Chapter Ten
The lobby of Hotel Paradis was quiet. The flowers still looked fresh, the wooden surfaces shone, the air was scented a faint lavender. Marie Claude stood behind the desk, her hands pressed primly at her side. I was right at the front door, watching as the small crowd gathered in the courtyard. Claudine was chatting happily at her guests, her arms waving expressively as she pointed and smiled.
I glanced back into the salon. Through the closed glass doors, I could see the long table, bedecked with more flowers and simple white platters heaped with fruit and cheese, fragrant baguettes, and thinly sliced meats, with another table of empty glasses and decanted open bottles from Claudine’s cellar.
I was in the uniform: simple black skirt, a white blouse, black ballet flats. I had a red rose pinned to my lapel, as did Marie Claude. She cleared her throat. She was officially working for us now, having turned in her notice at the bank where she’d worked. Her contract was sitting on my desk in the back office. Reading and signing it had been a very eye-opening experience.
It seemed that every working person in France had a contract for employment, a contract that was very specific not only about the wage, which was considerably higher than what new employees at The Fielding had started out at, but also about hours worked per day, per week, vacation time off, and a long list of other days off. Claudine had been very particular about the contract, as we were going to need the most employees when most everyone else in France was on vacation.
Eliot had not been happy with his wife working through the weeks they had always taken off to go to Lyon. Maybe it had occurred to him about Philippe. I don’t know if Marie Claude had made the realization, but something in the way she and Claudine had managed the conversation made me think they were both very aware that he would be visiting and, for the first time in years, she would be right there.
She gave me a nervous smile, patted her bright blue hair, and ran her fingers lightly over the stack of brochures at the end of the desk.
“These are very good,” she said.
“Yes. They are. Eliot was a great help,” I told her, even though his help had been given quite grudgingly.
The door suddenly opened, and Claudine held it as a stream of men and women, dressed from casual linen to sharp black suits, came in, all chattering happily. Claudine clapped her hands.
“I would like you all to meet Lucia Gianetti, our general manager, and the woman responsible for all that you will be seeing this morning,” she sang out and began to applaud.
I felt myself starting to blush as everyone joined her. I smiled and tried not to look slightly panicked as I realized I didn’t know anyone’s name. I had suggested Claudine create name tags, but she’d scoffed at the idea.
“That would be an insult,” she said. “These people are all well known in their field, and everyone knows who they are.”
“I don’t,” I countered.
“I’ll introduce you, of course.”
“To what, thirty people? And I’ll remember their names how?”
She sighed. “Well, the press will have passes around their necks. They probably wear those things everywhere; they think it gives them importance. You won’t have to remember too many people.”
I had not been reassured, and since I knew all about schmoozing, I hoped I wouldn’t call anyone by the wrong names.
A man in the back of the pack raised his hand. “Ah, I’d like to ask Miss Gianetti—”
“Marc,” Claudine interrupted smoothly, “why don’t we take the tour first? There’s so much to see. I have a lovely luncheon prepared, and then we can all sit and chat.” She looked upward. “So, as you can see, the original chandelier is still here. As a child, my job was to dust all those crystals. Luckily, I can order someone else to do that now.”
There was an appreciative murmur of laughter.
“Let’s start with the ground-floor rooms and the garden,” she said. “Lucia will be with us, of course. She oversaw all the renovations, and I’m sure she can fill in any gaps in my knowledge.”
Who was she kidding? She knew everything there was to know about every square inch of this hotel, renovations or no.
The tour began, and Claudine was absolutely on. She laughed and charmed and answered the most mundane questions as though they were sent directly from the gods. As they stepped out into the gardens, the oohs and aahs competed with the clicking of digital cameras.
And the garden looked beautiful. Karl had worked all weekend, and there wasn’t a weed to be found. A much-older gentleman stepped away from the crowd and sat on one of the benches, his folded hands across the top of his cane.
I stood beside him. “It’s lovely out here, isn’t it?” I asked.
He nodded. “Yes. I knew Claudine’s father and often visited here. I was much younger then, of course, and the two of us would sit out here, together, just talking. It was a smaller garden, just a few vegetables that he grew for the family.” He looked up at me and smiled. “Claudine has done a good job. This will be a very successful place, I think. And she has you to thank.”
