Moonlight in Paris

by Pamela Hearon

  The exquisite beauty of the city with its wide, tree-lined avenues and perfectly proportioned balances of lines and curves, man-made and natural, tempted Tara to forget the hunt and give in to the desire to explore. But her mind kept running ahead to her destination, and her heart pumped fast to keep up.

  The map guided her around the final turn to a street filled with small boutiques rather than homes. The internet search had yielded all addresses—business and residential—that had a Jacques Martin linked to it, but she was surprised nonetheless...and maybe a little relieved...to see that the first address was that of a shop. Walking into a store was easier than ringing a private doorbell.

  She stopped outside the address and took several deep breaths before pushing the door open and stepping inside. The strong, pervasive scent of formaldehyde greeted her from the bolts of materials hanging from chains, which covered the walls in brocades, damasks and linens. Her eyes and nose started to water simultaneously. The reaction was familiar, and her memory scampered back to hours she’d spent in fabric stores with Grandma O’Malley. She’d had the forethought to bring tissues in case the reunion with her father involved tears...of any kind.

  She snatched one from her pocket and dabbed, trying not to smear her carefully applied mascara.

  Several customers milled about, eyeing the rich colors in the woven tapestries, running their palms over the nap to change the shading of the velvet. Tara ran her fingertips across a bolt of deep brown fabric—its hue reminded her of Garrett’s eyes.

  Jerk, she reminded herself.

  Soon, an elderly woman with silver hair pulled back into a severe bun turned her attention to Tara. A head-to-foot scan pinched her expression into a condescending sneer. “Bonjour, mademoiselle.”

  “Bonjour, madame.” Tara’s eyes jerked involuntarily to the door—yes, it was still there—before settling back on the woman. “Je m’appelle Tara O’Malley. Je cherche Jacques Martin. Est-il ici?”

  A short pause allowed the woman time to exchange her sneer for a knowing smirk. “Oui. Un instant.”

  She disappeared into a back room, giving Tara time to become all-too-aware of the sound of her pulse swishing through her ears.

  The woman appeared again, followed by a striking, middle-aged man in an impeccably cut gray suit that set off his salt-and-pepper hair, which was combed back and heavily gelled.

  His age looked promising, and Tara’s breath stopped as she scanned his face for a trace of anything familial and stalled on his mouth. It was wide like hers, and it curved upward into a smile as he approached.

  “Bonjour, mademoiselle.” His deep voice was pleasant and welcoming, and she felt her courage bolstered at the sound.

  “Bonjour, Monsieur Martin?” He nodded and Tara extended her hand, pumping it a tad too enthusiastically when he took it. “Je m’appelle Tara O’Malley. I...uh...” She caught her breath before plunging into the script she had memorized. “Je viens des États-Unis, et je cherche un ami de ma famille. Il s’appelle Jacques Martin. Il habitait à Murray, Kentucky.” A family friend who had lived in Murray, Kentucky had seemed like the most nonthreatening approach. She watched him closely for a reaction.

  The man’s gray eyes held a hint of disappointment as his smile thinned. “Ah, ce n’est pas moi. Je suis désolé.”

  Tara swallowed her own disappointment, becoming aware of the way his thumb caressed her hand, which he still held, not even seeming to notice the missing digits. Obviously, they were coming at this conversation from very different angles.

  She pulled her hand, but he gripped it tighter and leaned in to whisper something. She didn’t understand the words, but his tone took on a smooth and oily quality like his hair. His mouth curved again into a leer that drove the scene past extreme ick and into dimensions all its own.

  Tara jerked her hand from his, mortified at the turn things had taken. “Au revoir, monsieur.” She didn’t say thank you or try to ask her other memorized questions about whether he knew any other Jacques Martins she could contact. All she could think about was getting to the door and into fresh air. Once outside, the shudder that passed through her could’ve rocked a seismic score on the Richter scale as she allowed herself to express it verbally with a loud “eww!”

