A Paris Apartment (14 page)

“I, uh—” She stared at the phone. “I guess I can let it go to voice mail?”

“Please, don’t ignore your mobile on my account.” Luc rose from the settee, the jaguar fur slick and matted from where he’d sat most of the day. “You’ve not touched your phone once since I’ve been here. Surely people are trying to reach you.”

“Too late,” April said and pretended to press the Answer button. “I missed it. He’ll call back.”

“Ah.” Luc smiled. “He. Your husband, I presume?”

April cleared her throat.

“Yes,” she said. “That’d be him.”

“The famous husband. Troy Vogt.”

“Wait. You’ve heard of him?”

“Indeed. Le grand m’sieu.”

“Big shot? I don’t know about that.”

“The Google says yes.”

“I’m sure he’d like to think so, anyway,” April mumbled.

“I’m curious,” Luc said, smirking—always smirking. “How did a pretty furniture expert meet le grand m’sieu? Do you travel in the same circles?”

“Hardly. We met in Paris, actually.”

“Paris? Quel choc! Two Americans find each other in this big city? What are the chances?”

“Pretty decent when you’re on the same flight back to the States. All right, so I guess I’ll see you tomorrow? Later in the week?”

“Not so fast,” he said. “My interest is piqued. Who has secured the heart of a charming Continental furniture expert? How did it happen? Did he approach you? Or vice versa? What am I asking? Of course he approached you. What did he say?”

“‘How’s the wine?’ Are you done with the questions, Monsieur Thébault? I can arrange a call with my husband if you’re interested in getting to know him better.”

“Ah, I see. The lady has reached her maximum number of questions. Okey-dokey.”

“‘Okey-dokey’? It sounds ridiculous when you say that in your accent.”

“Non. You are wrong. Everything sounds better in a French accent.” Luc extended a hand. “Not to worry, I am finished with torturing you for the day. We can push discussion of le grand m’sieu to a future time. For now, I thank you for such a fine education. It was a treat.”

“Anytime, Monsieur Thébault,” April said, reaching toward his outstretched fingers, disappointed he’d not gone for the double-kiss. Maybe all the furniture moving rendered her too gamey for anything more. April covertly sniffed her left armpit as she accepted Luc’s hand.

“And now,” he said, her palm still resting inside his. “Shall we eat?”

“Pardon?” April pulled her arm back and let if flop against her side. Her face flushed.

“Do you have dinner plans?” he asked.

“Dinner?”

Was he … could he be … asking her out? No, it was impossible. The man was being friendly, she decided, though friendliness seemed, so far, an uncharacteristic condition of Luc’s.

“Dinner,” he said.

“Dinner?” April repeated. “Dinner
dinner
?”

“Yes, I think we’ve established it’s dinner I’m referring to. You have to eat, non?”

April spat out a laugh.

“Well, merci beaucoup. It’s a lovely offer, but I have a lot of work to tackle. A rain check perhaps?

“Rain check?”

“That means not tonight. Later.”

He gave a funny little smile. “Yes, I know what ‘rain check’ means. Another time, then?”

“Yes, definitely.”

“You should probably call your husband back anyway,” he said, his tone at once chilled. “You would not want him to worry.”

“Ha!” April laughed. “Yes, you’re right. He’d never worry but is dying to hear about the master bedroom suite no doubt. Next time, Luc. We’ll have dinner the next time.”

She turned toward the interior of the apartment, where hours of work did, indeed, wait for her. Before she could even think the word “bureau,” April felt two hands clamp down on her shoulders then spin her back around. April found herself staring straight into Luc’s linen shirt.

“This is no way to say good-bye,” he said, releasing her shoulders. “If Madame does not mind”—Luc swept a deep, comical bow—“a less unceremonious dismissal for the slovenly solicitor who has taken up your day.”

“Oh, gosh, hardly,” April sputtered, her face reddening by the second. “You are, like, the least slovenly person I know.”

“You do flatter me.”

Luc rose and leaned in to kiss her once on each cheek.

“Until next time, Avril,” he said and winked.

As Luc sauntered away April was surprised to find herself smiling, if not vaguely regretful. Why didn’t she accept his dinner invitation? Her trust in Troy might be on shaky ground, but April trusted herself. Dining with a colleague was a common occupational exchange. Why, then, was she suddenly overcome with a fluttering stomach? What, exactly, was she afraid of?

