I remember Ryder laughing, but Jim was as straight-faced as ever. He walked over to my chair, squatted, and put his hand on mine. “I haven’t forgotten about that, Katie Faye. If you think we should go there, then boy, why not?”

Ryder said he’d already been overseas and barely got out alive. Jim said, “And here we’re barely living.”

Ryder took a long chugalug and wiped his mouth. “Then I’ll go where my guitar man goes.”

It was decided. Jim and I made love half the night. Before we went to sleep we figured out a savings plan and how many weeks we would need in order to fly to France: twelve, at least. My travel money was long gone on diapers and grocery money with the widows, but I still had three or four dollars in the account, enough to keep it open and tilt the boat full speed ahead.

But what happens fast in this world obviously is not up to us. Jimmy’s mother had a heart attack the first week of summer up in Massachusetts. A day later Jim had to dip into our Eiffel Tower money to take a train to see her. He stayed a week. When he got back he was quiet and blue, looking scared, I thought, of soon becoming an orphan. One evening a few days later, after he carried sleeping Leo to his crib and laid him down, Jimmy came into the kitchen where Ryder and I sat at the table with my French book and a map of Europe. He leaned up against the refrigerator and folded his arms across his big fence-building chest. He caught my eye, then nodded his head for me to follow him outside. But Ryder saw all this too. He chuckled, then stood and said he needed to go breathe some good Texas air to clear his french fried brain.

I should have known what Jim had on his mind, but I honestly did not see it coming.

“I can’t let my mother have another heart attack all alone, Katie Faye.”

I think I sighed or something because he immediately dropped his arms and looked angry. I stood, walked over, and held his wrists. “You want to move up there?”

He nodded. “I’ll get you to Paris, Kate. I swear it.”