by Eliza Watson
“Where’d you get that?”
“My dad. For a souvenir. I’ll buy you one too.”
How about buying dinner? Although I’d allowed a client to pick up lunch in Dublin, Heather would probably frown on a client buying dinner, especially a six-year-old. At least I knew whom to go to if I needed to borrow more money. Declan had already loaned me a hundred euros.
“You don’t have enough to buy me a shirt.” However, that was a really sweet, and rather surprising, offer.
Henry bought the T-shirt and slipped it on over his red designer-logoed polo shirt. The hostess seated us at a table draped in a black linen, speckled with purple metallic confetti.
Henry dropped down on his chair. “My friend Noah had a magician at his birthday party once. This should be cool.”
The waitress left menus and promised to return shortly. I wasn’t about to attempt to order in French and spend an hour explaining to Henry why I wasn’t speaking English.
My phone alerted a text from Rachel.
How’s it going?
Not much different than when she’d texted me two hours ago. Wanting her to believe I was getting beaucoup experience, I replied, Magnifique.
Call Samantha if you need anything.
Samantha, Rachel’s former coworker at Brecker, had been escorting a meeting in Paris when she was passed up for a promotion and quit on the spot, abandoning the group to fend for themselves. She’d ended up moving here to live with a hot French guy. I would have to be desperate to use that lifeline since it would get back to Rachel, proving I couldn’t handle this meeting on my own. Besides, Samantha was vacationing in the south of France with her boyfriend. I wasn’t going to interrupt her romantic getaway.
Found Grandma’s Ellis Island record. You won’t believe what it says. I’ll e-mail later. Gotta run.
I couldn’t believe she was leaving me hanging!
This was the first time Rachel had taken initiative to research Grandma. I’d worried that she’d lose interest once we were no longer in Ireland, caught up in the nostalgia of Grandma’s homeland. Rachel was obviously growing as impatient as I was waiting for Declan’s mate Peter to find our rellies. A good sign that we’d still be visiting Killybog in the spring.
“Are those chicken strips?” Henry asked.
I glanced up from my phone to find him by the table next to us, eying a little boy’s plate.
The boy responded in French, and Henry let out a frustrated grunt.
“Henry, get over here,” I commanded.
He popped over to another table. “Is that a hamburger?”
The mother gave him a curt nod and shot me a disapproving glare at his lack of manners.
Henry plopped back down on his chair. “I eat this stuff at home.”
He was right. No escargot, pâté, or Brie cheese. Although, Declan’s text about escargot drowning in the Seine had killed my craving for escargot drowned in garlic butter.
Henry let out a bored sigh. “I’ll have chicken strips and fries.”
I ordered the same.
In the middle of choking down heavily breaded chicken fingers and greasy fries, the purple stage curtains opened, and a middle-aged man in a purple cape and top hat materialized.
Henry finally shut up, in awe when the magician made a white poodle named Coco disappear and then reappear in a pink tutu. Coco stood on her hind legs, performing a pirouette, then pranced off stage. The audience applauded. The man transitioned seamlessly between French and English, catering to locals as well as tourists. He requested a volunteer, and Henry’s hand shot up, along with every kid’s.
The magician chose Henry. “Would you like to be my assistant?”
Henry shook his head, pointing at me. “Pick her.”
The magician glanced over at me shaking my head, then back at Henry. “Wouldn’t you rather be my assistant?”
Henry looked at him like he was crazy. “The magician’s assistant is always a girl.”
The magician wore a tight smile, unable to argue the point. “The lovely lady then.”
I didn’t waste my energy arguing either, since I’d lose. Reluctantly admitting defeat, I walked toward the stage, trying to ignore the parents’ glares over a grown woman being chosen to participate rather than their children. I stood on stage and peered out at our empty table.
Where the hell was Henry?
“Henry,” I called out. Maybe he’d dropped a chicken finger and crouched down to find it. When he didn’t materialize from under our table, I bolted over and lifted the tablecloth. No Henry. I checked under the surrounding tables. Furious, my gaze darted around the restaurant. “Henry! Come here right now.”
