Chapter Eleven
I interviewed three people for the front desk position and hired a retired teacher, Celestine, thinking that having dealt with unruly children, she’d be perfect with demanding guests. She spoke excellent English, as well as Dutch and Russian. I had found that most of the people who applied for a job requiring English spoke at least one additional language as well as French. Marie Claude spoke excellent German, so we had pretty much the entire continent of Europe, as well as English-speaking countries, covered.
Our housekeeping staff consisted of two sisters, Ines and Rose, both attending university part-time. They were perfectly happy to clean rooms, change sheets, and work in the kitchen as needed. The commercial laundry equipment in the cellar didn’t cause either of them to blink, which impressed me to no end, as I went into a mild panic that the huge machines would eat all my clothes every time I did my personal laundry.
Karl refused to be put on the payroll, although he had expanded his role beyond tending the garden to keeping the courtyard and patio free of debris, as well as attending to all the plants and planters inside and outside Hotel Paradis.
“How can I take money for doing what I love?” he asked me.
“I love my job, too, Karl,” I said. “But I still need ready cash.”
He shook his head. “I have a very good pension.” He grinned. “I could explain it to you, but I think sometimes that maybe I explain too many things?”
I grinned back. “Sometimes.”
“I have to pick some roses, then tend to the garden. We have many tomatoes.” He grinned. “And I will not mention to Claudine that you wanted to put me on your payroll.” He held his finger to his lips. “I swear, not a word.”
“Thank you, Karl.”
He bowed out of the office, and I checked another item off my list. I glanced at my phone. Stavros and I were meeting in a few minutes to talk about the new menu.
Stavros met me in the salon, looking excited, holding pieces of paper in various sizes and shapes. He spread them across the table in front of me.
“Here is the menu,” he said proudly. “Josiane helped, of course. She likes this long and narrow shape. I prefer the traditional square. It’s up to you.”
The shape of the menus had not given me a jolt. It was the words on them. “Stavros, do you really mean to make chocolate chip pancakes?”
In France, breakfast was an inconsequential meal. The French did not eat pancakes. Or waffles, French toast, or eggs Benedict. Yet all those items were on his menu.
Stavros beamed proudly. “I have been practicing. I think they are very good.”
“But—” How did I tell him that this menu was exactly what I did not want? “I thought we’d go with more traditionally French food for breakfast. You know, tartines and jam, soft-boiled eggs, fruit.” I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end as I read the description of the Sunday omelet: three eggs, bacon, brie, and avocado, served with home fries and rye toast. That was not French breakfast food. That was American diner food.
Stavros shook his head. “You are catering to Americans, yes? They will want to eat American food.”
“But—” I stalled. “Not all our guests will be American. We need a more, ah, international menu.”
He frowned. “Porridge?” Once again, a food not commonly found on the table in France before noon.
“No. I mean, okay, maybe. But our guests are coming here for a very traditional Breton experience. Our rooms are old-fashioned and charming. Our breakfast needs to be the same. We’re getting baguettes and pastries from the boulangerie?” The bakery around the corner had bread that was, even for France, extraordinary, and they agreed to supply us every morning with loaves and pastries.
Stavros nodded. I could see a little of the enthusiasm leave his face.
“Well, then, let’s keep it simple for now, okay? We can serve here what you’d serve across the street. That will make it much easier on everyone if there doesn’t have to be a full staff in the kitchen.”
His excitement vanished. “I see.”
“So.” I picked up the long and narrow menu. Stavros had three daughters who were working with him, and they all had a better idea of what I wanted than he did. “I like this one here. Josiane is right; it’s a little different and very attractive.” Hotel Paradis was printed across the top, and at the very bottom was our trademark fleur-di-lis. The font was classic and simple, and on her menu, there was not a chocolate chip or caramelized banana to be found. “Tell Josiane this is perfect. Can we run this off on our computer?” We could use card stock and change the menu on a whim, based on what fruit or specialty pastry we had available.
He sighed, clearly disappointed that he would not be flipping pancakes and frying bacon. “As you wish, Lucy. And I suppose it will be easier. I was going to have to hire someone for the kitchen to help.”
I jumped on that. “Exactly. This way, Simone can come over, get things all set up, and we’ll just put the food on a sideboard, and she’ll serve drinks. The girls we just hired for housekeeping are willing to chip in as needed.”