“She could have done this without me,” I said.
He shook his head. “No. If she could have done this without you, it would have been done years ago. Claudine has vision, she can inspire, but she’s not able to create.”
Claudine was calling and waving her arms for everyone to follow her back inside. The gentleman sighed, leaned on his cane, and stood. “I probably won’t make it up to the second floor,” he muttered.
“Then you can wait in the salon,” I told him. “I’ll be happy to sneak you in. And although I would never dream of attempting to influence a review, I’ll even pour you a glass of wine.”
He chuckled. “I’m not with the press. I’m the minister of, among other things, tourism for France.”
Oh my. “Well, then,” I said, “I’ll make sure you get a very large glass of wine.”
He laughed then and offered me his arm. I took it, and we walked back in through the doors that led to the office and the salon beyond.
He glanced out the tall windows to the patio, tranquil and lovely with large urns of pale blossoms and trailing ivy. “Do you still have the ghost?”
I pulled out a chair for him to sit. “Yes, but please don’t tell anyone.”
“I always wanted to meet her,” he said, dropping his voice. “But now that I’m closer to her reality, I’m not as eager.”
I smiled and poured some wine. “I have to go upstairs.”
“Of course.” He regarded me steadily. “This must be a very different experience for you. The Fielding was much larger, was it not?”
I was still. “Yes.”
“And when you first went there, it was not a very good hotel. You made it a success.”
“Yes.”
“So, turning Hotel Paradis into a success must be easy for you?”
I burst out laughing. I couldn’t help it. “When I got to The Fielding, I had to deal with a few hundred disgruntled employees, unions, the New York City Department of Health, dozens of websites and advertisers, the Hotel Association of New York City…” I sighed. “But I never had to pick up a paintbrush or print my own brochures. So, easy is a relative term.”
He smiled, sipped the wine, and nodded approvingly. “I see. So, there is a different level of satisfaction?”
I thought. “Yes. Very different.”
“And was it worth leaving your friends and family?”
That one really got to me. What friends? The friends I’d made in New York had been Tony’s friends first, and while it was true they welcomed me with open arms, none of them had reached out to me after they realized Tony had stolen millions, and some of it had been their own money. And as for my family, well, those relationships had been difficult for so long I considered France a welcome respite.
“Yes,” I answered simply.
He waved his wineglass. “Go. Do your duty. I can assure you, everyone is enchanted, and soon you’ll have more guests than you can handle.”
I left him then, and by the end of the day, I thought he might be right. Everyone seemed pleased and enthusiastic. Much food was eaten and wine drunk, and after everyone had left and the salon was cleaned and empty, and I felt like I was going to drop from exhaustion. I sat at my desk to see if, in fact, we had any reservations.
We had six reservations for our opening week. I was so pleased and surprised I had to look twice. I scrolled through the short list, stopped, and almost burst into tears.
Our very first reservation was for one Julia Wilson of New York City.
My Julia. Here for our opening day.
I sent her a text that was just a series of emojis across the screen.
She texted back immediately. But of course.
Once Marie Claude and Claudine became permanent members of the painting and cleaning crew, things moved more quickly than I could have hoped.
“Maybe we can move up the opening date?” Claudine asked.
I shook my head. “We’re still on a very tight schedule. We don’t want guests here while we’re still painting rooms. It’s not such a good look to be in the middle of renovations while our guests are trying to relax and enjoy the pleasures of an authentic Rennes experience.”
She made a face. “To be honest, being in the middle of a construction site basically is an authentic Rennes experience.”
“Okay, then. Let’s go for the fantasy Rennes experience.”
We were scrubbing one of the bathrooms.
“I had no idea that owning a boutique hotel was going to be so glamorous,” she muttered.
I sat back and plunged my brush into a pail of hot, soapy water. “We could hire a housekeeping crew now,” I suggested.
She shook her head. “No. Housekeeping and kitchen will wait until the last minute. I can’t afford to pay people to do what I can do myself for free. But soon.”
Claudine and I were still not in agreement on how many staff we were going to hire. Claudine was very much in the “bare bones” camp, insisting that since three paid staff members lived on-site, one of us could easily jump in at any time if needed to fill in a gap in staffing.