  She took off at a fast walk, not even stopping to get her bearings for a couple of blocks. When she did, she was in front of Rodin’s studio and museum—the perfect place to get her mind off of her creepy encounter with Jacques Martin number one.

  The garden was especially inviting, quiet and relatively uncrowded compared to the area around the Eiffel Tower. She spent the entire afternoon in the shadow of Balzac and The Thinker, taking pictures of the statues and attaching them to text messages to family and friends.

  Emma called as Tara boarded the metro late in the afternoon to head back home. She reacted with the proper “eww” as Tara related her tale of the first Jacques, and when she heard about Garrett Hughes’s request for privacy, she replied with “What a jerk!”

  As she had so often in their years together, Tara reminded herself how fortunate she was to have a best friend who viewed the world with a similar enough perspective to her own to make them compatible, yet still different enough to keep their conversations interesting.

  Back at her flat, Tara poured a glass of wine and took it and her journal out to the terrace to write about the experiences of her day—another of Emma’s suggestions to help her work through the emotion of her search for her birth father.

  She’d thought the idea a little silly at first, but as she started to chronicle not only her emotions but her impressions as a first-time visitor to Paris, her hand flew across the pages, filling up one after another. She was especially surprised at the depth of disappointment today’s encounter churned up. But plenty more addresses remained to be searched.

  “Hi, Tara.”

  She looked up to see Dylan standing a few feet away, ball and glove in hand.

  “Hi, Dylan. How are you today?”

  “I’m fine.” He stayed awkwardly planted to his spot. “What are you doing?”

  She held up the book she’d been writing in. “I went to the Eiffel Tower and the Musée Rodin today, so I’ve been writing in my journal about those places. Have you ever been to the Musée Rodin?”

  “Yeah, lots of times.”

  She patted the empty seat beside her. “Come tell me what you like best about it.”

  He hesitated for only a second, then hurried to plop down in the proffered seat. “Dad says I’m not supposed to bother you, but I don’t guess I’m bothering you if you invite me. Isn’t that right?”

  Tara smiled at the child’s honesty. “That’s right. If I invite you, it means I want some company.”

  The warmth in Dylan’s smile thawed the icy coating that had surrounded Tara’s heart as she wrote her review of today’s father search.

  “What I like best about the Musée Rodin is the ice cream,” he answered her original question. “But the statue I like best is The Burghers of Calais.”

  “That was my favorite, too!” Tara was intrigued that she and the six-year-old were both taken by the same piece out of all the choices. “Why do you like that one best?”

  “Because my dad told me the story about those guys being heroes. They’re not superheroes like Iron Man and Thor, but they saved a lot of people, so I like them.”

  “Yeah, me, too...for the same reason.” Tara made a mental note to include this delightful conversation in her journal. “Is your dad home yet?”

  Dylan shook his head. “He has to work late again tonight.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t mind playing a little catch if you’d like.”

  Dylan shot out of his chair. “Cool! I’ll get Dad’s glove for you.”

  They played for almost an hour, but as it neared the time when Garrett had gotten home
the night before, Tara thought about what the man had asked of her.

  “Whew! I’m getting tired, Dylan.” She faked it a little, but not too much. “I think I’d better call it a night and go grab a bite of supper.”

  “Okay.”

  She handed the glove back to him and ruffled her hand through his hair. “Thanks for playing with me. It was fun.”

  “Maybe we can play again tomorrow,” he said and then hurried to add, “if I don’t bother you.”

  “Maybe.”

  She gathered up her things and went inside as Dylan continued his game by throwing the ball against the wall by his terrace door.

  Tara heated some soup and fixed a salad for a light meal. When she sat down at the table, she saw that Garrett had gotten home and was on the terrace playing catch with his indefatigable son.

  The guy may be a jerk, but he was obviously doing something right. Dylan seemed well-adjusted and was a delight to be around.

  Maybe giving them their private terrace time wasn’t such a big deal. She could sacrifice a little.