Chapitre XXIV

That she rejected Luc made April feel unexpectedly empty and bereft. Why did she say no? What was the alternative? Another pathetic night in bed getting drunk on burgundy and Vacherin Mont d’Or?

Not that April hadn’t fully enjoyed last evening’s events, her hangover and cheese bloat a pretty decent indication that all was not lost. Still, this was Paris. You didn’t eat in bed when you were in Paris. You got out, you explored, you rolled home at an hour during which you were normally asleep. Usually you did this with someone else and April could’ve too if she hadn’t been so quick to react, so immediately dismissive of the impulse she felt.

Five cafés sat within viewing distance of her front steps. April chose one with an orange awning, no visible name, and a menu posted outside, which was the maximum level of detail she could’ve provided someone looking for the place. April stepped through the doors a few minutes past seven thirty, shockingly early for a Parisian dinner, but she was hungry and exhaustion was a decent excuse for any kind of culinary transgression.

Her neighborhood café was small, a typical cozy, ten-table joint that could be found in any arrondissement in the city. April approached the hostess and requested a table, party of one. The hostess looked over her left shoulder and sighed heavily, though nine of ten tables were free. April muttered something about eating quickly and the hostess sighed again, grabbed a menu, and clumped off. April followed, but it didn’t necessarily feel like the correct response.

The woman sat April directly beside the only other patrons, a late-middle-aged couple whom, though not egregiously touristy, April identified as American after a brief sartorial assessment. Without trying to eavesdrop April learned they’d tottered down from the Opéra and picked this place based on a recommendation from a now-dead friend who’d been there twelve years before. The couple did not stop to contemplate whether it was the same restaurant or a different restaurant in the same location. Either way, Patty Perkins loved the place.

It took the waiter a full ten minutes to acknowledge April’s presence in the café. As she waited, April fidgeted and squirmed and tried not to ask her neighbors for a bite of their veal. Were they not even going to finish it?

April checked her phone, scrolling through the day’s notes, then reviewed her missed calls. Troy was one of them but April was not ready to call him back. Instead she removed a pile of folders from her tote and set to work.

“Bonjour, Mademoiselle,” the waiter said and yawned. “Que voulez-vous?”

“Bonjour,” April replied, smiling widely.

“Que voudriez-vous?” he asked again.

“Le filet de boeuf.” Beef. Yes. The correct choice. April could already savor the taste on her tongue. “A point, s’il vous plaît.”

“Pour commencer?”

“Uh … yes. Oui. Le cassolette d’escargots.”

“Cassolette d’escargots?” he said and laughed out loud. What was this silly American doing ordering snails? April was not a gastronomical pansy. Yes, she’d eat snails. She’d also eat liver and livestock entrails and anything else the French wished to throw her way.

“Oui,” April replied, her smile brightening. “Cassolette d’escargots, s’il vous plait. Also … and … um … Vittel ou Évian. Et…” She thought for a minute and then added, quickly: “Et du vin. The, uh, 2007 Georges Duboeuf Côtes du Rhône. Merci beaucoup.”

“Très bien.” The waiter rolled his eyes, a little bit. “Merci
.”

He snatched the menu from her hands and toddled toward the kitchen. April sighed and looked at the stack of properties before her, somehow less inviting than they were a few days ago, before she met Marthe. Alas, Marthe’s was not the only auction pending, and Birdie was on her to get the Stateside stuff done too. Paris or no, April did have certain obligations, and if she wished to remain in good standing at work she had to get through these by the end of the workday in New York. She could call Troy later.

As the waiter uncorked a bottle of Georges Duboeuf tableside, April reviewed her notes. She scribbled additional comments in the margins and pinged Birdie with requests for follow-up research. Birdie pinged back with results as well as extra tidbits April never thought to ask. When Peter said they needed a dozen lots coming out of her office, it was her full office in play. Birdie did far more work than her pay grade and title indicated.

“Brilliant work,” April wrote. “As always. You need a promotion.”

“Don’t want a promotion,” Birdie replied. “Prefer backstage. Plus if we do crappy work only U get fired.”

