la Ville Lumière (g)

[syrinx]

la Ville Lumière
by Syrinx
A/N: So, explanation. I assume everyone saw Phoenix's fic All Over A Guy, am I correct? Well, that happened because she IMed me yesterday and we got to talking about how we had to write some short fic. Just had to. And we were going to race each other to see who posted first. Clearly she won. I'm not even done with my story yet. So, the story. It's kinda a series of longish drabbles. I'm posting the first one now and have the next five all lined up to post when I feel like it. Muahaha! Also, this is the first time I've even entertained the idea of writing Melanie, so forgive me if this is just really weird to you all. Also, there's going to be some French spoken in this fic, and if it wasn't already obvious to everyone here, I don't speak French. Thus it's all from Babel Fish and if someone here knows French and is wondering if everyone speaking French is mentally incapacitated...they're not. I just don't know what I'm doing. Very Happy Also! Fic not betaed. This is sort of like a writing exercise. Comment and constructively critique as needed. I'm really in need of it because my laptop officially crashed yesterday and all of my new additions to Lente disappeared forever. I'm a very sad writer. So make me happy. Now I'll stop boring you with the longest author's note known to man. Comment!

I.

The day Melanie knew she should stop and reconsider things fell on the same day she knew Hi Jinx was never going to be a great race horse. Point in fact, Melanie traced the reconsideration of her life directly back to the moment she knew Hi Jinx was a fruitless venture. Melanie could remember it all very vividly, like it was a favorite movie that you could memorize all the lines to and hum the theme music, even when at the time she had been horrified by the mere thought of quitting.

That day had started out with rain, and Jinx had never liked the rain. Being wet turned his mood sour, and the umbrellas spooked him out of his mind, but naturally this was behavior that Melanie had insisted upon fixing, as she thought everything about Jinx could be fixed. The plan for the day was a brisk breeze with Allie aboard, the little twig of a girl that had seemed to develop an understanding with Jinx.

However, on this day no relationship was acknowledged by Jinx, whom immediately pointed that out by running straight off the track and through the outside rail. After this incident Melanie had a feeling nothing else would ever come through with Jinx, although admitting it was nothing she ever did. Jinx was gelded, Jinx raced, Jinx lost, and when he was four and a half Melanie hung it up. A year after the day Melanie knew Jinx was fruitless and she should stop, she stopped.

[syrinx]

II.

“I’m quitting here.”

The moment she said it the words were almost too soft for her to hear. Christina, however, had no problem.

“Excuse me?” Christina asked, looking up from her gigantic chemistry textbook and pushing an errant clump of strawberry blond hair behind her ear. They were sitting on Ashleigh’s big leather sofa, Melanie watching the local news while Christina puzzled out her homework for her classes at the University of Kentucky. Christina had taken the plunge now – gone full out for a degree, leaving Melanie behind.

“I just,” Melanie paused, staring blankly at the local news anchor’s caked-on mascara and lipstick-stained teeth. “I need to go somewhere else, I think.”

“This isn’t about Jinx, is it?” Christina asked, having been truly worried about Melanie the moment Jinx had been pulled from training and sold.

“Not too directly,” Melanie shrugged. “Although I know Kevin is irked that I sold him, and I’m irked that I couldn’t figure him out. It’s not really about that.”

“Good,” Christina answered bluntly. “Some horses just can’t be made into something. It’s not a failure at all, it’s just the truth.”

Melanie looked over at Christina, trying hard not to let her cousin’s words pick at her. It had been easy for Chris. She’d jumped in feet first, took up Star’s cause, and through their troubles had received acclaim. Then she’d tossed it all away when Star retired and switched her plans on a dime. Melanie had envied Christina that, and disapproved just a little, knowing her cousin was never in the sport for the love of it. It was just that fleeting, yet successful, quality of Christina’s life that bothered Melanie to no end.

“In any case I don’t think I want to do it anymore,” Melanie replied, changing the channel from the inept local news anchor to a movie that she didn’t recognize. “I just feel done.”

“You’re in your early twenties, Mel,” Christina huffed. “If you’re done now what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know,” Melanie shrugged. “It’s not like I can’t do something else. Look what you’re doing.”

