Jan scoffed, “He is obviously misinformed."
“Hush. ‘I am forever grateful for your willingness to aid me in a very private matter. My team leader will be in contact with you very soon. I am offering each of you involved a ten-thousand dollar fee, plus expenses, which will be deposited where you wish, no matter the outcome. I thank you from the bottom of my heart and hope we meet one day. Juan’. ”
“Read that again, especially the money part.”
I did, then said, “I wonder if Agent Po Thang gets the ten grand, too?”
Po Thang yawned. He has little use for cash, only what it can buy in the way of treats. Jan and I shared a yuk, but I was serious and sent an answer to clear up the fact we had four on our team, and asked what the “plus expenses” covered. I am the queen of padding an expense account, but a girl has to plan ahead.
Another email came back almost immediately, from a different address, but still originating in Mexico. It wasn’t signed.
“Whoa, get this. They, whoever they are, want us to be ready to roll day after tomorrow. A car will pick us up here and drive us to Nice. The driver will know which hotel we'll be in, and further instructions are to follow. We’re to keep a low profile while in Nice, order meals from room service and not leave the hotel.”
“Yeah, like that'll work. Who's gonna walk the danged dawg?”
“I’m sure the hotel has people for that. Unless they dump us in a dump, which I doubt, since they expect us to order room service. Interesting. Mystery trip, coming up!”
“I'm gonna call Chino right now so he’ll probably be still out counting those whales of his. That way I can leave a message without getting into a row of some kind, but what will I say? Hey, Chino, I’m staying in France indefinitely doing God only knows what?”
“Wing it.”
She hit a key on her phone and waited. I leaned in to listen and after a few clicks and weird noises I heard the distinctive Mexican ring. But only once. “¡Querida! I miss you.”
Jan mouthed, “Crap.”
I twirled my finger for her to keep talking so he couldn’t ask too many questions.
“Oh, hi, Chinito,” Jan cooed, using her personal diminutive for him. “I miss you, too. But, uh, I have to tell you something.”
“Do not worry, mi corazón, I already know you will be delayed.”
“You do?”
“Yes, but we cannot discuss it on the phone.”
They talked about whales, the weather, and then started some mush talk, so I quit listening to his end. Finally they exchanged sappy lovey-dovey bye-byes in English and Spanish before she ended the call and stabbed a finger at me. “Just what the hell have you gotten us into this time? Chino can’t discuss it on the phone? What? The NSA gives a big crap what I’m doing?”
“Got me. Jenks was also cryptic. The only defense I have is that it was he who told me about it, so it must be safe and on the up and up. Right?”
She did a double head tilt. “Yeah, I guess so. And Chino certainly wouldn’t agree to anything that would put me in danger. That's your job.”
I let that jab slide. “Curiouser and curiouser. Let's hit the sack, we've got one more day in Paris and I want to get in some power shopping, then we gotta pack up and head south, to Nice of all places. I was there once and it’s très cool. Not as chic as Cannes, in my opinion, but as an international destination, it’s way up there.”
“Yeah, it should be pretty damned excitin’ from our hotel room window.”
“Oh, please. Since when did we start following orders? What are they gonna do, lock us in and post a guard?”
By the time Po Thang and I dragged ourselves back to the apartment the next evening, my feet were sore and my bank account had taken a hit, but when I arrived a pile of delivered packages already waited. Service in France can be iffy, but when it comes to upscale restaurants and stores, they excel.
Jan was sorting through a pile of elegant, shiny boxes and gift bags when we arrived. “Jeez, you two. Is there anything left to buy in Paris?”
I headed for the couch and kicked off my shoes. “Two words inspired me: plus expenses.”
She eyed several unopened boxes. “Does ‘expenses’ cover all this wine?”
“But of curse,” I said in my best Inspector Clouseau accent. “We are, after all, in France, and in danger of being under house arrest in a hotel for who knows how long. We must prepare for the worst.”
