The Gordonston Ladies Dog Walking Club

by Duncan Whitehead

  “I wish you were here, Tom,” said Kelly, sadness filling her voice.

  “I know, honey,” he said, “but the fact you are having such a good time makes me feel great. You know it means more to me, you being happy, than anything else.”

  Kelly smiled. “I know. And I promise I will have fun.”

  “Good,” said Tom. “Make sure you do.”

  Kelly said good-night, even though it was morning in Savannah, and Tom promised to take Shmitty on a long walk in the park later. She told him she loved him and fell asleep minutes later.

  Kelly slept in until ten the following morning. When she awoke, she headed to the bathroom and began to fill the enormous tub with warm water. François had told her it took fifteen minutes to fill, so she decided she would take breakfast on her balcony. She called room service and ordered coffee, orange juice, and toast to be delivered to her room. It arrived quickly, and the waiter placed the tray of food and pot of coffee on the balcony table. She thanked her waiter and signed the slip of paper he put in front of her, indicating she had received her breakfast, and then Kelly sat back in her seat and took in the Paris view.

  François had been right. The sounds of the Paris morning filled her balcony, not loudly, but as if a background tape were playing street sounds. It was a gentle sound, car horns, the ringing of bicycle bells, and the chatter of voices. This was how she had always imagined Paris would sound. The temperature was milder than Savannah’s. It was a beautiful day, and she felt that she was the luckiest woman alive.

  After eating her breakfast, Kelly took a two-hour bath. It was the most fantastic bath she had ever taken—she had a Jacuzzi too. She felt exhilarated. The hotel had provided the best bath salts. Kelly recognized the brand name, one she sold herself, but one that, even with her store discount, she couldn’t afford.

  After her bath she unpacked her suitcase and chose an outfit for the day. She then pampered herself with moisturizers and other products she had brought with her. The hotel had provided a hairdryer in the room, and she did her hair. The outfit she had chosen for the day was simple but sexy, although it didn’t matter what she wore: she looked good in most things, especially in this pair of dark, figure-hugging trousers with a slight flare at the bottom, matching sandals, and a pink blouse.

  It was already three o’clock in the afternoon by the time she made her way down to the reception area. The same receptionist who had been on duty the night before greeted Kelly. Today Kelly’s mind was clearer, and she noticed the girl’s nametag. Naomi happily assisted Kelly in changing her traveler’s checks into euros. Kelly thanked Naomi when she complimented her outfit. Naomi, who knew Kelly had won her hotel stay in a competition, asked if she were a model in America. Kelly smiled and said she wasn’t. As she made her way to the hotel doors, nearly every man turned to watch her walk by. It was something Kelly was used to in Savannah, but somehow the attention felt more meaningful in Paris.

  When she reached the exit of the hotel, she recognized Henri behind his desk near the door. “Good morning, Madame,” said Henri as he rose from his seat. “I have to say you look absolutely divine today.” He bowed his head.

  “Thank you,” Kelly replied to the concierge’s compliment.

  “And where are you headed on this fine and wondrous Paris day?” asked Henri. “If I can be of any assistance, please let me know.”

  Kelly told Henri that she was going to take a stroll and look around Paris before maybe returning to the hotel to take dinner in the restaurant.

  Henri raised his hand. “I shall reserve you a table. The best table, just in case you do decide to dine here. There is a big conference in the city over the weekend—high-powered businessmen and bankers. The hotel is fully booked, and reservations for the restaurant are in great demand. I will make sure that no matter what, there is always a table available for you.” Kelly thanked Henri and walked out into the Paris sunlight.

  The Hotel Bonaparte was located in the center of Paris on the right bank of the Seine. Within minutes Kelly was strolling along the famous Champs Élysées. She headed out along the avenue, joining the thousands of office workers, visitors, shoppers, street sweepers, arborists, Japanese businesspeople, schoolchildren, petty functionaries, flics (French police), illegal parkers, aging movie stars, and pickpockets that were on hand to bask, gawk, snap photos of each other, window-shop, dine, or partake of coffee in one of the many cafés and bars that lined the well-known thoroughfare.

