Moonlight in Paris. Pamela Hearon

most of the night. “I just want to take off for Paris and find my birth father.”

      “And what good would that do?”

      Tara thought about that question while she nibbled on a carrot. What good would it do? “Mostly it would satisfy my curiosity,” she admitted. “I can’t stop wondering what he looks like, what his personality is like. Do I have his nose? His laugh?”

      “Your mom can tell you that.”

      Tara’s throat tightened around a bite of carrot. She dropped the rest of it back into the plastic container, her appetite suddenly gone. “I can’t talk to her any more about him. At least, not yet.”

      “I understand.” The sympathy in her friend’s voice made Tara’s throat tighten again. “So what difference would it make if you found out those things about him?” Emma gave a quick nod in Tara’s direction. “You rub your lip when you’re thinking about something just like Sawyer does. No matter where those little things come from, they make up you.”

      Self-consciously, Tara dropped her hand from her mouth. “I just want to look Jacques Martin in the eye and say ‘I’m your daughter’ and see his reaction.”

      Emma eyed her warily. “Can’t you just let your imagination play out that scene for you? Paris is way too big a city to find somebody with only a name to go on. And it’s very expensive from what I hear.”

      Tara shrugged and glanced out the window to avoid eye contact. “I have my inheritance from Grandma.” She cringed at Emma’s outraged gasp.

      “You’re serious! You’ve actually given this some thought...and have a plan. It’s a crazy idea, Tara—one you need to get out of your head right now.”

      Emma’s gray eyes bored into her, causing Tara’s cheeks to burn. “Thought you weren’t going to counsel.”

      “I’m not counseling. I’m giving my best friend a verbal shake to wake her up.” Emma ran her fingertips through her short bob, fluffing the soft, chestnut ends. “Finding him would take a feat of magic. He might’ve moved. Might not want to be found. Some people don’t. Or...or he might be dead. Have you thought about that?”

      “That’s another thing. Family medical history is important.” Tara held up her half hand. “Emergencies happen. Diseases strike. It would be great to at least have a hint of what else I might come up against in the future. Mama’s family doesn’t have any heart disease, but what if it’s in his genes?”

      “Then you do all the right things to keep your heart healthy no matter what.”

      Tara looked at her friend in earnest. “Even if I didn’t find him, I could learn about my French heritage. The Irish thing I’ve always been so proud of has been jerked away from me, and now I want to replace it with something. I want to find out who I am.”

      Emma looked at her long and hard, the steel in her gaze softening to a down-gray. “Know what?” She reached across the desk to place her hand on top of Tara’s. “I’m wrong. If it means that much to you, I think you should do it.”

      “Really?” Tara jolted at Emma’s change of heart. “Because I’m thinking I want to do it soon. Like as soon as school is out.”

      “That’s short notice. Can you make all the arrangements that quickly?”

      Tara shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe through a travel agent.”

      “That will run the cost up even more. Do you know anyone who might know somebody over there?” Emma drummed the desk with her spoon. “What about Josh Essex?”

      Tara hadn’t gotten far enough in her planning to consider that the French teacher might have connections in Paris, but it was a good idea—he did usually take students to Paris during the summer.

      “He was eating lunch in the teachers’ lounge when I got my soda.” Emma got up quickly, abandoning her soup and crackers. “Let’s go talk to him now.”

      * * *

      “CAN WE PLAY SOME CATCH, Dad?”

      Dylan had disappeared a couple of minutes earlier, and now stood in the doorway of the flat holding a ball and wearing the St. Louis Cardinals ball cap, jersey and glove that had arrived from his grandmother that day.

      Like I could refuse. Garrett gave a wry smile. “Sure. Just let me get the dishwasher loaded.”

      Dylan set the ball and glove in the chair he’d vacated earlier and picked up his plate to help clear the table, something he rarely did. No doubt he was anxious to try out his new equipment.

      “Watch your step,” Garrett warned as the six-year-old caught his toe on the frame of the sliding patio door.

      When the Paris weather permitted, they ate every meal possible out here on the terrace. The wide expanse of concrete wasn’t anywhere near as large as their backyard had been in St. Louis, but life had its trade-offs. For a second-story flat, the extra living space the terrace afforded was well worth the small amount of extra rent. Although several other flats had windows that looked out on it, only one other had a door leading to it. And that one had been empty for over a year, so Garrett and his son had gotten used to having the entire space to themselves.

      They made quick work of loading the dishwasher, and then Garrett grabbed his own glove as they headed back out to their makeshift practice field.

      Dylan punched the new leather with his fist. “I’m ready for a fastball.”

      That drew a laugh. “One fastball comin’ up.” Garrett made a wild show of winding up, watching his son’s eyes grow huge in anticipation. At the last second, he slowed down enough to toss the ball toward the boy’s padded palm.

      Dylan kept his eye on the ball, stretching his arm out to full length and spreading his glove open as far as his short fingers would allow.

      The ball landed with a thump, and a pleased grin split Dylan’s face as he hoisted the glove and ball over his head in a triumphant gesture. “Freese makes the play!” he yelled.

      “How ’bout we send a picture of you and your new stuff to Nana and Papa?”

      “And Gram and Grandpa, too.”

      Garrett snapped the picture and messaged it to both his parents and Angela’s. Then he laid the phone down within easy reach to listen for the calls that were sure to come.

      His mom and his deceased wife’s mother called every time he sent a picture of Dylan, which was often. The distance was hard for them.

      They’d all done their damnedest to talk Garrett out of the voluntary move to Paris three years ago when the brewery he worked for was bought out by a Belgian company. Only his dad had fully understood his need to escape from the constant reminder of his wife’s suicide. And his guilt.

      No matter how they felt about it, the move hadn’t been a mistake.

      Dylan mimicked Garrett’s windup, minus the slow down at the end. The ball he released sailed wide past his father, who broke into a run to catch it on the bounce. His timing was off. He missed and wasn’t able to catch up to it until it hit the back wall.

      “Dad! Your phone’s ringing,” Dylan called.

      By the time Garrett got back to answer it, he was winded. “Allô.” He breathed heavily into the phone. “C’est Garrett.”

      “Well, your French has definitely gotten better, but the creepy heavy breathing makes me wonder if I’ve caught you at a bad time. My math says it should be around dinner time there.”

      Garrett laughed, recognizing the voice of his teammate from college Josh Essex. “Actually, it’s pitch-and-catch after dinner, Josh.”

      “Is that the new French phrase for hooking up? ’Cause, if it is, my seniors will want to know.”

      “By the time I get around to...”