Chapter Twelve
The first official guests of Hotel Paradis were a couple from Paris, who, after checking in, informed us that although they had only reserved for three days, if they had found Rennes worthy, they would, of course, extend their stay. Marie Claude did not let on that we had vacant rooms going through to the whole of the next week. Instead, she frowned at the computer, made a few discreet noises as she clicked, then assured the couple that, yes, we could squeeze them in if necessary.
Claudine, who had been lurking in the lobby, pretending to be totally disinterested in the process, practically threw kisses at Marie Claude after the couple left the lobby. I grinned at Claudine. Our girl knew her stuff.
The next check-ins were three women from Germany, traveling together but each in their own room. They made appropriate noises of awe and delight, seemed appreciative of Marie Claude speaking German, and chattered happily up the stairs, waving the street guide to Rennes in their fluttering hands.
Then I got a text from Julia.
On my way. Your driver is delightful, and the car has a certain vintage charm. Can’t wait to see you.
Wait. Georges delightful? And Marcel had … charm?
I ran out into the courtyard. Could it be that she had gotten into the wrong vehicle and was being brought from the train station in a random Uber?
But no. It was indeed Marcel who finally turned into the courtyard, pulling up directly in front of the doors. I reached down to open the door for Julia, and she floated out in a cloud of pale linen and Chanel No. 5.
I hugged her for too long, but she hugged me back, rubbing her palms along my shoulders until I finally stepped back, blinking away tears.
“Oh, Julia, it is so good to see you,” I gushed.
She smiled. Julia never gushed. “Likewise. Oh, Lucy, you look just marvelous. You really do. Your hair is so long, but it suits you. And you look happy!” She turned as Georges went by, carrying a Louis Vuitton suitcase in each hand, with a makeup bag slung over his shoulder. “Oh, Georges, that’s so kind of you. Thank you so much.” She leaned closer as he went through the door. “What a lovely man. How lucky you are to have him. Is all your staff so accommodating?”
I stared after Georges, then leaned down to peek inside Marcel. The back seats were covered in what looked like dark green velvet seat covers. The floor was spotless, and there was the faint scent of lavender instead of the evergreen/cheese/smoke combo of before.
Way to go, Georges.
I straightened, and Julia put her arm through mine, then turned, looking back at the cobblestone courtyard and the black iron arch.
“This is just fabulous. And that building there? The old stable? Why, it’s pretty, Lucy. I half expected peeling barnyard-red paint and rusty hinges on the doorways. As soon as I’m settled, you have to show me your place.”
Georges came back out, and Julia held out a hand, slipping a folded something into his. “I’ll be sure to let you know when I can take that tour, Georges. Thanks again.”
I narrowed my eyes at Georges as he nodded and got into the front seat.
“Tour?” I asked Julia as he drove away.
“Yes. A tour of the Old City, he said. You know, churches and ramparts, those sorts of things. It sounded very interesting.”
She saw the expression on my face and laughed. “Oh, this is not a hotel-sponsored tour? Well, you should come with me, then. I bet you have no idea how many churches there even are here in Rennes.”
We went into the hotel together.
“You’re right there,” I told her. “I haven’t spent much time sightseeing. Although I do know certain bars and restaurants that are outstanding.”
She leaned against the front counter and pulled her reading glasses out of her bright orange Birkin bag. “And yes, we are going to Paris, so don’t argue.” She turned to Marie Claude with a dazzling smile. “What, dear? Oh yes, let me see.” She quickly read her reservation and signed at the bottom. Marie Claude gave her speech, Julia nodded and murmured, then took her key card.
“What, no strapping young valet to carry my suitcases?”
I shook my head. “No. I’ll take them. The lift is right here.”
“Lift? Really? My, you are becoming a native.”
Luckily, both of Julia’s suitcases were on wheels, and there was just enough room in the elevator for the both of us and the luggage. On the second floor, she stepped out, rounded the corner, then stopped and clapped both hands together in delight.
“Lucy, look at this place! I was expecting something from that castle in Frankenstein. The original one with Boris Karloff, all black and white with shadows and cobwebs.”
I laughed, dragging her suitcases down the broad corridor, the sconces gleaming softly, a gallery of portraits hung from an ivory-painted picture rail, scattered console tables and fragile-looking chairs pushed against the walls. She opened her door and stepped in, paused, then clapped again.
“Splendid. Just splendid. And is this your haunted patio?” She crossed the room and threw open the glass doors. “Oh, I’m going to sleep with these windows open every night so I’ll be able to hear her when she comes.”
I guided her suitcases to the foot of the elaborate bed. This one was a four-poster, with rosewood carvings and intricate hangings.
