Chapter Two
I hung up most of my clothes, and they just about fit into the wardrobe on old-fashioned wire hangers. I had no clue what I was going to do with the rest of my things. I carried my toiletries into the bathroom. There was no place to put them but in the claw-foot tub. I knew that back in the States, a claw-foot tub would have drawn exclamations of jealousy and rapture, but all I could think about was not being able to stand up under a shower of steaming-hot water unless I held the nozzle over my head.
Who was I kidding? What were the chances of there even being steaming-hot water?
With nothing else to do, I carefully made the bed, noting that the pillows were made of real down, and the quilt was old but thick and beautifully stitched.
“Lucy?” Colin called. “Claudine is back. Are you ready to meet her?”
Was I? Who knew? Ordinarily, I’d have changed into my red power suit, put on makeup, and slid my feet into killer heels to look the part. But that red suit had fit like a glove twenty pounds ago, and I imagined that I’d look like one of those balloon people that clowns made at kids’ parties if I put it on now.
Besides, I felt lied to (even though I knew I hadn’t been), cheated (out of what? I hadn’t done anything yet), and altogether scammed (even if it was probably all my fault). I had read every single email that I’d received from Claudine and reread the contract. The job had not been misrepresented in any way. I had just been an idiot. A miserable, exhausted, broke idiot who had been beaten down to a quivering mass of self-doubt and self-pity and had grabbed at the first straw that had drifted by.
The only straw.
I went back into the bathroom and looked in the small mirror that hung over the sink. I looked old. No. Not old. I looked my age, which I hadn’t until this past year. I also looked tired, but that was easily explained. I’d just flown across the ocean, hadn’t I? What I would not tolerate was looking like a complete loser. I crouched by the tub and hunted through the carry-on until I found what I needed. I carefully put on some lipstick and vigorously brushed my hair until it fluffed out from my head in bouncy curls. They may have been salt-and-pepper curls, but, by God, they were perky.
“Coming,” I called. I grabbed my laptop off the kitchen table, pulled my very expensive pen and red leather notebook out of my purse, and followed Colin out of the room, across the twilit courtyard, and into Hotel Paradis.
The lobby was cool and dark, with a black-and-white marble-tiled floor and a massive chandelier that hung in darkness from the twelve-foot ceiling. This had once been the vestibule of a manor house, and the grandeur was still there. To the left was an alcove that housed a sweeping staircase to the second floor. Across from the front doors, I could see a huge salon, lost in darkness, its floor-to-ceiling windows shuttered tightly. To the right was a long counter made of dark wood that looked to be mahogany. Behind it, I could see the pigeonholes where room keys would have been kept. I stopped and stared. I had—literally—only seen those in the movies. There was a large library table in the center of the space with beautifully carved legs, and brass sconces along the walls provided a soft light.
It was a step back in time, and if I squinted to blur out the chipped wood and dull metal, the water-stained plaster and dingy windows, the place was magnificent.
“Wow,” I whispered.
Colin must have heard me because he grinned over his shoulder. “She’s something else, isn’t she?”
Yes, she was.
And so was Claudine Capuçon. “Bonjour,” she sang out as she swept into the lobby.
What was I expecting? A chic and icy old woman in a severe suit and lots of diamonds? Or maybe a wild-haired, boho-chic, middle-aged hippie, dripping in gold necklaces and dangly earrings? A huddled crone, with a skinny black cigar between bright red lips and clawlike hands?
She looked to be older than me, probably by ten years, and I swear her hair was the same mix of gray curls and shaggy layers as mine. She was wearing bright, red-framed glasses and a simple sweater with slacks. She rushed over to me and hugged me, speaking so rapidly that even if she were speaking English, I doubt I could have understood it all.
“Claudine,” Colin said, then rattled off some French, and Claudine stepped back.
“Welcome,” she said carefully.
“Merci,” I answered, just as carefully.
We walked past the main staircase and down a narrow passage that opened to a room that was calm and simple, sleek lines of furniture completely out of sync with the plaster walls, tall windows, and ornate woodwork. We sat down at a small, round table covered in a vibrant, colorful cloth, and she poured wine. Colin sat with us, and the three of us clinked glasses.