  Kelly decided to head west and walked alongside the river toward the Place de la Concorde. She had done some research on her destination before she’d left Savannah and, accompanied by her guidebooks, she wanted to soak in as much of the Parisian atmosphere as she could and see as many famous sites as she could possibly manage. The buildings, the people, and the whole experience were just as she had imagined. Though still a little saddened by Tom’s absence, she was now steadfastly determined to enjoy her brief stay in France.

  She window-shopped and smiled and greeted passersby. She was in heaven as she traversed the Place de la Concorde, which separates the Tuileries Gardens from the beginning of the Champs Élysées. Kelly arrived parched and in need of refreshment. She had already walked several miles, and it was fast approaching five o’clock. The Paris early evening was a pleasant one, and as she continued her walk westward, she passed bars and cafés full of couples and families, men and women of every appearance from all over the world. Kelly had noticed that the French men were not like the men back at home in Savannah. Although she had at first enjoyed the attention and wolf whistles she received, it was now becoming boring and slightly annoying to her. Each time she passed a café with tables on the street, the waiters and male patrons would all stop and stare at her. Some would even whistle and shout at her in French, which of course she didn’t understand. It was something that she wasn’t used to, and she wished Tom were with her. She was sure that those guys would think twice about ogling and catcalling her if she were accompanied by her strapping husband.

  Kelly had severely underestimated the time it would take for her to walk to her initial destination from the hotel. She had hoped to get back to the hotel for dinner. Suddenly thirsty, she decided that she would stop at the first bar or café that appealed to her. After going just a little further, she reached one that seemed fine.

  Le Café Papillion was named after its owner, Jean-Claude Papillion. It was a small place, tables covered with pristine white clothes both inside the café and outside along the famous Avenue. A red awning provided welcome shade from the sun over the outdoor dining area. In truth, the heat was not at all that bad, and the sun was actually beginning to set, the glow of the sky indicating that tomorrow was going to be another glorious day.

  Kelly found an empty table outside and took a seat. It felt good to rest after her long walk. The setting sun had turned the sky orange, and she delved into her purse and placed her sunglasses on her head. She relaxed. It had been a wonderful day, and she leaned back in her chair, soaking in the atmosphere.

  “Bonjour,” said the waiter who appeared at her table. He was dressed in black trousers, white shirt, and a black bow tie, with a white apron covering his clothing. He had a white cloth draped over his arm and carried a small silver tray. Just like in the movies, thought Kelly, smiling.

  “Hello,” she replied to the young waiter, who, Kelly guessed, was Arabic. “Un Coca-Cola, please,” she said. “Diet?” she added, hoping her waiter would understand her.

  “English?” asked the waiter. Kelly smiled and shook her head.

  “American,” she replied. The waiter nodded.

  “Okay, Mademoiselle, one Diet Coke coming up,” he said in perfect English. Kelly was relieved that her waiter spoke English and thanked him. Thirty seconds later he returned with her glass of Coke. She thanked him once again as he placed the glass on her table. Looking up at him, she noticed that he had not returned to her table alone.<
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  Next to him, with his hands on his hips was a larger man, older; probably, Kelly thought, in his late fifties. He was dressed in a black pinstripe suit and had the biggest knot in his red tie that Kelly had ever seen. He also had a large and bushy moustache, which seemed to cover half his face. His whiskers appeared to have been waxed, and it looked as if the rather odd-looking man had styled his facial hair to curl and weave around his lip. She had noticed him behind the bar when she arrived, catching a glimpse of him before she took her seat; he was wiping glasses and generally tidying up the bar area. She saw him staring at her but ignored him. He was only one among the many who had stared all day. It was still disconcerting, though, thought Kelly, having the man stand at her table, his hands still on his hips, just staring at her. Kelly felt embarrassed and a little uncomfortable.

  “You are an American, yes?” asked the mustached man once the waiter had departed Kelly’s table.

  “Yes,” answered Kelly, taking a closer look at the man towering above her, unsure who he was and what it was he wanted.

