The Paris Connection

by Cerella Sechrist

  She took the opportunity this opening afforded to ask what she’d been wondering for a while now. “Why do you dislike it so much? You’ve never been to France before, have you?”

  “No,” he admitted.

  “Then, what? Everyone falls in love with Paris.”

  He arched an eyebrow at her. “Everyone? I think your inner romantic is showing.”

  She couldn’t help laughing at this. “Okay, so maybe I’m a little more enamored than most, but I still don’t see what you’ve got against the place.”

  He leaned down, resting his bare forearms on the fence. “It’s not the city itself, really. It’s what it represents.”

  She leaned against the iron barrier herself, watching him. “And what’s that?”

  He straightened back up. “It’s just difficult, taking this position after it was meant to be Ophelia’s and after she...rejected me. But I’ll make you a deal. I’ll try to see Paris through your eyes if you keep helping me through this transition.”

  She rested her arms against the rail beside him. “You mean you’ll try to see things like a romantic?”

  He nudged her. “I wouldn’t push it.”

  She nudged him back. “But that’s what you like about me—my pushiness.”

  He straightened. “Now you’re just getting cocky.”

  She straightened, too. “Okay, then. It’s a deal,” she agreed.

  They stared at each other. “Do you want to shake on it?” he asked with a smirk.

  She rolled her eyes. “I trust you.” They turned at the same time, moving away from the cemetery and back toward the front of the chapel. They climbed onto the bikes and pedaled back toward the house in companionable silence. Emma’s spirits lifted as the trees flew by. She realized this was the lightest she had felt in months, ever since she’d found out her promotion was gone, and the merger was happening. Things hadn’t turned out so bad after all, she realized. Maybe she had just assumed the worst. That wasn’t a very romantic trait, was it?

  She nearly laughed aloud as she stole a glance at Cole. A romantic. She’d never really wanted to admit she was one, but maybe Cole was right. She had come to this country looking for an adventure and gotten swept into romance instead. And then, when it had ended, she hadn’t wanted to leave. Perhaps, in the spirit of romance, she was still waiting for Paris to fulfill some sort of naive fantasy.

  She shrugged off this thought as they emerged from the forest path and coasted toward the front drive. She noticed Giselle outside, seemingly waiting for them. A small knot formed in her stomach, and she skidded her bike to a halt, dismounting and letting it drop to the ground.

  The concern etched in Giselle’s face drew her forward, desperation suddenly propelling her along.

  “Is it Avery? Is she okay?”

  “It’s not Avery,” Giselle answered as Emma became aware of Cole coming to stand beside her.

  “Brice couldn’t reach you on your cell so he called me—Jacqueline had a heart attack.”

  Emma gasped in dismay.

  “Who’s Jacqueline?” Cole asked.

  “My former mother-in-law,” she quickly answered. “She was watching Avery this weekend.”

  “As soon as she knew what was happening, she called Brice. He called 112—”

  “That’s France’s version of 911,” Emma distractedly explained to Cole.

  “—and then Solene to ask her to watch Avery,” Giselle finished.

  Emma felt a complicated mixture of relief and regret, happy that Avery was safe and being taken care of but pained at the same time. Jacqueline had always been so kind to her, even following the divorce. She adored her granddaughter, and her love for the child made up for a lot of Brice’s shortcomings in that area.

  “Is Jacqueline going to be okay?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Emma realized that her friend’s eyes shifted to Cole and then back to her. She suddenly became aware of Cole’s hand in the small of her back, holding her steady. She drew strength from it.

  Giselle paused before delivering the next blow. “Brice asked if you would come to the hospital, as soon as you can.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  EMMA MET BRICE in the waiting room of the Paris hospital. His face was haggard, the handsome lines edged with wear. She couldn’t remember ever seeing him look like that, like something that had been wrung dry. As soon as he saw her, he stood and moved in her direction. And then, to her utter surprise, he drew her into a hug. Brice hadn’t touched her since the day their divorce had gone through. But now, he clung to her as though she might try to turn around and escape.

  “Hey,” she soothed, trying to ease his grip slightly. “It’s not that bad, is it?”

  He pulled back, and she noticed his eyes were red-rimmed and swollen. Had he been crying?

  “Bad enough,” he replied. “The doctors say it is congestive heart failure brought on by coronary artery disease.”

  She felt her jaw sag. “What? But Jacqueline always seems so...so...vibrant when I’m around her.”

  He sniffed. “I guess she puts on a good act.”

  Still surprised by this news, Emma wandered toward the rows of seats in the waiting area and sank into one. She’d taken a cab from the train station and hauled her overnight bag with her through the hospital, but now she left it in the entryway as she took a seat. It was hard to believe that just a few hours ago, she’d been standing in the little country chapel with Cole, debating her romantic streak. There was a marked difference from the still serenity of that sanctuary and the muted, sterile environment surrounding her now.

  Brice picked up her bag and brought it to her, placing it on the floor before settling down into the seat next to hers. She turned to face him, once again noting how drained he looked.

