Chapter Five
I thought I could slip out early but was stopped halfway to the iron gates by a brisk, commanding voice.
“Are you Lucy? Claudine told me to talk to you. She also told me to be nice. One thing is harder than the other, but I’ll try. I’m Vera Sidibe. We can have breakfast together.” She walked past me and across the street to the café and, despite the slight chill in the air, sat at a table outside by the curb.
I followed her. I couldn’t help it. Her voice, in clipped and heavily accented English, was not to be ignored or argued with. She was tall and broad-shouldered, white hair cut close to her beautifully shaped skull. She was dressed in a sleeveless blouse and blue cotton skirt, a long scarf around her neck and shoulders. She also had several stud earrings in one ear and a single hoop in the other.
I sat across from her. Her eyes were very round and dark, fringed in short, straight lashes. A young girl hurried out, and a quick exchange sent the girl scurrying back.
“She’s bringing a menu. I assume you want to look at one? Breakfast here is very different from the US.” Vera crossed her arms under her rather substantial breasts. “Claudine said you will want to buy things. A phone? What else do you need?”
Everything, I thought. “Your English is very good.”
“My family migrated to the States from Mali when I was six. We lived there illegally for almost fifteen years. Then we had to leave. The government of France grants citizenship to anyone born in a former French colony. So, rather than return to Mali, I came here.” She flashed a smile. “Your French is very good.”
“I studied in high school, then all four years in college. It came in very handy when I worked in Quebec. Merci.” I took the laminated menu from the young girl when she returned. The menu was helpfully in both French and English but was noticeably lacking in the usual breakfast staples found on a menu in the US. Missing were items like pancakes, waffles, western omelets. And what, exactly, was pain aux raisins?
“Need help?” Bing asked. He pulled up a chair from the next table and sat between Vera and me. His hair was damp and brushed back, and I caught a whiff of something spicy. Or musky. Or both? “Are you looking for steak and eggs?” That laughter was in his voice. What was so funny now?
I snatched it back. “No,” I snapped. I concentrated. “I just don’t know what pain aux raisins is. I mean, I get the general idea, but…” I squinted. Did I really think that having the words blurred was going to help?
“I was telling her that French breakfasts are probably different from what she’s used to,” Vera said to Bing.
He made a kind of clucking noise. “I bet everything that has happened since she got here is different from what she’s used to.”
I glared at him over the top of the menu, then shifted my eyes as the young girl reappeared.
“Simone, this is Lucia. Lucy,” Bing said in slow English. “She is at Hotel Paradis now. Lucia, Simone is one of Stavros’s daughters.”
“Bonjour, Simone,” I said.
She smiled brightly. “We are putting American things on menu now,” she said. Her English was hard to understand, but I got the gist. “Oatmeal. Froot Loops.”
I handed back the menu. “Just tartine and café crème.” The last was for Bing’s benefit, and as I glanced at him, I caught his smile.
Vera and Bing both ordered, and we sat for a few minutes. Warm sunlight filtered through the trees, and the traffic sounds were very faint. This was nice. It was a new day. The sun was shining, breakfast was coming, and I was going shopping. Life, at that moment, felt very normal.
“I’m taking her shopping,” Vera said to Bing. “For one thing, she needs a phone.”
I pulled out my beloved iPhone. “Do I really?”
“Well, you need everything switched over to Orange. They’re the biggest phone provider. But first, you need a bank account,” Bing said.
“I don’t have any money,” I said. “Seriously. I have less than four hundred US dollars.”
“That’s enough. You don’t get charged for having a low balance in French banks. It’s not allowed. You can open a bank account with one dollar.” He glanced at Simone as she set down our café crèmes. “Merci, Simone. What else do you need?”
“Clothes,” I said.
Vera sat back. “Colin complained that your suitcases weighed a ton.”
“Well, he’s right,” I said. “And they were all filled with clothes. But when I packed, I thought my job was going to involve sitting back in a nice, cushy office and pointing my finger at things to get them done. I have plenty of clothes for that. But for painting and scrubbing and repairing furniture … well, not so much.”
