A French Star in New York (The French Girl Series Book 2)

by Anna Adams

  “Yes, I think it’s important for female singers to take a stand. I always encourage my female artists to participate in the creative process. They’re not products, they’re human beings.”

  Maude continued past Alan, but not fast enough to miss the admiration in the female reporter’s eyes and certainly not fast enough to miss Alan’s self-satisfied smile, and his falsely modest shrug.

  “That was awesome!” Lindsey exclaimed once they were in the kitchen.

  “Good idea to sing Cyndi Lauper instead of ‘Best Fiends Forever,’” Maude put in. “Did you see the TV news helicopter?”

  “It’d be kind of hard to miss,” Lindsey pointed out. “It’s perfect timing don’t you think?”

  “For what?”

  “For you to kiss Thomas. Your duet’s up next isn’t it?” Lindsey checked her watch. “In about ten minutes.”

  Maude gulped. She’d gladly pushed the dare to the confines of her memory during the last hectic twenty-four hours. Of course, Lindsey wouldn’t forget and had reminded her at the most opportune moment.

  “You didn’t think you were off the hook now, did you?”

  “No, of course not,” Maude answered as if the dare were just to hop on one foot. “I’ll do your dare.” She wouldn’t be accused of being a coward. Not by Lindsey Linton.

  “Great! See you later. And put on some chapstick, you don’t want chapped lips for your first kiss with Thomas.”

  She needed to find Matt first, but try as she might, he was nowhere to be seen. Not even in the men’s room where she checked as a last resort, receiving glares and growls from its occupants. Where was he? And why, oh, why hadn’t she told him sooner?

  The remaining notes of Thomas’ song were stolen by the night air, while Maude left the fourteenth floor and joined him. Each step laden with lead, she neared the roof, fighting the urge to turn and run in the opposite direction. She’d sunk to new lows. To think she’d brazenly threatened Thomas with her fist if he dared pucker his lips on Karrie’s Korner. And now she had to pucker hers! Well, the stars must be mocking her. Stars had no power in a city where lampposts shone brighter anyway. She avoided the musicians, the cables, she ignored the helicopter, shut her ears to the waves of hysteria crashing against Soulville Tower.

  She’d reached him, and the song was fainting. Maude faced the cameras then turned back to Thomas, leaned forward and kissed him full on the lips.

  *****

  Matt is looking for her. He’d gone out for an hour searching for an open florist, searching for the perfect yellow rose to offer her. He finds Lindsey. Lindsey tells him she’s on the rooftop. She notices the rose he’s holding in his hand. She frowns, then smiles, but he sees neither. At first all he hears is the frenzy. The whoops, the whoos, the phews. As if something big is happening. He attributes it to the concert. But nobody’s singing. He arrives at the rooftop. Thomas’ lips are pressed against Maude’s. His arm encircles her waist. His hand is in her hair. He tilts her head. She kisses him back. Police sirens wail, knifing the night’s noisy jubilation.

  Matt leaves before they separate. The rose ends up in the first trash can on his path.

  *****

  Maude breaks away from Thomas, lending her ear to the siren’s wail.

  “The police are here!” she cries, her eyes shining brighter than New York City lampposts. Police breaking up a concert was the ultimate coolness.

  “Female Empowerment Concert interrupted!” Maude cries, waving her arms. “But we’ll say goodbye with music!”

  She signals to the musicians to resume their music. Peering down, she sees them. Policemen in tight uniforms the color of the night dispersing joyful criminals with music notes smeared on their fingerprints. Not too fast, not too slow. One taps his foot to the beat of the drums, the other nods and disperses the crowd with mild roughness.

  “Goodnight, Manhattan!”

  Maude turns away and rushes back inside. She looks for Matt everywhere, in his creation room, in the kitchen, but he is once more nowhere to be found.

  “If you’re looking for Matt, he’s gone.” Lindsey appears in the lobby. “He left Soulville, and he looked pretty angry.” And she was pleased.

  When Maude got home that night, Jazmine handed her a letter.

  “Matt dropped this by a little while ago.”