“And that bed,” she said appreciatively. “Too bad Doug couldn’t come. That bed is made for some serious sex.”
I laughed. “Maybe he can just fly over for the weekend,” I joked.
She shook her head. “No. This weekend, we’re going to Paris.”
I shook my head. “I can’t go to Paris,” I told her.
She raised an eyebrow. “And why not?”
“This is opening week.”
“So? I thought you had staff.”
“I do.”
“And are they well trained?”
“Yes, of course they are. But—”
“And aren’t you supposed to only work so many hours a week? I still can’t understand this entire work contract thing they have over here, even though you did explain it to me many times, but I assume your own contract allows you time off. Am I right?”
Yes, she was. My contract required me to work thirty-seven and a half hours every week, although I had pretty much worked 24–7 since arriving.
I thought. “Paris?”
She opened a suitcase and began shaking out clothes, already on hangers, all very chic and expensive. “I actually got us an Airbnb in Le Marais. Just a little two-bedroom place, but it’s close to a metro stop, so we can go wherever we want. For Friday and Saturday, because things are closed here on Sundays. What do you think?”
Our dry run of last week went without a hitch. It had been useful for finding overlooked details, and there were no major mishaps. I had all week to watch and see what was happening, and I wasn’t scheduled for the weekend, anyway …
“I’ll tell Claudine,” I said.
“Good. Now, let me unpack. And I need a quick bath. Then you can show me around and introduce me to everyone. I feel like I know them already.” She gave me a look. “Especially Bing.”
I soothed out a tiny bump in the toile quilt. “Bing has a bunch of meetings this week. He has another book coming out.”
“I’m sure he would love to join us for a glass of wine. Or dinner?”
“Maybe.”
She looked at me shrewdly. “What?”
“Nothing.” I shook my head.
I had worked with Bing daily for months, painting, cleaning, arranging furniture. We talked about everything during those times. Or we talked about nothing, just listened to whatever selection of music he had on his phone. We had become, I thought, friends. The attraction I had first felt had faded to an easy familiarity, although I felt a definite tug of something stronger at odd times. But once I had stopped seeing him every day, I found myself looking for him, and that tug was stronger than ever.
But—so what? He had been kind and attentive, but that was all. If there were any tugs going on with him, he certainly didn’t let it show. And I still had a strong distrust of my own judgment and was convinced that, at any moment, he would be exposed as a notorious serial killer.
I stood. “Really. Nothing. Come down whenever you’re ready. I’ll give you the grand tour.”
In the first three days of her visit, Julia managed to charm every living creature at the Hotel Paradis: staff, residents, guests, and Napoléon.
She remembered everyone’s name and was very careful to ask if she was pronouncing it correctly. That was a trick I had learned after years of observing good versus bad customer service. For her, it was just an innate ability to find interest and worth in everyone she encountered.
She took Georges’s tour of Rennes and, upon returning, convinced three other guests who happened to be lounging in the salon to take it as well.
Ines cut open her finger during breakfast, while slicing a melon, and Julia not only staunched the flow of blood with a linen napkin, but she also finished preparing the fruit salad and advised Ines how to get out the bloodstains.
She prevented Karl from doing bodily harm to a guest who began picking unripe eggplant from the garden. Karl, seeing a stranger pillaging his carefully tended crop, blustered up to the guest, arms waving. Julia, who happened to be sitting in the sun chatting with one of the German guests, intervened. She successfully calmed down Karl and solicited a sincere apology from the guest. She then offered Karl a few suggestions on what to do with unripe eggplant, as well as taking him into the library, where they printed out several signs that read Please do not pick the vegetables in four different languages.
She came back from one of her jaunts into the Old City with four small pots of live catnip and, with Karl’s permission, discreetly tucked them into a few of the large urns that stood in front of the hotel. I don’t know how Napoléon knew it was she, but he spent every moment not rubbing against the catnip following her around, wrapping himself around her ankles, and purring loudly.
Bing, after sitting with us on the patio over wine and, of course, cheese, watched her leave to go back to her room with a wry smile.
“You are very lucky to have a friend like her,” he muttered.
“I know. Isn’t she just the best?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Her husband?”
“Doug? He’s a very nice man. He’s the owner of a cybersecurity firm. Very successful. He works pretty much around the clock most of the year, then takes off a whole month to take her anywhere she wants to go. This year, I believe he’s renting a yacht in Tahiti.”
He laughed. “They must have a very happy marriage, then.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “They do. They have two sons, both grown, both a bit of a problem, but they are a very devoted couple.”
He finished his wine. “I’ve found that a bit of distance makes for a much happier relationship.”