He looked crushed. “I was reading about barbecue.”
“Excuse me?” I looked up from the menu. “Barbecue? For breakfast?”
He shook his head. “No. To have barbecue night at the restaurant for your guests.”
I sat back, thinking. “That might be a very good idea, Stavros.”
His expression brightened. “Really?”
“Yes. We could do it here. Just once a week. Maybe. What does French barbecue taste like?”
“I don’t know. I’ll experiment.”
I smiled. “Make sure you bring some of your experiments over to me. After all, I worked for three years in Houston, Texas. I know barbecue.”
He beamed, all his good humor restored. “Of course. And Simone knows a bluegrass band. We could have music.”
“A bluegrass band? Really? The French like bluegrass?”
He gathered up his menus. “We have a bit of an obsession with bluegrass music.”
“I’ll run this by Claudine, but you do your research and see what you can cook up.”
I watched him leave, and I glanced around the salon. There were more than enough tables for people to eat dinner, and then, of course, tables could go out to the patio. We could set up a long buffet, with barbecue and the fixings: corn on the cob, coleslaw … What was the French version of baked beans?
I stood up and walked out to the patio. As usual, it was very quiet and still, without so much as a leaf rustling. “Do you like music?” I called out softly.
I felt a slight breeze, but nothing else. “Is that a yes or a no?”
The breeze faded. I went back into Hotel Paradis.
Georges came into the back office, a cigarette behind one ear, his cap twisting in his hands.
“You want see me?” he said in his somewhat fractured English.
“Yes. Thanks for coming in. Please, sit down.”
He perched on the edge of the chair and looked as though he could be off and back out the door at the sound of the gun.
I had been rehearsing this all morning. “First of all, I want to welcome you to the team,” I said in French.
He relaxed a bit. “Thank you.”
“Now, I’ve had magnetic signs made up for you to put on either side of your car.” I had them ready on my desk and pulled one out of the large cardboard folder they had come in. “See?”
It was simple. An ivory background, with a peacock-blue fleur-de-lis in the center, and the words Hotel Paradis printed in the same font as our logo.
“You can just put them on the sides of the car when you’re doing hotel business, and then take them off when you’re not on duty.”
In theory, he’d be on duty all the time. That was the deal, that our guests would be his priority. But he was also going to be ferrying around other passengers as an independent Uber, and Claudine had no problem with that.
He took the sign from my hands and looked at it closely. “Very nice.”
“Yes, it is.” I sat up a little straighter. Here was the tricky part. “But about your car, Georges. It needs…” What? A new paint job, the upholstery repaired, the air fresheners pulled off the rearview mirror, the smell of smoke scrubbed away. “Sprucing up.”
He frowned, lowered the sign, and glared at me. “Marcel is perfect.”
This confused me. “Marcel?”
“The Volvo.”
“Ah.” He’d named his car Marcel? “I’m sure it is. He is. But maybe we could look at it—I mean, him—together and see if any improvements can be made.”
He put the sign, somewhat forcefully, back on the desktop. “No improvements. Marcel starts, and he goes. I have heat, and all the windows open and close.”
Good heavens, what was the problem? “I’m sure. But can we just, you know, take a look?”
His mustache quivered, but he nodded. He stood abruptly and headed out the door.
I followed him out into the courtyard, where Marcel was parked by the entrance to the garden. Georges trotted ahead of me, presumably to do some quick cleanup to the car interior.
Or not. When he reached the driver’s side of the car, he turned and faced me, arms folded across his chest, a sour expression on his face.
“Marcel is perfect,” he repeated.
I opened the door to the back seat and peered inside.
It still smelled of cigarette smoke and cheese and faded pine. The air fresheners still dangled from the rearview mirror, and it didn’t look as though they had been changed out or added to. There was a long split in the seam of the seat behind the passenger front seat. The floor was littered with scraps of dried leaves, receipts I recognized from Monoprix, six empty coffee to-go cups, presumably empty, and a withered orange.
I straightened and looked at Georges. “This is not acceptable. When was the last time you vacuumed?”
His mustache quivered again. “Vacuum?”
“Yes. There’s so much stuff in the floor back here, there’s no room for a passenger to put their feet.” I pushed past him and opened the driver’s-side door. Piled on the passenger seat was a cardboard box filled with old books, and on the floor were more coffee to-go cups, the hand-printed Hotel Paradis sign, and the bald head of a female mannequin. I didn’t want to know.
