May did talk down to her, as if she were thirteen and not sixteen, everything she'd said made sense. After all, she thought with a grimace of disgust, if Andy Sanchez told Camden to jump off a cliff, Camden would be the happiest girl in the world just because Andy Sanchez asked her to do something, even something as stupid as jumping off a cliff.

It didn't take Claire any time at all to make her decision. She quickly wrote:

Dear Aunt May:

Thank you for telling me everything. I do want to meet my father now, because if it is true that he is a con artist, I want to know that for myself, and not spend six years wondering about it.

Thank you for coming with me!!

luv,

Claire

With great difficulty, Claire greeted her Mom when she came home from work, and acted pleased with the thick-crust three-cheese pizza Mom brought for dinner—actually, Claire was very pleased with that—and the bright yellow dress her Mom had bought for her birthday.

It had black trim and short sleeves, and looked rather flamboyant to Claire; but Claire reckoned it was her Mom's way of saying, you're sixteen now, and it's OK to be a little flamboyant sometimes. "Boys will look at you, you know," Claire's Mom said with a teasing grin. "Maybe you shouldn't wear it."

"Oh, Mom," Claire protested, and she reddened in an embarrassed blush.

"But then they're already looking at you, aren't they?" her Mom said with an uneasy smile; for though Claire thought herself average looking at best, her Mom knew she was very pretty. Then she gave Claire a brief hug and said, "My adorable little girl, already sixteen—sweet sixteen and never been kissed."

"Mom, that is so incredibly hokey," Claire protested, and her Mom laughed good-naturedly. "I know, but I can't resist. It's the only time I'll ever get to say it."

For some reason her words made Claire feel sad, and the thought of hurting her Mom by going to Paris made her even sadder. At the prospect of hurting her Mom, Claire thought, maybe I shouldn't go; maybe Aunt May is right, and I should wait until I'm out of college; then Mom wouldn't even have to know. But six years seemed like an entire lifetime, and Claire could not be happy with such a long wait. Plus, I'll get $10,000 for college instead of only $5,000, she reminded herself; it would be stupid of Mom to refuse the extra $5,000.

Claire kept silent all Thursday and Friday, even after her Mom announced, with some puzzlement, that her sister would be visiting them this weekend. "She said it was to celebrate your birthday," Claire's Mom said, "but she's never been that interested in your birthdays before. It's an awfully long way to fly, just for that."

Her Mom always thought of the cost, Claire knew, and it seemed like a waste of money to her. With a sense of foreboding, Claire wondered how furious she would be at the horrendous cost of going to Paris.

Using every shred of her willpower, Claire finished the report on nematodes, and even worked hard to master the horrible irregular verbs in French class. As she struggled with faire—this makes no sense, she fumed—she wondered, why isn't this easier for me? After all, I'm one-eighth French; but then I'm also Chinese, Hawaiian and Scottish, she added, and I don't think I'd be any good at Chinese or Hawaiian, either.

Friday after school, Claire brought Camden into her room and let her read the email from Aunt May.

"Your father sounds like a complete and total jerk," she commented, and Claire sighed. "So he is," said Claire. "Duh. But at least we'll get to see something other than the dumb library and smelly pool this summer."

"Your aunt doesn't mention me," Camden noted in a slightly hurt voice. "Maybe I'm not going."

"She didn't mention you because the hard part is getting my Mom to agree," Claire reassured her.

"Your aunt sounds like one tough cookie," Camden said as Claire closed the email. "I thought you said she was ditzy."

"That's what I thought," Claire said with a shrug. "All she ever talked about before were the old peoples' stories she listens to at work."

"Do you think she ever had a boyfriend?" Camden asked hesitantly.

"Of course, dummy," Claire said. "She hung out with radicals, guys who believed in great causes. For all I know, she has a boyfriend now."

"Wouldn't you know about him?" Camden asked.

"Maybe not," Claire said. "Maybe she keeps him a secret."

Camden puzzled over this possibility for a moment and then brightened. "If I had a radical for a boyfriend, I would definitely keep him a secret."

"I would be proud of him," said Claire stiffly. "After all, he believes in something, and is trying to change the world for the better."

Camden looked at her with a raised eyebrow, and just shrugged. "Then why does she keep him a secret?"

"I don't even know if she has a boyfriend," Claire snapped in frustration. "How we got on such a dumb topic, I don't know."

Camden shrugged again, and the two friends fell silent.

Aunt May arrived Saturday morning about eleven. She carried one small bag, and even it looked too big for her wispy arms and slight frame. Her long black hair was streaked with strands of gray, but her face glowed with youthful purpose. She strode right in as if it were her own house and quickly took over the living room sofa as her bed and the coffee table as her nightstand.

After the initial hugs of greeting, she asked Claire straightaway, "Now then, what does it feel like to be sixteen?"

"Like being fifteen," Claire answered, and then thought, only worse. Thinking of the coming battle with her Mom, she sighed to herself, Much worse.

Claire hoped the weekend would proceed easily before Aunt May brought up the letter, but that hope was dashed when May said, "Well, it's about to be very different from fifteen. Now bring me the letter."

All the blood drained from Claire's body and with a terrible sense of dread she retrieved the letter from the book about unicorns and handed it to her aunt. Her Mom frowned in perplexity, and Aunt May turned to speak to her directly.

"Maggy," May said, "we have something important to discuss." As her Mom looked at her, Claire wished vainly that she was somewhere else, anywhere else.

Chapter Five: Camden's Crisis

Claire's Mom frowned at both May and Claire, and as Claire cringed, Aunt May forged straight ahead.

"Claire received this letter last week from her father," May said. "Read it."

Claire held her breath as her Mom read the two letters, the one from James Prufrock Giddings, and the note from her father. As Claire expected, her Mom's expression turned from a frown to throbbing anger.

But instead of yelling, as Claire expected, her Mom started pacing the kitchen floor. "This is so like him," she muttered, as if to herself. "He waits until Claire is sixteen, and the springs this on her. Paris! Hah!"

As her Mom paced back and forth in the narrow kitchen, Aunt May began speaking more forcefully.

"It's her right to see him," May said.

"I know, I know," Claire's Mom replied with a gesture of annoyance. "That's why he waited until now."

"I told her he's a con artist and a scoundrel," May continued.

Claire's Mom stopped pacing for a few seconds and turned to her sister. "Oh did you? Hah! Now she wants to meet him even more." She turned accusingly to Claire and snapped, "Don't you?"

Claire remained frozen in fear, and her Mom resumed pacing. "You don't have to say anything, I already know the answer is 'yes'—because that's just what I would have thought."

Again Claire's Mom spoke as if Claire weren't even in the room. "Oh, yes, it's her right. And she's stubborn, so she'll go no matter what I say. I know, because she got the stubbornness from me."

Aunt May gamely continued her speech. "Look on the bright side, Maggy. This friend of Winston's will give $10,000 for Claire's college."

"Hah!" blurted Claire's Mom. "You don't trust him, do you? How do we know he won't renege once she's back home?"

"Well of course I'll demand that he send the money to my attorney in an escrow account," May said defensively. "Of course I don't trust him. If he doesn't send the 10,000 smackers, then the deal's off. But I think he will."

"You do, do you?" fumed Claire's Mom. "He's made you into an ally. Oh, how he excels at this sort of thing!"

Claire watched her Mom pace, and felt the sinking feeling of defeat.

"Oh, go on," her Mom said with a huge, sad sigh. "Nothing I say will change your mind."

Claire knew this was true—nothing her Mom said could ever change her mind—and so she felt bad rather than happy at her Mom's grudging permission.

"I'm going with her," May said rather brightly, and Claire's Mom turned to the sink and began running the water, as if to do the dishes.

As Claire watched, her Mom's head drooped and her shoulder shuddered; and Claire realized she was sobbing. Rushing to her Mom's side, Claire tried to comfort her. "Don't worry, Mom. I'll be OK. Aunt May will be with me."

Her Mom tried to hold back her tears but failed. "I know," she sobbed in a small voice that wrenched Claire's heart. "It's just that . . . he once wanted me to go to Paris, but after all these years. . . and I'll never get to go."