“Really?”
He nodded. “These people who work together, then go home together … How does one appreciate the truly golden moments if you spend all your moments together?”
“You and Claudine seem to get along just fine,” I said.
He shrugged. “That is different. We’re not in love anymore. We share a son; that is a connection that will stay strong forever. But that’s not the kind of relationship I’m talking about.” He shifted his body until he was facing me. “I’m talking about two people who are together or finding their way toward together. There’s a tension that you feel when you’re not around each other. And then, when you are together, there’s a bit of a rush, an exhilaration. A surprise of joy. And even though the time in each other’s company may be perfect, it’s the waiting that is really telling. The wanting.”
It was getting dark, and I could barely see his face in the faint light coming from inside the hotel. But I could feel him, scant inches away, and as I set my wineglass down, my body moved forward, toward him, so that our knees were touching and my arm brushed against his, and talk about wanting …
“I never thought of it that way,” I said softly, proud of myself for keeping my voice steady even though my heart was racing. “Tony and I were one of those couples who were attached at the hip. For years. I thought that was safety. I thought that was commitment. And I was fine with it, even though it was all proved false. But you’re right. There were no surprises. No … joy.”
He reached out very gently and stroked my cheek. “I’m so sorry. You deserve joy.”
If I turned my head just a fraction, his fingers would be in my hair. If I moved in the other direction, my lips would have grazed the palm of his hand. I could hear words in my head … Do it … Do it … Kiss his palm, then turn his hand over and gently bite each long and graceful finger, push back the rough linen of his shirt to taste the sweet skin of his strong wrists …
The near-empty plate of cheese clattered suddenly to the ground, sounding loud and harsh as it hit the slate. We both jumped back from each other.
I bent and picked up the plate, unbroken. “Good night,” I mumbled, hurrying back into the hotel.
In the kitchen, I placed the plate in the dishwasher and stared out to the salon as Bing walked past.
Damn ghost, I thought. Of all the times to make an appearance, why then?
Claudine didn’t even blink when I told her I was going to Paris. “You must go. You’ve worked like a dog for months with just an occasional afternoon off. We are running smoothly. Go. Enjoy.” She busied herself with some paperwork on her desk before adding, “Bing said he wanted to go to Paris. Ask him to go with you. He can help with the trains.”
And so it was that the three of us took the first fast train to Paris, coming into Gare du Nord just as the city was waking up. Bing took us into Le Marais on the metro and walked us to the Airbnb that Julia had booked. She had planned for us to leave our luggage there, so we wandered the narrow streets, Bing acting as guide. We took the trolley up to Sacré-Coeur, and there, spread below us, was the whole of Paris.
“Oh,” I said softly. “My.”
Julia looped her arm through mine. “I know.”
“It’s glorious,” I breathed.
“Yes,” Bing said, smiling. “Wait until you meet her close up.”
“We only have two days,” Julia said. “We’re going to avoid all the obvious tourist spots.” She had been here several times before with Doug. “We have to see Shakespeare and Company, of course, and the Victor Hugo Museum. And we should take one of the boats down the Seine.”
Bing laughed. “Isn’t that an obvious tourist thing?”
“Yes. But it’s also unforgettable.” She looked at him. She had been very careful about curbing her interest all week, but she had decided it was time to get curious. “And what will you be doing? An assignation with an ambassador’s wife? Burrowing into the archives at the Louvre? Buying a wine so rare as to be priceless?”
He stared at her for a moment, then threw back his head, laughter echoing out across open air. “Julia, I’m not an international spy. I’m an artist. And I write children’s books. I’m meeting with someone about a gallery opening.”
She sighed. “Oh. How disappointing.” She looked over at him again. “Will you be able to join us for any late-night dinners?”
He shook his head. “Afraid not. And I have to get back to Rennes in the morning for a conference call.”
I felt a small bite of disappointment. Of course, being with my best friend in one of the most beautiful cities in the world was nothing short of marvelous, but I had been hoping …
Bing said goodbye at Shakespeare and Company, which was fine, because once I walked through its doors, I was completely unaware of anything but the rows and shelves of books before me. There were few things that evoked memories for me more than scent. Tomato and garlic brought back Sunday dinners in my mother’s kitchen. Coffee took me to my first job in a hotel, waiting tables for the breakfast crowd at the local Holiday Inn. One whiff of exhaust and I tumbled back to Manhattan, racing across Fifth Avenue, dodging taxicabs and buses. And the smell of old books? My work-study job in the library at Rutgers University, the only non-hotel-related work I’d ever done, going back into the stacks for odd reference books and journals. I’d loved that job: the quiet, the sense of calm, the feeling that so many of life’s questions could be answered just by opening a book.