“But lots of thought went into this decision,” Christina said, pointing at the textbook for emphasis. “I broke my ankle, Mel, which means jockeying is a little out of the picture for me now. Plus, you know my heart isn’t in it without Star.”

“I know why you decided on going to school,” Melanie said slowly. “That’s not a surprise to me at all.”

“Then can I admit that I’m surprised you want to do something else?” Christina asked, and Melanie gave her a narrowed look. “Racing is your life, Mel.”

Melanie stared, thinking Christina had hit the nail right on the head. Racing was her life, and she was simply tired of it. A break was what she needed, at the very least.

Then she made a decision, and she smiled.

“Thanks, Chris,” she said, getting up and giving her confused cousin a firm hug before trotting up the stairs. She had plans to make.

III.

“Bienvenue à l'aéroport de Paris-Orly. Svp...”

Nothing in her travel guides had prepared her for this, and Melanie realized with an astonishing sinking feeling that all the French she had learned had gone flying from her memory the moment she stepped off the plane. In a state of culture shock that she hadn’t anticipated happening, she followed the group of people coming off her plane toward what she hoped was the baggage claim, staring at the French signs and wondering why she hadn’t gone with Parker’s suggestion of going to England instead.

Reaching the baggage claim seemed like a small victory, but by the time Melanie found her luggage rolling over to her she could feel panic setting in again. What did she do when she walked outside the airport, what did she tell the cab driver, where did she need to go, why the hell was she doing this?

Then someone bumped into her, nudging Melanie so far forward a strong pair of hands wrapping around her upper arms was the only thing from keeping her headed to the ground.

“Je suis désolé, Mlle. Êtes-vous tout droit?”

Melanie tensed and straightened, busy getting over her near fall to the floor of a Paris airport before she shrugged out of the anonymous grasp on her arms to look at the person who’d caused and saved her from a fall. What she saw when she looked up, after she’d pushed her pale blond hair out of her face, was a man significantly taller than her. He was what Melanie would consider “dressed up” in a charcoal suit, with a bag slung over one shoulder and across his chest. He was rumpled – the tie was undone and his suit was resting over the bag, his shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbow. By the time Melanie focused her attention on his face all she could register was wild black curls and dark eyes that were narrowed in a look of worry.

“Êtes-vous bien ? Vous regardez malade. Ici, il y a une chaise derrière vous. Asseyez-vous svp.”

Melanie blinked at him, completely unresponsive to the long string of words he was speaking. The only thing she did understand was his pointing to the chair behind her, although she couldn’t quite figure out why he was so interested in it. She glanced at it and back at him. Then it dawned on her.

“You have an English accent,” she said, and he rewarded her with a light quirk of his right eyebrow.

“And you’re American, then,” he replied. She gave him an embarrassed smile. He sucked his bottom lip between his teeth and raked a hand through his messy hair, considering her thoughtfully for all of three seconds. “Do you need some help?”

“God, yes,” Melanie said in one loud, relieved breath.

[syrinx]

IV.

Over the course of a month Melanie learned Paris, studying the city and the streets until she could navigate her way as easily as she could trace the lines that ran over her palms. She moved into an apartment in Montmartre and painted each white room a new color. She jogged in the parks and perused through the museums until her feet ached. Then, after two months of living in Paris and a visit from Christina, who’d been surprised that Melanie was content doing nothing, she got a job.

It was nothing big, and certainly wasn’t what Melanie had ever envisioned herself doing. Simply put it was a waitress position at a quiet café on the street corner next to her apartment. It was quaint, and just the fact that she, the Kentucky Derby winning jockey of only a couple years ago, was working in a café and be completely anonymous, amused her to no end.

No matter how much Christina had scoffed at her over the phone, Melanie kept the job, liking the spending money it provided. She made friends there, she fine tuned her understanding of the language, and she made a great latte. It was easy – relaxing, even – and why had Melanie gone to Paris if not to relax?

It was there that she bumped back into him.

V.

His name was Aston Baker, and the first thing Melanie thought of that was it was appropriately British. When she told him her name she got a queer look, which Melanie thought was even more appropriately British.

“That’s quite American, isn’t it?” he asked her.

“It’s Greek,” Melanie pouted, putting her hands on her hips. He just smiled at her, and she bent to retrieve the two empty coffee mugs she had dropped when she’d careened straight into him while she had been busy watching where her feet were going. Then she looked back up at him, noticing that not much had changed since he’d run into her at the airport nearly three months ago. Different suit, same wild hair.

