Chapter Four
Claudine and I went to buy paint.
She had a short conversation with Bing before we left. As we walked across the courtyard, she explained the very simple security system. The gates locked automatically. They could be pushed open from inside the courtyard, but to open them from the street required a code.
“It is 230663,” she explained. “Empress Joséphine’s birthday. If you forget, just push the red button. The bell sounds inside the hotel, out in the garden, and up in Bing’s rooms. Someone is always around to answer.”
We then walked to a metro station, where she purchased a card for me and explained how it all worked, and we emerged a short ride later in a decidedly commercial area, crowded and noisy. The French version of a hardware store was narrow and badly lit, but she knew the proprietor, and after taking several paint sample cards out into the sunlight, we decided on three different shades of white. Yes, that’s right, three. From almost thirty-four different choices. Perhaps a lesser woman would have crumbled, but I knew exactly what I wanted, and Claudine approved. Creamy white walls, a deeper cream for all the woodwork, and a bright white for the bathrooms.
“All the bathrooms are the same, black-and-white tile on the floor, and white fixtures everywhere. We have white towels. This is a good choice. Why complicate things?” she said approvingly.
“Agreed,” I said. “That’s the walls and trim. What about curtains, bedding, all of that?”
“What do you want?” she asked. I was trying hard to listen to her, but I was walking in France, and the streets were unlike anything I had seen before, the energy palpable, and the flow of a language I could not completely understand did nothing to dampen my excitement. This was France.
“Lucy, I feel I do not have your attention,” she said.
I tried to look apologetic, but I was too busy gawking at the storefronts, into café windows, and at the crowds of people rushing by. “I’ve never been to France before,” I told her. “I’m trying not to be a tourist.”
She grabbed my elbow and steered me toward a tiny café table. “Then sit. We will have coffee. Or wine? It’s lunchtime. Let’s eat, and you can watch all the people. We will talk.”
I sank gratefully into the wooden chair and felt my whole body relax. “I want the windows framed with curtains that are white and flowing. Linen, I think, would be best. Simple lines but lots of volume. That kind of thing says luxury. Where can we get something like that?”
“Vera will make them,” she said, sinking into the chair beside me. “Do you trust me to order the fabric for you?”
“What? Oh yes. Absolutely. Who can make what?”
“Vera Sidibe. She lives at the hotel. She’s a very talented seamstress, with an excellent sewing machine. We’ll get her all the linen she needs, and she’ll make whatever we want.”
There was a rather lengthy exchange between Claudine and the waiter, so I took the time to watch a very elegant older woman, easily in her eighties but walking sprightly in beautifully made high heels. She was dressed in simple black, her cropped gray hair ruffling in the breeze.
“How do they do it?” I asked as the waiter left. “All these women look so effortless and put together. Women in New York always look like they’re working at it.”
Claudine laughed. “Women in France have, for decades, been applauded for their chic. They have nothing to prove.”
“Raoul said that Vera was unreliable,” I said.
Claudine made a face. “Raoul is a lovely boy, but he is also a racist. Vera has black skin, so he thinks she can do nothing right.”
“Oh. But … he said she was an alcoholic.”
“She is. She always will be. But she has been sober now for a longer time than she was not. That is his excuse. Young men can be very stupid. Ah, here’s our cider. Cider is very Breton, and you must get used to local tradition. Let us drink to all our lovely paint, yes?”
We touched our glasses. The cider was cold and delicious.
“I have bed linens,” she said. “Sheets and such that have been saved. And quilts. Handmade quilts that my aunt stitched herself.”
“Like the one on my bed?” I asked. “That one is beautiful.”
“Thank you. They are all beautiful. They are old but have been stored properly. I have paintings,” she said, sitting back. “In a temperature-controlled unit. Some things must be carefully tended. And rugs. Do you know that there are hand-knotted rugs that are hundreds of years old? Some objects are more than objects. They are a testament to the dedication of artisans and craftsmen. They remind us that beauty has been around for centuries and will remain long after we are gone. When the original estate of the Perrot family burned, many things were pulled out and saved. That’s what servants did five hundred years ago, saved the masters’ valuables. Some of these things have not seen the light of day since before the war. It is time.”
“You’ve been paying for storage for that long?”