"That's not true!" Claire protested. "I'm sure you'll go one day."

"No, honey," Claire's Mom said between sniffles, "I have to work. Your father gets to lounge around Paris, but I have to work."

Claire hugged her Mom, but it didn't seem to help. "Don't worry, Mom. I'll take you to Paris—someday."

"No," her Mom said softly and with great bitterness. "He's taking you away from me. That's been his plan all along."

Even though Claire still wanted to meet her Dad, she could not help hating him, too, for hurting her Mom so much.

"Mom, I'm sixteen now. No one's taking me anywhere. I just want to meet my father, scoundrel though he is, and then I'll come back and do the usual stuff I do every summer." Ugh, she added to herself; babysit Mrs. Lawrence's bratty kid and weed the Higashi's flower beds for a little money, and then spend the rest of the time alone. How I wish I had a sister; Camden is so lucky.

"I want to take Camden, too," Claire announced in a quavering voice.

"That's up to her parents," Claire's Mom said in a resigned voice.

Claire's Mom stood at the sink, wiping tears from her eyes, and both Claire and Aunt May looked on helplessly.

"What if Winston got killed on a motorcycle next month?" May asked. "We'd all regret not letting Claire meet him at least once."

Claire's Mom sniffed back her tears and turned around. "What makes you think he has a motorcycle?"

"Just a guess," May replied uncertainly. "But the point is, now is as good a time as any. He is her father, after all."

"Yes," Claire's Mom sighed, "he is."

With that settled, Claire's spirits lifted. She hated to see her Mom so upset, but there was no way around that. When she was alone with Aunt May that night, she told her, "Thank you for . . . um, you know, leading the battle."

Aunt May winced at the praise. "I wish it was for a better cause, but it's something that you need to do, and I'm the one to see it through."

Later that night, Claire called Camden and breathlessly announced, "All systems are go!"

Camden sounded less thrilled than Claire expected, and she said accusingly, "You're not backing out, are you?"

"Not at all," replied Camden in a low voice. "But don't you think I should meet your Aunt May before we just trot off with her?"

"Good idea," Claire said, and then translated it into French for the practise. "Bonne idee. How about I bring her over tomorrow afternoon? It's Sunday, so your parents can meet her, too."

Camden's parents had always made Claire nervous, because they seemed so reserved. Her father was a big man, perhaps six-foot, five-inches tall, and with a dour expression and black-rimmed glasses, he towered over the two girls like a frowning god. He worked in a plumbing supply shop, selling toilets and sinks, Claire reckoned, although who would want to buy anything from someone who scared you as soon as they stood up?

Claire's Mom was normal-sized, and worked in a department store, but she too worried Claire, for her smile did not seem genuine. Claire wondered if perhaps they didn't like her. Maybe they don't like me, she'd thought more than once, because I don't have a father; perhaps they think I won't turn out right.

Camden's Mom kept her hair in a neat bun, and always wore makeup; she has to look nice for the customers, Claire thought, and maybe her prim smile is the same one she has to use at work. Still, Claire always felt tolerated rather than welcomed in their house, even though she always thanked the parents profusely whenever they invited her to join them on a weekend outing.

Claire's younger brother was a bother, but only just so; he mostly played with his toy rockets and built elaborate models of ships and airplanes. Her older sister lived in another world; she already had a part-time job after school, and a boyfriend, and a terribly serious view of romance. She seemed 28 rather than 18, and Claire was somewhat in awe of her adult status. She seemed uninterested in college, as if she were already too old for that humdrum sort of student life.

But still, she was always nice to Claire, and had often given her sparkly lavender or pink nail polish from the shop where she worked.

Claire entered their small house with some trepidation, for her instinct told her that Camden's parents wouldn't approve of Aunt May. For one thing, she was simply too small; she seemed like a child compared to Camden's Dad.

Camden was also visibly nervous, and as the adults sat down, she tried rather too hard to be a good hostess. "Tea? Coffee? Diet Coke? Some water?" The three adults politely refused, and Camden sat down miserably beside Claire.

After a few moments of the usual adult chitchat—they always asked about one's job, as if that was the only important thing in one's life—Camden's father cleared his throat with a great rumble and said in a gruff voice, "While it sounds like a nice idea, I can't say I approve of Camden going off to Paris with you. It's worrisome, and I don't like it."

"Why it's perfectly natural," countered Aunt May. "Millions of people go there every year from towns just like this one."

"Yes, well, they're older," chimed in Camden's Mom. "We think sixteen is just a bit too young."

"There won't be another chance," said Aunt May with a hint of annoyance. "This is her one opportunity."

"There'll always be another one," replied the father, and he looked so sternly at Aunt May that Claire wondered how she could avoid wilting.

"Yes, well, I understand how this is all rather sudden," said May diplomatically.

"Our minds are made up," Camden's father said. "We're sorry—" Claire thought him not at all sorry—"But that's that."

Camden burst into tears and ran to the room she shared with her sister, and Claire sat frozen in an anger darkened by great disappointment. How could her parents be so stupid? she thought as she glared at them. Just because they never go anywhere, and never will, then they won't let Camden go.

Aunt May shooed Claire off to comfort Camden, and as the two girls huddled just out of sight in the doorway of Camden's bedroom, they listened with astonished glee as Aunt May tore into the parents.

"It's awfully nice of you to think of Camden," she began. "And how many girls get invited to visit Europe, all expenses paid? Do you know any?"

Camden's parents were silent, and May continued her attack.

"I see. And are the girls going off on some half-organized student exchange trip? No! They're going with an adult who will keep an eye on them every minute. Yes-siree, I will protect them like they were my own daughters."

The thought of being Aunt May's daughters made the girls snicker, but very quietly, because they were enthralled with the force of May's speech. "And exactly what is there to be worried about? I know the Paris Metro like the back of my hand. 'Ne mets pas les mains sur les portes, tu risques de te faire pincer tres forte.' You see?"

Camden's Mom looked uncertainly up at the towering, craggy face of her husband, and said, "I guess we were worried about her flying."

"Safer than a car," said May. "45,000 people die in car wrecks every year, and how many die flying to Paris? Zero. Would you rather she wanted a motorcycle instead?"

Camden's parents sat in stunned silence, and May clapped her hands together decisively. "Well, then, that's settled, then, isn't it? Camden will have the trip of a lifetime, and Claire will be a wonderful companion."

Chapter Six: Snags

Once they were safely outside on the sidewalk, Claire turned to her aunt and gave her a suspicious look. In a voice worthy of a clever lawyer in court, she asked, "Aunt May, do you really know the Metro like the back of your hand?"

Aunt May shifted uncomfortably. "Well, in a manner of speaking," she answered.

Continuing her interrogation, Claire asked accusingly, "Have you been to Paris?"

"Well, no," Aunt May replied, and her wavering voice had lost all the force she'd used just moments ago to browbeat Camden's dad.

"You mean you made that up?" asked Claire with a pained expression.

"It was just a white lie, dearie," said May huffily. "I've listened to so many people describe Paris, I do feel as if I have been there."

"But you haven't," declared Claire, and her dismay was very apparent.

"Would you rather I said nothing, and poor Camden couldn't go with us?" Aunt May asked.

Claire turned to her friend, expecting to see Camden smiling with happiness. But Camden stood quietly, and said in a small voice, "We will be OK, won't we?"

"Of course we will," said Aunt May reassuringly. "After all, Claire knows French now, don't you?"

At the thought that the trip depended on her wretched French, a lump of fear formed in Claire's throat, and she had to remind herself that the alternative was days of boredom shuttling between the library, babysitting and oboe lessons.

Her thoughts were interrupted by Camden's Mom calling through the front door screen, and Camden turned to go back inside. "See you Monday," Claire said, and Camden nodded as if she were being led to a dank prison cell.