“Georges, guests coming to Hotel Paradis from the train will be met by you. You are the first impression. And this—” I gestured with a hand. “This is not a good first impression.” I looked at him. He was wearing crumpled khakis, a denim button-down shirt over a plain green T-shirt, and on his feet were scuffed boots. I looked him up and down. “You are not a good first impression.”
His mouth opened to say something, it shut, then it opened again. “Marie Claude has blue hair,” he sputtered.
I nodded. “Yes. But it’s clean blue hair. And her uniform will be a white shirt and black pants or skirt. Maybe you should make that your uniform, too.”
His eyes widened. “I would never wear a skirt.”
I stopped both eyes midway through their roll. “No, Georges. You don’t have to wear a skirt. But you have a white shirt, don’t you? And a pair of black pants?”
He nodded, his eyes narrowed.
“Good. Now, about cleaning up the inside.” I cast a quick eye over the body of the car, taking in the mud around the wheels and splashed up against the bumpers, the dusty windshield, the bits of unknown foliage trapped under the windshield wipers. “And outside. When was the last time you went to a car wash?”
“Car wash?” he repeated blankly. I closed my eyes. Were there car washes in France? There had to be. Surely, cleaning your car could not be exclusively an American obsession.
“We would pay for it, of course,” I told him. “The hotel. We’d have Marcel cleaned inside and out, and maybe a little touch-up on the paint job.” There were noticeable scratches along the front and sides of the hood. Not an especially reassuring sight for guests to see first thing.
He noticeably softened, and I realized it wasn’t the actual cleaning he objected to but the paying for the cleaning that was the issue.
“You also,” I said in English, “have to practice speaking English.” I knew that he understood very well, but never spoke in English. “From now on, anytime you do work for us, you have to speak English. Understood?”
He frowned again. “What if the guest is French?”
I sighed. “Then, of course, you’ll speak French.”
“What about if they’re Polish?”
“Then use your best judgment, Georges. Now, do you know a place that can clean your car? And do a bit of bodywork?”
“Yes. And I bring you the bill?”
“Yes.”
“D’accord.”
I shook my head. “No. Agreed. Say it.”
He finally smiled. “Agreed.”
Claudine scowled. “What do you mean, dry run? What is a dry run?”
“We need for all our staff to perform in real time. With guests.”
“And where do we get these guests?” she asked.
“Well, Colin, Karl, and Vera. Have Bing come down from his studio. Eliot. We can ask Stavros’s daughters.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Not Josiane.”
I waved a hand. “Maybe not her kids. We can invite Raoul and his girlfriend. How about Georges? Is he married?”
“Three times,” Claudine said absently, her eyes on the computer screen as she scrolled through our reservations.
“So, invite his ex-wives. We need people. We need to have check-ins and beds made and breakfast served and issues resolved.”
She lifted her head. “What issues?”
“Exactly. We won’t know until they happen, and we don’t want to be unprepared if it happens to a guest.”
“You want me to start paying people to work here so we can wait on the same people who live here?” She shook her head. “You seem to think I have money to spare.”
“Claudine, I know you don’t have money to spare, but this is necessary.”
She drummed her fingernails against the desktop. “Really?”
“This is my job. Remember?”
She took a deep breath. “Fine. And I’ll reach out to a few of my favorite old clients and see who wants a free stay for the weekend. Unless we can charge them?” She looked up at me hopefully. “Maybe half rate?”
“If you think you can get away with charging people to stay someplace that isn’t officially open and with an untrained staff, go ahead.”
She grinned. “I can get away with it,” she said, and I had no doubt that she would.
I spent the evening walking to each flat and extending the invitation. Everyone was flattered and agreed, except Eliot, who balked and argued with Marie Claude, claiming he would not be able to enjoy himself knowing that his wife was working.
“Eliot, all we have to do is go to bed, wake up, and have breakfast,” Marie Claude cajoled. “Then, do it again the next night. What is the problem?”
I left them. I had, at that point, no patience left for Eliot and his continuous objections to everything from the size of the new key card to the length of Marie Claude’s skirt.
