Three Weeks in Paris

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  ————

  ONCE LUNCH WAS OVER, Anya asked everyone upstairs for coffee, and once again they moved en masse to the floor above.

  Anya was pouring the coffee when Tom, hovering over her, asked, “Could I use your phone, please, Anya?”

  “But of course,” she said, and glancing at Alexa, she went on: “Show Tom into that little den down the corridor, Alexa, please. He can use the phone in there.”

  Alexa nodded, took hold of Tom’s hand, and accompanied him out of the room. Once they were in the corridor leading off the main landing, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her deeply. As he released her, he said, “Let’s forget about the movie we talked about seeing later. Why don’t we go back to my place instead?”

  Alexa smiled up at him adoringly. “You’ve got a deal, Tom Conners.”

  “The best one I’ve ever made,” he shot back.

  Still smiling, Alexa pushed open the door of the den and said, “Don’t be too long.”

  As she walked back to the upstairs sitting room, Alexa wondered whether to say anything to Nicky about Lucien Girard. Normally she would have done so, but Maria’s presence was acting as a deterrent. Very simply, she still didn’t trust her. More often than not in those days, Maria’s mouth was open and her foot was usually in it.

  How she had changed in her appearance, though. With a tendency to overeat, she had looked slightly plump all the time she had attended Anya’s school. Her face had been lovely but her body too fleshy for a young woman.

  Now, if she wasn’t yet svelte, she was well on the way to becoming so, and her startling face and her mane of hair gave her a kind of movie-star glamour. Penélope Cruz sprang to mind, and that image was instantly reinforced when Alexa walked back into the sitting room.

  Maria was standing near the window, looking casually elegant in burgundy slacks, silk shirt, and matching woolen jacket, the black hair streaming down her back; her face, in profile, was stunningly beautiful.

  No wonder Nicky fell for her, Alexa thought, sitting down next to him on the sofa. It was obvious to Alexa that he had fallen completely under Maria’s spell.

  Hook, line, and sinker, she thought as she picked up her coffee cup and took a sip, then glanced at Nicky. “I can’t wait to see the script, and once I’ve read it, Tom will drive me down to the Loire. He feels sure there are any number of houses that would be a perfect setting for the film.”

  “He’s right. Maybe we’ll all go down for a weekend,” Nicky suggested.

  Alexa gaped at him. “You’ve got to be kidding!”

  Nicky exclaimed, “Oh, I know you’re angry with Maria. She’s told me all about it. And frankly, I think it’s about time you both grew up and behaved like the mature young women you are. It’s nonsense, carrying a grudge like that!”

  “Hear! Hear!” Anya exclaimed. “It’s time to move on.”

  Maria walked slowly toward the fireplace, looking nervous, hesitant; then she sat down on the edge of a chair and said in a low voice, “I’m sorry, Alexa, for causing you so much trouble. Truly regretful. But I was young, I didn’t mean—”

  “You betrayed me!” Alexa snapped, determined not to give an inch as she remembered how hurt she had been all those years ago.

  “I didn’t mean to! It was an accident. An error on my part. I’ve always been … so very sorry, Alexa.”

  Alexa glared at her. “I was never interested in Riccardo. That was all your imagination. And you blew it into a huge … atomic cloud! Into something so enormous, you incited Jessica to action, and she told me off in the most awful way. She took your side, believed you, and she stopped being my friend. Actually, Maria, you destroyed my friendship with Jessica.”

  “I’m so very, very sorry, Alexa,” Maria apologized again. Her face had turned a ghastly white, and she appeared contrite, worried.

  “You were jealous of our friendship, if the truth be known,” Alexa shot back. “Jealous to death.”

  “I wasn’t. That’s not true.” Maria now looked as if she were on the verge of tears.

  “That’s enough, girls,” Anya said in a strong, firm voice. “I want you both to come over here for coffee tomorrow morning. And I’ll have Jessica and Kay here as well, and we’ll straighten this out once and for all. I don’t want my party spoiled because you four are quarreling. So let us shelve the matter. This is not an appropriate time.”