“That may work for now, but once we’re up and running, things will be very different,” I said. “And Marie Claude has a contract that is very specific about her hours. I don’t see her bringing up clean towels in the middle of the night.”
She made a face. “Marie Claude is a lovely girl, but she is a bit of a princess. But you’re right. She won’t be at anyone’s beck and call.”
I sat back, curious. “What’s going to happen when Philippe is here?”
She sighed. “I’ve been thinking about that. She will be working, of course. I don’t know if Eliot will be here or not. He may very well go to Lyon without her. She and Philippe have not seen each other in five years. Can a person carry a torch for that long? I don’t know. First love is very strong, and I know that there has never been anyone else for Philippe who has lasted more than a few months. And Eliot, well, he is a very nice young man, but he’s no Philippe.” She carefully wiped the tile clean of sudsy water. “My son is an extraordinary person. This is not just love talking. You will understand when you meet him. He is very much like Bing in many ways.” She smiled. “And he is very handsome. He was quite spoiled as a child, but most of his brattiness has disappeared. He’s quite a nice man now. And a very good artist.”
“How does he feel about the hotel?”
She sighed. “I am hoping he will see a successful, well-run business that he can step into and take over while still pursuing his art. Then, maybe, he will stay.”
I stood and stretched, then tossed my scrub brush back into the pail. I walked back into the bedroom.
All the rooms were painted the same creamy shades, but the bedspread in this one was pale lilac. The quilting technique, as Karl had patiently explained to me, in detail, several times, was a variation on the Marseilles corded quilting, or piqué marseillais. The bed was a mahogany four-poster, and the small writing desk beside the bed was delicate walnut, carved and softly gleaming. There was a tall armoire, a small chair by the desk, and two overstuffed chairs by the windows, upholstered in pale-green-striped silk. Green and violet pillows were strewn across the bed, and in addition to the small chandelier, there were two floor lamps for light. We hadn’t hung the artwork yet, but three small still life watercolors leaned against the wall. Like all the rooms we had finished this far, this had its own personality: calm and decidedly feminine, with a bit of whimsey in the embroidered pillows. I found myself having very strong feelings about some of our rooms, and this was one of my favorites.
“How are we doing?” Claudine asked, coming up behind me.
In the three weeks since the website had gone live, we’d received enough reservations that we were currently at a 50 percent occupancy for June and July, slightly higher in August. She knew that; she saw the numbers every morning, standing behind me as I went through the reservations on my computer.
I knew what she was really asking.
“For a literally unknown entity, we aren’t doing badly. We have more European bookings than anything, but that’s because your little press junket was such a success. The only real exposure in North or South America we’re getting is through Vrbo and a few small, free booking sites. We’re going to have to depend on word of mouth unless we spend big bucks on an advertising campaign, and we don’t have big bucks.”
“There is a huge Canadian market,” she said.
“Yes. I know.”
“How do we reach it? Didn’t you work in Quebec?”
“Many years ago.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Did you have any contacts?”
“Several. And I guess I could try to track them down, but like I said, that was over ten years ago.” Somewhere I had a battered notebook with thirty years’ worth of names and phone numbers. I had thought about burning it at a particularly low point, when I was certain I would never work in the hotel industry again. Instead, I moved it from one drawer to another until it finally found a home in the bottom of the dresser in my appart, beneath a tumble of socks and a few bulky sweaters.
“Tour groups would be good,” she said.
“I know, but we aren’t big enough. Most bus tours are fifty people, and we’re topped out at thirty-six guests.”
“We have the attic,” she said thoughtfully. “Maybe three or four rooms there.”
“But no elevator up there,” I told her. “One flight of stairs is charming and old-world, but the stairs to the attic are narrow and badly lit. Remember, some of these tours cater to seniors, and they’d have a hard enough time with the main staircase. To the attic? No way.” I had a brief vision of a bent old lady plunging to her death while trying to get to her room.
“I suppose. But look at this room. I’d climb a few extra steps to sleep here.” Claudine put her arm around my shoulders and gave me a squeeze. “I knew you were the right person for the job.”
“I didn’t know,” I told her. “I almost left that first night. When my friend Julia gets here, you can thank her for talking me down.”