“I know you speak French,” Colin said, “but you did say you weren’t too sure of how proficient you were. If you don’t mind, I’ll just sit here and make sure there are no, ah, misinterpretations.”
I was fine with that. While I could already feel my “ear” coming back, I didn’t want to agree to anything that might be a disaster because of a misplaced vowel.
“Have you made any type of plan for your first few weeks here?” she asked.
I opened my laptop. “I’ve been thinking about a website.” I made sure I spoke slowly and clearly. “What kind of budget were you thinking of? There are several options available, depending on what services we choose. Do we want people to be able to make reservations online? Because that requires rather expensive software, but we can probably find one of these companies to accommodate us.”
She listened, then made a face. “There is no budget for a website. Can’t you do it yourself? I’ve looked at a few, and it looks easy enough to do.”
I continued to scroll through all my carefully researched website hosts, my mind racing. “I’ve never built a website on my own,” I said.
“My godson has one. If a fifteen-year-old can do it, how hard can it be?”
My mind went over the emails I’d reread in the past hour. As a matter of fact, I had assured Claudine that I would be happy to help build a website that was easy to use and attractive to American travelers. Hmmm …
“Well, then I guess we can start by taking pictures of the rooms and getting all the rates online. Unless you already have pictures we can use?”
She shook her head. “No. You see, none of the rooms are ready to be photographed. They all need to be painted and decorated.”
I sat back and stared at her, then at Colin. “What is she talking about?” I said to him in English. “Painted? These rooms aren’t even painted?”
He shrugged and looked apologetic. “I told you the hotel had been essentially vacant since before the war.”
“But…”
He leaned forward. “It says in your contract that you will be responsible for bringing all the existing accommodations up to a standard acceptable to American tourists.”
“True. But I didn’t think the baseline would be so … low. Is there someone already lined up to do all the painting and, I guess, decorating and cleaning?”
Colin listened and turned to Claudine. There was a lengthy and heated exchange, too fast for me to follow, before she turned back to me.
“That would be you,” she said.
I closed my laptop and sat back, arms folded across my chest. “Now, wait just a minute…”
Claudine’s smile never wavered, but her eyes were cold. “Lucy, do you know what your role is here? Did you have a lawyer look over your contract? What didn’t you understand?”
“I understood it perfectly. I just assumed that my role would be more of a supervisory position. You know, telling people what to do.”
Claudine stopped smiling. “I am the owner. I am the one telling you what to do.”
I think my jaw dropped open. Oh, dear Lord, what had I gotten myself into?
In the section of the contract that was specifically about preparing the hotel for its opening, there was no mention of painting aged plaster walls or any other type of physical labor. As I geared myself up to argue, I realized there was nothing there that exempted any of that, and that preparation was a relative term. I had expected to be ordering around a bunch of worker bees who would be arranging priceless antiques and rehanging ancestral portraits, leaving me the less arduous duties of putting fresh flowers into crystal vases and plumping up linen pillows. That was not, apparently, Claudine’s expectation.
“Well, I certainly can’t do everything by myself,” I stammered, trying to regroup. I hadn’t painted a room since I’d moved into my first apartment in college.
Claudine was smiling again. “Of course not,” she said. “Everyone living here will help you. We are all invested in making Hotel Paradis a success.”
I felt every plan I had carefully formulated in my head fold up and scatter like a house of cards. I closed my eyes and took a few deep breaths.
“Lucy?” Claudine said, pronouncing slowly. “We have faith.”
I opened my eyes and was surprised at the tears in them. “Why?”
She spoke gently. “Because no one works harder than a person with something to prove.”
Back in my room, I reached for my phone. What time was it in the States, anyway? I didn’t even try to do the math. I just dialed.
Julia Wilson answered on the third ring. “Oh my God! Are you there? Is it fabulous? Why aren’t you on FaceTime so I can see your amazing new home?”
