The Paris Key
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Praise for The Paris Key
“In her latest novel, Juliet Blackwell offers a compelling story line with a charming protagonist and a deep well of family secrets, all gorgeously set in the City of Lights. The sights and smells of Blackwell’s Paris lingered long after I turned the last page. The Paris Key is an absorbing homage to family, friendship, and, of course, the greatest city in the world.”
—international bestselling author Michelle Gable
“In this witty, warm, winsome novel, Blackwell draws back the curtain on Paris’s complex past while celebrating its vibrant present. Her generation-spanning tale combines intrigue and passion with a flawless ear for language and a gift for sensory detail. If The Paris Key doesn’t make a Francophile of you, nothing will!”
—Sophie Littlefield
“A gorgeously plotted novel woven with luminescent charm, The Paris Key gleams as brightly as the city herself.”
—Rachael Herron
Praise for New York Times Bestselling Author Juliet Blackwell
“[Juliet Blackwell’s] writing style made me feel as though I was with each character, sharing emotions, actions, and anticipating the next moves. When I find an author who can provide this much reader involvement, I put her on my ‘must-read’ list.”
—MyShelf.com
“Juliet Blackwell sits firmly on my list of must-read authors!”
—Victoria Laurie
Also by Juliet Blackwell
THE WITCHCRAFT MYSTERY SERIES
Secondhand Spirits
A Cast-off Coven
Hexes and Hemlines
In a Witch’s Wardrobe
Tarnished and Torn
A Vision in Velvet
Spellcasting in Silk
THE HAUNTED HOME RENOVATION MYSTERY SERIES
If Walls Could Talk
Dead Bolt
Murder on the House
Home for the Haunting
Keeper of the Castle
NEW AMERICAN LIBRARY
Published by New American Library,
an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
This book is an original publication of New American Library.
Copyright © Julie Goodson-Lawes, 2015
Readers Guide copyright © Penguin Random House, 2015
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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:
Blackwell, Juliet.
The Paris key / Juliet Blackwell.
pages cm.
ISBN 978-0-698-18603-3
1. Women—France—Paris—Fiction. 2. Life change events—Fiction. 3. Family secrets—Fiction. 4. Domestic fiction. I. Title.
PS3602.L32578P37 2015
813’.6—dc23 2015009372
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Contents
Praise
Also by Juliet Blackwell
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Epigraphs
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
Chapter Forty-nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-one
Chapter Fifty-two
Chapter Fifty-three
Chapter Fifty-four
Chapter Fifty-five
Chapter Fifty-six
Chapter Fifty-seven
Chapter Fifty-eight
Chapter Fifty-nine
Chapter Sixty
Readers Guide
About the Author
To Sophie “Get ’er done.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many thanks are due to my wonderful editor, Kerry Donovan, who shares my love of Paris and encouraged me to write a standalone novel set in that incomparable city. To my incredible agent, Jim McCarthy: Thank you for having my back and for your unstinting enthusiasm—I can’t wait to see where we go next!
And most of all, to the incomparable City of Lights, and to those who make me feel so welcome in France: the staff of the charming Hôtel Saint-Paul le Marais, my home away from home. Merci beaucoup à Madame Michèle Stauffenegger; Marie-Louise, Marie-Pierre, et Jean Michel Dartevel; Philippe Berrard and Catherine Dargaud of Haut Bana Winery; Olivier Daridon et tout la famille; Remy and Genevieve Bonnet of Bonnet-Huteau Vignerons; Francis Unique and his beautiful family; Liliane and Corrine Garde of Château Haut-Goujon; Marie Claude and David Chauveau of the Domaine de Beausejour; and Daniel Hecquet of Le Logis des Ségur. Special thanks also to la famille LaCroix, and to Marc-Antoine Stauffenegger, his guitar, and his entire family for unforgettable summer nights of wine and song. And speaking of wine and song . . . thanks to Aux Trois Mailletz cabaret, which we never seem to manage to leave before the sun comes up, no matter how we try.
To Carolyn Lawes, sister and friend, unfailing support, and muse. Words aren’t adequate to express what you mean to me, and to my writing. And what is a writer without a writer’s circle? Many, many thanks to Rachael Herron, Sophie Littlefield, Mysti Berry, Victoria Laurie, Gigi Pandian, Nicole Peeler, Adrienne Miller, Martha White, Lynn Coddington
, and Lisa Hughey. I can’t believe I get to rub shoulders with such talented, beautiful, funny, smart women.
To Maddee James and Jen Forbus with Xuni Designs—thank you for the beauty, and the friendship. And to my chosen family: Bee Enos, Anna Cabrera, Mary Grae, Susan Baker, Kendall Moalem, Bruce Nikolai, Shay Demetrius, Suzanne Chan, Pamela Groves, Jan Strout, Wanda Klor, Cathy Romero, Chris Logan, and Brian Casey. And to the entire Mira Vista Social Club, especially Sara Paul, Dan Krewson, and Oscar and his crew. There could be no better neighbors.