“And now?”
“Now I can’t imagine being anywhere else.”
She dropped her arm. “That is good to hear. Now, let’s finish cleaning this bathroom. And then we go across the hall. Yes?”
Yes.
In the weeks that I’d lived there, I had managed to give my tiny appart a bit of personality more in line with my old suite at The Fielding. There were two comfortable chairs now at the window, with a bookshelf displaying some of my favorite childhood reads in French, and a collection of objects found at the Saturday market and various thrift shops: a brass lamp worthy of Aladdin and his genie, a delicate footed silver bowl, mercury glass candlesticks, a copper pitcher. There were watercolors on the walls now, and a few copper pots hung from a rack over the tiny kitchen stove. I didn’t cook much but had mastered the omelet, coq au vin, and the galette, the Breton crêpe cooked on its own shallow pan. I ate several times a week across the street, usually a large, somewhat late lunch.
Vera and I usually shared a glass of cider on the bench outside her front door. Karl often grabbed me as I was just opening my door, and I’d get an invitation for port. Colin’s flat was crammed with several stringed instruments of varying age and size, and I could often hear him playing something on his favorite violin, the music drifting through the now always-open windows.
My life had settled into a pattern that I found easy and comforting. I knew that once the hotel officially opened, there would be a whole new normal, so I relished the predictability of my days and nights now.
Marie Claude and Eliot had the flat on my right, and although the walls were a foot thick and solid limestone, I heard them arguing more and more. Not words, just the loud and deep rumble of Eliot’s voice, and the higher, more conciliatory notes as Marie Claude answered. Often, after these fights, I could hear the door slam and see Eliot walking across the courtyard and out the iron gates.
After one such evening, I could hear what could have only been Marie Claude sobbing. I closed my computer and stood. I did not want to know what was so obviously wrong between her and Eliot, but she’d been coming into the hotel late in the mornings, her eyes red and shadowed, tired and cross. That would not do once the Hotel Paradis opened. Whatever issues the couple had needed to be resolved by then.
I went out my door and stood in the courtyard, listening. Yes, she was crying. Poor Marie Claude.
I heard someone behind me and turned to find Colin leaning out of his doorway, shaking his head.
“They’re at it again?” he asked.
I nodded. “I think so. He just left.”
He motioned me toward him and held open the door of his flat.
I hadn’t been inside, just had gotten a glimpse of what seemed to be a room filled with nothing but string instruments, and as I walked in, I saw that yes, there were violins and cellos everywhere, but there was also a long leather sofa and a small table with one chair.
“Have a seat,” he said. “Wine?”
I shook my head and stayed standing. “I love hearing you play in the evenings,” I told him.
He ducked his head and blushed. “Thank you. I sometimes wonder if it’s annoying.”
“I can’t imagine it ever being annoying.”
“Well,” he said, making a face, “I’ll probably have to stop once the hotel opens.”
I shook my head. “Not at all. Why should you?”
He pushed his hands into the pockets of his khakis. “Won’t it disturb the guests?”
“I don’t think so. Only the front-facing rooms have a chance of hearing you, and most paying customers will think the live entertainment is a perk.”
He smiled. “That’s very kind. Please. Sit.”
I did. I was unsure why he’d invited me in. He was a quiet and fairly private man, and after the first few whirlwind days of him being in on every conversation I’d had with Claudine, he’d stepped away and become a patient and helpful, but very reticent, addition to the painting crew. Claudine had been right. He loved the tedious and fiddly jobs like painting the front gate and the wrought iron chairs. I knew he taught music at the university in Rennes, he wasn’t married or appeared to have any one person who was a constant in his life, and he was always drinking tea from a dingy white mug.
He picked the mug up now. “If not wine, then tea?”
I shook my head again. “What can I do for you, Colin?” I asked.
He looked flustered and sat down across from me on the single chair. “I know that we’re all getting new locks once the hotel opens, and I’m fine with that, but I’m worried about our, well, personal space. We’re going to have all sorts of people walking in and out of here, aren’t we?”
I nodded. “I sure hope so.”
“Yes. Yes, of course you’d want that. That’s the whole point, isn’t it? To have guests?”