Aunt May got in the driver's seat and started the car, and Claire, deep in thought, latched her seatbelt automatically. I want to go, Claire reassured herself. No—I have to go. Besides, she added, If I stay here, it'll probably take all summer just to get a tiny sound out of the oboe. What an idiot I was to choose such a complicated instrument; not only does it have dozens of keys, you have to blow just right. I should tell Mom I want to switch to mandolin.

The car braked to a stop at an intersection, and Claire suddenly remembered Aunt May did not know the way home. "Turn left," Claire instructed.

Unused to the standard-shift Toyota, Aunt May gunned the engine and released the clutch, jerking the car as if it were an amusement park ride.

Aunt May, who had seemed so competent and trustworthy a short time ago, sunk another notch in Claire's eyes, and she felt as if Camden's doubts were seeping into her mind as well.

Bracing herself to face her Mom's unhappiness, Claire dashed straight into her room and left the door ajar so she could overhear the conversation between her Mom and Aunt May. Although they spoke too softly for Claire to make out the words, she could hear the bitterness and worry in her Mom's voice, and Aunt May's reassurances.

The next day, all three of them made an effort to act as if the trip to Paris weren't looming over them, and Claire fidgeted the entire day. There was so much to worry about; would this J. Prufrock Giddings actually send the $10,000 to May's attorney for safekeeping? Would her Mom change her mind? Would Camden melt into a scared lump of clay and back out? And most importantly, would Aunt May be up to the task of shepherding them through an unknown city to find her father?

The suspense was almost more than Claire could bear; despite her best efforts, she scored poorly on her final exams, for she was far too distracted by thoughts of meeting her father in Paris to remember the length of the Niger River or how to solve quadratic equations.

Great, she told herself in frustration; I finally get some money for college and then I can't even get in because my grades stink.

But she didn't have the $10,000—not yet. James Giddings didn't reply to Aunt May's email, and after three days, Claire's hope was dwindling. So he's a fraud after all, she sighed; I guess all my father's friends are shifty ne'er-do-wells, just like him.

So Claire expected the worst when she opened an email from Aunt May Friday afternoon. After dragging herself home from the last day of exams, she'd hoped for just such a message from Aunt May. But now, the suspense made her heart pound as if she were running a mile. Would it be the end of the dream-trip, or did J. Prufrock Giddings come through after all?

With sweat-tipped fingers Claire opened the email and held her breath.

Dear Claire:

It seems this J. Prufrock Giddings isn't a complete scalawag. A cashier's check for $10,000 arrived at my lawyer's office this afternoon, and I received an email from Mr. Giddings just now, apologizing profusely for the delay—something about having to be in London by Wednesday. In any event, we are at last "good to go." I have called a travel agent in your town and purchased the tickets for the three of us. Start packing!

Your Aunt May

An air of unreality hung over all her preparations; although she studied the guidebook from the library, and printed out descriptions of key points of interest from online guides to Paris, it did not seem real that she would actually be there herself in a few days. Me, in the footsteps of Hemingway, Picasso and Simone DeBouvoir; thumbing with glazed eyes through her French phrasebook, she wondered, if I actually try to say anything, will they understand me? Oh, how I wish I'd actually practiced in language lab!

Her small travel bag, always big enough before, now seemed absurdly tiny. For glamorous Paris, she had nothing but her new yellow dress; her Sunday Best dress for church was far too staid, and so she opted for blue jeans, a classic black skirt, one light sweater (for our late evenings out, she reckoned) and her four best blouses. And the silver ring, of course, safely tucked between the euro notes and Metro tickets folded in the little purse Camden had made for her birthday.

It seemed rather tatty to take a backpack rather than a tres chic little purse, but all the guides recommended a small backpack, and so Claire reluctantly emptied her tired old black school pack, worn by too many books and still stained from that stupid—but fun—food fight a month ago, and stuffed in everything which wouldn't fit in her small travel bag. But what if we're invited to a glamorous late-night soiree, and all I have is this cruddy old backpack? With that humiliation firmly in mind, Claire squeezed her shiny little purple—lavender, really—purse into the pack.

The purse was a $1 garage sale find, and Claire had never used it; too flashy for school, and well, too un-Claire-like for anywhere else. I've been saving it, Claire mused, for some moment of courageous abandon, a time when I didn't care what others thought, when I didn't have to be a cautious, dutiful daughter. If I can't find that moment in Paris, I never will.

I could always buy a purse in Paris, Claire mused, but with three of us, the $5,000 might just cover the airfares, meals and hotels; that leaves the 100 euros birthday money. That might pay for a dress, or a purse and a top; but in her secret heart of hearts what Claire fantasized buying was something no one would dream practical Claire desired: the sort of lacey, pricey, daring and yes, sexy underwear that the French and Italians excelled in. No, not the tarty pushup bras in the mail-order catalogs she and Camden had pored over when her sister wasn't around to snicker; the real thing, lingerie which was both comfortable and pleasingly daring.

The 100 Euros my Dad sent. Funny, I can't get used to idea of even having someone to call Dad, Claire thought; and he doesn't sound like the kind of man you'd want to call Dad, anyway.

The hardest part was tiptoeing around her Mom, trying not to let her excitement show. Of course Mom feels jealous, Claire explained to herself; Dad never took her anywhere, and now I get to go to Paris. Despite her wish to be understanding, she couldn't help thinking: but Mom has always had a Dad, so how can she understand what I feel?

Up until the very morning her Mom drove them two hours to the airport, Claire half-expected something to go wrong: for Camden to back out, for Aunt May to get sick, or for her Mom to change her mind. But none of those things happened, and instead Claire found herself in the security line with Camden and Aunt May, holding a ticket to Paris and the passport which her Mom had obtained for her when she was ten. I look like a little kid, she thought, wrinkling her nose at the photo in the shiny passport. If I get lost, everybody will be looking for this ten-year old kid instead of me.

The mystery was why her Mom had gone to the trouble of getting her a passport back then; Camden's Mom had rushed about, paying an extra fee and standing in line for hours to get Camden's navy blue passport in time for the flight. But Claire did not dare ask her Mom to explain the mystery; she had studiously avoided discussing the trip with her Mom.

Claire had carefully signed the passport and read all the fine print. It was all so terribly official: "The Secretary of State of the United States of America hereby requests..." And then, in the Tips for Travelers: "When traveling in disturbed or remote areas, register and keep in touch with the nearest U.S. Embassy or Consulate." Thank goodness we're going to a civilized place, Claire thought, and then she read the last tip: "Contact the U.S. consul if you get in trouble."

With that official reassurance ringing in her mind, Claire shuffled forward and placed her little purple purse—her five new 20-euro notes and the ring were nestled inside Camden's coin purse inside—on the security machine's beltway, hoping the heavy silver ring wouldn't trigger some security alarm.

It didn't, and Claire slipped it onto her ring finger while walking to the gate, remembering her father's admonishment to wear it always. As they waited in the gate—Camden swaying to the private music in her headphones, and Claire desperately studying her French phrasebook—Aunt May touched Claire's shoulder and handed her a new mobile phone.

"Your Mom and I think you need your own phone, just so we'll never lose each other."

Camden grabbed the device as if it were edible and she was near starvation, and Aunt May went on as Camden flipped open the cover and began scrolling through menus. "I activated mine to work in Europe as well."

Claire's impression of May's technical abilities went up a notch, and then she hoped the phone wouldn't become a stone round her neck, which is exactly what it would be if her mother worriedly pestered her with daily phone calls. As a result, Claire was actually relieved by Camden's enthusiasm for the phone, and said, "Camden can carry it."

"Really?" Camden asked, as if permission to open a present two days before Christmas had just been granted.

Aunt May frowned disapprovingly, but Claire said, "We'll be together all the time, so it doesn't matter who carries it." This seemed to satisfy her aunt, and Claire turned back to her phrasebook, thinking, I hate being pestered by calls, especially in the middle of probably the only adventure I'll ever get.

Once in their seats—Camden and her on the window side of the aircraft, Aunt May in the aisle seat across from them—Claire's thoughts returned to the tearful hug her Mom gave her outside the security checkpoint—she never knew her Mother was that strong— and her Mom's parting comment to Aunt May: "Bring my baby back safely."