“Looks like you got on your feet just fine, then,” he said.

“I did,” Melanie replied brightly. “I think things are turning out really well. Thanks for helping me that first day; I don’t think you could know how well that grounded me.”

“Anything for a beautiful woman, after all,” he said, languidly following Melanie, who blushed and ducked her head to hide it, as she moved to the bar to put up the mugs.

“So do you live around here?” she asked. “Or work?”

“Technically work,” he said leaning against the bar as she went behind it, rummaging through dishware. “I live in London.”

“Oh,” Melanie said, honestly surprised and a tad disappointed. “How often do you come to Paris?”

“Once every few weeks,” he said. “I’m in PR for Red House Publishing, so I’m commonly all over the place.”

“Really?” Melanie asked. “Where to?”

“New York, Philadelphia, Melbourne, Singapore, sometimes Paris,” he answered, drawing off as his spread is hands on the wood surface of the bar and looked at her. “Boring places.”

“Right,” Melanie laughed. “Out of those five I’ve just been to New York, and only then I was working all the time. Too much to enjoy…”

She stalled when she saw the curious look on his face and smiled. “Not that it matters.”

“You do live in Paris, love,” he reminded her.

“Well, that’s a recent development,” she said. “It’s still sinking in.”

“Looks like it’s agreeing with you,” he replied and she smiled at him.

“Thanks,” she said, then caught the look of her friend and, as it happened, boss giving her the motion to get on with things.

“Right,” Melanie said, shaking herself out of the blissful calm she was in. “I’m working. I work here. So, Mr. Baker, what can I get you?”

[syrinx]

VI.

After that she didn’t see him again for another three weeks, but it didn’t take long to notice that when he was physically in the city he was making it a point to drop by. After the third time Melanie saw him she broke down and gave him her phone number, a risky move that everyone working in the café had agreed on afterward, which resulted in an entire month of his absence before he called her one afternoon completely out of the blue. From London.

“I’d nearly forgotten about you,” Melanie said into the phone, feigning indifference.

“Now, you know that’s just not possible,” he replied. Melanie guffawed.

“What do you think I do?” she asked playfully. “It’s not like I’m over here pining after my fleetingly here English friend whom I serve lunch while he’s in Paris.”

“It’s a good relationship,” he defended. “So what are you doing?”

“Painting my kitchen yellow,” Melanie replied. There was a silence on the other end.

“Love, what kind of yellow?” he asked suspiciously.

“The good kind,” Melanie said coyly, looking at the pale shade of yellow that was slowly taking over the ugliest shade of green she had ever seen. She hadn’t know what she was thinking when she painted the kitchen that color green a few weeks ago. She’d only hoped it would dry a different color when she’d applied it. Now she was covering it up with something else.

“So what’s the occasion?” she asked, rolling the yellow paint and listening halfheartedly to the sticky sound of it hitting the wall. There was a slight silence on the other end, just long enough for Melanie to put the paint roller down on the tray and stretch her back, looking out the window at the bright yellow leaves on the trees that lined her street.

“I’m curious if you like the ponies,” he answered, and at the very vague mention Melanie’s spine went rigid.

“Horse racing?” she asked, trying her hardest to make her voice sound incredulous, as if she’d never set foot on a track before, and wondered why she was trying to put on a show.

“I’m going to be in Paris this weekend, and business it taking me to Longchamp for the Prix De L'Arc De Triomphe. My reasoning is that it wouldn’t be fit going without something pretty to bring along.”

“So you’re enlisting me?” Melanie asked, needing to sit down and collapsing into one of her kitchen chairs.

“That’s the general idea,” he replied, laughing. “Don’t take it too seriously. You sound a little put off.”

“I’m not put off,” Melanie defended. “Not at all, actually. I used to go to the track plenty back home, I’ll have you know.”

“Nothing like the European courses, I’ll tell you that immediately,” he told her, and Melanie rolled her eyes.

“Go often, do you?”

“Enough,” he replied. “What do you say?”

The words were out before Melanie could even convince herself that it was the worst thing for her to possibly do at the moment. It was too soon; it was absolutely insane to think she could go to Longchamp and not be noticed or still worse – that she might easily fall back into it all. It was the last thing she wanted.

