It was taking everything I had not to have a complete and total stress meltdown. How was I supposed to contact anyone without my phone? My father and sister were going to freak out if they didn’t hear from me. Thankfully, when I had booked the studio apartment in Paris from the Bee and Thistle Inn in Ennis, I’d had the foresight, or sheer dumb luck, to text the name and address to my father. Worst-case scenario, he’d be able to find me through the owner.
Right now, the best I could hope for would be to find an Internet café and send a follow-up email. That would tide my family over, but what about all the other things I used my phone for, starting with stalking my ex-boyfriend in Paris? How was I supposed to track down Jean Claude now?
I filled out the form with the pen Daniel gave me, grateful that I remembered the address of the apartment I had rented. I’d chosen a place in the same neighborhood I’d lived in before, so I knew the area quite well, or at least, I had seven years ago.
Daniel, with the close-cropped gray hair, kind eyes, and lovely French accent, assured me that they would be in touch about my suitcase. When I pressed him for specifics, he stated that as soon as my bag was located, it would be hand delivered to my apartment. He almost made it sound like having my bag delivered was the best possible outcome. Sure, but not nearly as convenient as having my bag in hand right now.
It wasn’t his fault—I knew that. So I smiled and thanked him and wished him a nice day. He seemed grateful that I didn’t rip into him, and repeated his promise to have my bag reunited with me as soon as possible. I left the counter with nothing but the clothes on my back, my purse, and the vague feeling that I was forgetting something big. But I wasn’t; I was just missing something big.
What if they never found my bag? What if my phone was lost for good? What if it was never recovered? What was I going to do? I gave myself a mental shake. People had lived for thousands of years without cell phones; I could survive a day or two, even if the thought of it made me slightly queasy.
A quick survey of my handbag revealed I had my wallet, passport, sunglasses, a brush, and a pack of breath mints. Surely I could survive on that for a day. Calmer, I went in search of the train that would take me into the city, hoping that the inauspicious start to my Paris adventure was not an indicator of worse things to come.
Since my plane had landed at Terminal One, I needed to catch the free shuttle to Terminal Three, where I could pick up the blue-line train, which would take me into the city center, since the airport was twenty-five kilometers outside of Paris. Normally while traveling, I could switch off my expectations and downshift into a sort of travel Zen; things would happen when they happened, and there was no need to get upset. Of course this was mostly because I spent weeks and weeks preparing for every possible contingency.
Still, it was a giving-up-control sort of mind-set that usually served me well when I was out of my comfort zone, but today, that feeling was gone. I knew it was because I didn’t have my phone or my cow pajamas or even a toothbrush. It was easy to feel all que será, será when you could reach out to anyone anytime and anywhere, but now I felt cut off and abandoned, and I hated it.
The only upside to not having my carry-on bag was that I navigated the thick crowds with a cheetah-like speed and grace, maneuvering in and around people and their stuff, unencumbered. I knew I was really going to miss my cow pajamas tonight, however.
I leaped from the shuttle to the platform with the blue-line ticket dispenser. I waited for the train with a crush of travelers and then hopped aboard as soon as the departing passengers got off. I had to check the colorful diagram on the inside of the train to figure out what my stop was. It looked like I’d have to do some train hopping to get there. Online, I’d found a sweet studio apartment above a café in Paris 8, the eighth arrondissement, which was one of the numbered neighborhoods of Paris.
I wondered if the family I’d worked for still lived in the same area. It had been a swank apartment off the Avenue Montaigne. The girls, Vanessa and Alyssa, had been four and five when I’d been charged with their care, and we’d spent gorgeous autumn days roaming around the city parks, eating fresh bread and drinking thick hot chocolate, while I people watched and the girls ran out their wiggles in between their dance lessons, which had been many. Madame Beauchamp had loved the ballet, and nothing would have pleased her more than to have one of the girls pursue her dream.