“Remember,” Julia murmured after finding me hunched in a corner, a small stack at my feet, “you have to carry all of them across Paris.”
I ended up with a copy of The Wind in the Willows, in French, and a slim volume of Leaves of Grass. We walked along the river, looking at the bookstalls and artists, just talking.
“You seem so much more relaxed,” Julia said at last. “And I think you’re happy.”
I nodded. We had finally settled at a café, wine in small glasses before us. “I feel an incredible sense of relief,” I said slowly. “I really didn’t know if I could pull this off.”
She tut-tutted. “Lucy, you have always been one of the best at what you did. You gave speeches at conferences. You got awards. I never understood how falling in love with the wrong man had anything to do with your ability to do the work.”
“Falling in love with the wrong man changed everything,” I told her. “How I saw myself. What I valued about myself. I know now, looking back, that I should not have let what happened with Tony overwhelm everything else in my life, but when it was happening…” I trailed off. “But I think I am getting better. I mean, that hotel is pretty damn special, isn’t it?”
She grinned. “Yes, it is. So, what about Bing?”
I sat back. “What?”
“Bing. That perfectly attractive and charming man who would probably fall at your feet if you gave him even the slightest bit of encouragement.”
“First of all,” I said, getting my thoughts together, “he’s not exactly the type to fall at anyone’s feet. And you make it sound like he’s the sort I couldn’t help but fall for. Believe me, he’s not so perfect.” I felt myself warming up to my argument. “He tends to question every single thing I do because he thinks he knows better, and you know how I just love people who don’t think I know what I’m doing. And when he’s not hovering around, waiting to criticize, he’s wrapped up in his own work, and I don’t exchange a word with him for days. And I just—” I stared down at my wine. “Having the hotel be a success has patched up a huge hole in my psyche. But it didn’t do anything about restoring my willingness to let people get too close.”
She rolled her eyes. “I’ve been here long enough to see how everyone involved in the hotel thinks you’re the next-best thing to sliced bread. These people, all of them, like you, Luce. And I’ve seen you with them. These are your friends. Or at least, they could be.” She tilted her head. “You were never good at that, were you? I mean, in college, you were always in a group of people, but I’m the only one who lasted. Why, do you think?”
I threw her a smile. “After you became my friend, why would I need any more?” Then I sobered. “You’re right, though. It was always hard for me to let people into my life. I was always on guard against my family. I think that was part of it. If I couldn’t trust them to be on my side, well, what could I expect from strangers?”
“And Bing?”
I made a face. “I think he may be trying to work his way in.”
“And you don’t want him? Well.” She waved a hand. “If nothing else, I bet he’d be good in the sack.”
Luckily, I’d swallowed my wine, or I would have probably choked on it. “Jules.”
“What? Like it hasn’t crossed your mind?”
Yes, it had. Every time I felt the heat of his body as he passed, saw the muscles in his forearms flex, caught the twist of his mouth in a smile. Just last night, as he waved and the long curve of his back turned away from me, I felt my insides turn to jelly. “You know I was never like that,” I mumbled. “Even in college.”
She made a face. “True. I was the one who was into mindless sex. You always held out for feelings.” She looked around. “Should we just get some supper here? Or head back and get something closer to the apartment?”
I looked at my empty wineglass. “Let’s go. We can walk, and maybe something marvelous will just pop into view.”
And something did, and we grabbed the last table on the sidewalk of a quiet café. I had sole in delicate wine sauce and fresh peas and baby potatoes that melted in my mouth. I had finally stopped being amazed at how wonderful the food was in France, but this was extraordinary. Then we went back up to the flat and drank more wine and talked and remembered.
The next day, we saw the Musée d’Orsay, and I spent almost an hour gazing at the Renoirs, and I’d give up an hour every day of my life to do it again. We took a leisurely boat ride down the Seine under a striped canopy, sipping wine. I was a perfect tourist, thrilled to see every familiar landmark.
“I love the oldness here.” I sighed. “New York is beautiful, but it’s all so new. There are no ghosts.”
“I agree,” she said, leaning her head back. “I could easily live here.”
I looked at her. “Really? Because I would give you a job in a heartbeat. You have managed to charm the entire staff, not to mention every guest you’ve come across at the hotel. You’re a natural.”
She laughed. “Yes, but if I were paid to be charming, I wouldn’t last a week.”
I reached over and grabbed her hand, giving it a gentle tug. “I’m so glad you’re here. And I’m so happy I saw Paris with you.”