Bing snorted, and Vera gave him a hard look as she spoke. “We’ll find plenty at thrift stores. No reason to spend too much of your four hundred dollars on those kinds of clothes. So … bank, phone, thrift … what else?”
I looked at the perfectly toasted slices of heavenly smelling bread and the small portion of deep purple jam on the side of the plate. Could I eat every meal here, or did I want to at least try to cook on my own?
“Maybe I should get some food?” I said.
“No,” said Vera. “Wait.”
I spread a bit of jam and took a bite of my breakfast. Did everything taste that much better here? “For what?”
“Saturday market,” Bing said. “I’ll take you when I go. It’s an experience unlike any other.”
I swallowed a few more bites of toast. “It’s a market?”
“You will see,” Vera promised. “You will have to bring a very big bag. We’ll get one of those today, too.”
“A bag?” This simple shopping expedition was getting complicated. “Why do I need a bag?”
Bing was eating his way through a bowl of fruit and toast spread thinly with butter. “Stores here don’t have bags. Everyone has to bring their own.”
I stared at him. “What?”
He chuckled. “Living in France is going to take a bit of an adjustment. There are hundreds of small things you’ll have to get used to. Like bringing your own bag when you shop.”
“And very good, very cheap wine,” Vera said.
“Eggs that don’t have to be refrigerated,” Bing said.
“Vegetables that look ugly and taste wonderful.”
“Only paying thirty bucks a month for your phone.”
That got my attention away from my food. “Really? Thirty bucks?” I asked Bing.
He grinned. “Or whatever twenty-six euros comes out to. And believe it or not, the communications companies still manage to make a profit. Living here is a joy. Sure, there are problems, but…” He shrugged. “I came here thirty-two years ago from a small town outside of Atlanta, and I’ve never even thought about moving back.”
I looked back down at my half-eaten breakfast. Would I be moving back? If I managed to pull this whole thing off, would I be living in France for the rest of my life? I’d been so eager to take the job and get away from everything that was dragging me down at home, I never thought past the end of the six-month contract.
“Why did you come here?” I asked Bing, trying to distract myself from thinking too hard about … anything.
“I was just out of art school. Where else should I have gone?”
“Colin said you were a writer. Kids’ books?”
He nodded. “I wrote them to pay the bills until I made money off my paintings. And I am in the middle of something right now, so I must go. Vera, I know you work this afternoon, so if there is anything else that needs doing, I’m on Lucia duty.” He turned to me. “I’ll be happy to help you organize the furniture if you want to finish that up. I took the tarps off everything and tried to put all the pieces in some sort of order.”
“Thanks. And you did a great job, by the way,” I said, keeping my face straight. “Of folding all those tarps, I mean. If this art thing falls through, this may be a new career path.”
Vera laughed out loud.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said, his eyes dancing. “Go on, ladies. You have lots of things to do, and the morning is slipping away.”
Vera and I got up and left him, sipping what remained of his café crème, sitting alone in the dappled sunlight.
Vera had left me at the metro station, having to go to work. I made it the rest of the way myself, proud that I recognized some of the street signs and landmarks. Coming into the courtyard, my two mesh bags loaded with thrift store jeans and T-shirts, I saw the doors to the right-hand stable row standing open with several cans of paint stacked in front of the wooden doorway. Karl was moving them, one at a time, onto shelves.
“Lucy,” he called when he saw me. “Your paint has been delivered.”
I put on a bright smile. “I’ll be right there,” I answered. I went into my appartement and dumped my purchases in the middle of the floor, then went out to look.
Yes, the paint was there, all right. There seemed to be thirty or forty cans, as well as brushes, rollers, painting trays, everything needed to paint two-hundred-plus-year-old plaster walls.
Oh boy.
Karl moved deliberately, lining up each can on a tall metal shelf, one at a time. I helped him, significantly speeding up the process, then looked around.