She shrugged. “My father paid. Then my brother paid. And when he died, it fell to me.” She leaned forward. “Everything was hidden away when the Nazis came. When it was safe, basements were emptied and everything came back, but there was no money to reopen the hotel. My father made sure that nothing was sold off. They went hungry in the winters, my aunts and uncles. The years after the war were very hard. But nothing was sold. Everything was saved, and now, it is my job to bring it all back.” She smiled. “That is why I am such a crazy woman. My time is running out. I am getting old, and I want to sit back and enjoy Hotel Paradis in its glory. And I want to see my son enjoy it as well. If I am very careful, there will be enough money. And I have you.”
A plate was set before me.
“Another tradition,” Claudine explained. “It’s called a galette saucisse. It is a sausage surrounded by a crêpe made of buckwheat. You eat it like a—what is the American?—hot dog. Eat this like a hot dog.”
I picked it up gingerly and took a bite. Flavors exploded in my mouth that I had never experienced before. I am never going to lose weight, I thought as I took another bite.
Claudine laughed. “It is very good. I try to make the galette, but I am a terrible cook. Luckily, Stavros will keep you fed. And we will buy you bread and cheese for your room. You may want to cook a few things for yourself.”
I swallowed and took another swig of cider, and as I did, I wondered what the alcohol content was because I felt a bit of a buzz in the back of my brain. “There’s no refrigerator.”
“We’ll find one.”
“And there’s no dresser for my clothes or a comfortable place to sit.”
She tilted her head. “I suppose you are used to something very different?”
I nodded. “Very. I understand that this is a very unusual situation, but I need to feel comfortable. This is going to be my home for at least the next six months, and I don’t want to dread it.”
“Of course. You can have your pick of anything we have for your own rooms. We will get you a refrigerator. In fact, there’s probably something in the cellar.”
“We need electronics.”
“What?”
“Televisions.”
She frowned. “In every room?”
I nodded. “It will be expected. And Wi-Fi.”
She shrugged. “That is not a problem. And we have—what do you call them—knickknacks?”
I shook my head. “No. Nothing that can fit in a suitcase and be carried out.”
Her frown deepened. “Really?”
“Really. But we can use plants and flowers.”
“That’s easy.”
“Not just for outside but in the rooms.”
She nodded. “Of course. Karl planted many seeds this spring, so we will soon have cut flowers for every room. He complained. He insisted that the garden was his domain. I had to remind him that it is, in fact, my domain.” She smiled, but there was steel behind those red lips.
Tony Fielding had also been made of steel. He ran his company with skill and ruthless decisiveness. He often said that The Fielding Hotel was more than just a name, it was his legacy. But greed and weakness had eroded whatever good intentions he had started with, and he had let his legacy collapse under debt and scandal.
I could tell that Claudine Capuçon would never let that happen. Hotel Paradis carried a family history dating back centuries, and she was the sole protector of that history. It was indeed her domain. She would not let anyone forget that.
Including me.
We were back in front of Hotel Paradis.
“We need to do something about all this rust,” I said, looking up at the gate. “We can’t have this be the first impression people have.”
She nodded. “Yes. Colin will do this. He is good at the tiresome, fiddly things.”
We pushed through the gate. The courtyard was still and peaceful in the sunlight. I could see the white cat curled up in his planter, asleep.
“Is that the hotel cat?” I asked as we walked to the front door.
She reached down to stroke the cat’s fur. “Yes. This is Napoléon Bonaparte. Every cat we have is named Napoléon Bonaparte, and they are always white. He is friendly, for a cat.”
Napoléon opened one eye, blinked slowly, then settled back to sleep.
We went into the lobby and back down the corridor. Raoul was still busy, now using a trowel to spread plaster over the various holes in the wall. He looked at us briefly, then went back to work.
“I think we need to get a bit of work done, you and me,” Claudine said. “Let me change, and then we can look at the furniture. I told Bing to take the tarps off all those piles. We can see how useful he’s been.”
I went back to my appart and grabbed my pen and notebook. Making lists always soothed me, and I went back into the hotel feeling like an adventurer beginning a treasure hunt. Bing had mentioned antiques and armoires, and I imagined finding mahogany and rosewood, hand-carved and lovingly crafted.
Claudine called to me. “Have you been downstairs?”
No, I hadn’t. We went through the kitchen, which was smaller than I had expected, gleaming stainless steel, and spotlessly clean. We turned down a narrow stone staircase and walked into another century.
There were fluorescent lights, but that did little to make me think I was in anything but a nineteenth-century wine cellar. The walls were rough, the floors flagstone, and the beamed ceiling low and dark. The air was surprisingly fresh and dry, and I could feel a faint breeze.