  “You are model, I think. I see many pretty girls, but you are prettiest I have ever seen. You are model, no?” asked the man in English, though not as flowing as her waiter’s, but Kelly could still understand him. He smiled underneath his facial hair, displaying a gleaming set of teeth.

  Kelly smiled; he was just being friendly. It was a nice compliment, and his broken English was sweet.

  “My name is Jean-Claude Papillion,” announced the man. “In English I am the ‘butterfly,’” he continued, “but look at me. I am no butterfly. I am a slug.” He laughed at his joke and patted his large stomach, and Kelly had to laugh. “This is my little bar. I am the owner of this fine establishment, and it is an honor for me that you have chosen my humble café to rest and take refreshment.” Kelly took the man’s outstretched hand and shook it. Once again she relaxed. He was friendly, and she liked the chubby, strange-looking café owner.

  “So for you, because you are a famous model, the drinks here are free all night. Anything you want, on the home,” announced Jean-Claude. He raised his finger. “I mean on the house. Sorry for my English. I learn from a book.”

  Kelly thanked Jean-Claude for his offer and tried to protest, but he would not hear of it. He explained, in broken English, that just having her sitting at his café was payment enough, and he insisted she drink for free. It seemed that, like her fellow passengers on the flight over to France, Jean-Claude was convinced Kelly was a famous catwalk fashion model, and the mere fact that she was sitting outside his bar could mean trade might increase tenfold.

  Once again Kelly enjoyed the experience of being mistaken for a famous model, and she liked the fact that Jean-Claude and her waiter, Thierry, fawned over her. She decided she would play along with them. What harm could it do? No one knew who she really was, and it seemed to her that people actually wanted her to be famous; she got the feeling it made them feel good. She sipped her Diet Coke and smiled. She even signed an autograph for Thierry when he returned with a refill. As she imagined what she might do the next day, she noticed a small, dirty-looking boy walking along the avenue. He was handing out flyers and depositing them on the tables of the cafés that lined the pavement. When he reached Jean-Claude’s café and Kelly’s table in particular, he smiled at her. She smiled back. The small boy placed a flyer on her table and continued his way eastward, dispensing his literature as he went.

  Kelly picked up the flyer, which was on an orange, letter-sized sheet of paper. She read the text, which was printed in English, French, and an Asian language—probably Japanese, she thought. She smiled as she read the pamphlet. Was it a joke?

  Thierry joined her at the side of her table. “I think it is a joke,” he said, peering at the flyer in Kelly’s hand. “I think that students maybe send them out. Who knows?” he shrugged his shoulders and deposited bowls of fresh olives and nuts onto Kelly’s table. “Monsieur Papillion offers you some snacks,” he said, indicating the bowls. Kelly thanked Thierry, folding the flyer and placing it in her purse. She would show Tom when she returned home. It would make him laugh.

  Chapter 10

  Kelly felt different. Maybe it was because everyone thought that she was famous. She had a new air of confidence about her. She began to enjoy the nudges wives would give husbands, and vice versa, when they walked past her table. She began to enjoy the autographs she was giving out, which she signed simply “Kelly.” She felt calm. If this were what it was like to be a famous model, then she liked it.

  She had forgotten about her disappointment at being alone. It was hard to believe that Kelly was actually the same girl as the tear-drenched and forlorn woman who had flown into Paris first class the day before. She was having fun. Jean-Claude ensured that Kelly had a full glass of Diet Coke and even sent over some hot food to accompany the snacks. Though Kelly didn’t like the look or the idea of escargot, she tried them anyway. She was simply having the most perfect time of her life. She forgot about Tom—not completely, but enough so that her stomach didn’t knot when she thought about her husband stuck back in Savannah, probably bored to death.

  She noticed the young man the moment he had arrived at the Café Papillion. He took the last empty table outside, further along the avenue from where Kelly sat. As it was a pleasant evening, it hadn’t taken long for the café to fill. Throngs of tourists mingled with Parisians. The fact that a well-known model had been spotted along the Champs Élysées that evening had attracted a larger than normal crowd to Jean-Claude Papillion’s small café. The young man that Kelly had seen arrive—behind her sunglasses so he wouldn’t see her watching—was lucky to have gotten that last table, thought Kelly as he raised his hand to try and attract the attention of the now very busy Thierry.