She was usually not the sentimental type, but I saw real tears in her eyes. “You’re one of the best people I know, Lucy. I would do anything for you. You know that. And being here this week has been a real gift.”
We got off the boat and walked some more, then went back to Le Marais, got our luggage, and took the train back to Rennes. Georges was waiting for us, and we got back quite late. The hotel was dark, and we were both tired. She went up to her room, and I slipped gratefully into bed. The next morning, Georges was there to take her and all her luggage to the train station, where she would go back to Paris and the airport and then on to New York, and as I gave her one last hug, I felt as though a bit of bedrock that had been shoring me up all during the week had slipped, just a little.
Marie Claude came to stand beside me. “One day,” she said softly, “when I am old, I hope I have a friend like that, who remembers me as I was, not just as I am.” Her voice shook just a bit, and she seemed suddenly very young and fragile.
“You have plenty of friends, Marie Claude,” I told her.
She shrugged. “It is one thing to have a friend who you can go out with and laugh with and drink with. I’m talking about the kind of friend who knows your secrets but loves you anyway.”
I looked down at her. “You have secrets, Marie Claude?”
She shrugged. “We all have secrets, Lucy. And if we’re lucky, we can share them. Sharing eases the burden.” She looked at me, the corners of her mouth drooping. “Eliot and I are not getting along very well right now.”
I nodded. “Yes. I know. We all know.”
She sighed. “He is worried about Philippe.”
“You married him.”
Her shoulders made a small movement. “But how do I know what to do or say to reassure him if I don’t know myself how I will feel when I see Philippe again? What we had … it was unlike anything I had ever felt before. Or since.”
On the one hand, my heart went out to her. She was obviously hurting and in need of a shoulder to cry on and maybe some gentle words of wisdom. But I was not the person for her to seek out. “Marie Claude, I am the last person in the world to give advice. I divorced my husband because he finally told me he wanted a real home. I thought my career was more important. For years, I drifted from one place to another, one short-term relationship to another because I didn’t want to put in the time or the energy for anything long term. And when I finally did decide that I was ready and thought I had found the perfect person, it all turned out to be a lie.” I sighed. “All the things that you say you want in your life are things I never cared about.”
She shrugged. “Eliot is leaving for Lyon as planned. He does not even want to hear about maybe going later. He does not want me to be here when Philippe arrives, but he refuses to change his plans. He just wants me to change mine.”
“Eliot has always struck me as being very set in his ways.”
“Yes. But you would think that if there were a good enough reason, he’d be willing to bend. Just a little.”
I scrambled for something, anything to sound reassuring. “Surely he trusts you?”
“Yes,” she said faintly, then gave another shrug and walked back into the office.
“We’re learning archery,” Cara crowed. “Like Robin Hood.”
“At camp? Wow, that’s exciting, huh?”
Mimi was nodding her head vigorously. “Yes. And to swim. This camp is way cooler.”
“I thought you liked sleeping away?” I asked them.
Cara rolled her eyes. “There were bugs,” she said. “Everywhere.”
“That’s because you were in the woods instead of the city,” I explained.
She looked at me steadily across thousands of miles. “There were bugs, and they were disgusting.”
“Ah.”
“And,” she continued, “we’re swimming in a pool and not a lake, so it’s not even dirty.”
I would have argued that point with an adult, knowing a little bit about the cleanliness of municipal pools, but chose to stay silent. “But no boats.”
Mimi sighed. “No boats. But lots of arts and crafts, and we can bring our skateboards next Wednesday, and they will take us to the skate park.”
“That will be fun.”
Cara rolled her eyes again. “It’s gonna be all boys and then us.”
“Don’t like boys much?” I teased, just a bit.
Cara looked at me with something akin to pity. “What, exactly, is there to like? They’re stupid.”
Touché. “Yes. They are. Are PopPop’s tomatoes ripe yet?” My father’s garden faithfully produced delicious beefsteaks, and the favored sandwich of summer was sliced tomato on white bread with mayonnaise.
“Not yet,” Cara told me. “He said eight days.” His uncanny ability to accurately predict the ripeness of his crops was something of a marvel.
“I miss those tomatoes,” I told them. “Everything in France is really delicious, but nothing beats PopPop’s tomatoes.”
“We could mail you some,” Mimi offered.
“I don’t think so, but thanks for the offer. When do you go back to school?”
“Three weeks,” Cara said. “Next week is our last week at camp, and then we’re staying with Nana and PopPop, then school.”
“Are you excited?”
They both shrugged. “It’s school,” Cara said.
“I love you two.”
They beamed. “We love you,” they said, together.
The screen went blank. “Love you more,” I whispered.