Of course, then she said yes.

VII.

Soon after Melanie got off the phone with Aston she panicked and called Christina, whom silently listened to her ranting before breaking in.

“Mel,” Christina started, “I don’t understand. You’re saying that this guy, who lives in England and occasionally comes to Paris, is going to take you to Longchamp this weekend. You said yes, but now you don’t know if you should have said yes?”

“Exactly,” Melanie nodded emphatically. “That’s my situation.”

“What’s the big deal?” Christina asked through a yawn.

“The big deal is that my whole purpose in coming to France was so I’d take an extended break,” Melanie argued.

“Extended break from a ruthless training schedule is one thing, Mel,” Christina said. “You’re just going to watch a race, not jump in the saddle and be a part of it.”

“I understand that,” Melanie groaned. “But I haven’t even told this guy what I did before I came here, and what if I run into someone who knows me? That will be the very definition of awkward. Plus, I still would like it if no one knew where I was.”

“By the way,” Christina said. “People are starting to get a little anxious over here about that. You can’t just drop off the face of the earth without someone noticing, Mel.”

“I’ve done well enough so far,” Melanie pointed out. “I’m not that huge of a celebrity.”

“You qualify well enough,” Christina said. “Maybe it’s time someone found you.”

“What if I don’t want to be found?” Melanie asked.

“I don’t think you have a choice,” Christina said. “Like this guy? He’s going to find out eventually if you keep at it with him. What are you doing with him anyway?”

“I don’t know,” Melanie groaned and started to pace around the kitchen. “He’s occasionally here, is all.”

“Sounds a lot like Jazz to me,” Christina remarked casually.

“It is not like that!” Melanie defended.

“Right, Mel,” Christina said, her voice laced with disbelief. Melanie could practically envision her cousin rolling her eyes. “He lives no where near you, and he’s got a job that has him jumping across the globe all the time. How is that not like Jazz?”

“You’re describing a long distance friendship,” Melanie said. “I think I can handle that. I’m doing that with you, aren’t I?”

“We’re family,” Christina laughed.

“God, Chris, you’re making things more complicated. I was just calling to get a little advice. I needed some help, not a break down of my life,” Melanie said in a rush, feeling as if all her anxiety was bottling up into a near explosion.

“Okay,” Christina said firmly. “Here’s what I think you should do.”

“Enlighten me,” Melanie grumbled, beginning to calm down just enough to stand still.

“Melanie, do what you want,” Christina said.

“That’s all you have to tell me?” Melanie asked.

“And stop being so nervous,” Christina added. “You’re starting to make me nervous and you live way over in France. It’s ridiculous.”

“So I have to stop being nervous and do what I want,” Melanie stated, frowning.

“Exactly,” Christina replied.

Melanie sighed. “You are no help sometimes.”

[syrinx]

VIII.

The turf at Longchamp was always deep in the fall. Of course, Melanie had never known that, but by the way it had rained over the past week she could only assume the horses would be running through a thicket during the weekend. She didn’t share this information with Aston, so she was surprised when he felt the need to inform her about the status of the course.

“You really do frequent the tracks, don’t you?” Melanie asked as they stood in the giant crème-colored grandstand and watched the horses trot out by themselves to the gate.

“Just enough to know what’s going on,” he answered her, his eyes on the horses.

Melanie smirked a little and kept her attention on the track, which was a bright spread of green crossed with white fences. The very clear differences between the course at Longchamp and what she was so used to on the American circuit were almost enough to keep Melanie at ease. Differences were good; Melanie could get caught up in them and use them to remind herself how temporary her time in the French racing world really was. It was a brush, a glimpse, nothing more.

The race went off without a hitch. Fifteen horses pounded into the first turn, tightly bunched and indistinguishable from each other. The turf muffled the sound of their hooves, which was then drowned out by the announcer shouting in French. The whole thing was muddled for Melanie, who could only pick up bits and sections of the call. Eventually the horses spread out until it was one solitary animal making a break for it, galloping full out down the inside rail with his jockey flinging his arms like mad in encouragement.

The horse, an unmarked dark bay named Premier, won by several lengths. It was after the wire that Melanie learned she had been holding her breath during the stretch run, and she exhaled loudly.

