Chapter 14 - Billionaire Blues

Never had a person after finding out they had reached billionaire status felt more hopeless. How, wondered Dylan, sitting in the back of a Rolls Royce, had everything gone wrong so fast? Gabriel's cottage and the moments he'd spent there with Jill now felt like a dream, and now reality was smacking him in the face. An image of Jill with her head on his shoulder flashed through his mind and he let out a small groan.

"Is there anything I can do, sir?" Said Jameson from the front passenger seat.

"No, Jameson, but thanks."

"If I had known—"

"It's not your fault," said Dylan, knowing his butler felt partly responsible that Jill had decided to take off. But this was on him and him alone, although he did console him self every now and then by telling himself that most people would be glad to suddenly be out from under their student loans! How was he supposed to know she took pride in paying them off? But that line of thinking only held back his misery momentarily because when it came right down to it, he loved Jill's independence and he hated that his monster success had managed to make her accomplishments seem insignificant. Dylan cradled his head in his hands as he remembered her saying, I literally have two grand right now in my checking account, her tone defiant yet embarrassed, like she could no longer see her wealth except in comparison to his and it made her feel like a fool, working so hard at saving lives and in contrast making so little.

"Sometimes, boss," said Rubio, glancing in the rearview mirror, "I do something real nice for my girlfriend. Not as nice as paying off her loans, mind you, but nice, like buying her flowers, and instead of being happy about it she gives me the third degree. Why didn't I ask her what she wanted? If I would have asked she would have told me she wanted chocolates. And when I say, but you told me you're going on a diet, I get a pillow to the face. Do you know what I'm saying?"

"I'm not sure I do, Rubio."

"What I'm saying is we're going to fail. They want us to read minds. We can't read minds!"

Jameson cleared his throat. "Rubio, is there a silver lining to this, some bright spot?"

Rubio bit his lip as he thought. "Uh, I don't think so."

"Then allow me to say," said Jameson, "what my grandmother was fond of saying, Lose your temper, your mind, your wallet, your way, but never lose hope."

Dylan stared out at the rolling green countryside, "Thanks, Jameson," he said.

"You're welcome, sir."

"Have you heard from Jill yet?"

"Not yet, sir," said Jameson, not pointing out that he'd just asked that question ten minutes ago which Dylan appreciated.

"But she has your number."

"She has my number," he said as phone buzzed the arrival of a text.

"Is that her?" he asked.

"No, just my sister."

"I'm just a little freaked, you know. I mean, Paris is a big city and all she said before walking out of the cafe was, I'll see you in Paris, but she didn't specify where, and I know she's capable, but she doesn't speak the language. How is she going to get around? Not that I want to treat her like a kid, but I just want to know she's safe, and if she'd stayed with me I would have made sure she was safe. But she wanted to ride the train. Most people would have wanted to ride in a Rolls to Paris, not a train, don't you think, Jameson?"

Another text buzzed in. "Just my sister. False alarm."

Dylan groaned.

"But yes, most would prefer the Rolls, but, as I have come to learn, Jill Caruthers is not like most," said Jameson.

"Tell me about it," said Dylan, his hand falling to the leather seat. For a moment it felt like Jill was there, about to scoop his hand in hers. Dylan looked at the empty seat and a wave of misery crashed over him.

"Which is why you fancy her," said Jameson.

"True."

"She's her own lady."

"True again."

"Trust her. She said she'd meet you in Paris, and I believe she will. Speaking of Paris, I failed to mention to you that I was able to speak with Armand Bertrand."

"Who's Armand Bertrand?"

"The portraitist you were keen to have paint Jill's likeness."

Dylan rubbed his face. "Totally forgot about that."

"As it would happen, he's a Liverpool supporter like myself, and after talking football, he decided he'd be able to squeeze in a portrait of Jill."

"Serious? I thought he had a two-year wait."

"Such is the power of sport. He speaks excellent English and asked me to send him a photo of her, which I did, and then he asked me to describe her."

Dylan sat up a taller. "What'd you tell him?"

"I told him that she knows her own mind."

"Yep."

"That when she's happy her brown eyes sparkle." Dylan let out a little sigh. "And that she's a healer. I told him about what she did at Juliette. He was vastly impressed."

"He should be. Anything else?"

"Yes, I told him that at her essence she is still a teenage American girl who gets excited over little things like slurpees. He didn't know what a slurpee was, but that's beside the point. Anyway, I just received a text from him not long ago and he said Jill's portrait will be waiting for us in Paris, in the Louvre."

"You're kidding, right?"

"Had I been kidding, sir, I assure my delivery would have been jollier. Bertrand has an exhibit going on at the Louvre and he's decided to add her portrait to the show, which will end in two months, at which time he will send the portrait to you."

"Wow, it didn't take him long."

"Apparently he works quickly, without compromising craft. Speaking of quickly, Mahalo mentioned they're waiting for your reply to several key emails."