“Makes sense to me. What's in this one?” She picked up a large box labeled, la moustache, Paris. “Dog food, treats, shampoo, and,” I leaned over, removed the bow and opened the box, “check this out! When I dropped le dawg off for a spa day of his own this morning, I found this treasure.” I held up a black doggie hoodie printed with an “I Heart Paris” logo. “And, since it’s getting chilly out, I bought one for each of his humans, as well.”
“And what’s all this?” She picked up one of many shiny chic bags.
“Look inside. You shoulda come with me.”
“Seems like it. Oh, well, Rhonda and I went for a massage and I'm all packed to go, at least.” She opened the large bag and pulled out an assortment of tee shirts. “Souvenirs?”
“Thought I'd take some back to the Baja for the guys who work on the boat. They love this kind of thing.”
She grabbed a pink and black bag with an F logo and peered inside. “Oooh, Fauchon foody stuff. The French really know how to market expensive treats. We've got your pâté de foie gras, truffles, jelly— ”
“Puleez! That's fig confiture, you Barbarian.”
“Okay, let me rephrase that. Expensive jelly. All this is making me hungry. What do you say we go out tonight instead of messing up the kitchen?”
“Sure. Where?”
“I’ve heard about a place nearby that sounds good.”
“Count me in. Rhonda coming?”
“She said she used up all her calories for this week last night.”
“I may have to garrote her. There is nothing worse than hanging out with a reforming chubbette.”
“Oh, yes, there is. Hanging out with a perpetual chubbette.”
I whacked her on the head with a wad of tissue paper. “At least she hasn't gone vegan. Yet. That would be the very last straw.”
“Cut her some slack, Hetta. She's looking good and feeling great about herself, probably for the first time in her life. And, quite frankly, there is nothing worse for someone on a diet than hanging out with you.”
“Fine, I'm due a good dinner without a calorie Nazi at the table anyhow. I walked my ass off today.”
Jan bent and peered around me. “Looks the same to me. Big.”
This set us to giggling, so Po Thang did his little wiggle dance around us to show his support before sticking his nose into another slick-looking bag with dog bones printed all over it. I snatched it away, took out a box of bisque de caviar, which is French for overpriced dog biscuit, and gave him one. “I’m taking this out of your paycheck, you know.”
“Ha! You're taking his whole paycheck.”
“I’m his guardian.”
Jan plucked out another bisque and dangled it in front of Po Thang. “What do you think, Boy? Do you want your Auntie Jan to take care of your finances? I am a CPA, after all. Your so-called guardian here? She'll rob you blind.”
“Wouf.”
“I'll take that as a oui. I'll get your paw print later, as soon as I draw up some papers for you to sign. In the meanwhile, let's just shake and seal the deal with another treat.” Po Thang raised his paw.
“Clear cut bribery of a minor! He wants his lawyer.”
“And I want dinner. Let's go!”
Chapter Five
After lots of back and forth about taking Po Thang with us, we figured since we were leaving town the next day anyhow, we’d take a chance and bring him along. Hopefully the eatery Jan picked hadn’t heard of him yet.
As we made our way through a thick fog of smoke thanks to the usual complement of cigarette puffers
gathered right by the front door, I covered my nose with a new cashmere shawl I'd thrown around my shoulders to ward off the chill. France finally got around to outlawing smoking inside their restaurants and bars, but judging by the crowds outside, a law hadn't put a dent in their habit.
The small café was almost empty, due to the fact, I figured, that everyone was outside smoking between courses. One table however, had a single occupant: Jean Luc d'Ormesson. I glared at Jan, who tried to look innocent, while my dog made a tail-wagging beeline for DooRah. I guess two-timers stick together.
Jean Luc stood. “Quelle surprise!”
“Yeah, what a surprise, indeed,” I snarled.
“Please, join me. I have not ordered as yet.” Three waiters materialized with chairs, including one for Po Thang, and place settings were added with speed and skill.
Jean Luc ordered a bottle of champagne just as Jan's phone rang. Checking caller ID, she said it was Rhonda and answered. “Hey, what’s up?” She listened for a minute, then said, “I'll be right there.”
Putting her phone away, she said, “Sorry, you guys, gotta run. Rhonda’s having some kinda crisis, and I am her support system, so you two have a good time. I’ll take Po Thang with me if you like. Oh, and bring us both a doggie bag, s'il vous plaît?”