“That door there leads outside,” Claudine said, pointing. “All the laundry was done down here. There used to be giant tubs where women churned the wash like butter; then it would be wrung out in a machine that looked like a medieval torture device. Then everything was brought up to dry along the side of the house. That is the south side, and there is sun all day.”
Now there stood a row of stainless steel washers that were almost as tall as I was, and as many industrial dryers. A long table ran down the center of the space, with arched doorways along the walls.
“We still have wine here,” she said, going through one of the archways. “Come.”
Here, single bulbs dangled from swaying wires, and as she pulled the frayed string of one, a wall of wine appeared from the darkness, row upon row of dusty bottles like soldiers lying down for a rest.
“One day, before we open, I will have someone come down and look. There are bottles here that were laid down before the war.” Claudine pulled out a bottle, wiped the dust, and squinted at the faded label. “Nineteen thirty-two. This might be valuable. It depends on the vintage, of course. Bad wine does not improve with age.”
She went back into the vast laundry room and looked around. “We will have someone come three times a week to do the washing. We have an obscene amount of linen here, enough sheets to change the beds every day for a month.” I must have looked skeptical because she laughed. “French linen lasts generations, Lucy. And my great-grandmother had a bit of a hoarding problem. Once a year, she would make a mysterious trip to an abbey in Nice and return with more and more sheets and pillowcases. My mother remembered the hotel before the war. She helped make the beds, and she used to say the closets overflowed. They still do.”
We went up another set of stairs, the one leading outside. We stepped into brilliant sunlight, and I could see a few remaining clotheslines running between the side of the hotel and the wall. The flagstones were uneven, and many were broken.
“So, this is what those few second-floor rooms look down on?” I asked. “Bing said there was no view, and he’s right. But we need to do something else here. We can’t afford any useless space.”
She shrugged. “The stable row is that way, and you can just walk around the corner there to get to the front courtyard.” She looked in the other direction, where there was a solid wall. “The inside courtyard is there. This was for laundry. What else can we use it for?”
“We don’t have to use it for anything,” I said. We just have to make it look good to guests looking out the window, I thought. “How good a gardener is your Karl?”
“It is his passion.”
“Okay, then, what about those fruit trees that get planted against the walls?”
“Espalier?”
“Yes. Can Karl do that?”
She began to smile. “I’m sure.”
“We can plant roses here, with lavender and boxwood. We can make some sort of design. Pull up these broken flagstones and create a pattern that you’ll be able to see from the windows.”
She reached over and gave me a quick hug. “That is brilliant. Of course. And we can have roses to bring into the rooms all summer long. I never would have thought of that. I’ve been staring at this ugly yard for years, thinking it was useless. In two minutes, you have made it into a treasure.”
I began to scribble in my notebook. “What should we grow? Apples and pears? Do apricots grow in France? We can offer guests fresh fruit in the morning from our own little orchard.”
She laughed. “It will be a few years before we get any fruit.”
“That’s fine,” I said, still writing. I had to research espalier. Roses—they would have to be beautiful but also smell like heaven. And was there garden design software I could download for free?
I ignored the little voice in the back of my head, reminding me that I might not be here in a few years.
The furniture Claudine and I uncovered was exactly the treasure trove I’d imagined, with a vast and varied assortment to choose from. Most of the wooden pieces were obvious antiques, dusty but in good repair. Beds ranged from elaborate four-poster affairs to simple, classic sleigh beds. All the mattresses would have to be replaced, but she’d warned me about that. Every room had either a standing wardrobe with a combination of hanging space and built-in drawers or an armoire for hanging and a small dresser. There were desks and tables of varying sizes, some simple, some inlaid with marble or contrasting wood. I took pictures of each piece with my phone so I could mix and match more easily.
The upholstered pieces were the problem.
“This chair has been sitting here for decades, Claudine. There are probably bugs living in the cushions.”
She shook her head. “Every three months, I come into each of these rooms. I take the cushions off and shake them out. I have a brush, and I beat the dust out of the furniture. This fabric is perfect. It hasn’t seen sunlight in years, see? Not faded at all.”
“But bugs…”
She glared at me. “There are no bugs in my hotel. There has been no damage from the damp, except when the roof leaked, but whatever was ruined was taken away. Everything here is good.”