I headed back to the hotel and climbed the stairs to Bing’s loft. We had officially finished painting six days before, and I had not seen much of him since. Claudine, Marie Claude, and I had finished off the last of the rooms, arranging furniture, hanging artwork, and fluffing pillows.
As I climbed the last flight of stairs, I could hear him talking. Did he have company? I didn’t want to interrupt, but I had a sudden urge to see him. It was a sudden urge to see who he might have been entertaining in his studio.
“Bing?” I called.
“Come up,” he boomed and continued his conversation.
As I reached the top of the stairs, I saw he was sitting at his worktable, phone in one hand, his laptop open. He glanced at me and waved me farther in.
“No, I can’t. I told you that won’t work. What about the third?” he said into the phone.
I walked in, circled behind him, and sank into one of the large, overstuffed chairs by the window. It was just getting dark, and the brilliant orange of the sunset cast the studio in a warm glow. I leaned my head back against the cushions and closed my eyes. In the almost four months I had been at Hotel Paradis, I felt like I had been living in an ongoing state of exhaustion, either from manual labor or the daylong expeditions into and around Rennes with Bing.
He was talking about a deadline. With his editor? I sometimes forgot that he had a whole other life, a very successful one at that, outside of Hotel Paradis, and that life involved writing and painting, business deals, and scheduled meetings.
I took a deep breath and felt myself slipping into something of a half sleep, when his voice jolted me back.
“Did you just come up here to nap?” he asked, laughing. “Or was there some ulterior motive?”
I shook myself back to wakefulness. “Sorry. It’s been a busy kind of a day.”
He was sitting across from me, his body stretched out, legs crossed in front of him. “Busy? Let me guess. Flower arranging? Towel folding? No, wait … how about lining up the silverware in the kitchen?”
I immediately felt my imaginary hackles rise, and I once again fought the urge to throw something at him for being so glib, condescending, patronizing, chauvinistic …
“Actually, Claudine and I carried eleven quilts out into the side alley and hung them to air out, then rearranged the tables in the salon—again—because Stavros wanted the buffet table closer to the kitchen, then went through our checklist in every single room, then—”
He held up both hands in front of him. “Okay. I give up.” He lowered his hands and looked sheepish. “I did it again, didn’t I?”
“Did what again? Assume that my work here wasn’t important? Or stressful? Or tiring?”
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “Now. What can I do for you?”
“Check into the hotel this Thursday and stay the weekend,” I said.
He raised his eyebrows. “Check in? Here? Downstairs?”
I nodded. “Yes. Next Monday, we are officially open for business, but I’d like to have a dry run before the paying guests arrive. There are a million small things that can go wrong. I think I’ve accounted for all of them, but I need, well, the whole staff needs practice. So, I’d like you to pack a suitcase and arrive at the desk sometime on Thursday. I’ve created reservations for all our practice guests, and we’re going to have a full staff all weekend, just to make sure nothing screws up.”
He pursed his lips and nodded. “Yes, I suppose that makes sense. What should I do while I’m a guest here?”
I shrugged. “Do what you’d do if you didn’t live upstairs. Come and go. Ask what there is to do and where to eat. Don’t make your bed. Leave your towels on the floor. Leave your espresso cup in the garden. Complain about the Wi-Fi. You know, tourist stuff.”
He grinned. “You know, I used to be a very demanding guest when I stayed at The Fielding. I once sent back my breakfast eggs for being overcooked.”
I grinned back. “That was because Bernie was in the kitchen. He had a thing about raw eggs and was constantly ignoring sunny-side up. He was afraid the raw yolk would kill somebody. It was a bit of a problem for a while.”
He chuckled. “That was my order! Sunny-side up!”
“And Marianne comped your breakfast and threw in a free drink.”
“Yes.” He narrowed his eyes. “The staff there was very well trained.”
I shrugged. “Except in the kitchen. They were all prima donnas there. Thank God Stavros is a little more pliable.”
“Then you talked him out of bananas foster French toast?”
“You knew about all that?”
He made a face. “He asked me about American breakfasts. If I had known he was planning to use the information for nefarious purposes, I would have lied.”
I laughed. “Well, I won’t hold it against you.” I stood. “I can count on you? To play tourist?”
He stood as well. “You can count on me for anything you need, Lucia. I am at your service.”