This was obviously the workroom for the hotel. In addition to the shelves reaching up to the beamed ceiling, there was a long wooden table crowded with tools, ladders propped against the walls, and cardboard boxes with descriptions of the contents scrawled in black marker, and all along the back, various pots and gardening implements.
“I guess this is where Raoul keeps all his tools?” I asked.
“Raoul, yes. And all of mine as well. And many years’ worth of other guests and workmen. There’s old furniture in some of the other bays, and more tools, and lots of kitchen necessities. Things tend to find their way in and never leave.” He smiled. His teeth were stained and uneven, and his whole face shone.
I examined the paint cans and pulled one off the shelves. “This one is for Colin,” I told him. “All the rust and peeling paint has to be scraped off the front gate, and it all has to be repainted. It’s the first thing people will see when they come up to Hotel Paradis, so it needs to be perfect. Claudine said Colin would be the one for the job.”
He bobbed his head. “Yes. Colin is very patient. I know there’s a metal brush here somewhere. I’ll put this aside for him. But what about the rose garden?”
“And espalier. Along the side yard, where the laundry was hung? Claudine said it got sun all day long. That would be good for roses, yes?”
He nodded, but disappointment changed his smile. “But no one will be able to see them back there.”
“I want them seen from the second-story rooms. There needs to be a view there just as beautiful as the rooms that overlook the garden. What do you think?”
His face changed again, and I could see the sparkle in his eyes. “We will have to design from, what is the phrase … bird’s-eye? That is a challenge, but I am up to the task.”
I believed him. I had faith in his spirit. “That’s good to know, Karl. Thank you. I’m going to change. I need to finish looking at all the rooms and figuring out the furniture.”
He nodded, and I went back into my appart, quickly changed, and was almost out the door when my cell phone rang. I took a quick look. Mom and Dad.
I took a breath and swiped, girding myself for an ordeal.
Talking to my parents was not in itself particularly trying, but my father’s grasp of technology was dependent on the day of the week, the time of day, and the position of the moon in relation to the stars. He insisted on FaceTime, and he sat at his computer for the call. His computer was so old that he had a separate camera attached to it, as well as a separate microphone. That provided multiple opportunities for the camera to be pointing to the ceiling or the floor, or not turned on at all. Mom was usually in another room, yelling her portion of the conversation, so the mic had to be picked up and moved from where he was sitting at his desk and stretched as far as the cord would go in the general direction of whatever room my mom was in. You’d think after years of such phone calls, they would have gotten some sort of system down. But … no.
“Hi, Dad. What time is it there?”
“It’s late, but since you never told us you got there safely, your mother made me call.”
“Dad, I texted you the day I arrived.”
“What text?” I could hear my mother yell.
I watched as Dad picked up the mic and held it off to the left. She must be in the kitchen. “Dad texted me and I answered back that I landed. Didn’t you get the text?” I raised my voice, hoping she would hear me. Some conversations with Mom were held at concert pitch.
“No. Bruno, she texted? Why don’t you ever check your phone? This call is costing money.”
“Dad, listen, I got a phone plan here, and I can call you for free.”
“FaceTime?”
I sighed. “No. Does it have to be?”
“Maybe we can do that Skype thing. Do I have to download a Skype thing?”
“Yes, Dad. Do we really need to see each other? When I lived in Ohio, we talked all the time without FaceTime.”
“That was Ohio,” my mother called. “Now you’re in France.”
“Yes, but you can still hear me just the same.”
“But your face,” she argued.
“Mom, you’re always in another room. You never see my face.”
“I know, but your father.”
“Dad. Really?”
He put the mic back down on his desk. “Just a regular phone call?”
“Yes.”
“Like, on the landline?”
“Or your cell, Dad. Whichever you prefer.”
“The landline. That way, I can sit in the kitchen with your mother. Maybe tomorrow. I’m glad you’re safe.”
“Good. Quick, before I go, how are the boys?” My brothers were forty-one and forty-three, but they would forever be boys in my mind.
“Frankie got a promotion,” Dad said.
“Great. Good for him.”