“Yes, but the front courtyard will be more of a passage. Guests won’t congregate there. We have plenty of public space adjacent to the hotel. I can’t foresee guests dragging benches from the garden to sit right out in front.”
“Yes. I suppose you’re right. It’s just…” He paused, then leaned forward, his elbows resting on his thighs. “We’ve all rather gotten used to the peace and quiet.”
“I’m sure you have. But you knew that once the hotel opened, that would change.”
“Yes. Yes, of course. But, well, none of us really ever imagined it would open.”
I didn’t know what I was supposed to say about that, so I said nothing.
He cleared his throat. Obviously, he thought it was my turn, so I searched for something to say other than “Well, in that case, we’ll just shut everything down.”
“Colin, Claudine is very aware of all of you. After all, you’ve been living here a very long time, and considering the rent you pay, well, let’s just say she’s been more than accommodating. And now, it’s your turn. To be accommodating.”
He grimaced. “We were afraid of that.”
I shook my head. “All of you here have invested your time and, in some cases, your money into turning this place into a successful venture. I don’t understand. What did you all expect?” I narrowed my eyes. “Who else is worried about this?”
“All of us. Vera and Karl. Bing … Well, it doesn’t really affect Bing. Nothing seems to affect Bing. Marie Claude is just looking at her new job and what that means. Eliot is more outraged his wife is not following him to Lyon like she has every summer, but he doesn’t want strange people wandering in and out of his flat.”
I frowned. “Why would any of our guests be in his flat?”
“You know what I mean.”
“No, I don’t. Look, just because there’s a wall around us doesn’t mean this is all the hotel. Your private spaces will remain private. If we were just on a street somewhere, and a hotel was on the same street, it would be the same, right? Strangers coming and going past your door, right?”
He frowned, then nodded. “Yes. But the gates will be open during the day. Anyone can wander in.”
“Which is why you will all have locks. And at night, the gates will be locked, and only guests will have access.”
“Well, what if the guests are … you know.” He made a very French gesture with his hands.
“Are you suggesting they might be criminals?”
“Maybe.”
I sighed. “So, you’re worried that people who are paying a fairly hefty price tag for a private room in a boutique hotel will actually be here just to break into your two-room appartement and rob you blind?”
He looked embarrassed. “When you put it that way, it sounds ridiculous.”
“Because it is. I think if a criminal mastermind were planning a dangerous heist, this particular location would not be a top choice.” I stood up. “Did you all draw straws to determine who was going to have this conversation with me?”
He looked sheepish. “Actually, yes.”
“And you lost?”
“Oh yes.” He stood and laughed.
“Why don’t you just talk to Claudine?”
“She’s been very good to all of us, and we don’t want to seem ungrateful. I would hate for her to think, well, you know…” He shrugged. “You won’t tell her?”
“Of course not, because it’s not an issue. But tell me, who was worried about having all his valuables stolen by a master thief?”
“Karl, actually.”
“And does Karl have anything worth stealing?”
He laughed. “Now that I think about it, probably not.”
“Well. You can tell them all they’ll be fine.”
“Okay.” He ducked his head. “Thank you for this.”
“No problem.” I went to the door. “Good night, Colin.”
“Good night.”
I went back outside. Marie Claude had stopped crying, and the courtyard was in shadows. I could hear the faint sound of traffic and the rustle of leaves. I had grown accustomed to the peace and quiet as well and knew that I was going to miss these tranquil nights.
But we would adjust. All of us.
We had worked out a schedule where either Marie Claude or I would be at the desk during the day and evening hours, and a third person, who would hopefully be fluent in English, would be hired to fill in the shifts we did not cover. Claudine was to be on call overnight.
Claudine refused to have a traditional phone system installed, and I didn’t blame her. The cost was high, and she didn’t want more wires running through the plaster walls. We had worked out a system where, upon check-in, the guest would enter our mobile phone into their cell phone and put us on speed dial, so that they could call a staff person at any time. The house phone would be carried by whoever was on duty, and Claudine would take it after eleven at night.
We hadn’t hired the third person for the desk, but we had time. I wasn’t looking forward to it, as I found that hiring in France was a much different situation from hiring in the US. The idea of everyone having a work contract was new to me. I had assumed that my own contract with Claudine was because of my position, but apparently, any full-time employee hired for any position signed a contract for work, based on a government-issued work code that was very specific and worker-friendly.