We were barely a foot apart, and once again, I felt like there were sparks flying in the air between us. I wondered if he felt it, too, or if I was just reacting to a very attractive man on a purely physical level, because I wanted more than anything to take one step closer and put my arms around his neck and draw his face down to mine …
“Lucia?” he said, very quietly, and leaned slightly toward me.
I gulped, stumbled back, and cleared my throat. “Good. Thanks.”
Then I turned and practically ran down the stairs.
Mimi had a bruise on her cheek, and Cara’s lip was doubled in size. I tried not to jump up screaming when I saw them both over Facebook video.
“What happened?” I asked lightly.
Please, I thought, don’t let there have been a car accident.
And please, if there had been one, don’t let it be Joe’s fault.
And if it was his fault, oh, please don’t let it be because he was drinking.
“Daddy bought us skateboards,” Cara practically shouted. “And then he took us to a skateboard park. And we were taking lessons and we were getting really good, but then we both fell.”
They were both grinning happily, and the relief felt like a thunderous wave slipping from a peaceful shore. “Skateboards? Really? Aren’t you supposed to have padding for skateboards?”
Cara was already pushing her elbow, scraped and raw, at the computer screen. “We had kneepads and elbow pads, but the one on this arm slipped when I fell.”
Mimi was nodding impatiently. “And I was right behind her, so I fell, too. There aren’t any face pads.”
I let out a long and relieved laugh. Now that I could see their actual faces rather than just the bruises, I realized they were both very pleased and proud of themselves. “No, I guess you’re right. No face pads. Did it hurt a lot?”
They were both nodding enthusiastically.
“I cried,” Cara said.
“Me, too,” Mimi said. “Daddy was so scared, he forgot to yell at us.”
I nodded, my heart going out to my baby brother, trying to imagine what he must have felt watching the two brightest bits of his life tumble down into a pile of arms and legs and cries of pain.
“He wanted to take us to the hospital, but the teacher at the skate park said we were fine ’cause of the helmets,” Cara went on. “And she had Band-Aids and everything, and then we got to skate again.”
I was grinning with them now. “Wow. You must have really liked it, then.”
They both nodded.
“Daddy said we can go during the summer,” Cara said.
I stepped back into caution. “Oh? Don’t you go to camp in the summer?”
Mimi shook her head vigorously. “Not this summer. I mean, not sleepaway camp like last year. We’re just going to day camp. Gramma’s giving it to us for early birthday.”
Gramma was Vivian, Sara’s mother, who I knew was not really in the kind of financial position to afford even day camp for two. Which meant Joey …
“Is Daddy there? Can I talk to him?”
Of course he was there, and the girls blew kisses as they scrambled away, yelling for their daddy. He shuffled into view and repositioned the laptop screen.
“Hey, sis. What’s up?” He looked very tired. And old. He had such an old face. As a young man, he had been killer handsome, with thick dark hair and deep, smiling eyes. Now, his hair was buzz-cut short and gray, his eyes half-drooping and sad. There were deep lines around his mouth, drawing down the sides of his face in a perpetual frown.
“Just checking in. The girls sound like they had a blast.” I had learned long ago that, sober or not, Joe did not take well to questions or criticisms, and those tough conversations were better when started with a positive note.
He half smiled. “They scared the shit outta me. But they’re tough, man. They got right back up and went back at it.”
“They get that from you,” I said. And it was true. Joe was an alcoholic, and for the rest of his life, he would teeter on the brink of another perilous decision. But he was fearless in his choices, the good and the bad, and had been his entire life.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right there. I got plenty of faults, but I’ve also got plenty of guts. How are you doing over there? Mom and Dad don’t say much.”
“I’m good. Working hard. It’s not what I’d expected, but I think it’s going to all work out.” I spoke carefully. “The girls say that Vivian is paying for camp?”
He nodded, rubbing his hand across his cheek. “Yeah. I didn’t ask, but I have to replace the transmission on the car, and she just kinda offered.”
“That was good of her.”
He shrugged. “She feels guilty. She wasn’t much help around here when Sara was dying.”
I took another slow breath. “It was her daughter, Joey. Her daughter was dying.”
“Yeah.” He stared down for a long minute. “Listen, I gotta go.”
“Okay. Next week, then, okay?”
He reached to hit a button on the keyboard, and the screen went blank.