“And Joey is the same.” The same meant he was not drinking. Joey not drinking was a big deal. He had always had a drinking problem, and it had intensified when his wife, Sara, died of cancer three years before. He had not pulled himself out of the deep depression that followed. He had not rallied to care for his two confused and grieving daughters. But he had finally put himself into rehab and been sober for almost eight months now, and the whole family breathed a daily sigh of relief at “the same.” His twin daughters spent most of their time with Nana and PopPop, which was not ideal. My parents had never been warm and demonstrative, and the girls tended to just sit in their room all day unless someone, who had usually been me, took them out for a walk, shopping, anything. Still, it was better than them being alone in a rented apartment, waiting for their father to come home.
“Billy called!” I heard my mother yell.
“Nice, Mom!” I yelled back. Billy was William Forrester, my first and only husband. We married the weekend after we both graduated college, and he followed me from job to job for almost twelve years before finally finding someplace he didn’t want to leave. Our parting had been sad but amicable, and my mother never stopped thinking of him as her son-in-law. Probably because I never gave her another option.
My dad rolled his eyes. “He’s a good man.”
“Yes, Dad. Very good.”
“Your mother, well, you know your mother. Listen, I gotta go. I love you.”
I nodded. “I love you, too, Daddy.”
He ended the call, and I stood, staring at my phone.
I had worked in hotels across North America during my career, slowly gaining experience and something of a reputation. Before The Fielding, the weekly phone calls with my parents had always been short and sweet. After moving back east, FaceTime kicked in, even though I lived only forty miles away and saw my parents once a month instead of only three or four times a year. Now that I was a whole ocean away …
I stuck the phone into the pocket of my thrift store jeans. They were men’s jeans and fit me pretty well except for the length, but after rolling up the cuffs, they were just fine. My T-shirt was also a man’s size XL, a little too large, but I couldn’t resist the AC/DC logo, faded but readable, across the chest.
Time to work.
I went back upstairs and into a room overlooking the back courtyard. I still had six rooms full of furniture to look at and access, with pictures to take. I had not seen or heard from Claudine, which was a shame, because the two of us would be much faster than I was alone.
But there was Bing.
I knew where the stairs to the attic were, tucked into a corner right next to the elevator. I opened a door to a steep stairway, and I could hear footsteps above.
“Bing?” I called. “Is that you up there? Or do we have another ghost?”
I heard his laughter. “Come on up.”
The stairway was steep and dark, but as I turned on the landing, there was a sudden flood of light, and I found myself in a wide, open space, a wall of windows letting in the afternoon sunlight, the smell of oil paint and turpentine in the air.
It was a studio. Color was everywhere, on the walls in a sea of paintings, and a floor covered in vibrant oriental rugs. There was a long, narrow table down the center of the room, and three separate easels stood before the wall of glass. There was a cluster of comfortable chairs around a low, round table, and at the far end of the room, I could see a four-poster bed behind a thin curtain of lace.
“I’ve just finished,” Bing said. “Seriously. I just cleaned up ten minutes ago, and I was on my way down to find you. What’s your plan for the afternoon? I know you were trying to organize all our beds and chairs. I’m happy to help.”
I gazed around me in wonder. There were oil portraits and watercolor landscapes of such delicacy and purity of line that I could not find words to speak. I just motioned with one hand, my mouth hanging open.
“Your work?” I asked, then felt like kicking myself in the teeth. Of course it was his work. “This is … I mean … Bing, you’re good.”
His mouth twitched. “Thanks. I happen to think so, too, but it’s nice to get a second opinion. I was thinking that—”
“It’s Boodily!” I squealed. “Boodily and Flap!”
Hanging above a bookcase that ran along the back wall were beautiful watercolors of two of the most famous and beloved characters in children’s books. I knew them both because they had been a favorite of all my nieces, and I had bought all the books, all the stuffed toys, all the DVDs of the adventures of Boodily the pig and his best friend, Flap the duck. I walked over to take a closer look, then saw the bookcase held copies of the books, including several foreign-language versions. I pulled out a copy from Russia, or maybe Turkey, and ran my hand over the cover. The title was unreadable to me, but the author’s name was clear enough: Bing Davis.
