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Authors: Michelle Gable

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BOOK: A Paris Apartment
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He laughed. Again. It was as though he was almost always laughing (with, at, about). And that damn smirk, forever lingering as if she’d caught him approaching a smile or at the tail end of one. It left April feeling itchy and impatient, wanting in on the joke but also hoping to catch him outside the smirk.

“You are an interesting woman, Madame Vogt.”

“I respectfully disagree,” April said. “Regardless, thank you for use of the diaries.”

April half rose to her feet and reached across the table.

“Where are the rest?” she said, stretching, grabbing. “There were a lot more in the flat.”

“Not so fast, Avril.” Luc himself stood and gently pressed April back into her seat. She curled her hands into her lap, chagrined. “My client wants to see them first—naturally the discovery is news to them as well. You will receive the documents piecemeal, after my client finishes them. Is this acceptable? Or will it hamper your furniture appraisals?”

“No, I don’t believe it will,” April said, quietly, and with thanks. “Tell whomever it is thank-you. We greatly appreciate the cooperation.”

Suddenly a man and his dog paused on the sidewalk beside their table. While the man squawked into his mobile, the dog squatted into position, looked defiantly at April, and relieved his bowels. The owner shouted something into the phone, yanked the leash, and continued on, hardly missing a beat.

“Merde,” April said under her breath.

“You don’t like dog shit, Madame Vogt? Perhaps Paris is not the city for you.”

“Some streets around here are more shit than sidewalk,” April murmured. “If that guy was in New York and didn’t pick up after his dog, he’d have a medium-size mob chasing after him. Paris is an amazing city, but you can hardly enjoy the view. You have to keep your eyes plastered on the sidewalk, forever on the hunt for merde, lest it end up on your big, fat American shoes.”

“Hmm. Well, I do not find it particularly odd that a person might not want to hold a steaming pile of shit in his hand, nothing but a thin barrier of plastic protecting his skin.”

“If you want a dog, it’s the price you pay,” April said.

“Speaking of paying the price, tell me about le mari.”

“My husband?” April did not miss the irony, that a conversation about shit quickly dovetailed into one about marriage. “How does that relate to paying a price?”

The question was rhetorical; April already knew the answer.

“I am only joshing,” Luc said, doing his best to keep a straight face. “Tell me about your husband.”

“I’m not sure what to say.”

“Not sure? This is a normal query, non? Regular chitchat between colleagues?”

“Well, his name is Troy.” April inhaled. Only the facts. “We’ve been married seven years. He is a smart man and a tremendous father.”

“Father? You have children?” Luc’s brows jumped so high they almost left his face entirely.

“Well, no, technically they’re h-h-his,” she stuttered. “But mine, too. Stepdaughters. They’re teenagers.”

“Ah, evil stepmother,” Luc said. “I like it. I like it very much. You said your husband was in finance. What does he do?”

“Runs an LBO fund.” April peeked into the breadbasket and snatched away one final piece. “He does big deals.”

“Wall Street?”

“Oui.” April blushed. Wall was not the Street it once was. Instead of connoting money and power it now called to mind shysters and deadbeats. Not that Troy technically worked on Wall Street, but April felt the need to explain that her husband was not a Ponzi schemer, inside trader, or any other kind of financial pariah. He simply bought and sold companies using leverage and cash.

“My brother is also a solicitor,” Luc said. “He works with corporations, doing big deals, as you say. Perhaps I know of your husband’s company.”

“You might. They’ve had a few transactions in France and throughout Europe,” April said, stopping herself from launching into a full résumé of the Stanhope Group. She wouldn’t have been surprised to find a connection or two between Luc and Troy, but it wasn’t a connection April wanted established. “Your brother would probably recognize the name, they’re fairly well known.”

“Notorious?”

“No. Well known. Respected.”

“It’s great to be well known,” Luc said and threw a fistful of euros onto the table. “Shall we depart? I’ll pick up the tab. You can get us next time.”

“Oh. Okay.” April blinked.

“Are you going to…” he nodded toward the papers sitting beneath April’s napkin. “The journals?”

“Right. I guess the family hasn’t had a chance to read these yet,” April said, realizing she had to give them up.