She may have been right. There was no sign or smell of mold or dampness, and as I sat on one of the chairs, no cloud of dust rose. And the pieces were beautiful. There were classic Louis XV chairs in rosewood and pale, striped silk. Wing chairs in floral tapestry. Slipper chairs trimmed with delicate fringe. Sloped channel-back chairs in lush green velvet. A graceful chaise longue in gold damask.
“Have you seen anything that you want?” she asked at last.
I was filthy and exhausted, and we had only made our way through half the rooms on the floor, but I felt as though I had accomplished quite a bit.
“I want? Oh, right. Ah, I’m not sure.”
We were back in the hallway. “Send me the pictures of what you want, and I will have Eliot bring them over.” Claudine looked at me. “I think you have done enough for today. You look very tired. And it is late! I am sorry.” She took out her phone. “We did not get you bread. Or cheese. I will ask Marie Claude to pick them up for you. And wine, of course. You can eat at the café across the street. Stavros will feed you. He is a marvelous cook.”
I was starting to feel my muscles ache just a bit, but I knew they’d be screaming before the night was through. This was more physical work than I’d done in the past two years. I was suddenly grateful for that claw-foot tub.
“Will you be around tomorrow?” I asked her as we went down into the lobby.
She shrugged. “I should be. I have not gotten any frantic messages, so maybe my office has not burned itself to the ground.” She suddenly reached over and gave me a quick hug. “Thank you, Lucy. This was a good first day. Eat something. Take a long, hot bath. You will feel so much better.”
“Yes. Well, good evening, Claudine. This is quite a lovely hotel you have here. I think we can make it a real success.”
She put her hand on my shoulder. “I know we can.”
I watched her go back into the hotel. Her home. I took a deep breath and started toward mine when a man darted out of the garden. He was tiny and stooped, with a black yarmulke pinned to a halo of white, bushy hair.
“Wait,” he called. “Are you Lucia? Wait.”
He hurried across the cobblestones and grabbed my hand in both of his. “Karl Levi. I am so glad to meet you. Bing said you were quite lovely, and he was right. And my garden? You like my garden?” His accent was German rather than French, and he spoke slowly. “I will help you all I can. I can still do much, even though I am an old man.” He grinned, his watery eyes dancing. “I am young in my mind, even if my body does not always agree.”
In his shabby clothes and rough boots, he looked like a garden gnome, and he radiated energy. I found myself smiling despite my growing fatigue, thinking it oddly appropriate that this little man would so easily fit the role of gardener.
“It’s a real pleasure to meet you, Karl. Claudine and I have a few projects for you. We want a rose garden.”
He continued to hold my hand. “Excellent. Most excellent. I have wanted a rose garden for many years. You were on your way back to your room? I will not hold you up. But you should come by. I am in number one, right there in front. After dinner? Have a drink with me?”
“I’m very tired, Karl, but if I have any energy left, I’ll try.”
He held my eyes for a few seconds, then shook himself and dropped my hand. “You remind me of someone I knew long ago. I will try not to stare. Welcome to Hotel Paradis. We have been waiting for someone like you for a long time.”
“I’m glad to be here. Thank you. Excuse me, but I need a bath.”
I slipped away from him and crossed the courtyard. Napoléon Bonaparte jumped out of his cast-iron pot and wrapped himself around my ankles before slipping off into the garden. I could hear noise coming from inside the hotel and the sound of a woman’s laughter coming from flat number three. Wasn’t that Colin’s flat? Was he entertaining a guest? Did I even care?
I went through my own door and sat in the stiff wooden chair. I scrolled through the pictures of the furniture and sent a few of them to Claudine. An overstuffed chair, a small, round table, and a low dresser. That would make a good start.
I went into the bathroom, pulled all my toiletries out of the bottom of the tub, and began to fill it. I’d discovered that there was plenty of hot water to be had, but I wanted a deep soak, not a quick shower.
I dug through my pile of bath soaps, looking for something scented when it suddenly struck me.
Bing had told Karl I was lovely.
I was in the tub, possibly napping, when I heard a loud knocking on the door.
Now what? Who could want to see me or talk to me? Hadn’t I already exhausted all the possibilities?
I pulled myself out of the tepid water and grabbed a towel. The towels, by the way, were fabulous—thick and soft and big enough to wrap around my body with plenty to spare.
At the door were Eliot and Marie Claude. At least that’s who I assumed they were. They both looked to be in their twenties. He was roughly the size of a brown bear, and she was tiny, hair dyed bright blue. She was carrying a burlap bag, and I could see a baguette sticking out of the top. He was carrying the overstuffed chair I had claimed as my own.