I turned and stared at him. “Is this you? You’re Bing Davis?”
He shrugged modestly. “Yes.”
“But…” I slipped the book back into its place. There were at least twelve picture books in the Boodily and Flap series, and three other series by Bing Davis that I recognized, all beautifully illustrated and written in a charming, whimsical style. “This isn’t just kids’ books. I mean, you practically have an empire.”
He threw his head back and laughed. “I never thought of it that way, but I suppose you’re right. I do control something of a media syndicate right now.”
I stared. Was he kidding? Boodily and Flap had been around for at least fifteen years and were still going strong. One of his other series, Marnie and Pug, had released a full-length animated movie that winter. I knew because I had seen it, twice, with my nieces Mimi and Cara. Books, movies, a CGI television series that was still in reruns, toys, a video game …
“But you must be—” Doing well? Loaded? Filthy rich?
He waved a hand. “I get by.”
“Then why are you living here?” Boy, did that come out wrong. “I mean, don’t you rich writers live on oceanfront estates, surrounded by minions?”
He laughed again, harder this time. “Possibly bestselling adult fiction writers,” he said at last. “But I have no interest in oceanfront estates. Or minions. I love living here. In Rennes, in France. In Hotel Paradis. I’m surrounded by friends in a vibrant city that I know and enjoy, I can go anywhere in Europe by just hopping on a train, and when I do go back home, I can indulge in the best.” He stuck his hands in the front pockets of his jeans. “When I went to New York to see my editors, I always stayed at The Fielding.”
I met his look. “Really?”
“Yes. It was my favorite hotel in the city. I was really upset when it shut down.”
Yeah, Bing. Me, too. “I didn’t realize the foreign press picked it up.”
“Just in the beginning. I spent a lot of time following what happened online. I loved The Millhouse.”
I found myself suddenly choked up. I had loved The Millhouse, too. That had been the bar in The Fielding, right on the ground floor off the lobby, a snug, comfortable place with leather banquettes and framed black-and-white photos of New York City on the walls. It had been my favorite bar in all of Manhattan, and I had been in many of them in eight years.
I nodded. “Jackie did a great gimlet,” I said. Jack Fortuna had been the bartender there. I had hired him, and I thought we were friends until the scandal broke and he had sought me out, screaming in my face, “You were sleeping with him! How did you not know?”
He nodded. “Yes, he did. And I loved the concierge there, the woman … Phyl?”
I cleared my throat. “Yes. Phyllis Wentworth. It sounds like you were a regular. Why didn’t we ever meet? I always tried to have a word with the VIPs.”
He shook his head. “I wasn’t a VIP. I was David Bingham, artist, from Rennes.”
“Flew in under the radar? Very crafty of you.”
“It wouldn’t have made all that much of a difference. Your staff was superb. They treated everyone the same.”
“Yes. They were. I was very proud of them.” I swallowed hard. I had to ask. “Did you ever meet Tony?”
His eyes never left my face. “A few times. My editor, Joe Whatley, introduced us. Joe liked to rub elbows with the local celebs, and Tony was a catch. I never liked him, though. Tony, I mean.”
What could I say to that? Other people had said the same thing about Tony, and I saw their point. Tony was charming, but he was also too glib, too quick with the cutting remark. It hadn’t mattered to me, though. I loved him just as fiercely the day he left as when I’d first fallen, years before, in Quebec, when we had met at a conference and spent four days across from each other at meetings and four nights together in his hotel room.
“Well.” I cleared my throat. “Yes, I was going to try to finish the furniture today. Can you help? It will go much faster with the two of us.”
He ran his hand through his hair as he nodded. “Right. Let’s go.”
I turned, out of the sunlight and color, back down the narrow stairs.
“I love this style of chair,” I said, getting a bit closer and taking its picture.
“It’s a bergère. Very comfortable,” Bing explained. He had been separating tables and chairs from the huddled piles they had been in all afternoon, offering explanations and even design tips. “This one here? It would go well in number twelve. The carving is like the carving on the desk there.”