Still no Henry.
Patrons started clapping, as if this was part of the act.
“He’s really gone.”
Everyone continued clapping.
I wasn’t sure if they still thought it was part of the act or were merely happy that Henry had vanished. What an ideal place for a child abductor. I couldn’t recall any suspicious characters dining alone, scoping out the restaurant. Henry had likely just wandered off, as he’d done at the Musée d’Orsay. But what if he had wandered off and then was abducted?
Heart racing, my anger turned to panic.
“Did you see where he went?” I asked the room.
“No, we were watching the stage,” a woman said.
As was everyone. My panic escalating, I hurried down the creaky wooden stairs to the toilettes. A man at a urinal shot me a nasty look. I raced back up and poked my head in the kitchen. A chef yelled out in French, a knife in hand. I searched behind the vacant hostess stand.
Henry was nowhere to be found.
Omigod. I’d lost the top sales guy’s kid. I was going to get canned. Heather was going to lose the account, maybe her job…
I couldn’t believe those were my first thoughts. Losing a little boy in the middle of Paris was way worse than us losing our jobs. However, five minutes with Henry and the person would be begging me to take him back. My feeble attempt at humor did little to lessen my panic. I held my phone in my trembling hand, preparing to call Declan or Samantha as I dashed toward the entrance, hoping I could still spy the child snatcher on the street with Henry or spot Henry before he was snatched.
I threw back the door’s purple velvet curtain.
“Abracadabra!” Henry shouted, popping out from behind the curtain, causing my heart to leap into my throat.
I glared at Henry, and his chocolate-stained smile faded.
“Don’t you ever, ever, do that again. Didn’t your mom tell you at the museum not to wander off by yourself?”
“I’m telling my mom you yelled at me.”
“And I’m telling her you ran off by yourself.”
His bottom lip quivered, and he started sobbing, chocolate drool sliding out the side of his mouth.
I was surprised he cared if I told his mom. Her punishment would probably be exiling us to Disneyland Paris rather than forcing him to accompany her to the Louvre. And I sounded like his mom, bitching at him. I needed to practice Rachel’s diplomatic approach she’d used the times I’d wandered off on her. Watching out for me had been a huge responsibility when Rachel had been so young herself. Maybe this was karma at work.
“You need to act like a big boy so people treat you like one. And big boys don’t run away and hide. They know that’s wrong. Don’t they?”
Henry choked back a sob, nodding.
The hostess walked up, her disapproving gaze narrowing even further on the chocolate-smeared purple velvet curtain. If Henry was ever abducted, I could follow his chocolate fingerprint trail through Paris. The woman’s stern expression and pouty lips, now flattened into a thin line, told us to leave. I would throw a major fit if I got kicked out of one more place in Paris!
“Nous restons,” I said firmly. “Je suis pleine mais manger un gâteau chocolate.” Whoa. Where had that just come from?
The woman’s brows pinched together in confusion, her g
aze narrowing on my stomach.
A French guy walking past paused. “You just told her that you are pregnant and want chocolate cake. But as an animal is pregnant in French, not a woman.” He chuckled, walking back to his table.
Rather than being embarrassed, I was proud of myself for blurting out two complete sentences in French without referring to my dictionary. Even though they weren’t grammatically correct, she’d understood what I’d said and undoubtedly what I’d meant.
Watch out Paris!
* * *
Henry and I returned to the Hôtel Sophie just after 10:00 p.m. Thankfully, the taxi dropped us off at the door, not ten blocks away, so I could conserve what little energy I had for drinking wine at my first French café. Even if it meant unpacking at midnight, I was determined to see more of Paris than a kids’ restaurant. I was also avoiding my new hotel room. Madame Laurent seemed sweet, but I was a bit nervous about the size of my room and its lack of amenities, like Wi-Fi.
Attendees started filing through the front door.
“What is the last thing you eat before you die?” a guy asked me. Fortyish with brown hair, he wore a tan suit and red-and-blue striped shirt with a clashing green paisley tie.