  At this moment Tom walked back into the room, and from the look on his face Alexa realized his father had told him something he found interesting. She was certain he wanted to share it with her.

  She said, “It’s all right, Tom, you can talk in front of Nicky and Maria.”

  Surprised, he stared at her, his expression puzzled. He raised a brow questioningly.

  Alexa nodded, then focused her attention on Maria. “We’re going to talk about something that has to do with Lucien Girard. But you cannot breathe a word of it to Jessica. Do you understand that, Maria?”

  “Yes. I wouldn’t say anything to Jessica … or anyone.”

  Nicky, intrigued, asked, “What’s all this about, then, Tom?”

  Tom looked at Alexa once more. She inclined her head, and he explained, first telling them how it all started, with the photo in Alexa’s album.

  “Oh,” Maria gasped, staring at Tom. “So Lucien’s still alive?”

  “We don’t know,” Tom said hastily, and continued. “The whole idea is a bit flimsy, I must admit, although a couple of things my father said intrigued me. The two men could be one and the same.”

  Nicky sat up straighter on the sofa, frowning. “I didn’t know Lucien all that well, Tom, but I don’t think he was the kind of man to … how should I put it? Lead a double life, play games. Anyway, who is it that so resembles him?”

  “A man called Jean Beauvais-Cresse, who’s in his early thirties. Earlier, I’d more or less decided that he might be related to Lucien. Perhaps Lucien was a brother using a stage name. Lucien could have been a cousin. However, my father told me that Jean’s only brother died about seven years ago.”

  Maria and Alexa exchanged glances, but neither of them uttered a word.

  “What else did your father say?” Anya asked.

  “He told me that the brother was the eldest son, and that he was killed in a terrible accident. My parents didn’t live in the Loire then, so this is sort of … local gossip, and Dad didn’t have all the details. The brother’s tragic, untimely death caused the father to have a stroke. Apparently he was very attached to the son who died. He was the heir to the title, the lands, the château. Jean, the younger son, was a bit of a black sheep, so my father once heard. He’d been living in Paris for a number of years, and came back only when his father was stricken, to look after him. He inherited everything when the old man died. That’s all Dad could tell me.”

  “But don’t you think it sort of fits in with Lucien’s disappearance?” Alexa asked. She was convinced it did, and she held Tom’s eyes, endeavoring to convey this to him.

  He nodded. “The time frame is certainly right,” he said cautiously.

  Nicky said, “Let’s just go over it. Seven years ago, Lucien Girard disappears, never to be seen again. Seven years ago Jean’s elder brother dies unexpectedly, so that Jean becomes the heir. But what if Lucien, working in Paris as an actor and using a pseudonym, were the eldest son and met a terrible fate? As everyone has always believed Lucien did.”

  “I thought of that,” Tom answered. “But my father said the eldest son was much older than Jean. By about fifteen years, a son by another wife, the first wife.”

  “So Lucien and Jean could be one and the same person,” Anya stated.

  “Bearing in mind the extraordinary resemblance and the similarities in age, yes. Possibly.” Tom now sat down in a chair and continued. “But it’s an awkward situation at best, Anya. My father said he’d make a few discreet inquiries, and I’ll talk to him tomorrow. In the meantime, no one should say a word to Jessica. It wouldn’t be fair. Either to her or
Jean Beauvais-Cresse.”

  “What we need is someone who can verify that Jean was an actor in Paris at one point in his life, and that he used a stage name,” Alexa said. “Then we’d have something more concrete to go on.” She let her eyes settle on Nicky.

  “Oh, no, not me!” he exclaimed. “I hardly knew Lucien. And actually, Larry didn’t know him well either.”

  Anya settled back against the sofa, closing her eyes for a moment. Something had stirred at the back of her mind, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. And so she let it go. For the moment.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  “LET’S GO FOR A WALK,” TOM SAID AS THEY LEFT ANYA’S house and came out onto the street.