I was contemplating following my traitorous friend out the door when the champagne arrived, along with a small plate of delicious-looking canapés. Oh, well, what the heck. Might as well finish off the pâté de foie gras and chase it with ice cold bubbles, I figured, losing my never-ending battle to unearth a scruple or two I was almost certain lurked deep down inside of me. They are slow to surface in the face of fabulous food and expensive wine.
“Go ahead, you Jezebel. And take the mutt.”
“I have no idea what you're talking about, Hetta," Jan said loftily as she turned on her heel and dragged a very reluctant Po Thang with her. He loves pâté, as well.
Coquilles Saint-Jacques arrived, wiping out any hint of moral uncertainty, and I dove in. I hadn't realized how hungry I was, and the scallops in a lemon-wine-butter sauce were perfect. I almost forgot I was breaking baguettes with the enemy.
“I remember all your favorite foods, you know. And many other things about you, as well,” Jean Luc said in that oh-so-sexy French accent of his.
My ears heated as I chased a juicy scallop with a sip of very dry champagne. “What is with it you, Jean Luc? You know I'm in love with Jenks. Why do you insist on setting me up like this?”
“My heart holds hope?”
“You ever heard of stalking?”
He threw his hands up in a very French gesture that encompassed our table and the cafe's charming interior. “I do not think having a meal with an old friend qualifies as stalking. And I do want to be your friend. It is possible, non?”
“Well, gosh, sure. I mean, how can I possibly resist being buds with an adulterer who lied to me, used me, and—” I stopped myself short before saying, “and shattered my heart.” That was something I certainly did not want to admit to him.
His ironic smile, part of his almost-irresistible charm, almost made me forget the almost part. “Might I remind you I was not as yet married when we met, therefore not an adultère.”
I resisted an urge to whop him one with a scallop shell. “Might I remind you that you were hopping out of my bed every morning and rushing off to plan your wedding to someone else? Don’t you think you might have mentioned that?”
“Mais non! I was in love with you.”
This convoluted line of reasoning caused me to snort a laugh, and he joined me, the two of us wiping tears at the blatant absurdity of his statement.
I was still dabbing my eyes with my napkin when I spotted a cart being rolled our way. “I really should walk out on you after that ridiculous piece of Gallic justification you just laid on me, but what the hell, I see steak au poivre vert coming this way, which you well know is my all-time favorite.”
We watched as the waiter seared the steak bleu—still cold in the center—and set it aside on a warm platter. Adding brined green peppercorns from Madagascar, and a soupçon of cognac to deglaze the pan, he then added heavy cream. Transferring the steak back into the sauce, he expertly added more cognac and lit it. One practiced twitch of the wrist doused the fire.
The ritual and aroma aroused unwanted fiery recollections of many a dîner romantique pour deux two decades ago, but I was way too hungry to let the memory of the two of us seated at a small table in my tiny Left Bank apartment, candles and wine in abundance, ruin this meal.
I scarfed down my food in record time, drawing disdainful sniffs from a couple of scrawny French broads nibbling tiny morsels at a nearby table. They were probably wondering what such a handsome and obviously refined one of theirs was doing with a Néandertal like me. Let them eat cake.
When I finally came up for air, Jean Luc was watching me and grinning.
“What?” I asked.
“I'd forgotten what it was like to watch a woman enjoy her food like you do. French women are....”
“Anorexic?”
He guffawed loudly, catching the women's attention again. They pursed their lips, obviously annoyed that such a fine Frenchman found me très amusante. He caught their ennui and said, much louder than is polite in a French restaurant, “Darling, it's late. I suppose we should get home to the children before the nanny puts them to bed.”
I giggled. Jean Luc has a wicked sense of humor that matches my own.
“Yes, let’s forego the crêpes for now,” I suggested in French. “I will make them for you at home. Shall we walk, mon chéri? It is so nice out this evening. Send the chauffeur home.”
He picked up his phone and pretended to alert our driver that we would be walking home tonight. By now the women were trying to act like they were ignoring us, but their body language fairly screamed of jealousy.