I shrugged.
“You bite the dust.” He burst out laughing, like it was the first time he’d heard the joke and it was the most hilarious one ever.
I forced a smile, trying to keep my top lip from instinctively curling back, since he was the group’s host, our client from Butler and McDonald’s headquarters. I’d been the victim of several of his tasteless jokes. He and his wife were responsible for our T-shirts. I’d nicknamed him Monsieur Morbid. My previous clichéd vision of morticians had been way off—that they were soft spoken, wore black, and their somber expressions never cracked a smile.
His wife was more tastefully dressed in a basic navy dress rather than our bright-orange uniform color, which she’d claimed was this fall’s hot color. She rolled her eyes at her husband. “Leave the poor girl alone, Al.”
Declan strolled in, carrying the poster boards displaying the winners’ funeral pics. “Brilliant shirt.” He gave Henry a pat on the back.
Henry excitedly recounted the entire evening, leaving out his disappearing act.
“So it was a nice restaurant, non?” the concierge said, overhearing as he walked past.
“Yep.” Henry nodded enthusiastically.
“Maybe tomorrow night your parents may take you to a Halloween party.”
Declan and I exchanged glances. Parents?
I was getting really tired of everyone assuming I was Henry’s mother.
Marcel handed me a glossy flyer with kids in costumes and lit jack-o’-lanterns. Halloween was in three days.
The boy’s eyes lit up, and he snatched the flyer from my hand. “I’ve never been to a Halloween party.”
“Didn’t think France really celebrated Halloween,” Declan said.
“It is a bit more now, primarily establishments that cater to Americans. How is it you say…anything for a buck? The party is at an American bookstore.”
“Do they speak English?” Henry asked.
The concierge gave him an aloof nod, as if to say Sad but true, and walked off.
“I can’t believe he thinks Henry is ours,” I said.
Declan looked terrified. “Yeah, don’t ever be wanting nappies and zippies.”
“Nappies and zippies?”
“Diapers and strollers.”
“You don’t want kids?”
“Jaysus, no.” He shook his head for emphasis. “Never getting married.”
That shouldn’t surprise me, yet Declan was so good with kids, people in general. I envied his ability to remain calm while soothing others and always knowing precisely the right thing to say.
Henry’s parents entered the lobby. Big Henry looked more like how I pictured a mortician than Monsieur Morbid did, and it wasn’t merely the large urn in his hands, his Eternal Slumber Award. He wore a dark suit, his dark hair combed back, and his gentle blue eyes put you at ease. Brooke’s green eyes were glazed over from too much wine, and her black stilettos dangled from the straps hooked on her finger.
“There’s my baby.” She embraced her son, leaving a red lipstick smear on his cheek.
Henry recounted the evening once again. He slid me a nervous glance, verifying if I was going to mention his disappearing act.
I gave him a reassuring smile that his secret was safe.
“Sounds like you had fun,” his dad said.
“Congratulations again.” A guy gestured to Big Henry’s urn, and they walked off chatting about the Dallas Cowboys-themed funeral that had won him the prestigious award.
Brooke looked like her son’s enthusiasm might knock her on her drunken ass. “Well, you sure are wound up. Did you have soda with dinner?” She directed the question at me, not Henry.
“Sorry.” If you didn’t want your kid to drink soda, you should have told me. The only direction I was given was to keep him away from balloons.
Henry thrust the Halloween flyer at his mom. “Look. Can we go to the party?”
“Sure.” Brooke grabbed her son’s hand and teetered over to join her husband without even a thank you for watching her kid.
Henry glanced back at me. “Thanks. I had fun.”
I smiled, giving him a little finger wave good-night.
Heather trudged in with windblown cheeks and hair, exhaustion weighing heavy on her shoulders and eyelids. “Please tell me your dinner went well.” She hitched a bulging black tote up on her shoulder.
I nodded. “It did.”