  “Where’s Christine?”

  He ran a hand over his face, the sound of stubble rasping against his palm. “At the apartment,” he answered. “She doesn’t like hospitals.”

  “Well, I can’t say I’m a fan myself,” she replied and then paused, looking around. “Can I see her?”

  “Christine?” He shook his head in confusion, and she felt a moment’s pity for him. “Oh, of course, you mean Maman. Not just now, she’s resting.”

  She reached out to squeeze his hand in reassurance. “It’s okay. You look exhausted. Maybe you should go home and get some rest yourself.”

  It surprised her when he turned his hand around, his palm meeting hers, to twine her fingers into his. “Not yet. I want to wait until she’s awake.”

  “All right. Then, is there anything I can get you? Have you eaten?”

  A ghost of a smile danced across his lips. “This is how you have always been, looking after me. Even when I do not deserve it.”

  “Sometimes, we all need to be looked after a little. Even when we don’t deserve it,” she couldn’t resist tacking on.

  The hint of a grin remained. “Maybe.”

  She disentangled her hand from his. “So, what do you say? Coffee? Maybe a croissant?”

  He sank lower into the seat, resting his neck along its back. She eyed him pitifully as she stood. His light brown hair was limp and disheveled, his dusky blue eyes even darker with worry. The lines that would one day age him were significantly pronounced.

  “Yes,” he agreed. “Perhaps coffee will help.”

  “Of course it will,” she encouraged. “I’ll be right back. Watch my bag.”

  She moved toward the doorway until he called her back.

  “Did you want something else?”

  He remained seated but straightened, reaching for her hand. He drew it toward his lips and pressed a kiss onto her fingers. She eased out of the touch as soon as she could, uncomfortable with such intimacies after so many years without any aff
ection from him.

  “Thank you for coming. I wasn’t...” He trailed off. “I wasn’t sure you would.”

  She touched his shoulder briefly, thinking of all the times he had promised to visit Avery and then failed to show up. But she wouldn’t try to punish him for that. Not now, when he so clearly needed a friend. “You know me better than that, Brice.”

  He nodded and then leaned forward to rest his face in his hands. She squeezed his shoulder one last time before she left to find them both some coffee for the hours ahead.

  * * *

  LILLIAN REID SAT in her loft’s living room in the predawn Sunday morning light and waited for her cell phone to vibrate. She had slept poorly the night before but felt wide awake even after such little rest. For the first time in years, she was filled with an emotion she could barely remember feeling—doubt. For someone as successful as her, it was not a pleasant or familiar experience, but she could not seem to shake it. And so she waited, somewhat ashamed of her weakness, for the call she knew would be coming.

  At 5:59 a.m., she tensed, fingers curled around the phone, and as the display flipped to 6:00 a.m., she felt it begin to vibrate in her palm. She relaxed at the sight of the name—Julien Arnaud—but waited several seconds more before answering.

  “Allô,” she greeted him when she finally picked up. Something warm and comforting settled into her spirit when he responded.

  “Allô, mon ange.”

  She experienced a tiny thrill each time he addressed her as his angel, though she didn’t say so. “You are right on time, as usual.”

  “And it is not too early, I trust?”

  It had been a standard exchange between them ever since Julien had started these calls following his visit to New York six weeks ago, to finalize the merger agreement of their two companies. The first time he’d called, it had taken her by surprise. He had apologized for the premature hour in her time zone, and she had assured him she was a very early riser. He had thanked her for her helpfulness during his time in New York, expressed his happiness at the merger, wished her a wonderful weekend and finished the conversation in less than ten minutes. She had hung up feeling gratified at her decision to join their firms and then moved forward with her day.

  But then one week later, the following Sunday, her phone had vibrated again at exactly 6:00 a.m. Once more, it was Julien, this time with several details of clarification concerning their contract. When they had finalized a few points, he lingered on the phone, asking after her week and discussing Cole’s upcoming move to Paris, admitting how much he liked the younger man and how suited he seemed to the job. They’d ended the call thirty minutes later, and this time, the conversation stayed with Lillian throughout the rest of her day before she returned to work on Monday and moved on to other business.

  The third week, she had found herself awake even earlier than usual and hovering near her phone out of curiosity. At six, she’d reached for the phone as it started to vibrate and answered his call. They talked for over an hour, and Lillian found herself replaying the conversation in her head for the entire week.

  By now, the sixth of these calls, she was slightly alarmed to find herself looking forward to them, anticipating them all weekend long. She should have known better than to allow them to continue with such regularity, but she had always had a weakness for men with French accents. Or at least, one particular man with a French accent—her husband, Marcel, had passed when their daughter, Ophelia, was only seven years old. Now Lillian was embarrassed to admit that she felt the same giddy anticipation for Julien’s calls as she’d experienced when waiting for Marcel to return home from work all those years ago. She found it scarcely believable that she could still experience such reactions at her age.

  And yet, every Sunday morning, she lingered by her phone, waiting for his call.