“How can you remember something like that?” I asked.
He shrugged. “I’m very visual.”
Of course. He had also reeled in the skepticism a bit, although I could still hear the laughter in his voice if I waxed too rhapsodic over a carved headboard or drape of silk.
We shut the door to the last room we needed to look at. Done for the day.
“So, how many children do you have?” he asked as we headed for the stairs.
“None. Why do you think I had children?”
He tilted his head at me. “Well, most childless people do not instantly recognize characters from children’s books.”
“Ah. Yes, well, I have four nieces. The oldest, Heather, just turned eighteen. She was the perfect age when Boodily and Flap first came out. I bought her all the books, then the stuffed animals … Wasn’t there a farmyard set? And then her sister, Brianne, fell in love, just like she had. The babies are Mimi and Cara, nine-year-old twins. They are, I must admit, the loves of my life. We saw The Adventures of Marnie and Pug. In January. Twice.”
“Why, thank you for your support,” he said, bowing graciously.
My back ached and one of the blisters on my hand had broken open, but I felt surer of myself than when I had first arrived, so when I smiled at him, it wasn’t forced. “It’s been a pleasure exploring your books through the eyes of those girls. You hide your cynical streak very well.”
“It comes out quite strongly in my more serious work,” he said. “My last show was the object of much discussion. I believe the consensus was that I was not aging gracefully but was rather fighting the process tooth and nail.”
“That’s how I’m fighting it,” I told him. “If gray hair wasn’t suddenly so fashionable, I’d be chestnut brown number twenty-four right now.”
He laughed. “Your gray hair is quite attractive. Please, forget all about chestnut brown number twenty-four.”
I felt myself blushing, and as I did, I wanted to kick myself. Really? Sliding down slowly into fifty and a sideways compliment like that could make me blush? If Bing noticed, he didn’t show it but instead bent to pick up Napoléon Bonaparte, who sat at the top of the stairs.
“Are you a cat person?” Bing asked.
I shook my head. “I don’t know. I’ve never had a cat. Or a dog.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You’ve never had a pet?”
I shrugged. “My mother was allergic, and after college, I moved around too much to feel comfortable getting a pet. And then, I lived mostly in hotels. One of the perks, you know. The general manager usually got free room and board.”
He stroked Napoléon’s head, and the cat closed its eyes. I could hear it start to purr. “I like cats. I love dogs, but a dog is not suited to this kind of life. A dog needs grass to run around in and squirrels to chase. But Napoléon—that is, this Napoléon—I like very much. Are you done for the day? I’m going to make myself an espresso. Would you like to join me?”
I wanted a bath. I needed to sit down and go over all my lists. I was itching to make some sort of flow chart, or maybe an Excel spreadsheet, with all the furniture. I smiled. “That would be great.”
He nodded. “Wait for me in the garden. It’s still warm out there in the afternoons. We can sit there.”
Napoléon jumped from his arms, trotted across the lobby, and jumped out through a half-open window.
“Is everything unlocked around here?” I asked.
“Sometimes. I’ll explain.”
I went out to the front courtyard. It was later than I’d thought, and the shadows were growing long. I walked into the garden and sat on one of the benches. Bing was right that it was not uncomfortable at all, but I would bring in more conventional chairs and small tables with bright green umbrellas to guard guests against the summer sun.
I closed my eyes and felt my body relax. There was the faint sound of traffic, and somewhere, a woman laughed. Was Claudine back? I shifted my shoulders against the wooden back of the bench, mentally checking off items on my furniture list. All the rooms had been looked at. I needed a chart of all the rooms, their numbers, and what was needed in each. Then, I’d have to play musical chairs and move all the pieces where they would fit the best. The rugs and artwork Claudine mentioned? That should wait until the last week, after all the rooms were painted and polished, furniture gleaming, linen drapes billowing …
“Here.”
I opened my eyes, and Bing set a small tray on the bench between us. Two small cups and a silver coffeepot with a long, wooden handle. He poured.