While she wasn't a baby any more, Claire knew what her Mom meant: that she was worried her Dad would somehow snare her into staying in Paris. What would be so horrible with that? she wondered, and then set the thought aside. First, let's meet the scoundrel, she told herself; then we'll see about the rest.

Claire generously offered the window seat to Camden, who then divided her attention between the bustle of the airport outside and the two male flight attendants on board. "Which do you think is cuter?" she whispered breathlessly to Claire, who rolled her eyes and sighed. "Take them both, and then decide later," she advised her friend sardonically, and then her own attention wandered to the female flight attendant who might have been her older cousin. A mix of Asian and European heritages, the woman was in her mid- 20s, Claire reckoned, and she moved with the unruffled calm of an experienced attendant. Maybe we could be like her for a few years after college, Claire daydreamed; wouldn't it be great to fly all over the world, stopping for a weekend here and there?

Meanwhile, Claire noted, her Aunt May was studying the laminated evacuation plan of the Boeing 777 as if she fully intended to use it. Good grief, Claire thought with a hidden smile; Aunt May is taking her responsibility for us a bit too seriously.

Aunt May caught Claire looking at her, and she hastily folded up the evacuation plan and returned it to the seat pocket. Leaning across the aisle, she repeated the plan Claire had already heard: "Now we'll call Mr. Giddings from the airport, and he'll arrange for us to meet your father. Once we get that out of the way, then we'll—"

Aunt May seemed to catch herself mid-sentence, and looked embarrassed. "I didn't mean to say it quite like that," she said, and Claire's face flushed with a sudden warmth. I know everyone else thinks seeing Father is something to get out of the way, she thought resentfully, but it's the whole reason for the trip.

But Claire was too polite to say what she thought, and so she nodded and turned to watch the pretty flight attendant chat with one of her male colleagues. The two were so poised and good-looking, so confident in their crisp Navy-blue uniforms, that Claire was drawn into thoughts of her parents at that age. Imagine that Mom was once 25, she marveled; I bet she looked like that.

It was difficult for Claire to imagine, for her Mom seemed to have always been middle-aged. And I bet Dad was handsome like that guy, too, Claire thought; I wonder if he looks as tired and beat-down as Mom does now. And I wonder most of all, she sighed, why they had to break up when I was only one. Mom was 25, and he was 27; that makes him 42 now. And if they had to break up, she added, why did they have me in the first place?

The crowded airplane lumbered down the runway, gathering speed, and Claire braced herself for liftoff. The ungainly aircraft was suddenly transformed into a graceful bird once the wheels lifted off the tarmac, and as the 777 soared away from the toy-like airport and city below, Claire's somber reflections faded, too.

Claire listened to the music on the headphones and watched two movies, but as they landed she could not remember the titles of either film, for her mind had been drifting restlessly over the same topics: her parents, the anxiety of meeting her father after all these years, the excitement of seeing Paris and the very cafe where Simone DeBouvoir had sat writing and chatting with her intellectual friends.

The flight had extended through the night, and though she'd dozed off a bit in the deepest night, Claire's eyelids felt as if there was fine sand under them. Camden, too, was yawning, and Claire felt a sharp envy for Aunt May, who'd nodded off immediately after dinner and slept the entire night. Aunt May's head had lolled against the plump shoulder of the lady seated next to her, and after several comical attempts to ease Aunt May's head in the other direction, the woman had given up and accepted being Aunt May's pillow for the night.

The Paris airport was the strangest and most wondrous Claire had seen—and it was true, she'd only seen two others—for its vast inner courtyard was crisscrossed with clear Plexiglas tubes running at odd angles, each one containing an escalator carrying streams of travelers going to another level. It was like a science fiction movie, Claire thought, and then it struck her: people here were all speaking French. Of course she knew that they would be, but hearing the soft flood of language she could not understand was so very different than just expecting it.

After collecting Aunt May's large bag from the carousel, the three found an uncrowded corner of the terminal and huddled together as Aunt May called James Giddings. As Mr. Giddings was still in London, there was no time difference to worry about; Claire held her breath until Aunt May's nut-brown face broke into a smile and she said, "Mr. Giddings, how nice to speak to you at last."

But her smile did not last, and Claire's anxiety grew with each passing second. "Yes, I see," said Aunt May with a solemn expression. "Yes, we'll proceed to the hotel and await your call. Yes, I'm sorry, too."

Aunt May snapped the cellphone closed with a sharp finality and turned to the waiting girls. "It seems there's been a snag," she said carefully. "Your father isn't in Paris yet; as far as Mr. Giddings knows, he's in Marseilles, down on the Mediterranean. Mr. Giddings will call us as soon as he hears from your father. In the meantime, we're to enjoy our visit." With a forced grin, Aunt May nodded to the girls and said firmly, "And so we shall."

Claire's sinking heart revived, and she thought, Yes, that'll do—for now.

Chapter Seven: Paris Transect

By prior arrangement Claire had given Aunt May 1,000 Euros for their shared expenses, and Aunt May put the money to good use by hailing a taxi and handing the driver the address to their hotel. With a growing sense of excitement Claire watched the dull airport freeway—not much different from home, she thought—give way to the Parisian skyline. The taxi emerged from a clump of highrise buildings and all of a sudden the Eiffel Tower was visible in the morning sun, a dark spire reaching high into the cloudless blue sky. The reality of actually being in Paris finally struck Claire, and she excitedly nudged Camden to draw her attention to the tower.

Aunt May, transfixed by the famous landmark, gazed at it for a long moment. Turning to the cabdriver, she asked, "Exactly what district are we in now?"

The driver responded in a gesture of incomprehension, and May turned to address the girls.

"Now I need to warn you sweet young things about French boys," she began, and the girls quietly exchanged knowing glances which meant, Ugh, another adult lecture.

"Oh, they're smooth as silk," May said in a low voice. "Full of compliments that melt you like butter, and so intellectual that you'll feel very stupid and small."

May's eyes widened, and she continued in a voice of warning.

"And oh, do they love you! Of course they love you! But once they've had their fun with you, then poof, they're on to the next sweet young thing and you're left sitting in a dark room crying your eyes out for being so naive. Believe me, I know all about these young blades."

Camden cleared her voice and asked disdainfully, "Do you really think we'd fall for such creeps?"

Aunt May snorted disparagingly. "Ha! That's just my point. Of course they're not dumb enough to let their true selves show. They're nice as pie at first, full of sweet compliments and flowers and high-falutin' gibber-jabber to impress you. Only after you've fallen for them, then you see the real goods."

Camden gave Claire a sidelong glance, and Aunt May caught her.

"Oh, don't you worry," May said quietly. "I know exactly what I'm talking about. Better to pick a boy yourself, one you've watched for awhile, rather than fall for a come-on from some smooth-talking boy."

Giving the girls a steely glare, she said, "And don't ever give your phone number to a boy at a cafe."

"We're not that dumb," Claire protested, but May continued her lecture.

"I hope not, but I've seen it happen too many times. You can't be too cautious in this world, believe you me."

"We already know all that," Camden said breezily. "We're just playing catch and release."

Both girls tittered in laughter at the fishing analogy and Aunt May frowned.

"Just make sure you're not the one being caught," she said sternly. "That boy you're so starry-eyed about might already have a girlfriend he's keeping secret."

Seeing that her lecture wasn't having the desired effect, Aunt May sighed and than added, "In the meantime, any boys trying to steer you away from me better watch out."

Gazing at the girls closely, May said in an admonishing tone, "You little chickadees are the prettiest girls in Paris, so every boy will be looking at you."

It seemed to Claire that Camden felt more delight at the prospect than Aunt May thought proper, and Claire hurried to change the subject.

"Aunt May, don't you speak French?" Claire asked innocently.

"How I wish I did," her aunt replied.

"But you rattled off a bunch at Camden's house," Claire said, and Aunt May smiled sheepishly. "Oh, I memorized that to impress her parents. Mangled the pronunciation, I'm sure."

"What did it mean?" Camden asked.