  Maude,

  I realize now Jazmine was right. I’ll continue working on my album in my private home studio. You can work in my creation room for as long as you like.

  Matt

  Maude turned to Jazmine.

  “What did you tell Matt?” she asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did you talk to him about me?”

  Jazmine seemed uncomfortable and closed her magazine.

  “I told him he should move on like I did with Jonathan.”

  Maude remained silent for several moments. Anger and disappointment surged through her, but she couldn’t speak.

  “I know you won’t like hearing what I have to say, but_—_”

  “Don’t apologize.” Maude raised her hand. “I’m the only one to blame. We should’ve stopped seeing each other a long time ago. I guess, I just refused to see how difficult it must have been for him. This is for the best.” Maude nodded trying to convince herself. But a ball of sorrow curled up in Maude’s throat. She crumpled Matt’s note and buried her ball of sorrow in the nearest trash bin.

  Chapter 9

  “Dad, what do you mean you don’t want me to come?” Victoria paced the living room her phone glued to her ear. “You just drop this news and then you tell me everything’s fine?”

  Cynthia entered the living room, her yoga session disrupted by her mother’s phone conversation or perhaps by the general cloud presiding over the Baldwin family. Maude was watching a recording of Aida from 1989, sound off, memorizing Amneris’ every move. As the figurehead of Verdi’s dramatic repertoire, Dolora Zajick was a solid reference for Maude, awed at the thought of stepping into the shoes of the great American mezzo-soprano.

  “What’s going on?” Cynthia asked.

  Maude paused the DVD and turned to Cynthia with a shrug. “I don’t know. Auntie Vic’s been yelling at Elder Williams for thirty minutes now.”

  “I’m coming over right now!” Victoria threatened.

  “Is something wrong with him?” Cynthia asked worried.

  “Whatever it is, he doesn’t want Auntie Vic to come.”

  “You want her to come?” Victoria asked astounded. She glanced at Maude furtively then turned away. “I’ll talk to her. I’ll call you later.” Victoria hung up her phone with a sigh and shook her head.

  “What’s wrong, Mom?”

  Victoria walked over to them and sat on the couch.

  “Your grandfather had a heart attack,” Victoria stated as calmly as she could. “He’s fine.” She added, anticipating the girls’ questions. But her face mirrored theirs, racked with silent worry. “But he’s being so . . . Elder Williams.” She sighed, rubbing her forehead with her palm.

  “Is he at the hospital?” Maude asked. She’d never been to the hospital except the day Mrs. Ruchet had her twins. It is usually said people look tiny in hospital beds, frail and vulnerable. But it hadn’t been the case then. If anything, Mrs. Ruchet had seemed larger than ever, swallowing the hospital bed under her weight.

  “No, he’s back home with a private nurse,” Victoria explained. “Elder Williams doesn’t do hospitals. But he doesn’t want us to come see him.”

  “I’m hardly surprised,” Cynthia replied. Elder Williams put pride before anything, even when he was sick.

  “I am,” Victoria answered with severity. “I get his whole proud stance when he’s home with the flu, but after a heart attack?”

  “We should go anyway,” Maude stated. He was her grandfather after all, and despite their acrimonious first meeting, she worried about his health.

  “Actually, he only wants to see one person. You.” She pointed to Maude her brow deepe
ned into worry. “For a couple of days, a week tops.”

  Maude’s eyes widened in surprise. Her?

  “Since when are you best friends with Elder Williams?” Cynthia mocked. She felt no desire to be in Maude’s position. Spending entire days at a time with Elder Williams would prove a challenge, even for someone with as much self-control as Cynthia possessed.

  Victoria leaned closer to Maude. “I know Elder Williams and you aren’t on the best of terms, I know he didn’t apologize for what happened—_”

  “—I’ll go,” Maude interrupted. She nodded, as if agreeing once more would chase the inexplicable flutter in her chest.

  “You will?” Cynthia and Victoria shared a look of disbelief. Obviously Maude didn’t know what she was getting into. There was no guarantee Elder Williams would relent about his position on the French or be any more agreeable than he’d been in the past.

  “I’ll go for a week or two.”