I sat on the edge of the wooden chair and looked around at my amazing new home. “Julia, it’s a mess. This place is a relic. The rooms have been unused for decades, and my so-called apartment used to be a horse’s stall. There’s no staff; it’s just me and the other people who live here, who I haven’t even met, and there’s no money for a website—how am I supposed to build a website?” I could feel the tears starting and my breath come up short. “It’s all terrible, Julia. I’m such a fool to think this was going to solve all my problems.”
“Okay, Lucy? Just take a few deep breaths.” I pictured her, probably in her Upper West Side apartment, or maybe in her office at the small but prestigious Maxwell Gallery. She’d be wearing black—she always wore black until high summer—and she’d push back her short, perfectly dyed blond hair with one hand while holding her phone with the other. “Tell me from the beginning. You’re there.”
“Yes.”
“In … Where are you again?”
“Rennes.”
“Right. Is it a big city?”
“Yes. And beautiful. It’s old, Julia, everything is so old and looks like something from the movies.”
“So. You’re in the city. Not some country estate?”
“No. I mean yes. Right in the city.”
“And it’s not what you’d pictured?”
“God, no.”
“Well, honey, let’s face it. You had built this place up in your head for weeks. To be honest, I couldn’t imagine anything living up to your expectations. You kept talking like you were going to manage Downton Abbey.”
I buried my face in one hand and with the other gripped the cell phone so tightly my fingers hurt. “I know, but … Julia, she thinks I’m going to paint all the rooms.”
I think she was drinking because it sounded like she spit something out all over her phone.
“You? Paint all the rooms? Have you ever even held a paintbrush?”
“Of course I have,” I shot back, feeling defensive.
“Oh, Lucy. My poor darling. I know you had so much riding on this. I’m so sorry it didn’t work out. How terrible is this going to be for you, coming back after such a buildup about how wonderful this job was?”
I lifted my head slowly.
To say there had been a buildup to this job was putting it mildly. I had practically thrown it in the faces of my family, especially my little brother Frank, who had spent months making snarky comments about how the only hotel job I would ever get again would be as a dishwasher. My father had practically taken out an ad in the Neighbor News when I got the offer, he’d been so proud. And I’d spent weeks practicing French in the middle of the living room, at the top of my voice, whenever Mom had been around.
How terrible?
“I can’t come back,” I blurted.
“Wait … what? But, Lucy, you just told me it was awful.”
“It is.”
“And you’re going to have to paint? Like, on a ladder and everything? Honey, we’re looking at fifty. At our age, getting up on a ladder is dangerous.”
“Julia, if I crawl back home now, without even trying, I’ll die in my old bedroom, wearing really bad shoes and surrounded by cats.”
“Oh, Lucy…” She was silent for a moment. “You know you can always move in here with me.”
I felt a rush of gratitude. “I know. Of course, your husband wasn’t thrilled the first time you offered, and I doubt he’s changed his mind. And like I said, if I moved in with you, I’d never move out.”
“So … what are you going to do?”
I had no idea. Until that moment, my mind had been in such a whirl I hadn’t thought about anything beyond getting to the safety of this room. I swallowed. Hard. “I have to stay for at least six months.”
“Six months?”
“That’s how long my contract is. That’s how long they have to give me a place to live and a paycheck, and that’s more than I’d get if I went crawling back to New Jersey.”
“True that.” More silence. “What can I do? Do you need money?”
“I’m fine. I mean, I don’t have any money. My lawyers took everything. But then, I have nothing to spend it on here. I have a place to live, and I guess they’re going to feed me, and since I’ll be spending the next few months painting walls and scrubbing floors, I won’t be going anywhere…”
“Oh, honey. Just wait a minute. Aren’t you, like, two hours from Paris?”
I finally smiled. “Yes. But I was saving that for you to show me.”
“Well, don’t. You grab that first day off, and you go and stand by the river Seine and send me a picture of your gorgeous face in front of the Eiffel Tower.”
“Oh, Julia, I miss you already.”
She sighed. “I miss you, too. And you know what? You can do anything you set your mind to, Lucy. I know you’ve had a few bad years, but remember before all this crap happened? Remember how great your life was? Remember how great you were?”