May's smile widened. "It's the warning on the Metro subway doors, telling you not to put your hands between the doors because they might get pinched."

Now that she'd maneuvered Aunt May off the topic of boys, Claire asked, "So what shall we do on our first day in Paris?"

"Why walk across the city, of course," Aunt May declared. "No better way to get oriented than a nice walk."

"You don't mean the whole city at once, do you?" cried Camden, who was known to be the last runner around the track in physical education class.

"It's only seven miles or so," said May, but Camden's face looked as if May had just said they were walking a hundred miles across the Gobi desert.

"Don't tell me two strong young girls are afraid of a little walking?" she chided then good-naturedly, and Claire sighed, wondering if it was possible to fall asleep while walking. She'd hoped for cafes and naps, not a grueling trek across the city.

Claire's spirits lifted when they pulled up at their hotel, for it seemed perfect: a small, charming building nestled amidst a narrow side street of shops and apartments. It looked like a movie set, and Claire had to remind herself that it was entirely real.

The lobby was small but artful, with potted plants, red carpet and a cheerful painting of yellow flowers above the front desk. The young woman behind the desk greeted them with a wonderful-sounding "Bonjour," and then switched to English to take their registration.

A moment later they were climbing narrow steep steps to their rooms, which looked down on the street below. From the window, Claire could see a bakery and the courtyard of what seemed like a small private school. Boulangerie, patisserie, ecole, Claire said to herself, recalling the words for bakery, pastry shop and school; I have to start thinking in French if I'm ever to speak it.

The beds in the small room looked terribly inviting, but Aunt May bustled into the girls' room and handed them each a business card of the hotel and a folded wad of euros. "Should we get separated, just take a cab back here," she explained. "Now put on your most comfortable walking shoes, and a light blouse, for it'll be warm today. And then let's be off."

"Couldn't we take a nap first?" Claire yawned.

"That would be the worst thing to do," May replied sharply. "Then you'll be awake all night. No, it's best to stay awake the first day. A nice cafe latte will help."

The prospect of a pastry and coffee motivated Claire to pull on her worn leather flats, and to convince Camden to just wear her "huge, ugly" athletic shoes rather than get a blister in the narrow-toed, stylish shoes she'd borrowed from her sister.

Claire changed into a sleeveless white blouse and blue jeans, while Camden slathered her bare arms with sunscreen. "You are so lucky that you're tan," she complained. "I hate putting this yucky stuff on."

"You should wear a hat," suggested Claire, and Camden scowled at her. "As if I don't already look awful enough in these clunky shoes and crummy top." Claire was about to suggest switching from the pink blouse to her black tanktop, but thought the better of it; tanktops were just too declasse for Paris. "You both look adorable, girls, so let's get a move on," May prompted, and they headed downstairs.

Claire's wish for a pastry was soon granted, for on the first corner of the little side street sat a picture-perfect patisserie, its glass shelves stuffed with the most mouth-watering assortment of pastries Claire had ever seen: delicate little frosted cakes, puffy pastries covered with sliced almonds, and classic chocolate eclairs. It was just what Claire had dreamed of: a bakery unlike the tired doughnut shop in their town, one whose air smelled most wonderfully of warm fresh-baked bread and whose display cabinets were filled with scrumptiously unknown treats she would never have allowed herself back home.

A beautiful creamed-filled pastry topped with a second chocolate-covered round ball caught Claire's eye, and she memorized the name on the card below: puits de l'amour, something of love, she reckoned.

Very hesitantly, for she was acutely aware that this would be her first sentence of French spoken to a French person, she smiled at the woman behind the counter—a nice middle-aged woman who had her chestnut hair in an elegant chignon—who smiled back and asked, "Oui, mademoiselle?"

Claire gulped and said in a voice cracking like glass, "Je voudrais un . . ." The name of the pastry had already slipped from her nervous mind, and she stumbled ahead in a hot red blush of embarrassment. "Je voudrais un . . . l'amour. . ." pointing desperately at the counter, she added, "comme ca."

The woman laughed merrily and said, "Tout le monde voudrais l'amour," and with a nod of comprehension she retrieved the puits de l'amour . Claire's blush deepened, for she'd said, "I would like a . . . love," and the woman had replied, "Everyone wants love."

"What did you say?" Camden demanded. "Why is she laughing?"

"I'll tell you later," said Claire under her breath, and as the clerk handed her the puits de l'amour the woman smiled and said a burbling sentence of French which Claire understood to mean, "At least this love isn't too expensive." Trop cher, Claire thought, trying to remember the phrase for "too expensive;" I actually understood her; and that small victory diminished her intense embarrassment.

Still blushing madly, Claire withdrew and let Camden and Aunt May order their choices by gesture; Camden selected a plump chocolate eclair, and May chose a glistening raspberry tart.

"Now we must sit in a cafe and have an espresso," May said, and she led the girls out to a boulevard. There they faced a delightful dilemma: which cafe should they try? There were a three bistros, all with outdoor tables. A lazy black Lab lay in the sunny doorway of one, and so it was an easy choice for Claire to pick that one.

Its tail began wagging, the dog welcomed her attention, and then a dapper waiter in a white apron approached and asked them a question that Claire did not understand. Sensing their confusion, he asked in English, "Inside or outside?"

Aunt May indicated "outside," and a few moments later they were each sipping the creamy foam from a large white cup of a cafe au lait, watching matrons and young mothers with toddlers do their morning shopping, and dark-headed young men in casual sweaters, smoking cigarettes and talking on their cellphones. All the women seemed to be dressed so nicely—tres chic, Claire thought—most wearing real dresses and leather shoes, not sneakers; even the girls in blue jeans seemed more stylish than American girls.

An elderly gent in a tweed jacket and black beret strode by, and Claire whispered to Camden, "Look—a guy in a beret." Camden dutifully glanced round, and seeing the man was old, opined, "Maybe they're shooting a commercial or something."

"That's no actor," Claire said reprovingly. "He's a real Frenchman, wearing a beret. Doesn't it look debonair?"

Aunt May left to visit the ladies room, and Camden followed a knot of passing young men with curious eyes for a moment before turning sharply to Claire.

"Your aunt must have had some awful boyfriends, don't you think?"

Claire shrugged and said, "I really don't know." After a short pause, she added, "Actually, I think she was describing my father, but without saying so."

Camden sighed and said, "As if we don't get it that he's a creep." Claire sat very still, and Camden rushed to apologize. "Sorry, but you know what I mean. Blah, blah, de-blah. As if we didn't already know everything she said."

"You know how adults are," Claire said. "Always worrying that you'll screw up your life."

"Hmmm," Camden said in agreement, and then she excitedly nudged Claire and whispered, "Those guys are coming!" The three young men who'd passed by a moment before had turned round and were smilingly approaching their table. All three weren't bad looking, Claire reckoned, just on the short side; the ring leader wore sunglasses, which he removed as he reached their table and leaned down with an easy grin.

"My friends and I wonder," he said in charmingly accented English, "if you are English."

"No, we're American," Camden replied, "but please don't hold it against us."

The other two young men, who'd hung back cautiously behind their braver confrere, now stepped forward. "Not at all," one said earnestly. "We love Americans. We only distrust their government."

"Oh, so do we," gushed Camden.

"Where are you staying?" the leader asked.

"In a hotel over there," Camden said, gesturing aimlessly.

"Perfect," the young blade replied. "We live nearby, too. Since we're neighbors, maybe we take you around Paris." After conferring briefly with his pals in rapid-fire French Claire could not understand, he asked, "Are you busy tomorrow afternoon?"

"Probably not," Camden replied, and Claire pressed her friend's foot in a futile warning.

"Perfect. Let's exchange phone numbers," the young man suggested, and as Claire met his gaze, she felt a warmth rise to her face. He's not bad looking, she thought, but this was just the sort of hasty adventure Aunt May had warned us about. And they're obviously university students, out of our league.

The young man proffered a card and said, "My name is Daniel, and these are my friends Jean-Claude and Yves."

Hastily scribbling out their mobile phone number on the back of the hotel card May had given her, Camden handed it to him and said, "I'm Camden and this is Claire."