Raoul checked in first, a scruffy duffel bag over one shoulder, holding the hand of a very pretty girl who looked much younger than he. She gazed around the lobby in wonder, pointing excitedly at the chandelier, the marble floors, the elegant chairs clustered by the window. Raoul puffed up a bit, and I couldn’t blame him. After all, a large part of the hotel’s success depended on the physical condition of the property itself, and he was responsible for most of that.
I stood at the end of the mahogany counter, watching Marie Claude. We had a set welcome speech that she had practiced, and as Raoul approached, she gave him a dazzling smile.
“Welcome to Hotel Paradis. Do you have a reservation?”
He winked at his girlfriend. “Yes. As a matter of fact, I do. And I requested a king-size bed?”
The truth was, antique beds were not built for king-size mattresses, but I had convinced Claudine that we needed to improvise, and so we’d found a few sets of twin-size headboards and footboards and had Colin bolt them together.
Marie Claude nodded. “Certainly.” She shuffled through the reservations, each printed on a separate sheet of Hotel Paradis stationery. She handed Raoul his reservation.
“Please make sure this information is correct, and may I have your credit card?”
His face fell, and he looked past her at me. I held up a hand.
“We need the practice, Raoul. That’s all. We won’t charge you, I promise.”
He looked relieved, dug into his wallet, and handed Marie Claude the card. She smiled, swiped it, and handed it back.
“Please sign right here,” she said, pointed, and handed him the plastic key card.
“We don’t have in-house telephones,” she began, and dove into her prepared speech. “So, if you would enter this phone number into your cell phone and put us on speed dial, you will be able to reach a member of our staff at any time.”
Raoul nodded. “That was a good idea,” he said. “Much better than trying to run phone wire through this place.”
Marie Claude, undeterred by the interruption, plowed on bravely. “Our salon is open for your relaxation twenty-four hours a day. You may feel free to bring your own wine out onto our patio in the evenings.”
Raoul drew back in mock horror. “What? Drink with a ghost? I don’t think so.”
Marie Claude didn’t flinch. “Breakfast is served from six in the morning until eleven.”
Raoul laughed. “Six in the morning? Who wants to get up that early? This is a holiday, no? We have better things to do in the early morning.”
“Through the salon, we have our library, if you’d like some quiet time or if you need a private space to do some work,” she continued. We had decided that library was a more resort-friendly word than office. “There is a printer for your use and a copy machine. You can also access our garden from there.”
Raoul put his arm around his girlfriend and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. “We need the private space, but not for work.”
Marie Claude blushed. “The front gate is open until ten o’clock every evening. After that time, you can use your key card to unlock the gate. It will automatically close behind you.”
That little bit of engineering had cost Claudine a pretty penny, I knew.
“If there is anything I can help you with, please feel free to ask,” Marie Claude concluded.
“Thank you,” the girl said quietly. Then she giggled, and she and Raoul turned and practically ran up the stairs.
Marie Claude turned to me. “Did you know he was a sex maniac?” she asked.
I shook my head and tried not to laugh. “No. He always seemed to be a very reserved young man. You did well. You’re going to come across all sorts of people. Keeping a straight face is the hardest part.”
She grimaced. “Believe me, I know. Working at the bank? Some very crazy people came in there, let me tell you. And some scary people. Even the managers did not want to deal with them.”
“Well, if anyone gives you even the slightest hint of a scary vibe, go back into the office, lock the door, and call me. Or Claudine. One of us will always be here. Understand?”
She nodded and leaned her elbows on the counter, resting her chin on her cupped hands. “I think I will like doing this very much.”
I looked at her. “You love this place, don’t you?”
She nodded. “My mother knew Claudine and asked her if I could stay here. I was from the north, a very small village outside Nancy, and I wanted to go to university as far away from home as possible. I came to Rennes, and I stayed here, and it was like…” She paused, and her eyes got cloudy. “It was so different from home. Home was not so good sometimes. But here, I could breathe.” She gave herself a little shake. “Claudine was very kind. Everyone here welcomed me.”
I thought I might as well take the dive. “And you met Philippe.”
She straightened abruptly. “I have not seen him in five years. I don’t know what to do, Lucy. I don’t know how I feel about seeing him again. Eliot is very upset that I will not be going away with him, but what else can I do? I must stay here and work.” She took a deep breath. “Eliot is jealous. What should I do?”