Yes, I did remember. I ran The Fielding Hotel like a well-oiled machine, and after a very rocky start, it began making money, making employees happy, making guests very happy. We’d been written up in everything from New York magazine to The New York Times. I had hobnobbed with the East Coast elite, or at least the Manhattan elite. And I had been in love with a marvelous, cultured, successful man who I’d thought loved me back until he ran off with millions of dollars and left me to deal with the unpaid staff, the angry guests, the FBI, the unions, and the investors—all of whom kept looking at me and saying, “But you had to have known.…”
I hadn’t known. Not a bit. And I’d been just as shocked and devastated as everyone else.
But before that, boy, life had been grand.
I nodded to myself. “Yeah. You’re right. I was hot stuff, wasn’t I?”
“Baby, you still are.”
“Yes. I am. And if anyone can take this wreck of a place and turn it into a showstopper, I can.”
“There you go.”
“Anyone can build a website these days.”
“Absolutely.”
I stood up and stared out of my window. “I can paint a room. How hard can that be? And you know how good I am about decorating.”
“Your place was a stunner, Lucy.”
“That’s right. Why, I bet this place is loaded with great furniture and all sorts of beautiful things, just waiting for me.”
“That’s my girl.”
“I’m good.”
“Lucy, you’re the best.”
Outside, across the courtyard, I could see the attic rooms suddenly light up. “I can do this.”
“Yes. You can.”
“Thanks, Jules. I love you, and I’ll talk to you soon.”
I clicked off the phone and watched as the lights in the attic flickered. David Bingham, I presumed. I could see him pacing in front of one of the narrow windows. Otherwise, the courtyard was empty and quiet, pale light coming from a few windows along the stable row and a single window on the first floor of the hotel.
I stepped out into the middle of the courtyard. The air was cool, and I could hear the bare branches rustling in the breeze. The cat I’d seen earlier walked slowly out of the shadows, looked at me with slight regard, then vanished.
My kingdom. All I had to do was conquer it.
But first, I needed to find the plug adapter, recharge my phone and laptop, and start making new lists.
The mattress on the iron bed was surprisingly comfortable, and I woke up feeling slightly jet-lagged but mostly refreshed. I had opened the window just a crack before I’d gone to sleep the previous night, and I could hear a bit of noise outside. When I went to the window, I could see movement in the courtyard. I cautiously moved the curtain to peek.
Colin was standing toe-to-toe with a much younger, much larger man who was yelling and making wild gestures. I feared for Colin, thinking that one of those wildly flailing arms could easily knock him over. Their conversation was in French, and it was obvious the argument was about whether the young man was staying for the day or heading out to another job.
The third man, standing with his back to me, watched, shaking his head. Finally, he threw up his arms and yelled, “Colin, stop! You’re being unreasonable. Let Raoul go. The poor man needs to make a living, and that woman probably packed her bags and ran off in the middle of the night as fast as her American legs could carry her.”
Excuse me?
I was dressed in a striped sleep shirt that fell almost to my knees. Totally inappropriate attire for having a conversation first thing in the morning out of doors with three men I didn’t know. But that was me he was talking about, and as my imaginary hackles rose, I left the bedroom, marched to the front door, and pulled it open. Colin stopped arguing and turned away from Raoul. As he did, he saw me.
He spoke English. “Well, look at that. She didn’t run away at all. Lucy, this is Raoul Fournier. He is here to talk to you about what repairs need to be done to the rooms. And this one here? He’s David Bingham. Bing, meet Lucia Gianetti.”
I crossed my arms across my chest, partially as a defensive measure in a possibly hostile situation and partially to prevent my boobs from bouncing around too much. I lifted my chin. “Still here, Mr. Bingham. Sorry to disappoint you.”
He turned, and can I tell you? My heart almost stopped.
