Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 133138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
Though I’m not sure his stories are in any of the gardens’ literature.
“Once, I must’ve been about eight, I’d guess . . . I was here on a school trip and we were allowed to rent the sailboats. I chose one in red and green and readied it for entry. There was another child, Elyna, who wanted the same boat, but I had it first so I refused to share.”
“Not quite the charmer then that you are now?” I tease.
He grins wolfishly. “I hadn’t discovered then that charm was quite so useful.” I laugh at his cockiness and he resumes his story. “Elyna began crying, and the boy who liked her tried to fight me to give her the boat. It didn’t go well . . . for any of us. We ended up struggling for it, all three of us laying claim to it. Before I knew it, I was in the water, which is not allowed. Our teacher, Madame Marchant, was screaming. Drenched and scolded, the three of us were prohibited from boating for the day and had to sit on the side of the pond while the other children played.”
“Let me guess—that’s when Elyna fell in love with you?”
He shakes his head, lost in the memory. “Non, certainly not. It is when I became friends with Leo. We sat there, mad and on the verge of fighting again, when Elyna started giving us shit. Leo and I looked at each other and decided then and there that she wasn’t worth the hassle.”
I laugh, surprised at the turn his story took. I guess I expected him to paint himself as the hero who beat up the other boy, the romantic who gave the girl the boat, or even the victim who’d been minding his own business when Elyna demanded his boat. But his story is one of the birth of a friendship.
“Are you still friends?” I ask hopefully.
Simon shrugs. “I haven’t seen him in years. He went off to another school when his family moved and we lost touch. But I always think of him when I come to the gardens.”
I smile, enjoying his story and picturing eight-year-old Simon soaked and pouting.
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a few girls pointing and whispering to each other as they look at us. Dammit . . . Simon took his sunglasses off to eat and he’s been recognized again.
“Come on,” I tell him. “We need to bounce before we have a mob on our hands. I don’t want our day to be spoiled.”
Simon notices as well and quickly slips his sunglasses back on. We gather up our things, and Simon takes them back to the kiosk before we walk back to the parking garage at a quicker pace than we did coming in. Thankfully, nobody approaches us, and as he starts up the engine, Simon looks over. “You really want to know me?” There’s a vulnerability in his voice that I’ve never heard before. It pulls at me, my heart sensing this is a significant gift from him that I should honor.
“I do.”
“Then we have another stop.”
We leave the gardens and the center of Paris, driving out to the outskirts of the city. Simon talks as he drives. “Every week, I come out here to work with a few boys. I’d like you to meet them.”
“I’d love to. How did you meet them?” I ask.
He takes a heavy breath, and I know this isn’t going to be a fun story like the sailboats. “I told you that my mother abandoned me, and then Jacqueline rescued me. Oui? This is where I was in the interim for a thankfully short time. These boys have been here much longer and will age out here, forced to join the adult world with little support. I try to help bridge that transition, helping them be better men who can handle the difficulties they live with and the ones to come.”
I’m stunned into silence.
Many people speak about activism, or as I accused Simon, simply throw money at an issue as a means of solving it. It takes a deeper passion, a bigger heart to put your precious time toward making a difference. And that’s what Simon does.
“I would be honored to meet them,” I say softly, putting my hand on his thigh.
Ten minutes later, we park in front of a weathered building that has striking architecture but has definitely seen better days. Simon has spent the drive giving me a quick breakdown on the history of the Sun Orphanage. Looking at the grounds now, I can see what he means. The former royal residence of the orphanage stands in stark contrast to the luxurious gardens we just left, the building looking tired, worn, scarred.
The grounds aren’t much better, with most of the equipment having that sort of jury-rigged appearance of an administration that’s trying to stretch every penny as far as possible.