I backed away from the door. “Come in, please. Can you give me a minute? I’ll put on some clothes.”
Eliot dropped the chair in the center of the room, said hello, and left.
Marie Claude smiled. “We’ll be back,” she said in English. “He is going to get your dresser. Here is some food. Take your time.” She left the burlap sack on the chair and followed him out.
I went back into the bedroom. While I had hung most of my clothes, anything that didn’t belong in the armoire was still in a suitcase on the floor. I pulled on some underwear and a simple cotton dress, then darted into the bathroom for a quick look in the mirror. When I didn’t burst into tears, I hurried out.
There was bread in the sack, butter wrapped in brown paper, a few chunks of unidentifiable cheese, three bottles of wine, and a basket of strawberries. There was nothing to store anything in, so I lined up my groceries on the table. I’d need some sort of cupboard. I’d also need dishes, glasses … Was I ever going to cook on that tiny stove? Then I’d need pots and bowls and all sorts of utensils that I hadn’t had any use for in years. My mother, in the two years I’d lived back at home, had never let me in her kitchen to do anything more than take food out of the refrigerator or put away clean dishes. Her kitchen had been her kingdom, and even if I hadn’t been completely inept, I was not welcome.
I reached for the wine and realized I didn’t even have anything to open it with. I clutched the bottle in my hand, sank into the lovely, overstuffed chair that was the only comfortable thing to sit on, and felt tears building.
My body hurt; muscles that had never moved so much as a table lamp in two years moaned in protest. I stared at the palms of my hands. I had blisters coming up. I was so tired. I was hungry but couldn’t slice the bread. I didn’t have so much as a jam jar to drink my wine out of, even if I could open it.
I was going to have to start painting rooms soon, and what about that website? Was that Vera person really going to sew drapes for all those rooms? All that furniture—but what about the salon and furnishings for the office and then outside tables and chairs? Karl was a gardener. Could he also oversee planting all the pots and urns besides a rose garden and espalier? At least that would be one item I could take off the list, but …
A sob broke through, and I knew that if I let one out, a torrent would follow. I held my breath. That didn’t help. Nothing was going to help. I let my head fall back, closed my eyes, and started to bawl.
“Lucia?” Someone was there, a man. Bing? “Lucia, are you hurt?” Then he began to yell.
I opened my eyes, and through a wash of tears, I saw Eliot pushing the dresser into the center of the room on a hand truck. Then he dropped on one knee in front of me, grabbed my hand, and began to pat it. Marie Claude rushed in, looked, pulled Eliot to his feet, and leaned down. “What is wrong? What do you need?”
I pushed the bottle of wine at her. “A corkscrew,” I sobbed. “I don’t have a corkscrew.”
She said something over her shoulder, and Eliot practically ran out. “We will get you a corkscrew,” Marie Claude soothed. “What else?”
“G-g-glasses. I don’t have glasses or a dish or anything. I can’t even c-c-cut this bread!” I was in full-out wailing mode now, but she remained unruffled.
“We will get your glasses, Lucy. And a knife. Claudine should have thought this out a bit more.” She stood up, wiping her hands on the front of her flowered dress. She looked out the doorway and spoke sharply to someone to get Claudine. She was obviously reeling off a list as she pointed and then waved her hands. “Don’t worry, Lucy. We will take care of you.”
I felt a surge of emotion at her words. The last time I had heard anyone say that to me, it had been a junior law clerk as he took my check for the $100,000 that was used as my retainer. Taking care was something I had always done for myself, and the thought of someone else willing to take it on—for free—was overwhelming. I used both hands to wipe away tears and fought to keep my voice under control. “I’m sorry. I hate to cry.”
“Nonsense. I love to cry. It gets out all the poison.” She looked around. “You don’t even have a tissue?” She went to the door, stuck out her head, and mumbled something to someone just outside. There appeared to be a bit of an argument, but she just mumbled some more. She came back and went into the bathroom, returning with my damp towel.
“Here. Use this for now. You poor thing, did she even give you one day to settle in? I love that woman, but really…”
I covered my face with the towel and scrubbed hard. I took several deep breaths, and after what seemed to be a very long time, I let the towel drop and looked up.
I was surrounded. Marie Claude was still in front of me, her brown eyes wide. Eliot stood behind her holding a corkscrew and three wineglasses. Karl was there, his hands clasped and brow furrowed. Colin had a long-bladed knife in one hand and a box of tissues in the other. And there, just inside the doorway, stood Bing, holding a stack of plain white dishes.