"Very nice names," Daniel replied, and turned to Claire. "Je pense que vous parle Francais," he said, and Claire blushed anew. "Un petit peut," she stammered as Camden looked on in a sort of jealous amazement.

"Bon," Daniel said.

Ignoring Camden's unspoken plea to translate this brief but mysterious conversation, Claire said. "We're with my aunt. I'm sorry, but we may be busy tomorrow."

It was now Camden's turn to protest with a press on Claire's foot, and she quickly added, "But we'll be here for a week or two."

"Perfect," Daniel said. At that moment Aunt May swept to the table like a mother hen and the boys recoiled at this unexpected intrusion. Camden unobtrusively hid the young man's card and turned with a placid grin to Aunt May.

"We were just asking for directions," she said, and Aunt May's reply was sharp. "I'm sure we can find our own way, dearie," and then she turned to the boys with a steely send-off grin. "Thank you very much, but we'll be fine."

"Of course," Daniel said hesitantly, and then added nonchalantly, "Ciao."

The boys gave the girls one more smile, and their curious, rather hungry gaze reminded Claire of cheetahs considering young gazelles.

Giving Camden a reproving look, Aunt May asked, "You didn't give them your phone number, I hope."

"Of course not," Camden said innocently. "We're not that naive," and Claire marveled at the breezy ease with which her friend lied. Aunt May nodded skeptically, and Claire thought, Not only did we give them our number, we gave them our hotel card; now they know where we're staying. Nice work, Camden.

As Claire glanced at her friend's placid smile, she felt a surge of envy. She really isn't concerned about those guys knowing where we're staying, while I'm already worried about being stalked. Maybe, Claire thought with an inner sigh, it all goes back to her having a father; she feels safe, and I don't. She doesn't have to worry about her Mom, and I always have to worry about mine. Even as this thought ran through her mind, Claire felt guilty for not calling her Mom to reassure her.

Turning to Camden, she said, "Give me the phone."

"What for?" Camden asked, as if fearing Claire might disclose something better left unsaid.

"To call my Mom," Claire said tiredly, and Camden handed her the lozenge-shaped phone.

As Claire had half-hoped, her Mom was busy at work and couldn't answer her call. Leaving a short message of reassurance, Claire snapped the phone closed and handed it back to Camden. "Well, at least we know it works," Camden said brightly.

With Camden's escapade smoothed over for the moment—and what will we say when those guys call us? Claire wondered—the three went back to observing the busy street life streaming along the boulevard. With the burden of calling her Mom lifted from her shoulders, everything seemed clean and well-kept to Claire, and it was again the kind of morning which made you glad to be alive: the sun was out, the air was crisp, the trees were bursting with dappled green leaves, and you were in Paris with a pocketful of Euros, fending off charming university boys.

Unused to the feel of a ring, especially a heavy silver one, on her "marriage" ring finger, Claire toyed with the Chinese-embossed ring and wondered anew about its meaning. If only I knew when we'd meet Father, Claire thought, and the prospect filled her with two conflicting emotions. On the one hand, she'd felt relief that the meeting would not occur today; although she did want to meet her father, the idea also disturbed her. What if I don't like him? she wondered, and then another emotion came to her, of wanting to know the truth, whatever it might be. And then she wanted to get the meeting over, rather than keep wondering.

Moving the heavy white latte cups aside, Aunt May unfolded her big map and traced out their route with her finger. It seemed an awfully long way to Claire, but she couldn't help being impressed with Aunt May's planning. Since they were near the western edge of the city in the 16th arrondissement, it made sense to walk to the east, roughly parallel to the Seine River which bisected the heart of the city.

Draining the last of their lattes, they set off to the Trocadero, a great circular roundabout surrounded by grand buildings. As they walked round the plaza—"People sure drive fast here," observed Camden when a yellow Fiat nearly ran them down— Claire noted one sign of America's long connection to France: a statue of Benjamin Franklin. Reaching the riverbank, they crossed a bridge over the Seine—it was wider than it looked in movies—and walked straight toward the Eiffel Tower, which dominated a vast rectangular plaza of lawns, flower beds and paved paths.

Marveling at the height of the first level far above them, the three walked beneath the great base of the tower and debated whether to stand in line for the ride to the top. The line already snaked around the tower's massive legs, and after a quick debate all agreed it would be more fun to keep walking.

At the other end of the plaza's meandering sandy trails and flower gardens lay yet another imposing building, the Ecole Militaire, and its nearby companion, Napoleon's enormous gold-domed Hotel des Invalides, built long ago to house disabled soldiers.

The tidy rows of bright flowers, the brilliant June sky and the iconic Tower dominating the vista were tailor-made for photographs, and by the time Aunt May captured the two girls clowning in front of grand bronze statues of heroes and balanced atop old cannon, her camera's memory had been filled. Proving yet again she'd planned the trip with meticulous foresight, May quickly inserted new memory and asked Claire to take her photo. Aunt May stood rather stiffly by a great black cannon, and Claire pressed her to take a more active pose. Finally, Aunt May relented to acting as if she were sighting the old weapon—a delightfully ludicrous stance, Claire reckoned—she snapped the shutter.

From the Invalides they made their way back to the Seine, and walked past the long lines of tourists waiting to enter the Musee D'Orsay, a grand old train station, May explained, which had been transformed into an airy museum of modern art. "We'll come back to see it later," Aunt May said, and Claire was secretly pleased to have avoided the torture of visiting a museum with an adult. Knowing Aunt May, she thought with hidden relief, she'd have to stop and look at every piece of art, no matter how boring.

The twin towers of the Notre Dame cathedral were visible from the banks of the river, and as they walked over the bridge to the cathedral's island, the Ile de Cite, the three felt their growing hunger and the soreness of their feet. Claire spotted a nearby creperie, and Camden and May were soon standing in front of the menu board, asking Claire to translate the various choices. The scent of melted butter and grilled meat wafted over the sidewalk, prompting their hunger most insistently; Claire knew fromage meant cheese and jambon meant ham, and that was enough to order three huge crepes dripping with three kinds of cheese.

Once seated in the cafe's crowded interior, Claire found the soft tumble of French filling the air peculiarly frustrating and exhilarating—exhilarating to understand even a single word, and frustrating that there were so few words which lit up her mind with an English counterpart. At nearby tables sat two businessmen in crisp dark suits and ties, and a pair of well-dressed older ladies, and no matter how hard Claire strained, she could not understand a word of their conversations in the noisy cafe.

Camden followed her gaze to the two ladies, and then leaned over to whisper, "Check out that hat." For one polished madam had a celadon-colored pillbox hat perched on her neatly coifed gray hair which matched her green dress and jade necklace in a sort of sartorial perfection one never saw in their town. "I like it," Claire retorted, "and the necklace, too."

Aunt May followed their eyes and then leaned in to join the conspiracy. "I can't get over how everyone has a glass of wine with lunch here," she whispered, for the two ladies were enjoying a glass of white wine with their crepes. "I'm sorely tempted."

"Go ahead," the girls urged her in unintended unison.

"Perhaps tomorrow," May replied. "Today, I may totter over moments after the first sip."

"Really?" Claire exclaimed. "You don't look tired in the least."

"Oh, I would dearly love a nap," May said, "But we mustn't fall into that trap. Otherwise, we'll be groggy every day and awake all night."

"That might not be so bad," Camden chirped, "as long as we went out."

A vision of Camden happily surrounded with boys at a nightclub came to Claire, and she was suddenly happy that Aunt May was there to restrain Camden's wilder impulses.

"Let's see how frisky you are tonight," Aunt May admonished her. Just then the young male waiter brought their crepes. Catching Camden's eye, he smiled broadly as he lowered her plate to the table, saying "For the beautiful mademoiselle." Camden managed to stammer, "Merci," and he set Claire's plate down, saying, "And for the other beautiful mademoiselle."

Claire blushed, annoyed at the ease with which she reddened, and once the waiter had left Aunt May leaned across to say, "You see? Smooth as melted butter."