"I'll get to it," said Dylan, his cheek propped against his fist, but the truth was that Dylan didn't feel much like getting to anything. What he really wanted to do was sulk, to sit there and feel sorry for himself. It felt like everything he'd dreamed of had been within reach and then had gotten snatched away. He realized that he wasn't focusing on the bright side, and that, truth be told, he had reason to celebrate, a billion reasons, but that line of thinking only made him want to punch a wall. Money was cool, but he hated the assumption that his money was the measure of his happiness, because it wasn't. Never had he been more happy than during high school when he and Jill had organized their schedules so that they had almost every class together. And that was back when his dad was convinced his son was destined to be a loser. But the lectures and extra chores given him to teach him responsibility were nothing to Dylan, because when his alarm rang in the morning that meant he was going to see Jill.

Dylan sighed. Would he see her again?

"Are you okay, sir?" asked Jameson.

He rapped his knuckles on the burled wood arm rest. "I've been better, Jameson."

"Hope, sir. Don't lose it," said James.

"But I get it," said Rubio.

"Get what?" asked Jameson.

"Why he feels like his world is falling to pieces. Jill took off and she's like a real Louis Vuitton purse, the one you buy in their store, and all these ladies you've dated, well, they've just been cheap knock offs."

"Rubio, that isn't necessary."

"Sorry, boss. I was just saying I get why you're glum."

"No need to say sorry, Rubio. You're right. She is the real deal."

Just then Jameson's phone buzzed.

Dylan shot forward in his seat. "Is it her?" he asked.

"Sorry sir, it's my dentist, reminding me of a checkup next week."

Dylan slumped back in his chair and stared out at the apartment buildings that had begun to dot the landscape. They were getting closer to Paris. He wondered if Jill had already arrived and was taking a look around. Dylan imagined them together, licking gelatos and wandering through an open market and him saying, Buy anything you want. He could see Jill giggle, fling her arms open wide, sending her gelato sailing to the ground, and saying, Then I'll take it all! She would have just been joking, but the truth was he could do it. He could buy every t-shirt, every snow globe, every mini Eiffel tower they had. Were it for sale, Dylan could buy the real Eiffel tower. Maybe not. Even his money had its limits, but you would think it could buy knowing where Jill was and setting things right between them. But it couldn't. Money had been the source of his troubles. Dylan slumped further into his seat, ignoring the music Rubio had turned to lighten the mood. As if Taylor Swift singing about a breakup could lift his spirits. Dylan didn't complain, but the music was no help. It felt like nothing could help. He knew Jill. In addition to being smart, beautiful, and amazing, she was practical, and if she contacted him again it would be to tell him it would never work. She was a nurse in Christmas, Florida and he was a billionaire. Their lives were too different to blend. He considered if at this point he should fall to his knees and beg her to reconsider, but he knew that groveling would only send her away faster. The only solution would be to leave, just take off. Go backpack somewhere. Maybe climb Everest. No, that sounded too cold. But take off, get lost, until the pain in his heart lessened. Dylan was trying to decide whether during his wanderings he should grow a beard when he felt his phone vibrate, alerting him he'd received a text. Heart pounding, he pulled it out of his pocket and saw that he'd received a text from Jill.

Dylan gasped.

"Are you okay, sir?"

"Fine!" he said louder than necessary as he read, Hi Dylan.

Dylan's fingers suddenly felt made of lead. He couldn't tap a response fast enough. Hey! Are you okay? I've been worried about you!

That's what I guessed, texted Jill, so I wanted to let you know I'm fine.

Are you in Paris ?

Yes, and already I love it here.

Did you know we made the tabloids.

We did? How?

The headline says, American Billionaire And His Girlfriend Deliver Baby At Restaurant. I found out when my supervisor called to grill me about the protocol I used.

Wow. She takes her job seriously.

She does, but I didn't mind. She was satisfied with the way I handled the situation, and it gave us time to talk.

About?

My return.

Dylan's heart sagged in his chest. He didn't want to think about the moment she returned to Ho Ho Hospital and life reverted to the way it was.

Oh.

When do you get into town?

Around four.

Can you meet on the lawn in front of the Eiffel tower at six?

His first impulse was to say he couldn't make it, because if he didn't show she couldn't tell him that they weren't right for each other. He wanted to argue —though she'd said nothing to the contrary—that two people who had kissed the way they had kissed had something special going on between them! Something worth fighting for! He would move his company to Christmas. They would build a life together there and she could work all the night shifts she wanted! As long as they were together that was all that mattered! But he knew there was no forcing Jill to agree to anything that she didn't want to do. And that strength was one of the reasons why he loved her. All he could do was show up and face the music. Love, even a love as enduring as the loved he felt for Jill, was not always reciprocated. It was time to face the music.

Sure! he texted back, that exclamation point a total fake. As much as he wanted to see her, he was dreading the moment. He wasn't accustomed to using his money to pay his way out of things. But all at once he wished he could stroke a check to avoid what he was certain would be happening at six o'clock on the lawn in front of the Eiffel tower—Jill Caruthers kissing him good bye.

Great! See you at six!

See you at six.