McCade - A Second Chance at Paris

COLE McCADE

A second chance at Paris. A second chance at love.

BAYOUS END #1

Copyright 2015 by Cole McCade

Smashwords Edition All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher / author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the author at the address below.

Cole McCade

C/O Rockstar PR & Literary Consulting PO Box 29226

CHICAGO IL 60629

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the authors imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction: Louis Vuitton, Orion, Coke / Coca-Cola, Bic, Facebook, Mini Cooper, Fringe, Stargate Universe, Jolly Green Giant, Keds, Magic Marker, Lisa Frank, Lockheed Martin, Boeing, SAIC, CERN, Devils Cut, Bluetooth, NYU, the New York Times, Barbie, Jimmy Choo, Tylenol, Visa, The Wizard of Oz, Les Miserables, Punkd, Manic Panic, NASA, Virgin Airlines, Casablanca, Namenda, Donepezil, HTC, Xanax, Google, Amazon.com, Spiderwoman, Wikipedia, J.C. Penney, Swype, Bookscan, Star Wars, Firefly, Snuggie, Gmail, Thales, Airbus, Dassault, Jips Cafe, Samsung, Expedia, The Twilight Zone, Trapper Keeper, Day-Glo, LinkedIn, Skittles, Sharpie, Hello Kitty, Carmen Sandiego, Polo, Crown Royal, 7-Up, Invader Zim, Starbucks, The Nightmare Before Christmas, Up in the Air, Smirnoff Ice, Bratz, My Little Pony, Franklin-Covey, Pitch Perfect, Rihanna, Twitter, Peter Gabriel, Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man, Night of the Living Dead, Sanrio, The Walking Dead, George Romero, James Bond, Styrofoam, Dungeons and Dragons, The X-Files, The Phantom of the Opera.

If youre still out there, I wonder

Do you ever think of that night?

A S SHE LED HER FATHER through the busy concourse of New Orleans International Airport, Celeste thought today might be one of his good days.

Such days were rare, lately. Sometimes he was himself, brown eyes alight with the sharp intellect that had made Alan Haverford a preeminent name in astrophysics. More often he was lost in the past, memories stolen by Alzheimers. Sometimes he didnt recognize his own daughter. Didnt remember that the woman at his side was the same girl whod idolized him since she was old enough to call him Dada; the same girl whod wanted to be just like him since hed lifted her onto his shoulders and shown her Andromeda in the canopy of stars.

But as he stood in the center of the concourse and scanned the signsone hand on his hip, the other tangled in his shock of hairthe twist of his mouth said he was very much present.

And in one hell of a mood.

Dont make that face, she said.

His lips thinned. No ones proven itll stick that way.

Maybe not, but you look like you swallowed a bug. She hooked her arm in his and leaned into him. Shed gotten her willowy height from her father, but under his jacket his bicep was thinner than it should be. I thought youd be happy to be back.

I dont like it. This. You, uprooting your life for an old house.

For our home. She squeezed his arm. And Im not uprooting anything. Didnt like Los Angeles anyway. Too much smog. Too much smug. Smug smog. Number one source of global warming.

Pretty sure thats bovine methane.

Cow farts arent warming the atmosphere, Dad.

You dont know that, he grumbled.

I know Im not having a conversation about cow farts in the airport. Come on. If we get out in less than an hour, Ill

bribe me with food? He patted the beginnings of an admirable paunch. Because I need more of that.

Beignets. Promise, these wont turn out purple. She grinned, adjusted the strap of her carry-on, and tugged on his arm. I still dont have your knack for Bunsen burner cooking.

The secret is the tungsten.

tungstens poisonous.

Technicalities.

Celeste chuckled and nudged him toward the baggage claim, following the signs through the airport. People surged past, rushing to their gates, bumping and pushing; she rested her hand protectively over the bulge inside her tatty imitation Vuitton carry-on bag. Through the faux leather, her telescope case was comfortingly solid. Safe. The rest of her lab equipment was currently boxed up and banging around a moving truckif the movers werent playing hacky-sack with her glass beakers and petri dishes. Those could be replaced.

Her Orion telescopeher first, a gift from her fatherwas one of a kind, and she couldnt trust it to anyone else.

Shed need it in the morning, anyway. This time tomorrow shed be walking this same concourse and on her way to Paris, an annual international conference on astrophysics, and a week of delicious French food. Possibly even a new job.

And with luck, a new lifefor herself and for her father.

They paused at the carousel. He shot her a hard look. You had your apartment, your lab, and thatboy. What was his name? Murky? Mumpkin? Brainless mook? Memorys not so good these days.

Your memory was fine five minutes ago. Celeste laughed. Its Mark.

What happened with him?

She shrugged. We broke up. Mutual thing. Keep an eye out for our luggage.

He scowled at the carousel, thick brows knotted. Damned things make me dizzy. And I know youre changing the subject.

Celeste snorted and leaned against a pillar, tugging her glasses off and chewing on the arm while she watched suitcases glide past. Coming home like this sat strangely with her. Her sister was the homebody, content to keep an eye on the family housewhen she wasnt off on one of her suicidal extreme sports trips. Ophelia would be gone a year this time, leaving not long after Celeste returned from Paris and taking off on a backpacking trip across the Eurasian continent. A year was too long to leave the house abandoned, so here she was, Cel to the rescue.

It was for the best. She couldnt afford the L.A. lifestyle anymore. Astrophysics was a limited field with few opportunities, and her consulting gigs had dried up. Between inflation and the cost of her fathers healthcare, moving home made practical sense.

She hadnt left much behind in L.A., anyway. Just the Brainless Mook; barely a fling. Shed never been the kind of girlfriend hed needed, and couldnt put him first. She was too distant. Too scattered. Too caught up in her workand her father was her top priority, above anyone else. He had no one but her and her sister. After hed spent so long looking out for her, now she could finally pay him back. Shed apologized to Mookto Markfor being a crappy girlfriend, but she wouldnt apologize for her father.

My dad needs me, Mark, shed said. I cant help that.

I understand. I do. But I need someone who needs me.

It hadnt mattered anyway. Hed run. They always ran, around the third date cancelled due to medical emergency. Or the second time she brought home perfectly safe canisters of radioactive isotopes when the lab was full. Yet somehow, she never saw it coming. She could predict a thousand ways for the world to end. Solar storms. Meteor strikes. Gamma rays. Interns.

But she could never predict her own love life, until another relationship went spiraling into a black hole of doom.

She glanced up and found her father watching her, gaze shrewd, but beneath that knowing scrutiny his eyes reflected warmth, concern. He pushed his hands into his pockets and looked away, rocking on his heels.