  The Burghers of Calais had been willing to sacrifice everything for the people they loved.

  Watching Garrett play with his son—a single dad in a foreign country, a young man who lost his wife—it struck her that Rodin could have immortalized him, as well.

  And she’d seen him naked.

  Definitely statueworthy.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  HENRI’S NOSTRILS FLARED as the coffee cup neared his nose. “Ahh!” He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, a look of something akin to ecstasy relaxing his features. “Is there a more delicious scent in the morning than freshly ground coffee?” He paused, and a wicked gleam lit his eyes. “Peut-être a freshly ground woman, oui?”

  Garrett shrugged. “It’s been so long since I’ve had a woman in the morning, I’m not sure my grinder would even work.”

  A uniquely French sound came from the back of Henri’s throat. It combined humor, dismay and a touch of disdain, and Garrett had never been able to come close to mimicking it, though Dylan already had it perfected. “How are you and your American neighbor getting along?” The Frenchman took his first sip and smiled appreciatively. “You have not mentioned the wild woman in several days.”

  Garrett tried to take a sip, but the coffee in his cup was still too hot. “I haven’t spoken to her since...” Since the day he’d been abrupt with her about giving him and Dylan their privacy...the day she’d looked so stung by his words. Occasionally, he’d see her wander out onto the terrace, but it was always a glimpse through the window. She never came out if he was outside. “For several days,” he finished his answer.

  “You share a terrace and, for several days, you do not speak with her?”

  Coupled with the guilt he was feeling about the whole Tara matter, the question irritated Garrett more than it should. “I told you before, I don’t want her around Dylan.”

  “But Dylan goes to bed, does he not? There is much time to share a bottle of wine after he is asleep.”

  His friend knew him all too well. Last night, Garrett had started to do just that. After Dylan was asleep, he’d put on a Miles Davis CD and opened a bottle of an exquisite 2007 cabernet that begged to be shared.

  Tara was out on the terrace with her own bottle, and she wasn’t reading or writing in that book the way she usually did. She was simply sitting alone with her wine, illumined by the soft lights of the night around her, looking lovely and serene. Garrett had actually taken several steps toward the door before his own words had stopped him. “There isn’t a lot of privacy around here, so we’ll try to respect yours as much as possible while you’re here.”

  Approaching her during her private time would be opening a can of worms, and would, of course, require an apology for his previous rudeness to her. Probably best to leave well enough alone.

  But she’d been tempting.

  Garrett raised his chin as a warning that he was tired of talking about this. “My wine and I did just fine all by ourselves. So, what do you have for me this morning?” He glided into another subject before Henri could make him feel worse. “Have the numbers stabilized enough for me to order my Ferrari?”

  Henri handed him the morning’s report. “No Ferraris yet, but someday soon, peut-être.”

  While Garrett was certainly interested in the entire report, he couldn’t keep his eyes from searching out the bottom of the right-hand column first. When he did, his heart skipped a beat, and he felt like skipping along with it. An 8 percent jump in sales in twenty-four hours.

  Convincing the higher powers that the marginal analysis leaned toward a successful flighting strategy had been a bitch, but worth every penny they’d spent.

  Of course, it was too soon to tell how deeply Soulard had penetrated the beer market, but the GPRs were promising. “Do you have the disaggregations yet?”

  Henri’s sigh implied that answering that question was beneath him. “They are printing now. Go drink your coffee—which is now too cold to be palatable, but your American tongue will probably not notice—and I will bring them to you.”

  Garrett went back to his office to wait for his friend, but he was too anxious to sit. He paced back and forth, allowing the numbers on the paper to absorb into his brain. Such detail so quickly was beyond his comprehension. He’d worked with plenty of IT specialists, but Henri Poulin was by far the best of the best. The man was a virtual magician with a computer, and he had a sixth sense for anticipating what information would be needed. More often than not, he and his staff had reports generated before they were even called for.