“Better?” Marie Claude asked gently.
I nodded. “Thank you. Yes.” I looked at the concerned faces around me. “I’m tired,” I said, the lamest of all excuses, but no one seemed to notice.
Eliot went over to the table and began to open the bottle of wine. Colin set down his knife and handed me the tissues, which I took gratefully. Bing carried the dishes over to the sink, looked around, then went out again, taking Colin and the hand truck with him.
“We’ll be right back,” he said over his shoulder.
Karl began to slice the baguette. “Low blood sugar,” he said solemnly. “Eat something and you will feel better.” He handed me a slice of bread smeared with about an inch of butter, and I had never tasted anything more comforting in my life.
I finished the bread in silence, then took a glass of wine from Eliot. Marie Claude whispered something to him, and he left.
“You should probably go across the street,” Marie Claude said. “Stavros will give you something hot and delicious, and then you can have a good night’s sleep. I’m sure things will look so much better in the morning.”
I drank all the wine in one gulp and nodded. “You’re right. I should eat.” I stood up. “Thank you again. Marie Claude?”
She nodded. “Yes. That is me. It is a pleasure to meet you, Lucy. Truly. Go and eat. We’ll straighten up in here. Go. Please.”
I left. If I passed anyone as I crossed the courtyard, it didn’t even register. I don’t think I would have noticed an elephant if it had been perched in Napoléon’s cast-iron pot.
I sat alone by the window of the café. Stavros came over to greet me, ignoring my red eyes and tearstained face as he suggested roast chicken. I nodded and sipped the wine he had brought over.
Well. I finally met my neighbors. Perfect. These were the people who were supposed to be helping me in the impossible task of reviving Hotel Paradis, and I sat there, blubbering like a baby over the lack of a corkscrew. That was certainly a great start.
Two glasses of wine were probably my limit, but I had a third, and boy, did I feel so much better by the time my dinner was in front of me. I think it was delicious.
I sat long after my meal was done. The café was almost empty when I finally walked back to the hotel. I had waited until I thought everyone would be settled back into their respective appartements. I certainly didn’t want to meet anyone in the courtyard after my earlier display of complete and utter lack of self-control. Had I really cried about not having a corkscrew?
No. I had cried for a stockpile of professional and personal injuries, real and imagined, that had all come together over fatigue, a sense of overwhelm, and a bottle of wine.
The courtyard was empty and quiet. I walked quickly to my door. There was a light burning in the window, but that was strange because I didn’t have a light by the window. I pushed open the door thinking, Are there locks? Should I ask for one? I didn’t want people to just open the door to my new home and do … whatever.
The overstuffed chair was in front of the window. Next to it was the small table I’d asked for. On top of the table was a small brass lamp, shining warmly.
The wooden table was covered by a cloth of deep blue, and in the center was a white bowl filled with oranges. There was a refrigerator next to the stove, roughly the same size as the one I’d had in my dorm room at college, humming quietly. A tall, narrow cabinet with glass doors sat next to the sink, and in it were stacked the white dishes and wineglasses. There were also blue-and-white mugs and a small clay flowerpot filled with mismatched cutlery. There were a few more white bowls, and in one of them, the strawberries peeked out from beneath a linen towel. The wine bottles were in a row along the bottom shelf.
One of the favorite books of my childhood had been A Little Princess, and at that moment I felt just like Sarah Crewe, opening the door to her attic room to find a fire burning and warm food waiting.
I turned at a quiet knock at the door. “Yes?”
Claudine opened the door, took a quick look around, and smiled. “This looks much better.”
I smiled back. “Yes.”
Claudine looked apologetic. “I’m sorry. They really gave it to me. I should have given you time to get used to this place. Do you even have a new phone?”
I shook my head.
“Tomorrow, you do what you have to do. Walk into town. Buy what you need. If you want help or company, take Bing away from whatever he may be doing.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Marie Claude and Eliot are in the hotel. They have already started working on our furniture. They are a good team. Colin is helping them tonight. Even Karl asked me what he could do. Good night.”
She closed the door behind her.
I went into the bathroom and peeled off my clothes. When I came out, I saw the dresser next to the bed, my suitcase on the floor beside it. On top of the dresser was a pretty porcelain tray, white with roses, just right for putting earrings or a watch in before going to bed.
Maybe everything wasn’t going to be so horrible after all.