Monsieur Beauchamp had worked long hours, and Madame Beauchamp had been a socialite, always busy with one glamorous event or another. I had been one in a parade of young women hired to care for the sisters until they were old enough to be sent to an elite boarding school in Switzerland. When I had expressed dismay to the housekeeper about the girls spending so little time with their parents, Madame Bernard had shrugged. This was how the children of the wealthy were raised. To me, it had felt so distant and cold. I’d tried my best to make my time with the girls as magical as I could. Jean Claude, charmed by my concern for the girls, had helped.
I remembered one day in particular, when we’d taken the girls on a picnic on the banks of the Seine. The sisters had worn matching dresses and tights, per usual. I did this not because I thought it was cute—although it was—but because I figured if I lost one child, all I had to do was look at the remaining one to know exactly what the missing one had been wearing. Thankfully, I’d never had to use this trick.
It had been early autumn at the time. The chestnut trees had been just turning gold, and to me, the day had felt like a postimpressionistic painting by Georges Seurat. I’d sat on the blanket with our food, watching Jean Claude and the girls run in the grass as he taught them how to fly kites, thinking what a wonderful father he’d make. He’d caught me watching him and winked, as if letting me know he knew what I was thinking. I’d blushed so hard, I’d feared I might pass out. That. That was the sort of feeling I wanted to feel again.
I hopped off the RER train at Châtelet–Les Halles and switched to the Metro line that would bring me into the Golden Triangle, the wealthy section of Paris made up of the Avenue des Champs-Élysées, the Avenue Montaigne, and the Avenue George V, which was the beating heart for shoppers in Paris. It had been a long time since I’d navigated public transportation in the city, but it all came rushing back.
I inhaled deeply as I left the white brick tunnel of the Alma-Marceau stop and climbed the stairs up to the street. I was always struck by the distinctively sweet smell that was Paris. Fresh-baked bread intertwined with the bouquets from the flower vendors on the corners and with subtle notes of tobacco smoke that blended with the pungent fumes of the Metro and the overlying scent of the towering chestnut trees. It was uniquely Paris, and breathing the sweetness in, much like I had the brine- and peat-laced aroma of Ireland, brought me roaring back to my time here seven years ago.
I walked the three blocks to the quiet neighborhood street where I had rented a tiny studio apartment. The sidewalk was crowded, but I didn’t mind. Despite the lack of my phone or my luggage, there was something so magical about being in the City of Light that I just couldn’t be glum.
I wound my way past a Franprix, a boulangerie, a tobacco store, and a pharmacie, all with their awnings out. I noted the window displays, as I suspected I’d be doubling back to buy necessities, since I didn’t even have deodorant. Finally, on the corner, Café Zoe appeared. I remembered from the instructions in the rental agreement that I was to pick up the keys at the café, because Zoe Fabron owned the café and the apartments above as well.
The circular tables of the small eatery spilled out onto the sidewalk, arranged in rows facing the street, as if watching the world go by was the preferred way to enjoy a meal. I ducked to the side as a waiter carrying a full tray on his shoulder came out the wide door of the restaurant. Dressed in black pants and a white shirt, he had a burgundy half apron tied around his waist. The same pinot noir color was the accent color for the window trim. It all looked very put together.
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br /> An older gentleman with white hair and a cane hooked on his forearm held open the door for me. I said thank you in French—“Merci,” not the hardest word in the language—and stepped inside. Although a touch warmer than Ireland, the day was still brisk, and I appreciated the heat of the café.
The interior was traditional, with a black-and-white tile floor, burgundy half curtains on the windows, and small silver café tables and chairs with rounded backs, filling all the available space. The walls were papered in a lovely black-and-white toile with repeating scenes of ladies in big gowns and gents in knee-length breeches, strolling under tall trees, riding horses, or playing with puppies. Ornately framed mirrors were hung at random, along with vintage posters of Paris. A service counter was at the far end of the room, bracketed by two large pastry cases, one of which was filled with croissants and breads and the other with enormous meringues, cream tarts with fresh raspberries, and several bowls of chocolate mousse decorated with chocolate curls.