“You look a little pale,” Aston remarked, looking from the race to Melanie, who genuinely didn’t know what was suddenly coming over her. The tips of her fingers were cold and she felt light-headed, as if her circulation had simply stopped sometime during the race.

“Melanie?” Aston asked when she didn’t say anything, putting his hand on her back when she moved forward to grip the rail of the viewing box.

“I don’t know,” Melanie shook her head, and flushed in embarrassment. “I have no idea, but I’m fine.”

He gave her a disbelieving look and she smiled quickly. So she reiterated. “I’m fine, Aston.”

“Don’t be offended if I don’t believe you,” he said.

“Believe me, I’m not offended,” she answered, looking at the track with a frown. She let go of the rail and pushed away from it, feeling his hand drop off of her back and settled back to his side. She heard him saying something about getting some food into her, and she nodded mutely, too busy staring at the racecourse with narrowed eyes.

Then she let herself be drawn off, slowly moving back into the life she’d made without a glance back.

IX.

It was about a month after Longchamp. Melanie was sprawled on the sofa, burrowed in a chenille throw as she stared at the ceiling that she’d painted a dusty blue. She wrinkled her nose at it, wishing the color had come out a little lighter.

It was a lazy day in Montmartre. The streets were quiet, but Melanie didn’t think that was unusual. It was raining outside, after all. The whole day had been soaked in a persistent, cold rain. Going outside meant being chilled to the bone, and Melanie was hardly interested in that.

So she sat inside and stared at the ceiling, listened to the rain fall, thought about how she’d recently quit her job. What she didn’t want to admit to herself, but what Christina freely told her, was that she was milling. She wasn’t interested in menial work, but she wasn’t interested in lazy retirement as a twentysomething either. Neither worked, and Melanie was beginning to suspect that nothing was working.

Frowning at the shade of blue on the ceiling, Melanie allowed the thought that maybe she wasn’t cut out for anything. Making lattes had gotten old, stubborn refusal to do nothing made her itch, the idea of school made her nervous, and she had failed with horses. Her experience at Longchamp only scared her, which brought up another, less flattering adjective to describe Melanie’s life that Christina was starting to use in abundance.

Melanie was certainly not a coward. She hadn’t climbed through the ranks as a female jockey and won the Kentucky Derby by avoiding things. It was a preposterous idea, and Melanie laughed easily at it.

The rain wasn’t stopping. Melanie could see the shadows of the fat, falling drops roll over her ceiling. She frowned at the dusty blue, thinking she needed to cover it in another shade; maybe something more cheerful.

X.

There was a knock at the door while Melanie was painting her ceiling something called “Ange De Neige,” which wasn’t anything near the color blue – more like a dirty white, really – but it looked good with the brighter blue she’d been talked into painting the walls. “Grand Bleu De Pays” was the name of the blue on the walls. It meant something about a big blue country, which made little sense, but Melanie didn’t stop to consider it.

At the second knock Melanie climbed down the foot ladder, put the roller down on the sheet-covered floor, and wiped her paint-smeared hands on her pair of ancient jeans. She carefully opened up the door, not wanting to get Angel of Snow white on the more enamel look of the door. She wasn’t surprised when she saw Aston in the hallway.

“So you quit the café, I see,” he asked her as Melanie moved out of the way and let him inside, warning him about the paint and the sheets that he considered for a split second before turning his attention back to her.

“I quit the café,” Melanie said, nodding. She gave him a once over, noticing the lack of his ever present suit. She’d never seen him in anything else, but today he looked like a normal guy who’d just walked in from a cold winter in Paris. She liked the casual look on him; the suit had gotten old about two months ago.

“Probably because you don’t really need the job, huh?” he asked.

Melanie stared at him silently, her heart rate revving and her mouth going dry. He looked at her, seeming neither curious nor angry, and Melanie shrugged in an effort to look the picture of cool when she could already feel her cheeks burning hot. She’d never been a good liar.

He nodded at her response, recognizing the silent admission. He looked up at the ceiling, all part Angel of Snow and part dusty blue. Then to the yellow in the kitchen, the eggplant in the hallway, the orange rust peaking out of her bedroom. He looked at her. Melanie offered a small, terrified smile.

“Melanie,” he said after a beat. “Don’t be offended when I say you’re one of the weirder women I’ve ever known.”