  “Great idea,” Alexa agreed, falling into step with him. “Like you, I love the Seventh. It’s my favorite part of town.”

  Tom smiled and took hold of her hand, tucked her arm through his, and together they headed in the direction of the rue de Solferino and the quays running parallel with the river Seine.

  It was warmer now and sunny, and the sky above was a clear blue arc, unblemished, without cloud, and benign on this May Sunday afternoon.

  The Seventh Arrondissement where they were walking was an elegant area of the city, and Tom’s apartment in the Faubourg Saint-Germain was located nearby. Also in the vicinity were such landmarks as the French Academy, the École Militaire, and the Hôtel des Invalides, wherein was housed the tomb of Napoleon. But Tom and Alexa bypassed most of these historic buildings as they headed onto the Quai Anatole France.

  For a short while they walked along the quay, enjoying each other, the weather, and the charming views of the Seine. Its rippling waters glittered in the sunlight, and suddenly a faint breeze blew up, rustled through the trees that grew alongside the Seine, made the leaves flutter and dance in the silvery light.

  They paused for a moment, looking down, and Alexa smiled at the sight of the colorful bateaux-mouches smoothly moving down the river, leaving frothy trails in their wake.

  She had always enjoyed the trips she had taken on them, especially those in the evenings with Tom years ago. Paris at night was romantic and magical when seen from the river on a slow-moving boat, the glittering lights of the city illuminating the inky sky. There was nowhere like it in the world.

  Almost as though he had read her thoughts, Tom said, “We must take a bateau-mouche one night. I must admit I always enjoyed our evenings sailing along the Seine.”

  “How funny, Tom, that you would say that. I was just thinking the same thing.”

  Hand in hand, they walked on, heading toward the Quai Voltaire. Ahead, reaching into the sky, were the great towers of Nôtre-Dame, hazy now in the soft afternoon light of Paris, a light loved by artists over the centuries and so frequently captured on canvas.

  To Alexa, Paris had never looked more beautiful than it did today. It was a city that forever took her by surprise.

  She remembered once getting caught in a thunderstorm, and hurrying through the streets drenched, looking for a taxi. And then unexpectedly she had abandoned the idea of finding a cab, suddenly enjoying walking in the pouring rain … and she had been filled with happiness that night, glad to be in this city, the city of her dreams.…

  As they reached the Quai Malaquais, Tom said, “Let’s head down into Saint-Germain-des-Prés and have something to drink before going home. A coffee, whatever.”

  Alexa nodded in agreement, and still holding hands, they strolled down the Rue Bonaparte, and into a huddle of quaint old cobbled streets. Here there were chic boutiques, antiques shops, art galleries, and picturesque cafés that gave charm and character to this arrondissement. Several times they stopped to look in the windows of the boutiques, and paid a quick visit to one of Tom’s favorite art galleries, but for the most part they did not linger, moved on at a steady pace.

  By the time they reached the Place de l’Odéon, Alexa knew Tom was taking her to the Café Voltaire, once the favorite spot of the eighteenth-century French writer and philosopher of the same name.

  They found a table outside and she was glad to sit down, settling into a chair under the awning, relaxing after their long walk. After ordering coffee for them both, Tom loosened his tie and opened the neck of his shirt. “It has become quite warm,” he said, glancing at her. “Do you want to take your sweater off?”

  “Yes, I will.” She loosened the cashmere sweater tied around her neck and laid it across her knees. Turning to Tom, she added, “If Anya invites you to her party, will you come?”

  “Only if I can be your date.” He hesitated, then raised a brow, asked, “Or is your English friend going to be your escort that night?”

  “Of course not!” she exclaimed, looking askance, her voice rising slightly. “Only I was invited, and I’m sure it’s the same with the other women. Nicky told me the guests are mostly favored students from past years, her rather extended Russian, English, and French family, and some of her old friends.” Alexa gave him a hard stare. “Anyway, I told you last night that I wanted to be with you, and on a permanent basis, married or not. So how could you possibly think I would want to take Jack, even if I’d invited him? I would have to ask him not to come, if that were the case.”