  “He’ll just be wanting company. The nurse will take care of his medical needs. And of course you can continue at Soulville like you’re used to. He’ll need you most in the evenings. He hates dining alone.”

  “Don’t worry Auntie Vic,” Maude laughed. “I’ll be fine. If Elder Williams needs me I’ll be there, even if it makes Soulville unhappy. And don’t forget I’ve had my share of experience with cranky patients. I’ll be fine,” she repeated.

  And she was glad he showed an interest, because she’d wanted to get to know him since she’d heard about him, his grumpiness, his wisdom, and his cranky irony. She was ready to make an effort if he did. This was perhaps the closest she’d get to an apology.

  Maude packed her bags and left the same evening.

  When she stepped into her grandfather’s home, the curtains were drawn, the house inhabited by silent gloom.

  Elder Williams sat in the living room facing his television tuned in on Living with the Livingstons. He noticed Maude entering with her bag and greeted her with a nonchalant wave of his pipe. He appeared to have lost weight, but nothing alarming, she made a mental note and filed it in her mind for her aunt.

  “Funny, I didn’t picture you to be a Stoner,” Maude said referring to the hardcore fans of Lila and Lola Livingston. She didn’t imagine he could find anything on television appealing, but him having similar tastes to Mrs. Ruchet was an unexpected, if not unpleasant, surprise.

  “I enjoy witnessing the gradual decay of American intelligence. It hit new lows when you set foot on the show.” He kept his eyes glued to the TV screen, huffing his way through his pipe.

  “Nice to see you, too Elder Williams,” she answered with a slight shrug he didn’t see. She decided humor was the best way to neutralize her grandfather’s cutting acidity. Besides, there was little she could argue to defend her pathetic appearance on the show.

  “Your guest room’s ready. First floor. Don’t move or mess anything up.”

  “Here I thought you wanted me to feng shui your house,” Maude answered with a sarcastic smile. “Don’t worry, I won’t breathe unless you allow me to,” she added.

  “Is that how you address your ailing Elder?”

  “There isn’t an elderly speck about you,” Maude assured. Before he could react, she reached down and plopped a kiss on his wrinkled forehead.

  “There. Now you can thunder all you want about my awful French manners, and how ‘that French Granddaughter’ of yours has no sense of decorum, and how you would’ve received a good whipping if you’d talked to your grandfather the way I did. I would answer I’m pretty sure your grandfather didn’t watch the decay of American intelligence with such positive engrossment.”

  Without waiting for a reply, Maude thrust her bag over her shoulder and headed upstairs.

  And that was how Elder Williams and “that French Granddaughter” of his embarked on their unlikely cohabitation.

  *****

  Dead coffeemakers, dead photocopy machines, dead silence. This rare occurrence is commonly called office afterlife.

  Cynthia enjoyed working after hours. The empty office was a pleasant environment. She could enjoy her Moroccan tea without being mocked for not drinking coffee as was the norm in legal departments all around the world. Her colleagues were nice, and they all banded together against their tyrannical boss, but her alone time at the office was similar to a prized paternal feeling of peace when a newborn finally falls asleep, a call to enjoy the silence.

  Her back against the kitchen counter, Cynthia cuddled her cup, vapor licking her nostrils, and took a sip of her Moroccan Tea. Hot, hot, hot! She waved her hand over her burnt tongue.

  “Enjoying your tea?”

  Cynthia was a master in Zen attitude so that she didn’t startle, and not a drop of the liquid content spilled on her suit.

  “Mr. Siwel! I didn’t know you were still here.” She turned a guilty glance to the tiled floor: she’d been looking forward to her alone time before finishing another exhausting case.

  “I was out, but I came back with food.” Daniel lifted his right arm, clutching a paper bag in his hand. Fast food smells scratched Cynthia’s olfactory sense, and her nose scrunched into a disapproving frown.

  “I don’t eat fast food, and if you often eat at the office, neither should you. You’re in your twenties now, so you can afford to eat what you want but just wait a couple of years of this hectic job and eating McDonald’s.”

  “Is that your thing?” Daniel asked, opening his brown bag.

  “What is?”

  “Crapping on people’s fun with your sensible sermons.”