“Is that a compliment?” Melanie asked, unsure of his meaning.

“Strangely, yes,” he said.

“You’re not mad?” she asked, wanting to be sure.

“More confused,” he said. “Uncomfortable, I think.”

“That’s my fault,” Melanie said. “I’m just…”

He looked at her expectantly, arching an eyebrow. Melanie sighed and looked down at her paint splattered fingernails, refusing to say what she was thinking. She couldn’t admit even to herself that Christina had been right. It would have been too much.

As it turned out, she didn’t need to say anything.

“You do realize that you’re too tiny to make painting a ceiling easy, right?” Aston stepped in. Melanie looked up at him in surprise, confused by his willingness to bring up who she really was and then skirt around it as if it wasn’t a big deal. Melanie considered him carefully as he stood in the middle of her living room, taking off his coat and tossing it under the sheet she’d spread over her sofa.

“You want to help?” Melanie croaked out.

“Sure, Love,” he replied, picking up the paint roller. Melanie still stared at him in confusion. “Although I do have a request,” he added.

“Shoot,” Melanie said.

“If I spend the next hour helping you spread this ugly dirty white all over your ceiling you have to tell me who exactly you are and why you’re obsessed with painting your apartment every other month.”

“I do not paint my apartment that much…”

“Mel?”

“Yes?”

“Can you do that for me?”

Melanie took a big breath, held it in for a moment, and exhaled. She spread her fingers out, lifting her hands as she offered herself up. She smiled.

“Yeah,” she said. “I think I can.”

[syrinx]

XI.

To Melanie it felt like hell had frozen over and no one was noticing. It was the beginning of December and she was standing in a ridiculously quaint, Tudor-style stable, looking at a dark gray filly that was just made for her. As the groom turned the petite filly in looping circles, showing off the splotchy filly’s good points, Melanie didn’t need to be convinced. She’d fallen in love.

As Melanie stood in the Deauville stable, she had to marvel at the course of events that had led her to the Normandy coast for this sale. It had started after Aston had helped her paint her ceiling a dirty white. The two of them literally watched the paint dry, laying flat on their backs on the floor as she divulged everything. At that moment it had felt wonderful to get everything off her chest, but when Aston asked her to come to the Ventes de Deauville it had taken the better part of a week to convince herself into going.

Now she was there, looking at a petite yearling with a splotchy gray coat and calm, brown eyes. While she hadn’t gone into the sale wanting to buy anything – really, it was the absolute last thing she wanted to do – Melanie couldn’t help it. The little daughter of Sagamix was quickly changing her mind.

In the auction ring, a smooth and polished variation on others she’d been in multiple times, she felt herself sliding down the slippery slope. The petite gray was led into the ring and Melanie was done for. She was back in when her arm raised of its own accord and claimed the filly for herself. This was her nature, she assumed. You couldn’t beat nature down.

After the auction, before wondering what she was going to do with this yearling filly she’d plucked up without thinking things through, the only thing she could think of was giving it a name.

“Ange De Neige,” Aston remarked calmly, and Melanie shivered, liking how he’s said it.

“Angel of Snow?” she asked, giving him a curious, sideways glance.

He laughed. “Snow Angel, love.”

Melanie narrowed her eyes at him and pushed his arm lightly for making fun, then she considered it. “But she’d be named after a paint color.”

“I can think of worse things to be named after,” was his response.

Melanie looked at the splotchy gray filly, and rolled the name over her tongue. “Ange De Neige.” She smiled. “Snow Angel.”

XII.

Paris in December was a gray city. A light dusting of snow sat atop the rooftops and lingered in shadows, sticking around where it was cooler. The sky was consistently cloudy; Melanie didn’t know when it was she had last seen the sky being blue.

That didn’t really matter. Melanie was too busy to look at the sky, too busy to notice much outside of the complicated process of getting Angel’s papers in order, clearing things up with her land lady, packing up and shipping her belongings (how much crap had she accumulated since she’d moved to Paris?), and finalizing her plans for when she’d landed on the other side of the ocean.

As she pulled a strip of packing tape over the last box, Melanie let out a giant sigh, closed her eyes, and flopped to the floor. Then her cell phone rang in a high and piercing shrill that was not to be ignored.