  She sounded so angry, he reached out, took her hand in his, brought it to his lips, and kissed it. “Such a dear little hand, I love it so,” he murmured. “Don’t be angry with me, Alexa.”

  “I’m not, not really.” She cleared her throat, changed the subject. “Did your father tell you anything else? Were you holding anything back when we were at Anya’s?”

  “Not exactly. Dad didn’t have much more information. But he did say that Jean Beauvais-Cresse was known to be something of a recluse, not often seen around the village or at the local church. By the way, Dad did tell me he was married, and that there was a child. But that’s about it. As I said at Anya’s, my parents have not lived in the Loire all that long, and much of what he knows is local gossip anyway.”

  “I understand.” Alexa paused, looked off into the distance.

  After a moment or two of watching her, Tom said quietly, “Is there something wrong, Alex? You’re looking somewhat pensive.”

  A little sigh escaped her. “I was just thinking about Lucien Girard. If he is Jean Beauvais-Cresse and he just decided to go back to his old life one day, he must be a truly cruel man. Imagine doing something like that to Jessica, or any woman. I know Jessica suffered terribly, and Anya told me she’s never married. She’s probably been carrying a torch for Lucien all these years.”

  He frowned. “Do you really think so?”

  “Yep, I do.” She half laughed, and looked at him pointedly. “Women tend to be like that, you know.” Me included, she thought, but refrained from saying so. “And there’s something else, Tom. Just think of her grief, believing that something really bad happened to him.” She sighed. “It makes me so mad.”

  “I can understand why. Obviously Nicky didn’t know Lucien well, and if my father has no additional information, I think we just have to forget I ever mentioned Jean.”

  “Not so easy.” Again Alexa stared ahead, her eyes narrowing slightly, and after a moment or two of thoughtful reflection, she turned to Tom, put her hand on his arm. “I think I have the solution … a way to find the truth.”

  “You do?” Tom sounded surprised, and just a little alarmed by the determined look that had flashed onto her face.

  The waiter arrived with their cups of coffee, and once he was out of earshot, Alexa said carefully, “Here’s my plan. I think we should go to the Loire and confront this man who so resembles Lucien Girard.”

  Tom sat back, obviously flabbergasted by her suggestion. For a moment he did not speak, and then taking a deep breath, he replied, “And I think that’s asking for trouble … perhaps even legal trouble.”

  “No, no, I didn’t put it quite right,” Alexa exclaimed. “Let me start all over again. You and I, with Jessica, should drive down to the Loire Valley one day next week, if you
can spare the time. Otherwise we have to go on the weekend. Once we arrive at Jean’s house, Jessica and I will remain in the car while you go to the door. If Jean answers the door, you can simply tell him you have a client who wants to shoot a historical movie in the Loire, and is looking for appropriate châteaux in which to film the interior scenes. Once you get him engaged in conversation, Jessica and I will get out of the car and walk over to join you. If he is Lucien, you’ll know, Tom, and so will we. He’ll be in shock.”

  Tom nodded. “I’m following you. And if he’s not Lucien, he won’t recognize either of you, is that what you’re trying to say?”

  “Correct.”

  “But, Alex, Lucien was an actor. He could fake it, couldn’t he?”

  “I don’t think he was that good an actor, Tom. He wasn’t in the running for an Academy Award.”

  Tom burst out laughing, shaking his head. “There’s just one thing, though. You will have to tell Jessica, obviously, and that could open up her old wounds.”

  “It will. But look, if we solve a seven-year-old mystery and she gets closure finally, then that’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

  Immediately, Tom saw the sense in what she was saying, and told her so, adding, “But I’d like to think it through, sleep on it, Alex, before making a final decision. Also, it would be wise to leave Jessica in the dark, for the moment anyway.”