  The man was neither as handsome nor as athletic as Tom, but there was something attractive about him, thought Kelly as she covertly watched the new arrival. He seemed to know Thierry very well, as they had exchanged a handshake on his arrival and conversed for a few moments, laughing and joking with each other. The man was about medium height, clean-shaven and slimly built. He was dressed in a cream suit, which looked expensive, thought Kelly, over a plain white T-shirt; sunglasses were perched on top of his head, even though the sun had set hours before. Kelly remembered her own sunglasses and thought that maybe she should remove them; wearing them at night was not something she supposed even a supermodel would do. She set them on top of her head in the same fashion as the new arrival.

  She inspected the man further, now that her vision was not darkened by her sunglasses. She had a better view, although she maintained her discretion. He had a tousled mop of curly brown hair, cut short, and he was well tanned. Kelly imagined he was Spanish or Italian, maybe even Greek. There was something about him, something mysterious and almost regal. He seemed to possess an air of authority, very impressive, especially for someone so young. Kelly guessed he must have been around her age or maybe a couple of years younger. She sensed something else about him: he looked wealthy. The impression that he had money was conveyed by the way he acted, the way he sat, and even the way he drank.

  Thierry brought the newcomer a drink. Kelly saw that they exchanged a few words, and it seemed Thierry was very pleased with the tip he had just received. Thierry, upon leaving the man’s table, proceeded toward Kelly’s table, where he placed another drink in front of her.

  “Count Enrico de Cristo wanted to buy you a drink, so I get you a Diet Coke, but I added a little brandy. I hope you don’t mind,” said Thierry, nodding in the direction of the man in the cream suit. Kelly smiled. The drinks were, of course, free, and she wondered how much Thierry would make out of her being there that evening. Not that she minded that the young waiter was profiting from her presence. She smiled at the man, sitting five tables down, and he returned the smile. A count—like Dracula maybe? she thought. So she had been right; there was something regal about him. She watched him watch her
as she sipped her brandy and coke. Thierry had mixed the drink well, as there was just a smidgen of alcohol in the drink, which suited Kelly.

  She guessed that Count Enrico de Cristo was probably a regular patron of the Café Papillion. He seemed relaxed and blended in well with the Parisian evening. Kelly closed her eyes. She was sure it would only be a matter of time before he introduced himself.

  “Buon giorno, Signorina,” said the cream-suited man as he approached her table and bowed his head, clicking the heels of his expensive looking shoes as he did. Kelly had seen this sort of thing in the movies; she had never dreamt that people actually really acted this way. “My name is Count Enrico de Cristo. I hope you do not mind this intrusion.” He held out his hand, and Kelly extended hers. Instead of shaking it, he pulled her hand to his lips and kissed it gently before stroking her wrist tenderly. His touch was soft and gentle. She thought that maybe she should withdraw her hand, but she enjoyed his touch.

  “My dear lady, I have traveled many places in the world, seen many beautiful things—the Pyramids of Cairo, the Trevi Fountain in my home city of Rome, the Mona Lisa here in Paris, the mystifying plains of Africa, the sun setting on a paradise isle in the Caribbean. I have marveled at the beauty of the Taj Mahal and wandered through an English dale in springtime. But I have never before seen such beauty as I see before me now.” He released her hand, and Kelly was disappointed when he laid it back down on the table.

  His voice was heavily accented. Even though he spoke impeccable English, it was obvious that he was European. His voice reminded Kelly of the old black-and-white movies her mother used to watch late at night, with exotic men always eventually seducing their leading ladies.

  “What, if I may be so bold, is such a beautiful lady like yourself doing alone in such a city of romance?” he asked, his Italian accent as smooth as it was full of passion. Kelly didn’t know what to say. She couldn’t admit to working in Macy’s in the Oglethorpe Mall along Abercorn Street. Not after that introduction. Not after signing all those autographs, and especially not after all the free drinks she had been receiving from Monsieur Papillion. She crossed her fingers before she spoke.