Seven Letters from Paris by Samantha Vérant Page A

that’s an excellent idea.”
    â€¢ • •
    In the morning, we loaded up the rental minivan. Soon, the Chicago skyline disappeared from the rearview mirror. Fear had me shaking in my gym shoes. I clenched my teeth. My mother sat in the passenger seat, so excited she was practically bouncing up and down, a wide smile plastered on her face. Twenty miles into the drive, she blurted out, “I spoke to the woman who walks our dogs, and she’s looking for some help. I suggested you.”
    â€œWhy? Does she need a website designed?”
    â€œNo, actually, she needs more dog walkers.”
    â€œWait. What?”
    â€œIt will be good for you until you land on your feet.”
    â€œGreat. Just great,” I said.
    I had nothing but a mountain of debt. I was about to turn forty and I was moving back in with my parents. I’d just left the man I’d spent thirteen years with. I’d sabotaged my love affair of letters with Jean-Luc. And my mother had just asked me if I wanted to become a dog walker. This was not the way I’d mapped out my life.
    My knuckles turned white as I gripped the steering wheel. “They have bridges in Los Angeles, right?”
    â€œYes. Why?”
    â€œSo I can throw myself off one when we get there.”
    â€œSam, that’s not funny.” She huffed. “So when we get home, we have some work to do. Obviously, you need to have your hair highlighted. And look at those nails. They’re a mess—”
    â€œYeah, I’m sure the dogs will judge me. They are from Malibu.”
    My mother shot me her patented look, a half-disgusted sneer, half pout. The kind of look that made me feel bad in one flash second. “Don’t be so rude. You don’t have to walk dogs if you don’t want to. I’m only trying to help.”
    â€œI’m sorry, Mom. I’m dealing with a lot on my plate right now. I’m feeling overwhelmed.” I felt terrible for snapping at her, but I wasn’t in the mood to plan anything. I was all talked out. “I have an idea. Why don’t we listen to one of those books on tape you brought?”
    â€œI know exactly which one,” said my mom.
    She’d come prepared.
    As Elizabeth Gilbert, a woman also leaving a long-term marriage, narrated her book Eat, Pray, Love along the not-scenic route to Omaha, Nebraska, we passed blurred cornfields and cows, cheese shops and strip clubs. We drove through a town named Marseilles, right when Liz said, “I wanted out of a marriage I didn’t want to be in.” Although it was in Illinois, I couldn’t stop thinking of France and a certain someone who lived there.
    My mom was at the wheel when my cell phone buzzed. It was a text from Chris, calling me a freak, along with a few other choice words, for taking the salt and pepper shakers. I was about to call Jessica who, unbeknownst to me, had clearly decided I needed to spice up my life, when another text came in. Apparently Chris was in the process of hiring a divorce attorney who would work on both of our behalves, and since our marriage had essentially been over for more than six years, it was going to be quick.
    Stunned, I read the messages out loud. I realized Chris was lashing out, but if there was ever a proverbial nail in the coffin, those two texts had hammered my decision in. I deleted the messages and I didn’t respond. Forget about a separation. I knew I was never going back.
    â€œYou need to hire your own attorney,” Mom said. “You have to protect your best interests.”
    â€œI am. I left him.”
    â€œWhat about money?” she asked.
    â€œMom,” I said. “Everything is gone. There’s nothing to split.”
    â€œI’m surprised you didn’t leave him years ago,” she said.
    I knew how she felt about my husband. I’d been put in the middle of them, defending one against the other, which was tiring to say the least. In