He was not handsome. Well, okay. Maybe he was. His forehead was high, and his face angular. His hair was pewter gray and long, brushed back away from his face, Lord Byron–style. He had a beard, trimmed short, gray with flecks of white. His lips were very full, and he seemed to be gritting his teeth. He was slope-shouldered and dressed in jeans and an oxford shirt of crisp white cotton, sleeves rolled up, revealing hairy and muscular arms. He was not tall, barely taller than my five foot six. But there was something about him that hit me, hard, right in the gut.
“So, you’re the one who’s going to save us all? How are you going to do that?” His voice was deep and had a vague southern twang. All the cutting and succinct replies I had on the tip of my tongue slid back down my throat, leaving my brain and my mouth gasping like a dying fish.
I clenched my jaw. Think, think, think. “I have plans,” I finally blurted.
“Like what, Miss Gianetti?” he countered. “Are you going to paint all the rooms soft green with billowing drapes and fluffy pillows, like every other small hotel in Rennes?”
I may have been knocked off-kilter by a sudden and inexplicable attraction to a man I didn’t know and, from his obvious arrogance and swagger, would probably grow to despise, but I had done the work. “Most of the small hotels in Rennes are decorated in a very modern, almost minimalist style. If you do a bit of research online, you’ll see that these places have completely stepped away from that shabby-chic Parisian look. So offering soft green and fluff would set us apart. But I’m going to go more classic. All the rooms will be white.”
“Well, isn’t that boring.”
I mentally counted to three. “No, not boring at all. Classic. If you’d bother to look at any decorating magazine published in Europe in the last six months, you’d know that.” I knew exactly how the rooms should look to draw top dollar from affluent tourists who wanted an authentic experience in a town known for its medieval buildings and centuries-long history. I wasn’t going to let Mr. Sexy-Eyes mansplain my job to me. Now that I’d realized I’d be painting all those white walls myself, my enthusiasm had somewhat waned, but my vision hadn’t changed.
I tore my eyes away from his and looked at Raoul. I spoke to him in French, thinking that I’d have to get faster at switching from one piece of my brain to another. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Raoul. I need to change and have some coffee. Why don’t I meet you in the hotel lobby? I haven’t seen any interiors yet, and we need a plan for getting these rooms in order. Give me fifteen minutes, okay?”
Raoul nodded and headed to the hotel.
David Bingham snorted out a laugh. “Fifteen minutes? I’ve never met a woman who could get herself ready in the morning in just fifteen minutes.”
“Yes. Well, you’ve never met me before, have you, Mr. Bingham?”
Suddenly, he grinned, and the blast of charm almost knocked me back on the cobblestones. “It’s Bing. Tell you what—if you can be out in fifteen minutes, I’ll have coffee ready for you.”
I needed a shower. I needed to do something with my hair to curb all those flyaway curls. I needed to find the perfect I’m-a-professional-but-can-still-be-sexy outfit. I needed to lose—or hide—fifteen pounds and all the wrinkles around my eyes.
“It’s Lucy.”
He shook his head slowly. “No. It’s Lucia.”
I held his eyes. “Fine. And it’s a deal.”
I managed it. Not the losing weight or wrinkle removal part of the wish list, but I was clean. My hair was up in a messy bun, but at least it was out of my face. I found my best-fitting jeans and a tunic in my favorite cobalt blue that hid the paunch around my middle. I pushed my way through the main doors of Hotel Paradis with two minutes to spare.
Last night, I had met with Claudine in rooms to the left of the lobby that made up her personal suite. I walked to the right now, behind the long counter, following the sound of voices to a narrow office, crowded with two massive wooden desks, a bookcase crammed with books and files, and a computer setup that looked to be at least ten years out of date.
Bing was leaning against an elaborate fireplace mantel, out of place among the twenty-first-century clutter.
He straightened when I came in. “Congratulations. You are the proud winner of one cup of coffee. I have American-style, if you’d like. Or café crème?”
I didn’t know what café crème was, but if I was going to be living in this country, I should probably start acting like a bit of a native. “Café crème. Please.”
He nodded and left. Raoul was perched on the edge of one of the desks, but he slid off and held out the chair for me. “Please, Miss Lucy. Sit.”
“Thanks. And no ‘miss,’ please. After all, we’ll be working together, yes?”