  The man would be an asset to any company. Soulard Beer had simply managed to land him first.

  As promised, Henri appeared within a few minutes, report in one hand, fresh coffee in the other. “Voilà. The market profile is much as you anticipated...with a pleasant surprise in the over-fifty range, oui?”

  Garrett shook his head in astonishment at the number his right thumb hovered beside. A fluke mention of Soulard—thanks to a friend of a friend of one of the owners—during a television show watched mainly by an older crowd had sent sales soaring, though whether it was truly a penetrated market or a one-time thing only time would tell. But Garrett was hopeful.

  “We’re out there, Henri. We’re really out there.”

  His friend nodded in agreement. “So tonight, instead of the wine, which you did not share, you share the champagne with your American neighbor, oui?”

  The mention of Tara brought another surge of guilt and frustration, heightened by Garrett’s already overstimulated emotional state this morning. “Damn it, would you let that subject go?”

  Tsk. Tsk. Henri clicked his tongue. “I hear you whine often that you miss your home. And yet, when the opportunity arises for you to enjoy the company of a young woman who is not only from your home but is also your nearest neighbor, you do not extend friendship to her.”

  The arch of his eyebrow made Garrett doubt that friendship was Henri’s first choice of what he should extend in Tara’s direction. But his friend’s words hit their intended mark. “Just one more reason I don’t need to be around her,” he grumbled. “She’ll only make me more homesick.”

  Henri found his reflection in the window glass and adjusted his tie. “The Americans always refer to the French as ‘stuffy,’ and yet you snub someone for no good reason and act like it is nothing.” He shifted his gaze to bore directly into Garrett’s. “You are the stuffy one.”

  Garrett held his tongue and grabbed his coffee cup instead. He took a giant swig, and a thought hit his chest simultaneously with the brew.

  He and the coffee had a lot in common.

  Both were cold and bitter.

  * * *

  TARA POISED HER PEN ABOVE the name. Instead of the dark red line that crossed off six Jacque
s Martins from her list, beside number seven she drew a red star.

  He hadn’t been her birth father, but he was one she wanted to remember, nonetheless.

  Four days, seven prospects and no results that had moved her any closer to her goal. She knew it wasn’t going to be easy, but she didn’t know it was going to be this hard. Ringing doorbells, walking into shops, trying to converse with strangers in a language she had no grasp of. She was exhausted, and if her search took her all the way to the final name and she would have to go through this thirty-six more times, she wasn’t sure her heart could take the battering.

  The crowds at Paris’s popular sites sometimes made her feel as though the air was being pressed from her lungs, so today she’d opted to get out of the city. Number seven lived in Giverny. She’d always wanted to see Monet’s house and garden, so, although she’d much rather have been on a motorcycle with the wind whipping her hair, she’d caught the train to Vernon instead. A three-mile walk from there to the village of Giverny had brought her to the small, quaint cottage of number seven, and her breath had stuttered with hope at the sight.

  A neighbor out in the yard next door had called to her—an old woman with kind eyes who spoke no English. But she knew the name Jacques Martin, and her eyes had filled with tears. She took Tara’s half hand, caressing it gently while cooing words with sympathetic, grandmotherly sounds, and led her to the small cemetery at the end of the lane.

  She pointed out a new grave—not fresh, but newer than those surrounding it—and left Tara with a parting pat on her back.

  According to his tombstone, the birthdate of Giverny’s Jacques Martin was May 27, 1942, which made him too old to be the man her mother had slept with. But Tara’s heart squeezed just the same for the loss of this man she never knew. A plethora of bouquets said he was much loved, and fresher ones—even recent ones—said he was still missed.

  She’d felt compelled to leave some of her own, so after touring Monet’s gardens and house, she’d sought out a flower shop, and bought two small bouquets of daisies. One she’d left on the grave of Jacques Martin number seven, and one she’d left with his kind old neighbor who’d cried a tearful thanks.