by Liz Talley
“Oh, I don’t think she’s dangerous or anything...”
Henri pressed him more. “Then what is it about this woman that bothers you?”
“I don’t know.” Garrett was beginning to wish he hadn’t brought up this morning’s escapade. He’d only meant to entertain his friend with the story, and now Henri was trying to turn it into some deep analysis that Garrett was in no mood for. No doubt, the woman had dug up some buried emotions, but it was better to leave them in that dark hole within his psyche.
“Then you are in luck, my friend. I am the world’s greatest expert on...” Henri gave a vague nod in the direction of a middle-aged brunette wearing a power suit with a one-button jacket and, by all appearances, nothing underneath. “A-little-wild-yet-nice women—this new neighbor reminds you of Angela, oui?”
“No, not really.” Garrett shifted his gaze away from Henri’s knowing smirk. “Maybe a little...”
“Mais...?”
“When Angela went off her meds, there was no telling what she might do. She might disappear for hours with no hint of where she was and come home with a new piercing or another tattoo.” Garrett tossed the spoon on the table. “And once, after Dylan was born, when she wouldn’t take her meds and was swinging from one extreme to the other, she dyed her hair a hideous shade of pink.”
Every time he thought he was over his pity and his anger toward his wife, something would happen and those emotions would wash over him, drenching him and making him feel just as exposed as Tara had been in that damn transparent dress. He picked up the spoon again so he could have something to squeeze and transfer the emotion to.
“Many women have colored hair and piercings and tattoos, Garrett.” Henri checked his reflection in his own spoon and adjusted his tie. “This woman. This...”
“Tara. Tara O’Malley.”
Henri leaned forward again, peering closely at Garrett. “This Tara O’Malley is not Angela.”
“But she’s obviously got some of the same idiosyncrasies.”
Henri’s face broke into a wide grin. “You like her.”
Garrett saw where this was going. “Don’t. Don’t even start with all your matchmaking nonsense. Even if I liked her, which I don’t, at least not like you’re thinking...she’s only here for a month. I don’t want Dylan getting attached to anyone who’s just going to leave.”
“Pfft!” Henri waved away his argument. “You have already picked up on something within her that attracts you.” He wagged his finger “And you don’t want to get attached to her, either.”
Garrett opened his mouth to stretch away the tightness in his jaw. “You’re such a damn know-it-all, Henri. But you’re wrong this time. I’m not worried about getting attached to that freakin’ woman. She’s not my type.” He ran his hand through his hair. “The thing is, despite all my efforts to be everything he needs, Dylan misses having a mom. He’s vulnerable with women. I sure as hell don’t want anybody who’s just passing through—be it Tara O’Malley or someone else—to get close to my son. He doesn’t need another major loss in his life.”
Snap!
Garrett opened his hand and sheepishly dropped on the table two pieces of metal that had been a demitasse spoon.
“We will charge that to the company, oui?” Henri calmly adjusted his starched cuffs until the perfect amount showed from below the sleeve of his suit coat. “A spoon that is broken can be quickly replaced. The heart that is broken requires a longer time.”
* * *
MOTHER NATURE PROVIDED Tara with the perfect excuse to give in to the jet lag and slightly delay both her exploration of Paris and her search for Jacques Martin. She napped the rainy day away until late afternoon gave way to clear skies at last.
Calls were made to her family and Emma to let them know she’d arrived safely. They’d all been entertained by her tale of the morning’s adventure. And they’d all mentioned how typical it was for her to have such a strange thing happen, as weirdness seemed to keep her in its sights—but she’d only shared with Emma the splendid details of Garrett’s atypical nude appearance.
Need for sustenance finally prodded her out to rue du Parc Royal in search of a market, but not before she double-checked to make sure the key to her flat was in her possession. With no Garrett or Dylan in tow, it was doubtful that Madame LeClerc would give up the extra key a second time without requiring a pound of flesh as a deposit.
The third arrondissement, part of the area commonly known as le Marais, was every bit as charming and quaint as Josh had described. Narrow, cobblestone streets were lined with small, yet elegant boutiques and art galleries. Cafés occupied nearly every corner, and entire blocks were taken up by sprawling apartment buildings, whose ancient courtyards were protected by electronically locked wrought-iron gates that allowed spectacular views but no access.
Cars parked willy-nilly along the curb—and some up on the uneven stone walkways—gave the area a delightfully chaotic touch. Pedestrian traffic was heavy, and since the sidewalks were too narrow to accommodate two people passing, most people walked in the streets, stepping aside to let the occasional automobile by while dodging the plethora of bicycles.
A market turned up just two blocks from her building, but she passed it by for the chance to explore a bit longer with empty arms. A few more blocks brought her to a wide avenue—boulevard Beaumarchais—with one specialty food shop after another lining its sidewalks.
A variety of savory sausages hanging in the window of the charcuterie made her mouth water, enticing her to give it a go.
“Bonjour, mademoiselle,” the elderly butcher called as soon as the bell heralded her entrance.
“Bonjour,” she answered, to which he immediately replied something she didn’t understand. “Je voudrais...” She didn’t know the word for sausage, so she simply pointed to the kind she wanted in the case.