Much to my relief, Jean Luc walked me to the front door at his apartment building, passed on the traditional cheek kisses, and said, “À la prochaine, ma chérie.” He turned to leave, then stopped and reached in his pocket. “I brought you a little gift. Actually I bought it twenty years ago, but was afraid to leave it for you when I…left.”
“What? You've kept it for twenty years?”
“It was a goodbye gift I was too cowardly to give you, but please, do me the honor of accepting it now.” He reached over, tied a small bag to my wrist and rushed away.
I murmured, “Au revoir,” in a voice low enough so he probably didn't hear me. Once inside, I leaned against the wall and thought, No, Jean Luc, not until next time. It's goodbye forever. I can't be friends with you, at least not without inevitable benefits.
“So, how’d dinner go?” Jan asked when I walked in and handed her a bag the chef packed. TO GO is not normally in a fine restaurant français’s vocabulary, but they did it for Jean Luc.
“Just the way you planned it. I should be mad at you for setting me up, but I had a fantastic dinner and said a final goodbye.”
“Too bad in a way. I know you love Jenks, but Jean Luc and you have a bond. I can feel it.”
“Yeah? Well, how bonded would you feel about someone who swept you off your feet, moved in with you for a month, and then disappeared to marry someone else the very next week? In a society wedding that had been planned for a year, I might add?”
“I know, I know. But he’s asked your forgiveness and it’s obvious he regrets what he did. My guess is he would jump at the chance to re-ignite the flame. He’s been divorced for a long time.”
“Too late. Being around him makes me...uneasy. I feel disloyal to Jenks.”
Po Thang nosed the food bag. “Okay, okay.” I moved into the small kitchenette, set the table, and opened the carefully wrapped packages to reveal a cold dinner of all kinds of wondrous goodies, including crab legs, pâté de foie gras, and crème brûlée . “Geez, if I wasn’t so stuffed I’d dive into this.”
“Have some wine. Hey, what’s that around your arm?
”
I worked at untying the tiny box from my wrist, but with one hand it proved difficult. “Oh, I forgot. Jean Luc just gave it to me. Whatever it is, he said he bought it for me as a goodbye gift twenty years ago, but was afraid to tell me it was adios, the coward.”
Jan loosened the ribbon and slipped the tiny velvet box over my hand, opened it, snaked out a glittering bracelet, and held it up for inspection. “Ooh, a tennis bracelet.”
A lump formed in my throat as a memory flooded my eyes. Jean Luc and I were walking along the Champs Elysées one balmy evening just days before Jean Luc disappeared from my life. As we strolled hand in hand, we window-shopped. In one elegantly decorated display, this bracelet sparkled under carefully placed lighting, and I’d commented on its beauty. There was no price on it, which immediately told me I’d never be able to afford it.
“Oh my,” I said softly. Mesmerized by the gleam of diamonds glittering in the light of candles Jan lit on the tiny dining table, I sighed deeply. I had once coveted this very piece of jewelry, and was shocked that Jean Luc bought it and held onto it for twenty years. “Jan, this isn’t a tennis bracelet. It’s a belle époque Cartier. I can't keep it.”
“Of course you can’t. It's almost Christmas. Give it to me.”
We were on the road to Nice before dawn.
Jan and I downed a pain au chocolat and coffee before leaving. Rhonda had tea, of course, for chocolate stuffed croissants have at least two-hundred and fifty calories each. Jenks and I’d traveled the French autoroutes recently, so I knew the rest stops along the highway offer mediocre road food, so we stuffed a picnic basket with goodies for the nine or so hour trip. Even with pee-and-stretch stops for human and beast alike, I figured we'd be in our hotel room for dinner. I hoped their room service grub would be decent, but for ten grand I'd live on food scraps.
Okay, French food scraps.
Chapter Six
Nice's Hotel Hotel Negresco has been irresistible to the great, rich and notorious for over a hundred years. The likes of HRH Queen Elizabeth stayed there. James Brown and his wife got into a scandalous row. Rumor has it Bill Gates wanted to buy it but was told he didn't have enough money.
Just Follow the Money Page 3