  “How has your week been, chérie?”

  She hesitated, debating how much she wanted to share with him. She was desperate to talk to someone, however, and Julien had proved himself a wonderful listener.

  “I spoke with my daughter last night.”

  “Ophelia? She called from Hawaii?”

  “She did. I don’t hear from her as often as I’d like, so it was a pleasant surprise.”

  “And how is she doing since you last spoke? The coffee venture is still a success?”

  “More so every day, apparently. I was uncertain about her marrying Dane Montgomery, but she seems...quite happy. And...” She swallowed.

  “And?” Julien prompted.

  She sighed. “And she had some news.”

  “Good news?”

  “Well...yes, I suppose.”

  “You do not sound so certain.”

  Lillian could not explain her emotions and would not have even tried to with anyone but this man, who seemed to know her better than she knew herself.

  “She said she and Dane are trying for a child.”

  Most people would have exclaimed happily at this, offering the standard congratulations. But as she had predicted, Julien knew better than to make such statements.

  “You are not happy about such a thing?”

  She exhaled slowly. “Of course I am. My daughter will be having a baby at some point in the near future.”

  “And you will be a grandmother.”

  “Yes.”

  Silence lingered between them.

  “And Ophelia is happy?”

  “Ridiculously so. I think she’ll be a wonderful mother when the time comes.”

  “But I sense you are sad.”

  “Not sad, only—” how to explain what she could not understand herself? “—uncertain, perhaps.”

  “About what?”

  “About the future. About my own future. I had everything mapped out quite neatly a year ago. My eventual retirement. Ophelia marrying Cole and the two of them taking over Reid Recruiting, running things from Paris. I would eventually join them there and live out my days in a lovely little apartment by the Seine.”

  “A nice daydream.”

  “Yes,” she concurred. “A perfect little fantasy.”

  He did not respond immediately, so she continued. “Things have not turned out quite the way I expected.”

  “You miss Ophelia,” he finally said.

  “I do, but her life is in another place now. She’s going to become a mother, and she’ll have her own family there, in Hawaii, with Dane. And I am here, in New York, wondering what I have worked for all my life. My daughter will not be taking over the business when I retire. I will have a grandchild raised on surf and sand rather than the city. What did I do with my life for the last twenty-six years? What do I have to show for it?”

  “A successful international company and a daughter who was brave enough to make her own choices, as her mother did before her.”

  The ache in her chest eased. She knew he would have the words to comfort her. It amazed and frightened her that she knew this.

  “You are a good friend, Julien,” she murmured.

  There was a long silence, and she felt some of her unease returning.

  “Ah, chérie. Perhaps not as good a friend as you would like.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I must share some unpleasant realizations with you.”

  Lillian stood. She had never been one to receive bad news sitting down. “Go on.”

  “I fear we have a leak within the company here.”

  “A leak? Why?”

  “On Friday, before leaving the office, I learned that two of our candidates on the cusp of placements with our clients had unexpectedly signed with different companies. They were placed by a recruiter at a rival firm here in Paris. It was disappointing, but these things happen, as you know.”

  “Yes, it can be a highly competitive field at ti
mes.”

  “Very much so, oui. However, last evening, I learned of two more candidates who signed contracts elsewhere. I am still trying to learn the recruiter on the last placement, but the other was the same recruiter who stole away our first two candidates. Three by the same recruiter, and I suspect the fourth, as well.”

  Though she had stood to receive the news, Lillian now sank back onto the sofa. “Four lost placements?” It was a significant blow, especially on the heels of the merger. “Are we being targeted in some way?”

  “I do not know. But I do believe there is a leak somewhere in the office.”

  “Could it be one of the recruiters?” It would make no sense. The recruiters would lose their commission by selling off candidate profiles to another firm. They only stood to gain money by the recruitments they actually placed, earning a percentage of the first year’s salary when a candidate was hired. Unless they were receiving some sort of kickback from the other company. But why bother with such underhanded tactics when they could simply place the candidate themselves? Unless it was, as she’d suggested, some sort of specific attack against the Reid/Aquitaine name.

  “Non, I do not believe it is a recruiter here in the office.”

  “And Cole? What does he say about this?”

  “I have not told him yet.”

  “Why ever not? He’s the CEO—he should know this is happening. Where is he?”

  “I sent him and the top recruiters on a company retreat for the weekend. I thought it would help bond them as a team and allow them to embrace Cole as their new leader.”

  Though she felt inclined to protest at this gesture, she had to admit she was strangely touched by it. Julien was committed to the success of this merger, including making sure that Cole was accepted at the Paris branch.

  “Can you get in touch with him, let him know what’s happened?”

  “I can,” Julien said, “but I thought I would let them see the weekend through. They can do nothing about it until tomorrow anyway. Why ruin their time together?”

  Lillian suppressed a sigh. She should know, after her years in Paris, how differently the French operated. They tended to manage things at a less frantic pace than her manic American sensibilities could accept.