With an unladylike groan, Melanie reached over her head and felt around for the offending object. She had to open her eyes and twist around to find the phone wedged between two boxes, and with a quick glance at the caller ID she flipped it open without ceremony and answered.

“Hi, Chris,” she said, settling back on the floor.

“I am so excited,” Chris started. “Are you not so excited?”

“I am,” Melanie replied. “Thrilled, even. Jumping out of my skin.”

“The Herald already wrote up a little piece about you,” Christina said.

“I got their phone calls,” Melanie said.

“Admittedly the editorial is a little mixed on opinion,” Christina said as though she hadn’t heard her. “There’s hardly a quote in the thing. What did you tell them anyway?”

“That I enjoyed France,” Melanie shrugged. “Had a good time, wound up accidentally purchasing a horse and I didn’t know what to do with it.”

“That’s it?”

“I was busy,” Melanie defended herself. “Packing, remember? I had to put a horse in quarantine, I’ve got friends to say good bye to, I’ve got business to settle. Editorials can wait.”

“Fine,” Christina huffed. Then she brightened. “How’s everything going?”

“I’m almost finished up,” Melanie said, looking up at the dirty white ceiling.

She laid on her back, listening idly as Christina chattered on about what they were going to do when she got back to Lexington, her eyes focused on the ceiling. It wasn’t such a long time ago that she’d purchased Angel, but it felt like a lifetime ago that she’d decided that she simply couldn’t keep the horse she’d bought and stay in France.

Her choices had been simple in theory. Either she gave up the filly and stayed in her situation in France, or she kept the filly and moved so she could take full advantage of owning a horse. Melanie had never been the kind of person who could own a horse and not see it consistently, and when the only reasonably priced boarding farm that she could get to wound up being completely too far from her to make that possible she’d given in.

Part of her blamed Aston. She never should have let him talk her into the Ventes de Deauville; just the fact that he knew about the Ventes de Deauville bothered her to no end. She hadn’t known about it, so how Aston of all people had known and managed to convince her into going had her suspicions raised, although she couldn’t pin down why.

Then there was a knock on her door, and Melanie quickly interjected into Christina’s stream of words to answer it. She wasn’t surprised to see Aston standing in the hallway, hands shoved into the pockets of a worn winter jacket. Melanie took one look at him and told Christina she’d have to go. Before her cousin could respond Melanie clapped the phone shut and turned it off.

“Hi,” she said, shifting on her feet anxiously as he made no move to come in.

“You called,” he said instead, looking from her to the boxes littering the floor of the apartment. “I got the message a while ago, but I was in New York. I just got back.”

“I see,” Melanie said, nodding. “I did call. You know, it’s a coincidence. I’ll be in New York in a few days.”

He didn’t respond to that. He didn’t move either. Melanie rotated the phone in her hand, wondering what to do. She had called him over a week ago with the news that she was moving, and having not heard from him at all had both been aggravating and a relief. Part of her hadn’t wanted to say good bye to anything she associated with France, Aston included. The other part of her didn’t know why she dwelled on Aston at all. He had been even less consistent in her life than Jazz, and even more confusing given her relationship with him had never progressed past light flirtations. They had truly been only friends, a feat Melanie couldn’t remember having ever accomplished.

“You want to take a walk?” he asked out of the blue, and Melanie shrugged to accept the proposal. Grabbing her coat and her keys, she followed him out of the apartment building and walked in silence up to Rue de la Bonne and Sacré-Coeur. They edged along the Parc de la Terlure, and then stopped when Aston came to a sudden halt.

“What?” Melanie asked, breaking the silence for the first time in minutes.

Aston looked at her calmly as she whirled to face him, suddenly getting irritated with his behavior. “What, Aston?” she said again in efforts to get him to talk.

“I suppose I’m just a little surprised,” he finally said.

“Why’s that?” Melanie asked, putting her hands on her hips. “It’s not like I was a fixture or anything.”

“No,” Aston shook his head. “You just seemed so intent on keeping things mum all the time. Like being American was too much information to spread about yourself.”

“I think it’s pretty obvious I’m American,” Melanie snipped at him. “You figured that out within two seconds of meeting me.”

“Then there were all those other tiny little details,” Aston said, eyes narrowing. “Such as your actual identity that I didn’t come to realize until well after I knew you.”