I felt my stomach rumble, and I put my hand over my belly, hoping no one else had heard. I realized I hadn’t eaten since I’d left the west counties of Ireland that morning, and that had been a quick and rather soggy sandwich while making a gas stop on my way into Dublin.
The woman taking orders behind the counter was tall and slender. Her dark skin was complemented by the pale-blue blouse she wore with the collar up and the sleeves rolled back to her elbows. Her shoulder-length braids were held back with a wide white headband of eyelet lace, which framed her heart-shaped face becomingly. Her smile was genuine as she gave her customer their change and called their order over her shoulder, back into the kitchen. The chef, who was just visible through a small window, was wearing a toque with many pleats and chef’s whites, and he waved a hand, letting her know he’d heard her.
As I approached, I watched the woman assess the happenings in the café with a sweeping glance, and I noticed she had an air of command to which the rest of the staff deferred. Perhaps this was Zoe?
“Bonjour, vous désirez?” the woman asked.
“Bonjour,” I answered and promptly ran out of French. I shrugged and added, “I’m Chelsea Martin. Are you Zoe Fabron?”
The woman clapped her hands and smiled in delight. Her English had the most beautiful lilt as she said, “I am. And you are my guest for apartment two, oui?”
“Yes,” I said. I gestured to my windblown and wrinkled self. “I’m sorry—I’m a bit of a mess. My suitcase went missing, and my phone was in it. In fact, has the airport called to say they found my bag? I told them to call here.”
“Oh, non non.” Zoe clucked her tongue in sympathy. “They have not called, but I am sure they will.” She turned to the young woman working beside her and spoke rapidly in French. It was clear she was instructing her about the airport and my bag. Then she turned back to me and said, “Follow me, s’il vous plaît. We will get you settled.”
She opened a drawer and grabbed a key on a small chain, then she came around the counter and gestured for me to follow her. We walked—well, I walked and Zoe glided—back through the café and out onto the sidewalk. In her tailored capri pants and black leather flats with pale-blue forget-me-nots embroidered on the toes, Zoe cut a perfectly elegant figure, which by comparison made me feel even more schlumpy and gross, if that was even possible.
There was a bright-blue door on the side of the café. Zoe unlocked it, and it opened into a small vestibule with mailboxes. Stairs ran up one side of the foyer to a floor above. She gestured for me to follow her, and we climbed the steps until we were in a narrow hallway.
Zoe turned to me and said, “This floor used to be one very large apartment for a family, but I turned it into four small apartments. It was too difficult to rent the big one, but I always have travelers for the small ones. I hope you will be comfortable here.”
“I’m sure it will be fine,” I said. I wasn’t sure if it was because I’d reached my destination or if the time change was catching up to me or what, but suddenly I was so tired, I was certain I could have bunked down on a windowsill and slept happily through the night.
Zoe passed the first apartment door and then stopped in front of apartment number two. She unlocked the door and then stepped back, allowing me to enter first. I stepped inside and caught my breath. It was lovely.
Directly across from the entrance was a set of French doors, which opened onto a narrow terrace that overlooked the street. A fireplace was on one side of the room, with a small couch in front of it and two armchairs. Tucked into the corner was a kitchenette with the smallest stove-top range and microwave I had ever seen. It was like being in a microhouse. A bathroom was off the kitchen, and it was equally compact, with room for a toilet, sink, and stand-up shower. They were wedged in so tight I was convinced I could use all three at one time. A wide wooden ladder was in the corner, and I glanced up to see that it led to a narrow loft where a bed, a small dresser, and a lamp filled the space.
The room was painted creamy white, as were the fireplace and mantel and the ornate crown molding that ran along the top of the walls where they met the ceiling. The furniture was done in shades of charcoal gray, accented by an apple-green pillow and a matching hand-knit afghan, which caught my eye and broke up the monotony of the gray. A white faux-fur rug and a glass coffee table completed the living area, and the only dining space I could see was the two barstools at the counter that separated the kitchenette from the rest of the apartment. It was perfect, absolutely perfect.
