Sylvia’s Secret

by Mary Vee

  Branson pulled his cell phone from his pocket and called his office.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Carhill. What can I do for you?”

  “It’s almost evening, Mrs. Spinnaker. Book me on the earliest flight to Paris for tonight. I don’t care what strings you have to pull. Mrs. Colinfield will pay any cost. Just do it.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll text you the details.”

  Branson ended the call then walked back the way he came and out the security door, placing him near the four remaining Cinq Amis friends.

  He edged through the crowd, close enough to hear the artist, and watched Elizabeth’s interview with him.

  “I agree that France is a beautiful place to live,” said Leblanc. “If you weren’t in the countryside, where would you visit?”

  Elizabeth thought for a moment. “Well, let me see.” She paused again.

  “Would it be the Eiffel?”

  “No.” She smiled.

  “The Louvre?”

  “No.” Her smile broadened.

  As he continued to ask if she would choose various great landmarks like Versailles, Notre Dame, and the Musee d’Orsay, he sketched on his paper.

  Whispers from the crowd asked, “How does Leblanc know what to draw when that woman said no to each question.”

  “I know where I would visit,” she said at last.

  “And where is that?” Leblanc continued drawing.

  “There is a coffee shop on a narrow street.” She raised her arm and looked toward the ceiling. “Above the street, red flowers draped from balconies outside apartments with French exterior doors. Sidewalk seating occupied most of the walkway. Pedestrians wove through the tables to get to the other side. My friends and I—”

  “How many?”

  “Four.”

  “Ah, together you were Cinq Amis.”

  “Yes. We ordered coffee and pastries. Soft music trickled out the restaurant door.”

  “And what was across the street?”

  “Shops. Let me see, I recall a boutique, a bookseller, a chocolatier.” She stopped talking suddenly.

  Leblanc turned his sketch pad to face her.

  Most likely for the first time in her life, Elizabeth Alexander had no words. She pressed one hand to her chest, so deeply taken with the drawing.

  “You are pleased, Non?”

  She closed her eyes for a moment then softly said, “Oui. Beaucoup. Very much so.”

  He turned the drawing to the audience. The sketch not only captured the setting she described but also the giddy joy of five young women seated at the table.

  Elizabeth wiped a tear and said. “Thank you. Thank you so very much.”

  “Je suis heureux de partager ma maison avec des amis.” He turned to the audience. “I am happy to share my home with friends.”

  If there had been even one woman in the audience who hadn’t been won over by the design and masterful artistry of Leblanc, she surely had been touched by his perceptive kind heart. The audience applauded as the assistant escorted Elizabeth to the myriad of handbag styles hanging on racks.

  Instead of watching her, though, Branson kept his eye on Leblanc waiting for a clue or signal from him. Leblanc looked over the drawing with added interest before setting the sketch in the pile he would paint later.

  Branson could have left then, satisfied with the lead, but chose to stay until Mrs. Spinnaker texted the flight information. The fifteen-minute break ended with the assistant escorting Laurel Grimaldi to the platform.

  She sat in the coveted chair and crossed her legs at her ankles.

  “Bonne journée,” Leblanc said.

  “Good day to you as well.”

  “I assume you’ve heard the question I’ve asked those who have already visited me.”

  “Yes.”

  “I want to ask you a different question.”

  The crowd quieted much more than before.

  “Are you ready?”

  The look on her face said no. “Yes.”

  “Very well. What makes you happy?” He held his pencil above the sketch paper waiting for her response. This time he kept the tool away from the papers and fixated on her uncertain eyes. He didn’t prod for an answer, but he had the patience required of a master artist.

  “I thought you’d ask the same question you did for the others. I walked up here prepared to answer that one.”

  “Oui. I thought as much. But then your painting would not be unique, would it?” He paused, watching her. “You had a place prepared in your mind, did you not? A place you might like to see in a painting, but this is not true art. Non, ce nest pas. It is not. I could see this on your face. To truly value art, one must feel it in here.” He touched his hand to his chest. “So that when you look at the canvas, your heart awakens in a special way. So. What makes you happy?”