“Actually,” Luc said and paused. “Why don’t you take them? I’m not due back in Sarlat for a few days. It’s fine for you to hold on to them in the interim. I’ll let my client know. You seem very conscientious. Doubtless they are in great hands.”

“Oui! I will take excellent care. My entire career is based on taking excellent care. Thank you,” April said, extending her arm for a departing handshake. “Again.”

Luc reached for her arm, and much like their first meeting, pulled her closer.

“Thank you for a delightful meeting, Avril,” he said, politely kissing each cheek, this time, though, lingering a moment longer than he had earlier in the day. His scent was still smoky and perfumed, but now also tinged with the smell of the wine they shared. “I’ll be in touch.”

April watched him walk away. To any outside observer she appeared obvious and gawping. April knew this, yet could not stop herself from staring, nor could she stop the feeling that was right then crawling through her gut, a result of the wine, no doubt, and access to the journals. Yes, it had to be those things. There was no other explanation that was acceptable, or that April could afford to entertain.

 

Chapitre XIII

April’s flat was no match for Marthe de Florian’s.

The buildings shared the same Haussmann facade, the utterly Parisian look with its height and horizontal lines and scrolled wrought-iron balconies. That’s where the similarities ended, though. Where Marthe had seven rooms, April had only three. Marthe’s flat was so thick with museum-quality furnishings one could hardly walk through without stumbling. April’s flat was so sparse she wondered if there were enough places to rest both her backside and her computer simultaneously. It was a pity, she thought, to throw such a thirdhand jumble of self-assembled furniture into a quintessential Haussmann, even if it was a rental property.

Despite its lack of decorative charm, April loved the place upon sight. She loved the location, its original thick-plank wood floors, and how one side of the living room was more windows than wall. April imagined herself leaning against the panes at night, a glass of wine in hand, the city twinkling before her. The apartment did not show all it had to offer, but it still showed Paris.

After checking her e-mail (no impending crises so far), April thumped her tote and BlackBerry onto the white-lacquered dining table, though “dining table” was a rather grandiose term for something that could hold, at most, two dinner plates—or in April’s case, serve as combination computer desk and makeup vanity. She could not imagine an instance requiring multiple dishes.

All the table-plate contemplation made April’s stomach rumble, though it was not food she wanted to consume first. She was hungry again, despite the bread-scarfing during her meeting with Luc, but instead of trying to find something to eat she reached for the white protective gloves in her leather tote.

“Oh, be quiet,” April said to her still-roaring stomach as she gently removed Marthe’s journal entries from her purse. Hunger was fierce but the pull of the diaries stronger.

April’s plan was to spread the pages on the kitchen counter and read them quickly, fast-food style, standing up with her shoes still on. But the language appeared suddenly blurry, smudged, indecipherable. It was as though April had lost the entirety of her French skills in the hour since she last used them. Perhaps it was due to jet lag, or maybe because her only sustenance over the last two days was in the form of wine, bread, and enormous slabs of butter.

“Food,” April said aloud to no one, a wicked headache spreading across her brain. “I need food.”

Light-headed and unable to muster the energy to leave the flat, April fished around in her tote for the pack of cashews she had stashed from the flight. Her BlackBerry buzzed from beneath her purse.

“Dammit,” she groused. “It’s like people want me to work or something. Hello, this is April Vogt.”

April kicked off both shoes and plunged an arm deeper into her bag.

“It’s me. Why do you never check Caller ID before picking up? I mean, like ever? Even once in your lifetime?”

“Oh, Birdie, hey. Sorry. I’m in the middle of a deep investigation.” April found two squares of airline chocolate melted onto the back of a hairbrush. “What’s going on?”

“I just sent over some files for you to review ASAP,” Birdie said. “We’re supposed to have twenty-five lots coming out of this office a day. We’re, like, way behind.”

“Yes. Sure. I’ll read them shortly. I need to take care of a few things first. Then I’ll get right on it.”

April peeled a piece of chocolate off her brush and popped it into her mouth, too ravenous to feel embarrassed about the state of her culinary sampling in Paris thus far.