He smiled. “English?”
“Oui. Yes.” She gave a grateful nod.
He pulled the sausage from the case and cut off a small piece for her to try. The bite filled her mouth with a salty, savory burst that begged for a chardonnay to wash it down. Her accompanying “Mmm” brought a proud smile to the butcher’s lips.
“Is very good, oui?”
“It’s delicious. I can’t wait to have a glass of wine with it.”
“But of course.” Obviously, the wine was a given. “How much would you like?”
“A quarter pound?”
His eyebrows drew in. “No pounds in France. Kilos.”
Tara cringed. Kilos? She had no idea. “Um...” She hesitated.
The butcher picked up on her distress. “How many people?”
“One. Just me.”
He tilted his head and gave her a glance as if sizing her up. “No, mademoiselle. You are too beautiful to eat alone. This is Paris!” He gave a dramatic sweep of his arm toward the street. “Find someone to share.”
Tara’s cheeks warmed. She’d already laundered the borrowed clothes and had thought about inviting Garrett and Dylan over for a light meal to repay their hospitality when she returned his things—having bought too much food for just her would be the perfect excuse.
The butcher’s mouth turned up in a knowing grin. “Ah, I see you have someone in your thoughts. Bien.” Using his knife as an appendage, he pointed to where he thought the cut should be made. “Enough for two, oui?”
“Actually, three.” Tara held up three fingers. “But one is a little boy with a big appetite.”
He laughed pleasantly and moved the knife over a couple more inches before making the cut and wrapping the portion in the quintessential white paper. He insisted she try some of the fresh pâté, which was exquisite, and she bought some of that also.
Before she left, he gave specific instructions on what to pair the purchases with. “Serve with le fromage, t
he honey, une baguette, les cornichons and, of course, le vin. If you do this, you will never eat alone.”
She thanked him and left the shop feeling as if she’d made a new friend. He’d given her advice on where to find the best of everything on his list, even pointing out the specific shops that were his personal favorites, so those were her next few stops.
Everyone who waited on her immediately switched to English as soon as she started trying to speak French. Josh had told her that just the effort on her part would be appreciated, and that seemed to hold true. The Parisians, it appeared, would rather speak English than hear their beautiful language butchered by her American tongue.
The two cloth totes provided with the apartment filled up quickly with the butcher’s suggestions and the fresh produce from the open-air market. After tasting the samples, she couldn’t pass up the tender asparagus spears or even the turnips, which she would never have considered serving raw at home.
She had to rein in her sweet tooth at the pâtisserie with its shelves crammed with decadent, scrumptious-looking pastries. She escaped with only three items by promising herself she could have one treat each day.
Who was she kidding? Everything she ate for the next month was sure to be a treat. Like the butcher said, this was Paris!
She purchased a small bouquet of daisies from a wizened old woman who stood on the street corner with two pails of flowers—they would be perfect for what she had planned. And two bottles of wine—one white and one red—from the wine shop filled her second tote to the top, giving her arms as much weight as they could bear for the walk home.
Once she moved away from the wide avenue, the side streets all looked the same. Twice she lost her bearings and had to backtrack to the park with the rose garden surrounding the statue of the man on the horse, but eventually she found her way back to the apartment building and surly Madame LeClerc.
This time, Tara would follow her dad’s lifelong advice to win over the enemy with love. She held out the bouquet of daisies and said the little speech she’d looked up in the phrase book and memorized before she left to go shopping. “Bonjour, madame. Merci beaucoup pour votre aide ce matin.”
The woman looked stunned, her eyes moving from Tara’s face to the daisies and back. For an uncomfortable moment, Tara thought she was going to refuse them. But then, the woman’s demeanor changed. She smiled a smile so sweet, Tara would’ve thought it impossible a few minutes before.
“Merci, mademoiselle.” Madame LeClerc’s voice shook a little as she spoke. “Merci beaucoup.” She lifted the flowers to her nose for a quick sniff as she buzzed Tara through.
Thanks, Dad.
The thought closed her throat as she headed up the stairs. She hoped her mom and dad had worked out their problems. Oh, they’d tried to act as if everything was okay when she and Thea and Trenton were around. But there was a heaviness that pervaded the atmosphere around them, as if the elephant in the room was sitting on everyone’s chest. How long would it take until someone from the church took notice? If Sue Marsden got the slightest whiff of the juicy tale that lay within her grasp, she would burn up the telephone lines.
Tara unlocked her door and entered her flat, her shoulders now heavy with guilt. She tried to distract herself by putting her purchases away. It was too late for regrets. She was here to find her birth father, and she was prepared to face any ramifications that may come.
Her good friend Summer Delaney had once talked to her about the ripple effect—how every action is like a rock thrown into the pond of our lives. The first ripple causes a second, then a third. They multiply and spread, yet they’re all connected at the source. And there’s no stopping any of them.
Her mom and Jacques Martin had thrown a rock into the water one night, and twenty-eight years later, the ripples just kept coming.