He smiled and practically lit up the entire room. He was a beautiful young man, probably in his early twenties, with broad shoulders and narrow hips in splotched painter’s pants and a T-shirt, torn in a few places and showing smooth skin on what I imagined to be washboard abs. His eyes were bright blue, and they were smiling as well.
“Do you speak English?” I asked.
He shook his head, nodded, then shrugged. I decided to stay with English just to see where it all went. “So, have you been working on anything here yet? How does it look to you?”
“Well.” He pulled up another chair, swung it around, and straddled it, forearms dangling over the back. “In nineties, many improvements made. Lights, water … Much money spent. But since…” He shrugged. “More work needed.”
Well, that didn’t sound too promising. “Colin said you were going to do the repairs?”
He nodded. “Yes. Is my job. Plaster, wood, windows. All my job.”
Well, that was a relief. “What about painting? And the floors?”
He shook his head. “That your job.”
Bing came in, a steaming cup in each hand, and he put one cup in front of me. “I don’t think he means that you are personally responsible for sanding and refinishing the wooden floors.”
I took a sip. This was café crème? He couldn’t have just called it a latte? Or was that a strictly Starbucks term?
“Thanks. But the painting is? My personal responsibility?”
Bing made a sort of snort that was almost a laugh as he and Raoul exchanged a look.
“Maybe. Probably,” Bing said, a hint of a smile at his lips. “This was a perfectly functioning hotel at one time.”
I sipped. Yep, this was latte, all right, but the coffee flavor was deep, and the milk tasted very different from what I was used to. “That was what, eighty years ago? Has everything been kept up to date?”
Bing made another one of those snort-laughs. “Barely.”
I sipped again. “Is Claudine here? Maybe I should be talking to her as well.”
“Claudine meant to be here, but there was an emergency of some kind at work. She did say she was going to try to come right back. She’s, well … you would call her a CPA. She has her own firm,” Bing explained. “Raoul and I can give you the grand tour and answer any questions you might have until she returns.”
I found that looking at Bing was distracting. I watched his mouth move, and as I did, I wondered how the gray stubble on his upper lip would feel against my skin. I shifted my gaze to Raoul, who was much more pleasing to look at but did not elicit anywhere near the same response.
“Are you qualified to do this work? I hate to ask, but…” I certainly didn’t need a well-meaning DIY-er doing repairs on two-hundred-year-old walls.
“Yes. I work with brother building houses. Many years. But Claudine says I can be partner if I work for her. Would be good to be business owner, yes?”
I drank more coffee, and as it hit my stomach, I was reminded that I hadn’t eaten. “How many partners are there, exactly?”
Bing leaned back against the desk and cradled his coffee cup in both hands. “Colin put in a chunk. Stavros is going to be running the kitchen, providing free breakfast for the guests. No cash output, so he gets a smaller slice. Raoul has no cash, either, but he has a very real skill set, so he’s in for a bigger cut.”
“And you?” I asked, looking at him. His eyes were light. Gray? Hazel? Whatever color they were, they suddenly brightened.
“I put up the money for your salary. Claudine let me live here rent-free for a number of years, and I owed her, big-time.”
“But that’s a lot of money. Why would you do that?”
He frowned. “Because I don’t want Claudine to be working in an office at eighty when all she wants to do is quit her job and be the charming, gracious hostess she was born to be. Raoul here should be making handcrafted furniture instead of hammering together two-by-fours. Colin needs to stop teaching music theory and start composing symphonies.”
“Interesting. And what about Georges? Is he going to give up driving his car to design women’s shoes?”
Bing stared a moment, then threw back his head and laughed. “That’s very good. I was beginning to think you had no sense of humor at all. No, Georges will probably be buried in that Volvo. He’s just one of Claudine’s strays, looking for a place to belong.”
He watched me as I finished the café crème. Best morning coffee I’d had in years.
“Did you eat?” he asked.
“What? No. But that’s okay. I can get something later.”
“No. Raoul, run across the street and grab whatever Stavros has handy. Come on, Lucia. Let me give you the grand tour.”
Okay, then. Here we go.