As I Breathe (One Breath at a Time: Book 2) (23 page)

When the stained glass window in the kitchen was open, it had the best view in the place, nothing overly spectacular but charming. I could see the tops of trees and old shingles scattered over the rooftops. Some of the buildings had rooftop patios. I could hear laughter in the wind when people were outdoors entertaining. But the majority of my view from the brownstone included nothing but the modern monstrosity that Mr. Piccart contested—a major eyesore that blocked the nostalgic landmark and, really anything else of interest, unless you’re addicted to voyeurism.

The enormous building was mostly constructed of glass, and at night anything and everything was exposed when the lights were on and the shades were not drawn. It was a sight that shocked many who looked up into the windows.

Even if you weren’t a voyeur, it was hard to resist what was on exhibit and even paraded openly in the building. It was as if the lovers knew that they were being observed.

I had never thought that I was into voyeurism, but it was hard to put on blinders in most cases—couples in full dress, undressed, all with their dramatic lives unfolding, which included fighting and passionate make-up sex, for all the world to see.

I often used random passers-by to create the characters in my novels. This technique originated from one of my all time favorite movies,
The Rear Window
, by Alfred Hitchcock, where Jimmy Stewart was confined to his tiny, sweltering apartment, laid-up with a broken leg, and he passed the time by shamelessly maintaining a secret watch on his neighbors.

***

I lingered on the staircase for a moment, staring out the large transom of our brownstone at the glass aquarium of the building facing us and wondered if all of Paris is so free with their bedroom habits and does everyone get secret pleasure from watching people and being watched as they interact, touch, kiss, and make love?

I gazed into the glass building across the street, idly remembering the first time I had gotten my “free” show from my two steamy neighbors. I had since dubbed the view of the neighboring apartment building, “The house of ass.”

***

I recollect the night—it was the night that set everything in motion…

-21-

Up Town Flat!

I quickly emptied the last moving box that had arrived from New York City that day, and lined upward my published books in the built-in bookcases on either side of the fireplace in my spacious living room. I liked how the colorful binders added a nice touch to the décor.

Moving to the bedroom, I carried with me the one item that would make my room complete and almost like home. I gently placed the precious shawl that my grandmother knitted for me at the foot of my bed; it brought tears to my eyes.

My grandmother’s voice spoke softly, like a secret whisper that only I could hear. “Don’t cry over split milk, remember I’ll always be near watching over you,” I brushed away the tears that threatened to ruin the night I had planned. I knew she was smiling down on me from the heavens, so I brought a smile to my face. A feeling of peace, and gratefulness for all I had, and the future experiences that were sure to come washed over me.

“Look Grandma, I finally made it to Paris, as you always said I would,” I spoke into the breezy air that filled the room through the open windows, mingling with the soft notes of Parisian music playing on the radio. I couldn’t understand the words of the female singer’s mellifluous voice, but it resonated a special chord that I was where I belonged.

I was so thrilled that Mr. Piccart sponsored my writers-in-residence program for the American Novelist in Paris program
.
Because of his sponsorship, I was able to live for free in the brownstone that he inherited from his family.

My only obligation was that I had to write an epic mystery within the next two years, and I also had to occasionally help Mr. Piccart with cataloguing his vast vintage film collection.

He intended on donating the collection to the university when he died. Since I had already written a few dozen books, I considered my task an easy one and felt that my burden was light. The monthly stipend from the program was quite
generous, and the Parisian vibe would be just what my brain needed to inject fresh ideas into my mysteries.

I figured that if I lived on French crullers, lattes and a fashionable cigarette here and there, I would be able to buy designer shoes instead of groceries. I aspired to have the palest complexion, to wear wafting, simple black clothing, paired with my latest designer shoes and to write literary masterpieces.

Who was I kidding? My main reason for moving to Paris was to find true love. So, when I wasn’t writing mystery novels, I was looking over my shoulder for “the one”—my love.

Instead, I had found a love affair with French pastries. I had never tasted anything like them in my life. I especially loved the French crullers, a swirled ring-shaped doughnut, akin to an American glazed but so much tastier. They were so light and airy that with my first bite, I thought I might levitate. Imagine that…being swept off my feet by a pastry.

I was well aware that my trips to the bakeries were fueled by my need for company and, perhaps, a misplaced hunger—a weak attempt to fill my empty love life. Thank God, my slender curves were keeping in check, despite my love for pastries.

I was five feet six and three-quarter inches tall, and luckily, I had a fast metabolism. What nature didn’t burn, activity did. I walked almost everywhere, leaving my footprints all over the city, catching my breath around every corner. My eyes bright and wide open, in awe of all the beauty of everything!

Because the French were such crazy drivers, I vowed never to own a car in Paris. French drivers made the drivers in New York look safe. My habit of walking everywhere, as well as taking the Metro helped me to justify my passion for pastries and allowed me to
burn them off.

My daily jaunts to the university also stimulated my creativity. Walking, as opposed to driving, allowed me to slow down enough to observe the local culture and absorb the city’s vivacity along the way.

The stolen moments, that I was privy to as a pedestrian provided me with nuances that I would weave into the novel I was fully expected to write over the next two years.

I retrieved the last item out of the box, an original 1970’s edition of a Chanel Fashion book. It was a gift from my beloved grandmother. I positioned it in the center of the cocktail table. It was the final item to be placed.