“Thank God. I have to go take care of Leslie Simmons. She puked on the boat. Motion sickness.” So Declan hadn’t been kidding about the escargot floating in the Seine. “She took a taxi back instead of a bus, and I picked her up some meds. I’m going to drop them off, then crash. My husband wanted to have Skype sex tonight. Do I look like I’m in the mood for that?” Luckily, she continued talking, because I had no clue how to respond to her disheveled appearance or her having video sex with her hubby. “Caity, be here at eight thirty tomorrow to help Declan load buses. Eat breakfast beforehand. I may need Declan to hang back and help me, so you might be flying solo on the tour.”
Flying solo? I’d looked forward to visiting Versailles, my first French palace-slash-castle, but I didn’t want to fly solo with fifty attendees. A sense of doom made my stomach drop. Marie Antoinette and King Louis—whatever number he’d been—had likely experienced a similar feeling with the guillotine looming in their futures.
Heather headed toward the elevators.
“I need a drink,” I told Declan.
“How about one at the top of the Eiffel Tower?”
“It’s still open?”
“The tower’s open till midnight. Not sure about the bar.”
“We can always get a drink afterwards.”
If I’d made it through the magician restaurant and Henry’s disappearing act without alcohol, I could last a few more hours.
Chapter Five
I peered up at the soft amber lights twinkling against the iron grid structure stretching up into Paris’s evening sky. Pictures, movies, paintings—nothing prepared you for the sheer magnitude and beauty of the Eiffel Tower. I was getting dizzy from staring up but couldn’t drag my gaze away.
“I’ve never seen so much bling in my life.” I snapped several pics. A stiff neck finally forced me to look away. Black dots danced in front of my eyes before Declan’s amused smile finally came into focus. “What?”
“Didn’t realize how cynical I’d become. Everything is so exciting for you. A refreshing attitude.”
“That’s because I’ve never been anywhere.”
I headed over to a crowd of tourists browsing T-shirts and knit berets. The knit caps were all the rage back home this season. Only eight euros. I bought a navy one and a T-shirt with a pink Eiffel Tower that read Ooh La La. These would be my only souvenirs, except for a copy o
f Renoir’s Young Girls at the Piano from the Musée d’Orsay if I worked up the nerve to sneak back in there. I’d rather save for my Killybog travel fund. The T-shirt was also a necessity, since it could be worn as jammies. The only item I’d forgotten to pack. While working Rachel’s Dublin meeting, she’d taught me the importance of checklists, so I’d compiled a packing list, leaving off pj’s. Better than forgetting my undies and socks like I had on that trip.
I slipped off my jean jacket and blue scarf and threw on the oversized T-shirt. I tucked it into my jeans as best I could. I placed the beret on my head and struck a pose, modeling my new outfit. “Do I look très chic?”
Declan stepped closer and repositioned the beret. The scent of his musky cologne filled my head. I sucked in a deep breath. A curious glint sparkled in his blue eyes.
“Yoga breathing,” I lied. “Good for the lungs and mental health.”
He nodded faintly, lowering his hands from my cap, yet remaining directly in front of me. Our gazes locked. Our noses were just inches apart, like the infamous near kiss in his Dublin hotel room. His breath warmed the faint chill on my cheeks. My heart went berserk. He stepped back, glancing away, breaking our trance. The second time he’d backed away when we’d gotten too close for comfort.
Next time, I needed to be the one who backed off first.
Would there be a next time?
It wasn’t that I wanted to kiss Declan and jeopardize our friendship. He was the one into one-night stands, not me. So it bugged me even more that he didn’t want to kiss me when he supposedly kissed every other woman on the planet. However, his sleeping around showed a serious lack of respect for women, and I’d vowed to never allow a man to disrespect me again.
Wanting to end the awkward moment, I asked an honest-looking middle-aged British couple to take our picture.
“Say, fromage,” I said, sweeping my hand toward the tower positioned between Declan and me. He’d probably visited the landmark a dozen times, but he was a good sport, laughing at my goofy poses. The couple returned my camera, and I scrolled through the pics, finding the best shot. “Do you mind if I tag you on Facebook?” I asked Declan.