“Aston,” Melanie replied coldly, “we could have gone over this well before you encouraged me to get back into horses. Don’t get all pissed off that I failed to mention to you that I was actually Melanie Graham, the Jockey. I distinctly remember you avoiding the whole subject of who I was back before I bought Angel.”

“Are you trying to tell me that by not getting mad at you then I’m somehow the reason why you’re moving back to the States now?” Aston asked, her quirking an eyebrow.

“Yes!” Melanie exclaimed.

“I’m sorry if I don’t quite follow your logic, love,” he replied, shrugging.

“God, you know, I barely follow my own logic,” Melanie sighed, unable to find any more drive to continue being defensive when he was being so casual.

“I assume the logic and the horse are connected?” he asked. “I haven’t seen you since the horse, so I’m suspecting that’s the motivating factor.”

“It is,” Melanie nodded. “Angel is the motivating factor, I think.”

“You’re sure?” Aston asked.

“Yes and no,” Melanie frowned. At his doubtful look, Melanie looked up at the sky in frustration with herself before launching into what she had been thinking about for days on end. “I can’t keep her and not give her a chance, Aston. I won’t do that, and since she’s months from the track there’s no easy way to train her here. Frankly, I don’t want to train her here.”

“And what else is there?” he asked.

“I need to do something,” Melanie said, suddenly finding her voice going hoarse and the prickling of tears in her eyes. “I came here because I thought a break would be good. Maybe even a permanent break, if I liked it. But then I just felt still, and I’m not used to being still. I didn’t like it, and I knew I was shortchanging myself although I didn’t want to admit that to anyone. I couldn’t admit that to anyone, because that would have meant that not only did I fail at what I thought I wanted to do for the rest of my life, but I also failed when I thought coming here was right.”

“Melanie,” he said, trying to interrupt as she shook her head, wiping the tears of frustration out of her eyes.

“I couldn’t even make up my mind about what I should do with myself here because I was afraid of the decision so much. God, Christina was so right.”

“Melanie,” Aston said more firmly, walking up to her and tugging her toward him. Melanie shied away briefly, her breath hitching her chest before he put one steady hand on her back and settled her against him.

For a moment Melanie leaned against him, breathing heavily against his coat and feeling his chin rest on the crown of her head. He didn’t say anything, which she was grateful for as she pulled herself together and stopped the tears.

“I’m okay,” she finally said, sniffling. He didn’t let her go, so she tried again. “Really, Aston, I’m fine.”

“I know you are,” he replied. “I’m just thinking that I’ve been such a prat over the last few months.”

Melanie didn’t say a word to that, but moved back a little in his embrace so she could get a look at his face. He was looking down at her curiously, as if he hadn’t really seen her before this moment. She smiled a little.

“Don’t know what I was even expecting, really,” he said. “When it comes down to it, I couldn’t ever be upset for your not telling me about yourself because it’s not like I’m too forthcoming. Part of me always thought you belonged somewhere else.”

“Care to tell me where that is?” Melanie asked in a half-hearted attempt at joking.

“Hell if I know, Mel,” he said, then gave her a hard look. Melanie tried ducking her head to escape it, but his fingers on the side of her jaw made her look back up.

“I don’t need to tell you that the decisions you’re making or made are wrong or not,” he said. “I’ve never met someone more capable than you, Mel. You’ll figure it all out.”

Melanie nodded; wiped at her drying eyelashes and offered him what she hoped was a brave smile. “I hope so,” she said, and then knew that wasn’t enough.

“I think so,” she amended, taking the opportunity to lean into him just as he shifted away.

Aston moved his hand from her jaw down to her fingers and she held on as he dropped his hand to his side. He didn’t look surprised that she held on to him, but only gave her a small smile and asked her if she wanted to head back.

“Yes,” Melanie said, feeling a thrill as he squeezed her fingers tightly and turned with her, walking hand and hand back down the Rue de la Bonne.

~

[yukitamashii]

I think I remember reading some of this before--the part with the yellow kitchen seems familiar. But I don't know if I ever read as far as it ends here. Is it complete? I hope not, I'd love to read more. I don't read a lot of Mel fics but she's very enjoyable here.

[horselover]

I really enjoyed that. Thanks for posting it on this board.