  A smile crept across her face.

  “Ah, yes. You know what it is. Am I right?”

  She nodded.

  Before a word left her mouth, he touched the pencil to the paper and drew. He sketched to the rhythm of her voice. Her words became transformed into shape. His pencil glided on the paper during her pauses, touches of laughter, sighs, and the ending to her story.

  “The five of us laughed so hard we couldn’t begin to stop.”

  And that was when his pencil lifted.

  He picked up the sketch pad from his lap and turned the drawing toward her.

  She drew in such a very deep breath then placed her hand over her mouth.

  “You are pleased?”

  “Oh.” She drew in a long second breath. “More than you could know.” Such powerful emotion inspired the audience to applaud before having seen the sketch.

  As Leblanc turned the paper toward the crowd, Branson’s phone buzzed. He walked away from the people and keyed in his password. A text message from Mrs. Spinnaker with flight information and a departure time of 9 p.m. appeared on the screen. Also, she’d messengered his suitcase and passport to the check-in desk.

  Branson closed the text message and opened a new one for Thomas: Meet me at the entrance in ten minutes.

  The walk through an emotionally driven crowd was like kayaking up rapids. Even walking down the wide staircase became a chore. The previous applause and support from the crowd drew curious onlookers from the floor below. “Excuse me.” If they’d only let him pass, he would open another space for them.

  He checked his pockets for his phone, notebook, and pen, and realized he’d left his umbrella somewhere in the store. What a day.

  The limousine stood ready for him outside the entrance as requested. Branson didn’t wait for Thomas to assist him. He climbed in and closed the door, conveying his urgency.

  Thomas looked through the mirror. “Where to, Mr. Carhill?”

  “Kennedy Airport.”

  “She isn’t here in New York City?”

  “No.”

  “How do you know for sure?”

  “Four of the five Cinq Amis are in Bloomingdales at this very moment. They booked a suite of rooms at the hotel where Mrs. Duvet currently sits resting her leg. Not one of them faltered in their testimony.” Shades of a perfectly rehearsed and fabricated story.

  Thomas looked in the rearview mirror. “That’s not like her at all. Mrs. Duvet would never miss a gathering with her friends to be alone in a hotel no matter how much her leg bothered her. And the way she’s hurried around the house doing tasks for the last two weeks, I barely saw her limp.”

  “That is precisely what I thought.”

  “Then, where is she?”

  “I don’t have all the facts, but I hope to confirm her safety by this time tomorrow night.”

  The expected forty-minute Bloomingdale-to-Kennedy trip took close to an hour with traffic.

  “Will you need me anymore, Mr. Carhill?”

  “No. You are free to return to the Duvet’s home. Thank you for assisting me today.” He leaned forward and handed Thomas a tip.

  “I can’t accept this, sir.�
��

  Branson held his hand still. “Thomas, you more than drove me from one place to another. You waited. You answered questions that have helped. Please take this.” He waited.

  Thomas reached up and accepted the money. “Thank you, Mr. Carhill. I wish you well on your flight.”

  Branson stepped out of the car and walked inside the airport. He bypassed the kiosks and stood in line to speak with an agent at the ticket counter. He only had to wait a few minutes before a male agent said, “May I help you, sir?”

  Branson approached the counter. “I believe my suitcase and passport have been messengered here.” He presented his driver’s license.

  “One moment.” The agent walked to the office where the airline stored missing luggage, checked the tags, then brought out a small black suitcase. He also carried an envelope. “Mr. Branson Carhill?”

  “That is correct.”

  The agent checked Branson in for his flight, printed out his tickets, and tagged his suitcase. “Take your luggage over there for TSA check-in.” He pointed to the right. “Enjoy your flight, sir.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Mrs. Spinnaker had used her superpowers to get Branson a first-class seat. Considering how last second this was, Clark Kent would be jealous. Branson unfolded the upscale seat cushion into a bed and slept the entire trip to Paris.