April smiled. She was trying to conjure up a witty reply when another text rang through. This one not from Birdie. April nearly dropped the phone into her plate of snails.

“Hey,” it read. “Do you have a minute?”

“Hey?” April barked aloud. “
Hey
?”

Her neighbors were right then extricating themselves from their tight space. They paused and hovered, wondering whether this forsaken and lonesome woman was trying to chat them up, wondering whether they should walk away slowly or cut a zigzag path as one would when escaping an alligator attack. They were from Florida, April learned, therefore probably familiar with trying to avoid long and potentially dangerous creatures.

“Not you,” April said to the couple as she pointed at her BlackBerry. “I was talking to my phone.”

The Floridians smiled shakily and bolted from the restaurant.

Hey.

Friggin’ Troy.

Who was
Hey
, exactly? It wasn’t your wife, semiestranged or not. “Hey” was no kind of greeting for someone you pledged to love until death (or environmentalists) did you part.
Hey
. He could shove it right up his
nancy
.

“Hey you,” she typed, lit with fury.

“Good. You’re there,” he fired quickly in response, writing each word out as intended and without abbreviation but sounding snippy all the same. “Do you have a minute?”

April had either a minute or exactly zero time to spare.

“I’m in a restaurant,” she wrote, then stopped.

April glanced up to see the waiter walking toward her, plate in hand. Though the
boeuf
was small, no bigger than a box of paper clips, April could smell the meat from several tables away. Her phone vibrated a few times but she did not look down. The waiter set the plate before her and added with a smirk, “Bon appétit!”

“Can’t talk now,” she typed. “Call later.”

April tossed the phone into her purse and set to work immediately on the
boeuf
. The prior night’s bed cheese was not so bad, but this—this was worth the trip to Paris. Seared on the outside and perfectly rare inside, it didn’t technically need a knife to cut through it. She only barely had to chew. This meat was so good April thought she could rightly consider it dessert. How, exactly, were beef and chocolate not in the same food family? They acted like first cousins, at least.

Lost in her little meat-filled world, April barely noticed when the hour turned over to 9:00, and then leaned toward 9:30. Crowds filtered in now, people who knew the hostess, who knew the owner. At 9:37 the waiter flung her bill onto the table without inquiring as to dessert. April’s welcome had been officially overstayed.

After signing her name on the tab, forever befuddled by Continental tipping conventions, April gathered her things and stepped into the brisk spring evening. She inhaled deeply and immediately felt something rise inside her. It was the city’s magic hour. Streetlights flickered. The sky above was purple. Couples meandered arm-in-arm.

Though she had no arm through hers, April found herself smiling. This despite the fact her marriage was in trouble. Despite the fact that her job always felt a little bit in jeopardy, too, whether or not it ever actually was. Then there was April’s family back in California, in such a constant state of precariousness there was almost no point in worrying. All these things, yet April wanted to cry out at her own good fortune. She was there. Back in Paris. For a second she could pretend she’d never left.

Chapitre XXV

As she stomped up the stairs to her third-floor flat, still drunk on the city and probably also a little on the food and wine, April’s phone rang. Troy, no doubt. She had promised to call him after eating but never really mapped out when or how, or what she might say in response to his text.

Hey.
It was hardly the worst missive a husband might send his wife, but it chafed her nonetheless. Was there really so little left between them? Or was it that there was too much—too many things that could set the other one off? Was “hey” their new middle ground? Fortified by the wine and also by her ire, April answered.

“’Allo?” she said, slightly gritting her teeth. “Troy, listen, sorry I haven’t—”

“Not Troy!” the voice sang. “Better than that boring husband of yours! It’s me!”

“Well, hello you.”

April smiled as she unlocked the door to her flat. It was Chelsea, her older stepdaughter, she of the blond hair and blue eyes and freckled nose. Though Chelsea was now sixteen and slathered those freckles with a liberal amount of makeup, April could not stop seeing the seven-year-old she had first met. In addition to a few very valid reasons for not wanting her own children, April also had to wonder if a subsequent batch of Troy’s offspring could even compete with the first. After all, they’d be jacking with half the gene pool, and it seemed impossible that April-generated kids could be anything less than watered-down, cliché versions of Chloe and Chelsea.