She poured herself a glass of wine. Grabbing her laptop, her handheld GPS and the phone book from the apartment, she headed out to the terrace to kick off the official search for the stranger who gave her life.
CHAPTER SIX
“HI, TARA!”
Dylan sprinted across the terrace, a baseball glove clutched to his chest and a delighted grin on his face. When he came to an abrupt stop beside the table she was working on, Tara saw the ball nestled in the glove.
“Hi, Dylan. Have you been playing ball?”
“Not yet. My dad’s not home.”
An uneasiness gripped Tara’s insides. “Do you stay home alone?”
Dylan shook his head. “Monique stays with me.”
Ah, there’s a Monique. Why she was surprised—maybe even a tad disappointed—by the news that her sexy neighbor had a woman in his life? He hadn’t mentioned anyone that morning, but she should’ve figured a guy like him would be attached...on some level.
Right then, a petite young woman—maybe even a teenager—stepped onto the terrace. Her glossy black hair was pulled into a high ponytail and she had a cell phone to her ear.
“That’s her.” Dylan waved.
The woman spotted him and gave an answering wave, then went back inside.
“She talks on the phone a lot to Philippe. They’re going to get married soon.”
Tara scolded herself for the little flutter that news caused. “So Monique is your babysitter?”
“Yeah.” His attention made an abrupt swerve to the small GPS device she held. “Whatcha doing?”
“Well.” Getting into personal details wouldn’t be prudent, but the child’s curiosity was natural. “I may have some family in Paris. So, I’m looking up names in the phone book, then I’m using the laptop to map where that address is, and then I’m putting the address in my GPS to get directions in case I decide to visit...um, that location.”
“Cool! Can I see?”
She handed over the small device and watched the child’s unabashed wonder as he examined it thoroughly. The kids at the summer camp where she’d been a counselor had the same reaction, and that memory gave her an idea. “Have you ever been geocaching?”
Dylan shook his head. “What’s that?”
“Here. I’ll show you.” She logged into the geocaching website she was a member of and typed Paris into the search box. A list, several pages long, appeared instantly. She pointed to a few of the items. “Each of these gives a description and the location of something that’s been cached—that means hidden—here in Paris. But the location is given in latitude and longitude.” When Dylan’s bottom lip protruded in thought, she reminded herself he was only six. Precocious, but still only six. “Those are just numbers like addresses. Anyway, you put those numbers into the GPS, and it leads you to the thing that’s hidden.”
“Like a real treasure?” The child’s jade eyes glowed with excitement.
“It’s sort of a treasure—a small one, though. Usually, it’s a little box with various items inside, and a notepad and pen. You get to choose an item to keep, and you leave behind one of your own. Once you sign and date the notepad to prove you were there, you hide it back where you found it.”
“I want to do that! I want to go geochashtering!”
“Geocaching,” she corrected. “And maybe we’ll go sometime if it’s okay with your dad.”
“Can we go tonight? Right now?”
Tara chuckled at the child’s enthusiasm. “No. We have to wait for your dad to say it’s okay. Plus, he’d probably need to go with us, too, since I don’t know my way around very well.”
“He has to work late tonight, but he said he’d be home in time to play some pitch-and-catch, so maybe we can go when he gets home.” The boy’s exuberance had taken over his mouth, which was moving a mile a minute.
Tara held up her hand to slow him down. “Tonight’s probably not a good night, Dylan. Your dad will be tired after working late, and y’all will have to eat.”
“Wh
at’s y’all mean?”
“You all. All of you, or in your case, both of you. But what I’m saying is, we can’t go tonight, but we’ll definitely try to go sometime while I’m here...if it’s okay with your dad. Deal?”
“Deal.” The glum look only stalled his face for a few seconds. “You want to play some catch?” He held up his ball and glove.
It was plain that she wasn’t going to get much more done tonight. Besides, she’d been at her research for over two hours and was ready to stand up and move. “Sure. Do you have a glove I can use?”
“You can use Dad’s.” Dylan laid his gear on the chair and headed back to his flat in a run while Tara gathered her material and deposited it on the coffee table in her living room.
By the time she got back outside, the child had returned. He handed her a ball and a worn glove. “Will it hurt your hand to throw?”
What a sweetie—showing concern for her hand. Tara picked up the ball with her two fingers and thumb and wiggled it in front of his nose. “It will give me a mean curveball, I think.”
His face relaxed in a grin, and he backed away a few feet and took his stance.
The man’s glove swallowed her left hand. “Ready? Here it comes,” she warned Dylan, and tossed the ball lightly.
He caught it easily and tossed it back. “You need to wind up.” It was clear by his tone that he’d meant what he said to be an admonishment—he was not to be thought of as some wimpy, little kid.
Tara blew the dust off her high school softball career and wound up like a pro for the second pitch. She didn’t let loose a fastball, but still threw one hard enough to bring a gleeful laugh from her opponent when he found the ball once again lodged in his glove. Dylan wound up and threw it back with surprising force for a kid his age.
“You’ve got a good arm, buddy.”
His eyes gleamed with pleasure. “My dad says I’ve got his arm. He used to play in the minors.”