  Hours later, a flight attendant knocked on the cubicles, waking him and other passengers. She asked them to return the beds to the upright seat position. Within the hour, the plane landed at Charles de Gaulle airport early in the French morning with a time difference five hours later from his Boston home.

  Collecting his suitcase, passing through immigration, customs, and standing in line for a taxi took another hour. He slid into the cab and, speaking what he hoped was flawless French, gave the driver the hotel name and address provided by Mrs. Spinnaker. The driver didn’t squint or show any other sign that his French sounded terrible. Amazing. The tutor’s dungeon technique for quickly learning French worked.

  The traffic equaled New York City’s gridlock at rush hour. Wall to wall cars crawled along cramped, narrow streets winding through the city. For all he knew, the driver could have driven him in circles. By 9:00 am local time, the taxi stopped outside his hotel.

  It was a quaint little building nestled between a row of others still hiding their facades behind walls at this early hour. Tiny mounds of snow nestled onto the sign. The glass door entrance had rows of small wooden-framed panes. Luxurious. Through lobby glass windows, guests stood surrounded by suitcases. He preferred the Parisian cultural setting over brand named hotels that catered to international tourists.

  He tipped the cab driver then wheeled his luggage inside the lobby, a small room the size of a bedroom decorated with golden painted walls, scrolled iron furniture, and partitioned gratings that guided guests up two steps to a welcoming counter. A forty-something woman stooped over sprawled paperwork.

  She looked up and smiled as he neared. “Bonjour, Monsieur. How may I help you?”

  Branson spoke only French to the desk clerk. She naturally switched away from English and continued the conversation. He signed the documents, accepted the room key, and looked around a corner to the right when she pointed to a tiny elevator. “Merci.”

  “De rien.” She looked back at her paperwork.

  There was something comforting about the cramped layout. The entire hotel took up four floors and occupied little space on each one. In the middle, a groomed floral garden with tall trees had a walkway. Guests could look at the courtyard through glass windows or enter through access doors.

  He parked his suitcase at the elevator and opened the outer door then slid the metal gate to the side. The glassed-wall interior had barely enough room for one narrow suitcase and a person. He squeezed inside with his luggage, closed the doors, and rode to the third floor.

  Following a shower, a shave, and fresh clothes, he shopped for a stationery store and purchased the finest linen paper and envelopes available. The salesperson encouraged him to buy a fountain pen, but he decided to forego it since he hadn’t practiced writing with one in a while. Blobs of ink on the paper gave a bad impression. The rollerball pen in his pocket would suffice.

  He returned to the hotel and stood to the side while the clerk, a younger woman, finished processing new arrivals. She set the pen down and waited for him to approach.

  “Good day,” she said in French. “How may I help you?”

  “I am looking for a specific café here in Paris. It offers sidewalk seating, is on a narrow street, and across the way is a boutique, a bookseller, and a chocolatier with apartments on the upper floors.”

  “You know Paris is so very big and has many narrow roads. Cafés too.”

  “Yes. I understand. But can you recall one that might also have the shops I mentioned situated across from it?”

  She pulled out a piece of paper and wrote three lines of words then handed him the paper. He turned it right side up and read the name and address.

  “This is the only one I know that has those stores across the street and also offers outdoor seating with apartments above.”

  That was easier than he thought. “Thank you.” He slipped the note inside his suit pocket and nodded appreciation.

  Before leaving the building, he tightened a scarf around his neck and slipped on his gloves. The Parisian Christmas snow thankfully didn’t feel as bitter cold as Boston’s. He walked a few feet to a taxi stop and waited his turn to hire a ride.

  Days like this, where searching for answers required touring magnificent cities such as Paris, reminded him how much he enjoyed his job. The sun shone through snowflakes floating in the breeze and gathering on streets filled with shoppers. Yes. He liked his work.