I exhaled and sank back into the comfort of the sofa. Finally I had finished a week’s worth of unpacking. The apartment was breathtaking and felt both comfortable and familiar with all of my things arranged in it.

My decorating style was nothing short of Ben Laurette’s style, a famous architect, and infamous for being a bigamist. I certainly didn’t follow in his footsteps. All my little personal effects made the furnished flat seem more like mine. Laurette wouldn’t be caught dead with family photos and personal items scattered around; doing such lent to human weakness, or so he thought. He certainly would’ve seen me as a wimp.

I planned to sleep in my place for the first time that night, rather than at Nuilley’s apartment. When I figured I’d done enough nesting for the afternoon, I hurried to meet Nuilley.

We’d finally made good on our childhood promise to visit Paris together. Actually we exceeded the promise: we both now lived in the miraculous city. Our plan for the night was to celebrate my move to Paris in style, or so she promised. One thing about Nuilley, her word was gold, if she said she’s going to do something, she did.

Nuilley moved back to France, her homeland, a few years before I arrived to promote her own fashion jewelry line in Paris, following in her mother’s footsteps. Nuilley took modeling gigs on the side in return for clothing
gratis.
She absolutely refused to pay retail price for designer labels.

What she didn’t like from the freebies, she donated to charity. Okay, so maybe by charity I mean
me
. In any event, she was charitable, but not to the point of being a philanthropist. Modeling also benefited Nuilley’s couture jewelry line. All of the other models supported her business endeavor by wearing her flashy silver trinkets all around the city.

-22-

Casual Encounters

Nuilley and I met each other at Café de’ Flore located on Rue Saint-Germain. I had already been seated and was waiting at a sidewalk table when she climbed out of a sleek, black limo. I didn’t expect anything less.

Damn! When she strutted out of the limousine, heads rolled in her direction. She wore her short red hair pulled up with a nineteen fifties bump high at the crown, an oversized wide-necked sweater hung off to the side, baring one shoulder and was paired with a black pencil skirt and shoe boots. To top it off, she was
definitely
braless, showing off her new breast implants.

I suddenly felt under dressed in my skinny jeans and a simple body-hugging black cami. To top off the simplicity of my outfit, I worn a waist-length silver chain with a nickel sized pearl attached to it. My hair was ironed-out pin straight, parted in the middle, hanging long and free. Our boots were an exact match; hers a gift from one of her celebrity goody bags, and mine from my food savings, but mine were lost beneath my jeans.

Our dinner was heavenly. Afterwards, we headed to a few clubs on the right bank of the Seine River. We ended up staying out much longer than I had planned and spent the evening toasting to anything and everything. After having a few too many, I broke out my signature wounded bird sexy shoulder move, that’s what my friends dubbed it, that brought me a huge amount of attention. We danced with everyone, both male and female. Near to the end of the evening, my face hurt from laughing so much.

After the nightclubs closed, we wound down at a quaint neighborhood after-hours café. There, we sang songs in French—
I tried
—around a piano with our arms wrapped around each other in drunken friendliness. The city of lights was everything that I dreamed it would be with all of its elegance, style and luxurious details. The night was a great way to begin my Paris relocation, I’d finally moved into my very own apartment. Even though my eyes stung because everyone was sucking in one cigarette after another, I embraced all that Paris had to offer.

So, that is how everyone stays thin in Paris,
I thought. I smoked a few French
cigarettes myself, just as an experiment. They were so much stronger than American cigs. I felt green and sick afterwards. We ended up shutting down this place too, but not before Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome joined us...

“
Nuilley, can you believe after all these years we are both here?”

“
I told you one day it would happen.” She flashed me a smile, eyeballing a group of drunks in the darkest corner of the bar.

“
You were right.”

“
Hey, that kissable man over there is staring at you.”

He’s staring at me?
Hopes to meet the man of my dreams flared in me.

“
Where?” I responded, squaring my shoulders. “Point him out.”

“
It’s not nice to point. Look out—he’s on his way over here. Give him a moment.” Nuilley laughed.

I scanned the crowd then spotted a tall, rather ruggedly handsome man with coal black hair. Not bad looking at all. He was heading in our direction. He looked very American from my perspective, but what did I know? Perhaps he was from Italy.

“Ciao—Bellas.” He had a very smooth Italian accent. This confirmed it—there was no doubt that he was from Italy. I had an affinity for dark-haired men.

“
English or French,
sil vous plait,”
Nuilley spouted out rather rudely.

“
You are the two most beautiful women here tonight. How’s that for my English?” He winked slyly at us both.

“
Merci,”
Nuilley piped out
thank you
in French. She softened to his compliment.

His manners were impeccable. “My name is Michelangelo, but you can call me Angelo.” We followed suit, introducing ourselves. He kissed both our hands, softly.

Without an invitation, he sat down at our table and lit a cigarette. “Let me order you lovely ladies some drinks.” He snapped his fingers at the waiter, and the waiter complied, promptly.

Angelo commanded a quiet authority. Soon our table was taken over by champagne, and we were sharing cigarettes and laughter. When Nuilley excused herself to the ladies room, Angelo slid into her seat next to me.

“Thanks for the drinks. I’m having a great time.” I smiled softly. He inched closer and closer to me.

“
Do you feel it?” he whispered in my ear.

“
Feel what?” I hesitantly replied, concerned about what he was referring to, tilting out of his reach. His tacky come-on spoiled any attraction I had initially felt for him.