“There are no air conditioners?” I asked.
He stretched his legs out in front of him and took a quick sip. “No. It is not a thing here. There are also no screens.”
I frowned. “But…”
He shook his head. “No screens. And about the locks, well, no one can get in the front gate without the code, so until now, everyone has felt quite safe. Of course, once guests arrive, things will change. We will put locks on the doors to our appartements and figure out a way to secure the hotel. We may need some expert advice about that.”
“Yes. We might. I don’t have any hands-on experience with security.” Of course, I had no hands-on experience with painting rooms or creating a website, but security was not mentioned in my contract, so I felt on safer ground.
“How about you?” I asked. “Any kids?”
He nodded, shifted on the bench, and crossed his ankles. “A son. He is living in Quebec now, working a crap job and painting. I’m pretty sure he’s also studying nubile young Canadians.”
I laughed. “I lived in Montreal for a few years. Canadian girls are quite lovely.”
He nodded. “So are Canadian boys. Philippe is what you would call an equal opportunity admirer. While the Southern Baptist born-and-raised American in me is shocked and appalled, the Francophile bohemian artist in me is quite pleased. Things are very different here in France.”
“So, you’re divorced, then?”
He shook his head. “His mother and I were not married.”
“But you are in his life?”
He looked sideways at me. “Very much so. Claudine is his mother.”
“What … oh.” I took another mouthful of strong coffee and felt a jolt all the way to my toes. “Are you and Claudine still together?”
“Oh, no. Our affair fizzled out after five or six years. She finally ended it because her husband insisted. And I was even getting ready to pack up my canvas and paints and find another place to live, but he decided to divorce, anyway, so I stayed. It worked out well because she and I raised him together.”
“So, he grew up here? When did he leave?”
He glanced at me. “Five years ago. He ran away from a broken heart.”
“Oh, poor Philippe.”
“Yes. He was in love with Marie Claude.”
I sat up straighter. “Our Marie Claude?”
“The very same. Her mother was an old friend of Claudine’s, and she came here to live when she turned eighteen. Problems at home, I believe. She fell in love with Philippe, but she wanted to live here in Rennes. He wanted to travel the world and paint. She said, ‘But if you loved me, you’d stay.’ He said, ‘But if you loved me, you’d go.’” He shrugged. “So, she stayed, and he left. Two years ago, she married Eliot, who is a perfectly nice young man but, if I may say so, dreadfully dull.”
“Does he come home to visit? Philippe?”
“Yes. Every summer, when Marie Claude goes back to visit Eliot’s family in Lyon for three weeks.”
I watched his face. “You must miss him.”
He nodded. “I do. We talk all the time. We’re very close. But it’s not the same.” His mouth twisted. “Claudine misses him much more. She is lonely, you see, without her only son.”
“She never remarried?”
“No.”
“And you never married?”
“I did, very briefly, but she realized that the life of an artist that she imagined was not the life that I had any interest in leading.”
A thought hit me. “So, your son will inherit Hotel Paradis?”
He set his empty cup on the tray. “Yes. He’s not terribly enthusiastic about it, which is why he felt the need to run all over the world to paint while he was still young and not tied down. But he understands how important it is. And he will have my studio to use for his work. He is so much more talented than I, with a real gift. He will be important someday.”
“I don’t know, Bing. Boodily and Flap are pretty important.”
He threw back his head and laughed, the sound echoing off the stone walls and up to the darkening sky. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. At least important enough that he will never have to worry about finding the money the next time the roof needs repair. Are you done? I’ll bring this inside. I have a call to make in a few minutes.”
I set the cup down. “That was good. Thank you. I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Of course. And Colin will be around all day. We can work out a plan.”
I watched as he disappeared behind the garden wall.
No screens.
No air-conditioning.
No locks on the doors.
I stood and stretched.
He and Claudine had a son.
They still lived under—literally—the same roof, yet he had married another woman.
That son would someday own the Hotel Paradis.
Bing scoffed at the idea that Claudine could bring the hotel back to its glory.
Bing was right. Things were very different in France.