The Book Yet to be Written

"Well, that doesn't seem like a coincidence," James Marie Scott said to herself as flames overtook the small dilapidated cottage standing before her. The heat from the blaze warmed her cheeks as she ran a hand over the shaved side of her head, flipping her shoulder-length wavy locks to the other side of her face.

Just yesterday, she'd toured the house with the realtor and the lawyer. It belonged to her neighbor Mason, who had disappeared several months ago but apparently squatters had taken over long before that. The rooms of the small house were piled high with junk and trash, fast food wrappers knee deep. Mason had left her trustee of his estate before disappearing without a word. James felt a painful tug in the general vicinity of her heart whenever she thought of the man who had been like a grandfather to her.

James met him on her first day of first grade when he told her that Mr. Gregory was his father and that she should call him Mason. At the tender age of six, she'd never thought much about adults having first names other than Mom, Dad or Mrs. Stevenson, her first grade teacher. And so, as she stayed at Mason's after school until her parents got home from work every day, he seemed less like the grumpy old man that he was and more like her best friend. Even when she was old enough to stay home on her own, she still found herself wandering through the gate to Mason's house for the company and the adventure. He always had a story tell, a game to play, a puzzle for her to solve. Now 15 years later, he was undeniably family. Which made his disappearance and continued silence that much harder to understand.

The lawyer had explained, with the deadline for sale looming and Mason still missing, the name needed on the dotted line was hers.

"All you need to do is clear a path to walk through each room," the realtor had explained. "The buyers will assuredly tear it down anyway."

In hindsight, her joke about the trashed bedroom being the perfect place to hide a dead body might have been inappropriate, James thought as the sirens in the background jolted her back to the present. The fire continued to rage through the dried wood like kindling. The snaps and cracks grew louder as the roof started to cave in. Debris flew from the open windows and a little black notebook tumbled out, still aflame. James stifled the embers with her booted foot. She carefully picked it up, recognizing the notebook with the rounded corners and smooth black cover as the kind Mason carried with him everywhere, jotting notes and sketching pictures. She flipped open the notebook to the front page. Though charred around the edges, she could still make out the words, written in Mason's familiar, slanted handwriting.

"In case of loss, please return to: 107 Main Street. As a reward: $20,000."

"So that's how you want to play it?" she said to no one. The steady hiss and crackle of the fire was the only answer she got. Carefully typing the address into her phone, she hopped in the driver's seat of her little black coupe and peeled away as the rest of burning house collapsed.

Creeping along the small town Main Street, she slid into a parking spot right in front of 107, an old-fashioned glass and brick storefront. She grabbed the little black book off the passenger seat and headed inside to get some answers. She hoped.

As soon as she set the book down on the counter, the woman greeted her. "Oh good, we've been expecting you. Please have a seat," she said, gesturing toward the glass enclosed conference room to her right. "Mr. Ellis will be right with you."

She sat in the room for less than a minute before an older gentleman with white hair, Mr. Ellis she presumed, entered the room holding a lock box. He sat it down in front of her and told her she should find the key in the notebook's back pocket. Then he left quietly and shut the door behind him, giving her privacy with her odd inheritance.

She pulled out the charred journal and flipped to the back. Just as Mr. Ellis had said, a small silver key was tucked into the pocket inside the back cover.

"The reward, maybe?" James thought. Why else would Mason send her to a random rural bank in the middle of nowhere? And just what was he up to with all the mysterious disappearing and mysterious little black book and mysterious scavenger hunt? Oh, how deeply she hoped it was just another game, that he was safe somewhere, just waiting for her to catch up and find him.

She turned the key and held her breath as she flipped the lid open to reveal...a single strip of paper. What? She looked closer and lifted the paper out of the otherwise empty box.

It was a plane ticket to Paris. That night. And her name was on it.

Twelve hours later, James shouldered her small carryon bag and stepped out of Charles De Gaulle airport into the crisp Parisian sunlight. A car was waiting at Arrivals, her name written clearly on the small white sign held by the stoic black-suited chauffeur.