“I drafted up the descriptions,” Birdie said. “I think they’re in pretty good shape, if I do say so myself. But Peter needs your sign-off. Also, check numbers three, forty-six, and two-twelve. Your original notes were a little hard to decipher, and some of the descriptions don’t seem to match the time period. Your handwriting is atrocious, by the way.”

“So they say. I’ll take a look. Thanks for putting it together. I’m sure you did an excellent job.”

Birdie always did an excellent job. Sometimes April wondered if she should work for Birdie instead of the other way around. Of course anyone who took borderline illegible notes and forgot to eat would make a crappy assistant indeed.

“I can always send them to Peter,” Birdie said. “If you’re too busy with the apartment.”

“No, it’s fine. I’m happy to look them over.”

Happy to look them over was the truth, thanks to Birdie’s always-stellar work product. Normally jet lag, lack of food, and two glasses of wine would make April unable to wax poetic about commodes. But if Birdie had done the heavy lifting, then April could easily correct the grammar and review factual details. She could change the number eight back into a nine.

“Think you can get it to me by COB today?” Birdie asked. “New York time?”

“That shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Perfect. Thanks.”

April heard much shuffling and bumping then, followed by the inevitable flurry of curse words.

“Goddamn bastard!”

“You okay, Birds?”

“Jesus fuck! I stubbed my toe!”

“You really need to be more careful,” April said with a yawn. “You make me nervous.”

Birdie was a walking worker’s comp liability. She was forever banging knees, jamming toes, and stapling scarves to photo decks. Although, April supposed, if you barely reached five feet and moved like a hummingbird (her nickname was no coincidence), the margin for error was slim. It was easy to smash into windshields or twist yourself up in branches.

“It’s the layout around here,” Birdie said. “It’s an accident waiting to happen.”

“Yes. Yes, you are.”

Unsatisfied by her purse chocolate, April wandered into the kitchen, hoping the previous occupants left something behind. A stale piece of bread, an old jar of olives—she would take anything.

“Perhaps if you moved at a more reasonable pace,” April said and popped open the cabinet. “You wouldn’t have to worry about dry-cleaning bills, excessive bandage consumption, or the fact you look like a battered woman when you wear a tank top.”

“It’s the price I pay for efficiency, Madame.”

“Not sure it’s a trade-off our insurance carrier would approve,” April said. “Anything else?”

“No.”

“All right then, I’ll talk to you—”

“Wait. April. Real quick.” Birdie inhaled. “So. Um. Daniel’s mom? She’s on the board of the Columbia Cancer Center?”

“How lovely for your mother-in-law. Birds—”

“She’s not my mother-in-law. Not yet, anyway! So. Yeah. Daniel and I went with them to the gala the other night?”

April closed her eyes. That she might keel over did not seem out of the question. Who would find her? She could be on that floor for days before someone realized she was gone.

“And you saw Troy,” April finished so Birdie wouldn’t have to. “He didn’t mention he ran into you, but he already told me all about it. And I do mean
all
. I know Susannah was running her mouth and that people were talking. I know
she
was there, too. So, enough.”

“Fine. Whatever.” Birdie sounded a little short, her feathers plucked. “I’m not trying to make you mad.”

“I know. And I’m not even mad. Honestly, I’m tired of discussing it. I’m tired of thinking about it. You’re trying to help and support me, and I appreciate that.” April’s eyes were still closed. “I think, maybe, at least while I’m here in Paris … Unless it’s something you think I’d stake my marriage on—I’d rather not know any more. It’s not going to change what’s already happened. I need to start thinking about how to move on.”

April should never’ve told her. With Birdie it was easy to open up. She invited that kind of emotional connection. April hadn’t planned to grow so tight with her assistant, but neither had she planned to end up in a fourth-floor conference room relaying the details of her husband’s treachery to said assistant while hiccupping through a snotty, slobbery mess.

“Okay,” Birdie said. “Understood. And I’m sorry.”

“No apology necessary, promise.”

“Okay. Good.”

April opened her eyes again. She turned back toward the counter. That’s when she saw it, sitting on the little blue tiles beside the coffeemaker: a bottle of wine with an envelope propped against it.

“Oh my god!” April grabbed the bottle and held it to her chest. “The owners of the apartment left me wine. And, a note. A note on linen stationery!”

BOOK: A Paris Apartment
13.92Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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