I had asked Claudine to do the hiring, because some of the guidelines were simply beyond my ability to grasp and understand. For example, an employee’s schedule was fixed. At The Fielding, every manager’s nightmare was the weekly schedule for hourly employees, trying to plug holes for vacation or callouts, moving employees around doctor appointments and kids soccer games. Here, the employee had a set schedule and they worked it, every day, week in, week out.
But on the flip side, there were a series of holidays and designated days off, long vacations, and the length of the contract—the minimum you could hire a person for was six months. If the employee didn’t work out, then you didn’t sign another contract. But—
“Claudine, what if the employee is a screwup?”
We were in the back office, looking through online applications.
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
“What if the employee is, well, bad?”
“There are guidelines. You can fire someone for cause, of course.”
“But front desk people need to be a certain type. Not just helpful. They need to be willing to go above and beyond for the guest. That’s what’s going to make our hotel different from others: our excellent customer service.”
She shook her head. “You can’t let a person go without cause. And an unwillingness to go above and beyond is not cause.”
“What if they sleepwalk through the day? We can’t have that.”
“That is why it is very important to have a thorough interview process. It’s the one chance you have to assess a person’s personality.” She tilted her head. “Surely, you’ve hired hundreds of people. You should be able to tell, what is that expression? The wheat from the chaff.”
I held my tongue. Yes, I had hired hundreds of people. Well, maybe not hundreds, but enough that I had once been very confident in my hiring skills. I used to think I could read a person, know their strengths and weaknesses, in the first ten minutes of conversation.
But that was before the man I trusted above everyone else in my life, the man I’d thought was one of a kind, turned out to be a common crook.
Claudine watched me and seemed to home in on my thoughts even as I was trying to make sense of them. “You cannot spend the rest of your life doubting yourself because one person managed to make a fool of you.”
“He didn’t just ‘make a fool’ of me, Claudine. He—”
He what? Shattered my self-worth? Made me question my ability to read and understand people? Destroyed years of confidence built from experience, mistakes made and learned from, and careful observation of an industry that was still very much an old boys’ club, despite a general outward acceptance and approval of my work?
She leaned forward. “I can’t begin to imagine what damage your ego has suffered, but here, in this place, you have proven yourself a worthy and valued employee. Do not look backward, Lucy. Continue to look forward, because that is where your life is going. It will never go back.”
I nodded. “Yes. But.” I shook my head. “All these conditions.”
She smiled. “We are a country that has never forgotten the workingman. In every sizable city or town, there is still the center, where the guillotine stood.”
I had seen the place in Rennes, a circle of cobblestones, with a single white head in marble at the center.
“I will worry about the contracts,” she said. “But you will hire, yes?”
So, I did the hiring, but Marie Claude, who I thought was a shoo-in, was digging in her heels. She did not look happy. In fact, she glared at me as though I suggested she walk out of the hotel, through the courtyard, and out into the street, naked.
“What do you mean, deliver towels?” she asked.
“Here’s the thing,” I explained. “Claudine is reluctant to hire too many people until we figure out the workflow. You can understand that, right? So, our housekeeping staff will only be here in the mornings, to make beds, clean the rooms, and tidy up all the public spaces. But it doesn’t make sense to have someone here in the evenings, just sitting around, does it?”
She shook her head slowly. “No, I suppose not.”
“Exactly. So, if you’re on duty at the desk during the evenings and a guest needs towels, you can bring them up. Your contract says…” I scanned the page, one of many, until I found the spot. “‘Will provide additional services as determined by the general manager.’ That’s me.”
She huffed and set her jaw. “Are you going to deliver towels?” she asked.
“I will. I’ll deliver towels. I’ll rearrange flowers if I find any drooping. I’ll straighten rugs that are askew. I’ll pick up wineglasses that have been forgotten. I’ll do whatever I need to do to make sure every guest that checks out of the Hotel Paradis goes home and tells all their friends and family what a great time they had.”
She made a little face. “Well, then, I suppose I can deliver towels if I need to.”
I smiled. “Thank you, Marie Claude.”
She smiled back. “You’re welcome, Lucy.”