“Uhhh...bonjour? C'est moi," she said, "It's me," gesturing toward the sign. The driver gave a terse nod and opened the door of the sleek black SUV. Without waiting for her to give a direction, he pulled away from the curb. From the plush backseat, James watched Paris flash by through the window. The buildings lined up like elegant ladies with their black, wrought iron railings. Spacious park squares were like urban mirages with the spray of sparkling water from enormous fountains, circled by green trees. She even caught a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower as they drove across the prettiest bridge she'd ever seen.

The SUV slowed to a stop in front of a small bookshop, the sign shining in green and gold. She gathered her few belongings and stepped out onto the cobblestones. She turned to say thank you but the driver had already shut the door behind her and begun driving away.

Looking around, she took a moment to orient herself. Across the river, the ornate bell towers of Notre Dame rose up to greet the day with its large courtyard beginning to fill with tourists. Unsure of what awaited her in the bookshop and eager to put it off a bit longer, she decided to make the most of this unexpected jaunt to Paris. After all, she'd never been...well, anywhere and she'd always wanted to go...well, everywhere. She tried to contain the giddy delight that burst in her chest, before giving up and in to the smile spreading uncontrollably across her face.

Down the street, she spotted a small cafe by the Place St. Michel and the low rumble of her stomach reminded her it was time for breakfast. She wandered over, taking a seat at the outdoor bistro table. She lingered over her cafe au lait, a mandarin orange and a fresh flaky pain au chocolat as she watched sharply dressed Parisians stream past on their way to work. It was, all in all, a perfect meet-cute with the city she'd always dreamed of visiting.

With her first French petit dejeuner complete, she wandered back to the small bookshop, ready to face her fate. Could Mason actually be inside waiting for her?Was this the finale or did he have another piece of the mystery for her to discover?

She squared her shoulders and opened the door. The inside of the shop was chaotic, narrow hallways lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves and books stacked everywhere. She caught the eye of the shopkeeper and wandered over to the desk.

"Bonjour, how I can help you?” the shopkeeper asked with a smile.

"Good morning, bonjour, I'm James. I'm hoping you can help me figure out why I'm here," she said, her voice rising at the end in a question.

"Oh wonderful, you've arrived! I'm Sylvie." The shopkeeper hefted a large box from behind the counter and slid it over to James. "This is for you. Your bunk is on the third floor at the back. You can go get settled before your shift starts at 1pm."

"Bunk? My shift?" James asked, baffled but still reaching for the box.

"Of course! It's been arranged that you'll be with us for a month. We offer room and board to writers in exchange for working some shifts here in the bookstore," Sylvie said. "It's a time-honored tradition that goes back to Hemingway and the literary avant-garde who have always called this special place home." She winked. "Now it's yours too.

James took the heavy box and made her way up the crooked stairs at the back of the shop. Above the doorway, she noticed the words in thin black capital letters "Open door, open books, open mind, open heart." She smiled and made her way back to her bunk. She opened the box to find it filled with notebooks matching the one she'd found at the fire, matching the ones Mason had always carried around. There was a fat, brown manila envelope on top. Carefully, she broke the seal. It was packed with cash and a small slip of white paper with a note in slanted handwriting.

"Dearest James,

Don't spend it all in one place.

Go on and write.

See you soon,

Mason"

She flipped through the cash. This must be the reward promised in the charred journal. She tucked the envelope safely away and pulled out the first notebook. It was the same smooth black cover and rounded edges she recognized, but a glint of gold caught her eye. The bottom of the cover was embossed with shiny gold letters.

the book yet to be written

volume 1

She began pulling out more notebooks to find the same words with different volume numbers and a plane ticket tucked into each, dated and with her name on it. London, Amsterdam, Chiang Mai, Singapore, Cairo, Rio de Janeiro, Havana...she read the names of cities near and far, with dreamy pictures of them shimmering in her imagination.

Her head spinning with more questions than answers, she closed the box, tucked volume 1 into the back pocket of her worn, faded jeans and set out on her first adventure.