  Cynthia looked at him with sharp surprise. “I don’t . . . ” She suspended her breath. Her mind drifted back to Jazmine’s angry outburst at the movies and rattled the columns of her moral fortress.

  “Anyway, I bought you a salad. I know young women your age are always trying to lose weight.”

  “Is that your thing? Making girls feel insecure by hinting they’re overweight?”

  Daniel choked on his cheeseburger and coughed loudly, tapping his chest like a mad drummer. If anything, he thought Cynthia looked perfect as she was.

  “I wasn’t, I would never . . . ” He noticed the mischievous twinkle in her eye and left his sentence hang in the air.

  Cynthia took a triumphant bite out of her salad. They ate in silence for the next couple of minutes, only their rhythmic chewing could be heard. Both tried to chew as silently as possible, but in office afterlife, every sound is magnified. Cynthia was thinking it would be best if she came up with a topic, any topic, fast. But all she could think of was how she wouldn’t mind running her hand through his curls and she couldn’t get that single thought out of her mind.

  “Do you find pleasure in doing the right thing? Don’t you ever want to rebel?” Daniel asked. His dark eyes settled on her face attempting to read what hid behind her calm demeanor.

  “Rebelling for the sake of rebelling is pointless. I choose my battles and when I fight them, I win.” A flash of determination ignited her eyes, and for a moment, distrust tiptoed across Daniel’s mind. The feeling lasted no longer than a short breath but left Daniel bewildered, like Cynthia had made him run a marathon, just to end up telling him walking was all he needed to catch her fleeting form.

  “I surprised my entire family by taking up legal studies. I was supposed to become a musician.”

  “The curse of musical families,” Daniel let out a frustrated sigh. “My father had big plans for me. I was to become another Matt. I preferred the law. No love doctors for me. Being surrounded by paparazzi and fans, not my kind of thing.”

  Daniel raked his hair with a frustrated hand. His other hand drummed his knee before settling, his forefinger and middle finger forming a V, holding an imaginary cigarette. Cynthia could tell he was uncomfortable mentioning his family, a subject she should have been eager to develop, but found herself reluctant to pursue due to Daniel’s obvious unease. She’d found the Achilles heel but felt an uncommon urge to balm it instead of thrusting a poisoned arro
w in it.

  “We have one thing in common at least,” She peered into his eyes. “Our love for the law trumps our love for music.”

  “I love the law. I love it so much I hate it,” Daniel admitted.

  “It changes all the time,” Cynthia moaned, hoisting herself up on the counter. “That’s the worst and the best thing about the law.”

  “Its constant mutation, I agree! Have you ever been to court?”

  “A couple of times with Nathalie Fern. It was like entering a temple.”

  Daniel whistled. “Nathalie Fern, huh? She’s a shark. One of the top human rights lawyers there is. Do you want to specialize in human rights law?”

  “I’m thinking about it,” Cynthia pushed a rebellious strand of hair behind her ear. “I’d love to, actually,” she said, surprised at how comfortable she felt admitting her dreams to Daniel Siwel. It wasn’t something she could talk about with her parents. Her mother was still hoping she’d change her mind, and her father had only music on his. Jazmine thought the law was boring and Maude would’ve listened, but Cynthia couldn’t bring herself to broach the topic with her cousin. Danielle Laurent, Maude’s mother had been a human rights lawyer and had died because she’d gone up against a corrupt Nigerian official. Needless to say the topic of human rights was a highly sensitive one. As for Ben, he didn’t bother with much else than his erhu these days. But speaking to someone who knew, whose voice trembled with passion at the mention of the law, who understood the beauty of a courthouse, the solemnity of the place, that was magic in its purest form.

  “Human rights law was my dream.” Daniel leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. “I was supposed to spend a year in Paris studying international human rights.”

  “So, what are you doing here?” Soulville had its charm, but an opportunity to study in Paris wasn’t to be scorned.

  “Family. What else? They needed me. So here I am.” He rubbed his eyes tiredly.

  Cynthia squirmed on the counter. The similarity of their situations was striking, and it bothered her to see him discouraged, trapped.