“You look fatigued, Mademoiselle Martin,” Zoe said. “May I send some food up from the café for you?”
“Thank you, that is so kind of you,” I said. “And please call me Chelsea.”
“And you must call me Zoe—everyone does,” she said. “There is shampoo, soap, and what do you say, um, brosse à dents?” She mimicked brushing her teeth. “In the toilette.”
“Oh, thank you,” I said. I was so relieved I wouldn’t have to go out that night and track down the basics, I might have wept. “That is very helpful.”
“So many people forget to pack them. I make sure we keep them in every apartment,” Zoe said with a shrug. “Make yourself at home.”
“Merci beaucoup.” I was so hungry there was quite literally nothing I wouldn’t eat right now, even the more exotic French foods, like snails, pig’s feet, beef tongue, or calf’s head—I did not care. That expression hungry enough to eat a bear? I was there.
“Bienvenue à Paris, Chelsea,” Zoe said. She kissed me once on each cheek and pressed the key to the apartment into my hand. “I will let you know if the airport calls about your luggage.”
“Thank you,” I said.
When the door closed after Zoe, I crossed to the window and watched as the sun began to set and the lights of the city blinked on one after another. I hugged myself tight. I wanted quite desperately to be brave, to be a better, stronger version of myself, but without a decent change of clothes or fresh underwear, it was hard to feel like anything other than a sad bedraggled waif. I could feel the DJ of the pity party starting to ramp up the “Why Me?” tune in my soul. I shut that shit right down.
Having met so many cancer survivors during my years with the ACC, I never allowed myself to whine over minor misfortunes, because the truth of it was “Why Not Me?” Bad things happened to everyone. Full stop. The only grace to be found was in how you handled it. And so I took in the amazing lights rolling out to the horizon and the blue strobe light sweeping across the cityscape from the peak of the Eiffel Tower, and I thought that of all the places I might find my old self, Paris seemed the most likely. At least, I hoped so.
chapter thirteen
I AWOKE TO the feel of downy feathers crunched under my cheek. The light was wrong for my apartment in Boston, which would be a dreary gray at best, given that my bedroom overlooked an alley and any incoming sun was blocked by the building next door. It was also wrong for Ireland. Mornings
there began with a thick fog that had to be burned away layer by layer before the sun could light up the green hills.
This light was different. It was bright and stark, illuminating all the cobwebs in my mind and scaring the spiders away. Or maybe it was just that I’d been so stupid tired that I’d forgotten to draw the curtains and the light was blasting into the small apartment like God’s flashlight, waking me up at . . . I reached for my phone to check the time. Oh yeah.
The smell of fresh-baked bread was the final nudge I needed to get out of bed and face the day. Surely the café would be open and serving breakfast by now, no matter what time it was. Without a change of clothes, I’d had to rinse out my underthings and let them dry on the heated towel rack in the bathroom. The rest of my clothes, minus the T-shirt I’d slept in, I’d hung up so they could air out. This had taken the absolute final bit of my energy last night.
I climbed down from the loft and pulled on my mostly dry underthings and yesterday’s clothes. When I arrived downstairs, the café was already doing a brisk business. People were standing in line, voices were engaged in rapid-fire conversations that I couldn’t have followed with a translator at my elbow, and the smell of cinnamon pastries and coffee hung in the air like the most delectable perfume.
There was no sign of Zoe behind the counter, so I assumed she came in later. I ordered an espresso and a pain aux raisins, which melted in my mouth and made me long to eat four more. I resisted. The lure of Paris and a desperately needed change of clothes called to me like a siren to a sailor. The woman working at the counter—her name tag read Annalisse—had been there the night before, and I asked her if the airline had called about my missing luggage. Annalisse shook her head regretfully with a look of pained sympathy. At least, I hoped it was sympathy.
Paris Is Always a Good Idea Page 15