  Branson climbed inside a cab and gave the address to the driver. Apparently, he’d convinced the man he could carry on a conversation in French within his first sentence. And so they talked for the twenty minutes it took to arrive at the Café et Ses Amis, translated Café and Friends.

  The driver told him about a nice hotel closer to the café. “It is exquisite, yet most tourists do not choose to stay there.”

  “Why?” Branson asked.

  “Because the building is small in their eyes. What travelers don’t see is the inner beauty, the history, the courts, the architecture. C’est magnifique. Only Frenchmen see this.”

  “And you know this because?”

  “Because I drive the guests. You are not one of them. I think.” He pointed. “See to your right? There it is.”

  The outside of the hotel appeared quaint, not necessarily exquisite in any way. Still, it had charm and exuded a warm and inviting business. “It is very similar to the hotel I am staying at.”

  “Yes. For that reason, I knew you would understand.” He rolled the car farther up the road. Café et Ses Amis. He stopped the vehicle. “Did you want me to wait?”

  “No. Thank you for asking.” He handed the driver the fare and tip. “Everything I need is in this area.” Branson stepped out of the taxi and closed the door.

  Had he googled cafés in Paris for one that would suit Sylvia and her Cinq Amis friends, he would have looked down the long list and chosen this same one mainly for its name that translated to Coffee and Friends.

  Clumps of snow piled onto his shoes from the walk to the café’s entrance. He opened the door, knocked the accumulation off, and stepped inside.

  At times his gut feelings produced results before all the facts proved an answer. If this happened to be one such instance, Sylvia would be dining in this coffee shop today.

  Inside the restaurant, tables designed for seating two in America had four chairs huddled close together. The surface barely allowed space for a small plate and a coffee cup each. Somehow the patrons managed. They sat back in their chairs and carried on lively discussions.

  Branson found a window table near the front and planned to sit there as long as was necessary. In European restaurants, waitstaff ne
ver rushed customers to leave to make room for more. The bill did not arrive at the table until the patrons communicated they had finished their meal. He liked this.

  He loosened his scarf and removed his gloves. He tucked them into his pocket then peeled off his coat. A waiter approached as he sat. He handed Branson a newspaper. “Bonjour.”

  “Bonjour.”

  At the table behind him, the waiter switched to English instantly when the patron answered, “Good morning.” Branson was amazed.

  He wanted to be treated as a Frenchman. He sat in the manner of locals as though familiar with the routine. He briefly said merci to the waiter and set the paper on the table before removing the photo of Sylvia from his pocket. Once he refreshed her image in his mind, he tucked it back inside his jacket.

  The waiter handed him a menu. He shook his head, “Non,” and ordered a typical European breakfast even at this late morning hour. “Café. Un œuf. Pain à la confiture.” Coffee. An egg. Bread and jam.

  “Oui, Monsieur.” The waiter left.

  Branson took the opportunity to eye other patrons in the shop by walking towards the men’s room. He glanced at every table. Sylvia was not there. Yet.

  When he returned to his table, he found a coffee service at his place in a typical European fashion, a small cup of cream, sugar inside a long, narrow wrapper, and a stirring spoon arranged on an oval silver plate. He opened the newspaper and read while pouring cream into his coffee.

  Shortly after, the waiter brought a soft-boiled egg in an egg cup and a small tray of assorted breads and jams. “Will there be anything else, sir?” he said in French.

  “Non. Merci.”

  The scent of fresh chocolates seeped into the café. Across the street and to the right was a chocolate shop with the doors open. The apartments over the chocolatier didn’t display the plump red flowers Elizabeth had described.

  Instead, many dwellings had festive colored Christmas lights hung on scrolled iron grates that boxed in the small balconies. To the left of the chocolatier shop was a bookseller. To him, a book scent more than matched freshly made confections. Customers wearing the latest fashions entered the boutique located next to the bookseller and left with bulging shopping bags.