The waiter returned with May's plate, and with a flourish set it down in front of her, saying, "And for the beautiful and charming madam." Flustered, May's "thank you" barely escaped unharmed, and the girls could not repress their giggles. "Oh, go ahead and have your fun at my expense," May said resignedly, and then dug into the warm trois fromage crepes.

Camden rose to the occasion by flirting madly with the waiter—yes, Claire agreed he was moderately cute—when they ordered a round of cappuccinos, which served admirably to perk them out of their after-lunch sleepiness. After Camden exchanged one last smile with the waiter, they set off for the cathedral.

Another long line greeted them, and again they agreed to proceed rather than wait. Claire's impatience to meet her father was mirrored by her impatience to see everything at once, and she told herself, I'm sure it's fabulous, but we'll have time to see all of these famous buildings—maybe with Father. He's lived here so long, he must have an insider's knowledge of the city.

As they walked down the narrow central street of the island, Claire noted the six-story apartments had iron railings and flower pots, just like "Madeleine" books, and as they passed yet another patisserie she thought, How fun it would be to actually live in one of these apartments; if Dad stays here even occasionally, he must have one. Although she knew the idea would pain her Mother greatly, the fantasy of a summer in Paris budded within her.

Pointing to a charming facade of iron railings, flower boxes bright with poppies and tall French doors, Claire enthused to her aunt, "Wouldn't it be wonderful to live right in that building?"

"Why certainly," Aunt May replied, "but you have to be rich to live here on this little island. There's plenty of desperate people in bad neighborhoods not far from here, just as there are in big cities back home."

What set Claire back was not the thought of poor people, for she knew well the difficulties of getting by on not much money, but the possibility that her con-artist father lived not in a cozy building overlooking the Seine or a boulevard of shops, but in a bad neighborhood reserved for the desperate. I just wish Giddings would call and we could get the meeting over with, she thought; waiting is dreadful.

Fortunately, a district of shops lay just across river on the Left Bank, and Claire was soon distracted by window-shopping. There were large department stores, of course—their ads were on newsstand kiosks everywhere—but the small shops were of greater interest to Claire. Even Aunt May wasn't immune to their charms, and was easily dragged into a brilliant-white chocolatier. How the clerks stayed so petite selling such toothsome treats, Claire didn't know, and she chose something which looked for all the world like a small bird's nest dipped in chocolate. It crunched most satisfyingly in her mouth, while the truffle Camden shared with her was creamy rich perfection. Aunt May indulged in chocolate-drenched hazelnuts decorated with white-chocolate drizzles.

There were dress shops with pricey gowns on display and not many customers, and though Claire enjoyed looking at the dresses—and critiquing them with Camden—she wondered how the shops could stay open with so few customers. When she voiced this, Camden replied, "Maybe everyone goes to a mall in the suburbs, just like back home."

"That would be horrid," Claire commented, and then caught her breath, for across the street was a specialty lingerie shop of just the sort she'd hoped to visit. Its display windows held a discreet assortment of largely indiscreet underthings of just the sort Claire secretly desired for herself. Screwing up her courage—for would she ever see another shop like this?—she drew Camden aside and whispered, "I want to go in that shop, but I don't want Aunt May tailing after me."

"Lingerie?" Camden asked quizzically. "But we don't even have boyfriends."

"It's not for them, dummy, it's for us," she snapped. "Now are you going to help me or not?"

Camden looked at her carefully. "You're not embarrassed?"

"Of course I am," hissed Claire, "but I want to go anyway."

"Me, too," Camden said, and then her expression brightened. "Here's what we do: tell Aunt May that we have to go in that grocery store to compare prices for. . . I don't know, some future school project."

Claire glanced at the small grocery outlet, two doors down from the lingerie shop. "And what if she wants to come in with us?"

Camden gave Claire a piteous look. "We ditch her, of course, and sneak over to the lingerie place."

Feeling bad about the deception, Claire hesitated, and then conceded there was no other way—except taking May in with her, which was worse than not even going in at all.

As expected, Aunt May was perfectly happy to stroll into the small grocery store with them and gaze at the small selection of fruits and vegetables, and the aisles of unfamiliar packaged goods and cheeses. Once her attention seemed engaged, the girls crept out and dashed two doors down to the lingerie shop.

Dashing in, they practically ran into the sales clerk, a young strawberry blonde woman in a tight-fitting blue skirt and crisp white top who quickly assessed their discomfort and smiled warmly. "Bonjour, mademoiselles," she said in a voice well-suited to a classical music radio host, a voice bigger than one would expect of such a petite young femme. While she had what Claire reckoned an average figure, the woman exuded a sexy confidence—just what Claire wanted for herself.

"Je voudrais . . . culottes, s'il vous plait," Claire said breathlessly.

The clerk gave them a reassuring smile and led them to a display of underwear which surpassed Claire's modest expectations in its sexiness and variety. "You speak English?" the clerk inquired politely, and Claire nodded gratefully, "Oui."

"Your size?" the clerk asked, and Claire's face reddened, for she knew the Europeans had a different system. "I don't know. Do I have to know?"

The clerk sized her up and gestured to a rack of panties, saying, "I think these."

As Claire gazed at the soft lace-trimmed underwear, Camden asked, "Are you really going to buy one?"

Imagining Aunt May pacing the aisles a few doors away, Claire replied hurriedly, "Now may be my only chance. Which do you like best?"

Pointing to a pair the color of milk chocolate trimmed with white lace, Camden said, "Those are pretty."

Grabbing the silky brown panties, Claire hastily added a cream-colored all-lace pair and a pale lavender one decorated with roses.

"Hold those so I can see them," Camden ordered, and as Claire dutifully held the filmy lace underwear up and turned, the mobile phone's camera flashed and Camden giggled merrily. "Delete that this instant," Claire demanded, but Camden closed the phone with a decisive snap. "No way. That's the best shot of the whole trip."

Fuming at the indignity but pressured by the ticking clock, Claire handed the underwear to the clerk and then fumbled in her backpack to retrieve the coin purse Camden had made for her birthday and the folded Euro notes inside. Camden asked, "Are you buying that for me?"

"Yes," Claire said coldly, "but only if you delete that photo." Ignoring her, Camden whispered, "This is way more than a three-pack at home."

"We couldn't even get these back home," Claire said. "Now about that picture."

"Don't worry," Camden replied breezily. "It's just for you and me. You'll be glad I took it when we get home."

As the clerk rang up the sale, Claire smirked dubiously at this assertion and then scanned the nightgowns and bras, wishing that she had another 100 Euros to spend.

Smiling conspiratorially, the clerk handed her the soft wrapped package, and Claire managed a hasty "Merci." Stuffing the secret purchase into her backpack, Claire dashed out and nearly ran into a middle-aged woman.

"Pardon," Claire blurted, and then hurried to the grocery with Camden at her heels. She quickly found Aunt May, whose worried expression relaxed in relief.

"I was just about to call your phone," May said in an annoyed tone. "Where did you go?"

"Just next door," Claire said between breaths.

"Well, next time, tell me we're you're going. I had a fright when I couldn't find you."

"I'm sorry," Claire said, but secretly she was delighted with their brief escape, and nudged Camden to express her satisfaction with their successful conspiracy.

Pulling her long gray-streaked hair into a ponytail, May addressed the girls in an authoritative voice. "In a kilometer or so we'll be in the Left Bank, and I don't want you little fillies wandering off. The streets are confusing enough without having to search for you."

The Left Bank! To someone who worshipped Simone DeBouvoir and aspired to the intellectual, creative life, there could be no more glorious destination. "We must sit in a cafe and discuss phenomenology, or post-modern criticism," Claire announced, and Camden said, "Sure—just tell me what we're talking about first."

"Let's avoid any existential crises on our first day," May declared dryly, and they set off at the pace of a dedicated sojourner. Falling back beside Claire, Camden whispered, "No offense, but your aunt has the oddest way of talking sometimes."

"I think it's because she listens to old people all day long," Claire explained in a low voice.

