Lost Contact (The Bridge Sequence Book One) Nathan Hystad (the reading list book .txt) 📖

his watch off. In retrospect, the most valuable gift of my life had probably been nothing more than an afterthought. I don’t know what our conversation had been like, but I’d seen him drive away, pulling from the house, waving as he took off. Mom had been nowhere in sight, but Bev was gazing from the living room window. She’d had tears in her eyes.

Bev had told me her viewpoint one day when I’d been around fifteen and was pining after his adventurous ways. She sat me on the deck and spoke in hushed tones, hoping Mom wouldn’t overhear our conversation. I learned about Mom’s secret worry that her husband had been stepping out, not just on her, but on his family.

She talked about that day and their fighting, reminding me he’d never truly been there for us. Her words were sharp-edged, and the manner in which she’d spoken of our father had hurt me deeply. I’d shouted at her, knocking my chair over as I dashed down the deck steps and onto my bike. I’d ridden out to Sleepy Grove Cemetery, and that was where they’d found me hours later, crying near Dad’s gravestone.

I had no doubt everything she said was true. Dirk Walker had been a selfish man. A terrible father, and an even worse spouse, but despite all of that, I still longed to discover what had happened thirty-six years ago. I had the urge to explain to Beverly why her father had done what he’d done, and felt a sharp pang that my mother was gone.

Being in Paris brought it all back. The smells were the same as that trip when I’d finished the eleventh grade and Bev was done with her sophomore year at college. The temperatures were far cooler as I stared up at the majestic Eiffel Tower, the entire structure lit up. Paris had an air of excitement, and not just because it was days away from Christmas.

It was obvious there was a sense of unease in the people, but most appeared to believe the scientific community, as well as the government officials urging the population not to panic. The gatherings from the other day had ended without violence, yet Hunter was confident things would escalate eventually.

The hotel was a couple of city blocks away, and Tripp had suggested we stay in the confines and safety of the rooms, but I needed to stretch my legs.

I’d walked this very street with my mother, her forcing me to apply the French she’d insisted I learn throughout school, and it came in handy. I stopped at a café, rain dripping from the umbrella I rested on my shoulder. We’d come to this exact café, though the name on the awning might have been different twenty-something years ago.

It was dark outside, but the café was in full hustle behind clear glass windows. I watched as couples ate, smiling and laughing, waiters pouring rich wines and after-dinner cappuccinos.

Veronica bumped into me. “Are you going to go in or watch the happy people all night?”

“What are you doing? I thought Tripp put us under quarantine,” I joked.

“Must have had the same idea as you.” She looked up at the Eiffel tower, her eyes reflecting the million lights.

“Are you hungry?”

“I could eat.” She smiled, and something my mother said to me on our first visit entered my mind.

Paris is romantic. You’ll see that there are few places with such whimsy and possibilities. Everything feels different here. The wine is sweeter, the coffee richer. The food creamier. The love… Her hands had dropped by her sides. It was at that moment I’d first seen my mother for the sad shell of a woman she’d become.

Veronica waited at the entrance, and the maître d’ plucked two leatherbound menus, motioning for us to enter. The lights were dim, the scent of roasted lamb and white sauces tantalizing as we wound our way past dining duos and groups of friends and family out celebrating a wonderful night in Paris.

He offered to take our coats, and I draped mine across the back of my chair. Veronica did the same with hers, and I couldn’t help but stare. She wore a black dress, the neckline far more plunging than her usual practical blouses and travel gear.

“See something you like?” she asked coquettishly.

“I… I didn’t—” I started to stammer. “You look lovely.”

“One of my favorite designers is close to the hotel, so I figured I might as well indulge. It’s not often I get to spend a night in the center of Paris, especially not so close to Christmas. And if the world is really going to end, why can’t we enjoy our time here?”

“How do you usually celebrate the holidays?” I asked, not wanting to address her dire statement.

“Manhattan, if I’m around. I have a little sister. After my mom remarried, they had a kid. She’s ten years younger, but of course, as things go, she’s married with a girl of her own now.” Veronica moved out of a server’s way while he poured a glass of water.

“Tell me about it. Beverly’s older, but she was always destined for a family. Here I am, closing on forty, and I’ve never felt farther from having my own family. I think I’ve missed the window.” I didn’t often let things out like this, but she was so easy to talk with.

“I doubt that, Rex. Yours just hasn’t opened yet.” She ordered the wine, and I let her choose, admiring how down to earth she was in the field; yet here she was, looking every bit the part of a socialite. “Don’t tell Hunter, but he’s buying.”

“And this year? You weren’t going home?”

“Wasn’t planning on it. It’s been more difficult every holiday season. Visiting New York with the snow and giant Christmas tree, and everyone skating in the park. I don’t think I could handle it.”

“My sister’s kids are great and all, but the thought of sitting with a cup of coffee, watching them open a present only