I mentally took a step back. “Marie Claude, I am the very last person in the world you should be asking for advice about love. Or any kind of personal relationship. I used to think I had great instincts about people, but I was proven very wrong. At this point in my life, I don’t even trust myself with Napoléon there.” The white cat, who had been curled up under a potted palm, lifted his head at the sound of his name, yawned, then tucked his head back down.
The young woman sighed. “I hope there will be no drama. I have very much liked my life with Eliot. It has been calm and quiet. It is what I wanted. Philippe wanted to travel the world, go from one place to the next. I wanted a home. Eliot has given me that, and I am very grateful to him. But now, we are fighting. We never fought before.”
I knew they’d been fighting. I heard it more and more. But the last thing I wanted was to involve myself in some sort of love triangle between people I barely knew. I took a further step back. “Surely you have a close friend you can talk to?”
She shrugged. “Yes.” She looked up and smiled briefly. “Of course.”
“I’m going to be in the back,” I told her and brushed past her on the way to the office, ignoring the look she gave me.
I sat down at my desk. She was a young woman, troubled, and she needed a bit of help. Why had I felt so trapped? I liked Marie Claude and would have wanted to help her, but something had locked up inside me and pulled away. Why?
I had felt myself relaxing here, had grown comfortable with the people in and around the Hotel Paradis. I thought it meant that I was growing surer of myself, of my ability to relate to and connect with people. After months of feeling a knot of anger and mistrust at my own judgment, I thought I was finally seeing a way through.
Obviously not.
Vera checked in with a brightly colored tote bag over one arm, pulling a midsize suitcase. I knew she had come from work, looking a bit tired, but she knew exactly how a guest at a boutique hotel should behave and gave it her all.
She listened to Marie Claude’s speech, nodding in all the right places, and dutifully entered the hotel phone number into her cell. Then she looked past Marie Claude to me.
“You might want to take my number as well. That way, when I do call down, my name and room number will show up on your caller ID. It will be an extra touch if you already know who I am.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Great idea, Vera. Thank you. Marie Claude, can you do that?”
The girl nodded.
Vera took her key card. “Will there be someone to help with my suitcase?” she asked.
Marie Claude never blinked. “I will be happy to assist you. Follow me to the elevator, right through here.” She went to the front of the desk, grabbed the handle, and went off, Vera trailing behind.
“Is there fresh water in my room?” Vera called over her shoulder.
“There will be,” I answered. “We’ll bring it up shortly.” I sent a quick text to Ines in housekeeping. Both the sisters were on for the weekend even though we would only have a total of fourteen guests, with only ten rooms to be attended to each day. As Marie Claude came down the stairs, Ines appeared from the kitchen, carrying a silver tray with one of Claudine’s crystal pitchers on it and two small glasses.
Marie Claude grinned. “I love Vera very much, but I bet she will be our most demanding guest.”
“No,” said Bing, coming down the stairs right behind her. “I will be your most demanding.” He was carrying a small bag of beautifully worn black leather and a very distinctive set of initials embossed on the front. “I will want fresh flowers daily, a continuous supply of ice for my whiskey, and a daily massage from a Swede named Bjorn.”
I laughed. “I think you are mistaking exactly what kind of hotel this really is.”
“What?” he said, dropping his bag with a flourish and winking at Marie Claude. “This is not the kind of hotel that allows Swedish massages?”
Marie kept a professional air, although I could see her shoulders trembling with laughter. “Your name, sir?”
“David Graham Bingham, artist and illustrator extraordinaire. I believe I reserved a room overlooking your famous haunted patio?”
Marie Claude nodded. “Yes, indeed you did. If you could just verify the information here and sign at the bottom.”
“And when,” Bing asked, signing with a flourish, “can I expect your ghost to make an appearance?”
“Between midnight and three in the morning,” Marie Claude answered promptly. “Unless otherwise provoked.” She then went into her prepared welcoming speech, taking Bing’s phone number and entering it into the hotel’s cell phone, not once cracking a smile.
She finally took a deep breath. “And if there’s anything else you need, please let one of our staff know.”
Bing grinned at her, then switched his eyes to me. “Excellent customer service you have here, Lucia.”
I braced for the dig, but instead, he bowed briefly.
“Kudos to you.” Then he picked his bag back up and headed to the stairs, whistling.