"I like old-timey expressions," Camden replied. "You know, groovy, copacetic, words like that."

"Getting back at you for that little photo shoot will be extremely copacetic," Claire said darkly, and Camden grinned blithely. "If you let me take a photo of you wearing those lace panties, I'll delete the first one."

"Right," Claire said sourly, for her friend was having much too much fun with her secret.

The Left Bank did not disappoint any of the three travelers, for the abundance of universities guaranteed enough young males to occupy Camden's interest, while May paused repeatedly to admire the ancient buildings; there were even Roman ruins nestled amidst the twisting narrow streets of the Latin Quarter. As for Claire, her mind raced with the wonder of breathing the very air of history which imbued every rue and alley.

The harsh tones of American college-student English assaulted them outside one cafe, and Claire cringed at the loud, oblivious stupidity being displayed by her countrymen and women on such storied ground. For it wasn't just Simone and Sartre and their Ecole Normale Superieure pals, but Hemingway, Ginsburg and even Redford who'd ambled down these same streets as Americans in Paris. One should have a little respect, Claire sniffed, and not be braying about how drunk you were last night as if that were some extraordinary accomplishment.

If I were lucky enough to be a student here, I wouldn't be wasting my time getting drunk with fools, she thought scornfully; if I wanted to get drunk, it would be while arguing about Bresson and Merleau-Ponty. But there's no one to tell that to, she sighed inwardly; other people don't understand.

By the time they'd reached the endless museums and flower gardens of the Jardins des Plantes the eastern reaches of the Seine, the afternoon's heat and fatigue had overtaken them, and as they sat slumped on a stone bench, Claire barely noticed Aunt May answering her cellphone. The conversation was abrupt; "Yes, I understand," she said and then turned to the girls. "We must go to Marseilles tomorrow," she announced, and Claire's heart raced up.

Chapter Eight: Parisian Night

"That was Mr. Giddings in London," Aunt May explained. "Your father is tied up in Marseilles, and Mr. Giddings is flying down to meet us there tomorrow evening. He expects your father to be free by then."

"What a bother," Camden blurted. Claire said nothing, for it was a reaction shared by all three. Here we are, dead tired and just settling into Paris, and now we have to go to Marseilles. No wonder everyone hates my Dad, Claire thought with rising annoyance; he's spectacularly unreliable.

"We're to take the TGV bullet train tomorrow," Aunt May continued. "Hopefully our hotel will help us book it. Otherwise, it will be up to you, Claire."

In her current state of exhaustion, the prospect of buying tickets filled Claire with a special dread, and her annoyance with her father only deepened.

Opening her map of Paris, Aunt May peered closely at the notated sheet for a moment and then announced, "We're in luck. The nearest Metro station is Jussieu"—she mispronounced it, but Claire was too tired to correct her—"and that line will take us directly to...Michel-Ange Molitor. That's only a few blocks from our hotel."

At the mention of that Metro station, Claire recalled the special tickets in her purse. Removing the rubber band from the small tickets, she shuffled through ones stamped Rouge-Croix—Red Cross—Champ-de-Mars, Pigalle and Odeon before finding the one labeled Michel-Ange Molitor. Recalling her father's advice to save the tickets, she put them away and looked up expectantly at Aunt May.

Folding her map and rising to her feet, May announced, "There's no time like the present," and the girls arose to trudge after her. Though normally Claire would have taken a keen interest in the cacti and other plants of the extensive gardens, at the end of such a long day the only way a cactus would have grabbed her attention is if it uprooted itself and started chasing her.

The Metro station perked up her flagging spirits, for she'd never ridden a subway, especially one with such artful sign announcing your entrance to the "Metropolitain." The station's stairs and passageways were crowded with afternoon commuters, and it took some effort to not be separated in the crush. Even worse, it was Claire's duty to buy the tickets. After laborious study of her notes, she knew to ask for un carnet, a book of 10 tickets. It seemed simple enough to approach the window and say, un carnet, si'l vous plait, but as the woman behind her jabbered away, Claire felt a flush of anxiety warm her face. Once the unshaven gentleman in front of her concluded his business, Claire placed a Euro note on the counter and said hesitantly, "Un carnet, si'l vous plait."

The station employee looked irritated and replied, "Quoi?"

Flummoxed by his incomprehension—did I say it wrong?—Claire realized he simply hadn't heard her. "Un carnet, si'l vous plait!" she shouted, and with a nod which spoke volumes—that's right, speak up, I don't have all day—the clerk passed her the tickets and change. Despite her faux pas, Claire exited the line with a sense of victory, for she'd spoken French, and been understood. C'est fantastique!

Another obstacle lay ahead, one most perplexing to a first-time Metro passenger, for the station served two lines which were identified by a number and a terminus station. After some modest confusion, Aunt May hustled them to the Pont de St. Cloud platform, where Claire wondered which of the shifty unshaven young men clinging uneasily to the tiled walls were pickpockets. The walls, which rose in a gradual curve to a vaulted ceiling, carried advertisements for department stores, music players and films, none of which struck Claire as familiar. A peculiar horn sounded, and as the train entered the station, Aunt May cautioned the girls, "Keep a tight hand on your knapsacks; the pickpockets are as thick as fleas."

Open seats were rare in the afternoon commute hours, and Claire and Camden stood gripping a chrome pole next to two giggling French-Vietnamese schoolgirls a few years their junior. In the close quarters, Claire smelled someone's perfume—a nice smell, musky and expensive—and she wished she could buy a Parisian perfume. But I only have my birthday money, she thought, and I still want to buy a purse or blouse. As the door closed, Claire saw the sign Aunt May had memorized, warning passengers not to put their hands between the doors lest tu risques de te faire pincer tres forte. The warning was illustrated with a cute rabbit with a pained expression, and Claire pointed it out to Camden.

But her friend's attention was fixed on a mop-haired young man who had squeezed his way in from an adjoining car. Lifting a violin to his chin, he began playing, rather well, Claire thought, while his female assistant—girlfriend?—pressed her way through the car, holding a black leather cap out for donations. A few people dropped a coin in the cap, and Claire dug out the change from the Metro tickets and dropped a one Euro coin in the cap as the young woman edged by. The woman offered her a "Merci," and Camden's expression reflected the same fascination Claire felt.

Adults, of course, would be appalled by the prospect of earning one's keep in such a manner, but it seemed rather charming to Claire. What could be more romantic than playing music on the Metro for a few hours a day, and then plopping down in a nice dark cafe to discuss Rilke?

By the time they exited the Michel-Ange Molitor station, the June heat and lack of sleep had reduced the girls to tourist-zombies, and it was a triumph of relief to climb to their hotel room, kick off their shoes and fall exhausted on their beds.

As Claire lay in the dim light, anticipating the bliss of sleep, she found her mind filled not with slumber but with annoyance at her father. After such apparently careful planning—seemingly for years—their reunion was in tatters: first delays, then a different city, and always, the needless obscurity of a distant go-between, James Prufrock Giddings.

Slipping the silver ring from her finger, Claire lay it on the bedstand and listened in frustration to Camden's deep even breathing. This meeting with my father will be a disaster because I'm already so angry with him, she fumed; all the good will I'd protected from everyone else's judgments has slipped away. And now, I can't even sleep, despite being so tired. Giving up, Claire placed the pillow over her head and felt sorry for herself. The comforts of self-pity must have quieted her disturbed spirit, for she soon drifted into a profound sleep.

It seemed only moments later that the door to their room opened and Aunt May's voice cut open their peaceful rest. "Time to meet our first night in Paris," she announced, and both girls shifted in protest at this interruption. Claire opened her eyes, and noted the last light of day illuminated the window.

"You've had two hours, and that's plenty," May continued. "The U.S. Army found that a 40-minute catnap is as good a full night's sleep."

"I'm from a Navy family," Camden muttered, "and we sleep all night."

"No you won't," May scolded her. "You'll wake up at 3 a.m. and be dreadfully bored, and then fall asleep at noon, and miss everything tomorrow. Now jump into the shower to wake up, because we're having dinner on a riverboat."

To be continued--