Thanks to Jordan H. for allowing me to follow him around while he picked locks. I’m still not much good at it, but I have a newfound appreciation for how hard it is! And to Glenview Lock and Key for their generosity to our elderly neighbors through the Rebuilding Together project—and to putting up with my incessant questions. To Karen Smyers, Jungian therapist and anthropologist extraordinaire, for the analysis of Fitcher’s Bird and discussions of sand tables and dream therapy. And to the Basque Library of the University of Nevada, Reno.
Much gratitude to Amy Vaudreuil for tracking down the source of the Victor Hugo quote used in the epigraph, which was taken from his notes on the city of Paris rather than from one of his novels. It was driving me crazy!
To Robert Lawes, whose strength and indomitable spirit continues to amaze and inspire me. This past year has been something of a rough road, but you’ve tackled it like the motorcycle-riding, downhill-skiing, jet-piloting former Marine you are. To my sister Susan Lawes, who taught me an early love of reading, and who remains a tireless cheerleader for my writing.
To my son Sergio Roberto, who has become a loving, deeply thoughtful man who works hard for what he believes in. Thank you for making me, always and ever, an exceedingly proud mama.
And finally, many special thanks to Eric Paul Stauffenegger, for his editing of the French in this book . . . and for so very much more than that: Thank you for welcoming me to your native country, and into your heart. Merci pour l’amour et la joie et la amitié. Et le vin! Encore et toujours . . .
He who contemplates the depths of Paris is seized with vertigo. Nothing is more fantastic. Nothing is more tragic. Nothing is more sublime.
—VICTOR HUGO
Paris is always a good idea.
—AUDREY HEPBURN IN Sabrina
Chapter One
Her uncle Dave always used to say, “Remember the locksmiths’ code, Genevieve. Never reveal the secrets you find behind locked doors, and never—ever!—abuse the power to open a lock.”
Genevieve pondered this morsel of advice while Jason, her soon-to-be-ex-husband, spoke.
Uncle Dave had been on her mind a lot lately. For one thing, she kept dreaming about kneeling before a locked door, hearing his ever-patient voice in her ear as she tried repeatedly (and unsuccessfully) to pick the lock. For another, her uncle’s recent death had left her with a hollow feeling: sorrow mixed with regret.
Dave’s passing also left his Parisian locksmith shop unattended.
“I’ve never met a person as locked down as you are,” Jason was saying as he leaned back against the stainless-steel Sub-Zero refrigerator (wide enough for party platters) that cost as much as Genevieve made in a month. His stance was belligerent—hands on hips, gym-toned chest thrust forward—but his liquid blue eyes conveyed contrition mixed, annoyingly, with a touch of self-conscious pity. “How can you even think of moving to Paris while we’re in the middle of this? There are papers to sign, and lawyers to meet with.”
“Sounds like the perfect time to leave the country,” she said, “you have to admit.”
“Be reasonable, Genie.”
She winced. Yet another reason to move to Paris: The French knew how to pronounce her name. Genevieve. Not Jenny or Genie or even Jen-a-veev, but Zhohn-vee-ev. Was it any wonder her marriage hadn’t worked out? That’s what she got for marrying a man who couldn’t—or wouldn’t—say her name properly. But he wasn’t the only one; even her best friend, Mary, called her by her surname: Martin.
All things considered, Genevieve decided, it was her mother’s fault. They weren’t French, after all. Her mother had spent a few weeks visiting her brother in Paris the year before Genevieve was born; a framed photo had rested on her bureau: Angela and Dave, him smiling and goateed, her with wind-whipped hair. The two of them were bookended by gargoyles high atop the Cathedral of Notre-Dame, the city laid out in the background. But was that one trip abroad reason enough for her parents to saddle their daughter with such a hard-to-pronounce name?
“It’s not as though I planned my uncle’s death,” Genevieve said, consciously trying to accede to Jason’s wishes, to be reasonable. “Someone needs to go tend to things.”
“He has a daughter, doesn’t he? Let her take care of it.”
“Catharine doesn’t know the first thing about locks.”
“And you do, don’t you? Sometimes I think that’s all you care about.”
Out of habit, she reached up to play with the rusty key that had hung on a copper chain around her neck ever since her mother’s untimely death, when Genevieve was fourteen. To modern eyes it looked nothing at all like a key. More like a hunk of rusted metal.
Around here, often, this key put people in mind of the Oakland hills conflagration, the wildfire that ate through hundreds of splendid homes and claimed twenty-five souls. In the smoldering aftermath, heartbroken owners went back to sift through the rubble, collecting items from their former homes that they would later incorporate into shrines: twisted slabs of glass, slumped shards of metal, half-burned albums with a few miraculously intact photographs of Grandma.
And keys: some twisted and charred, others still jingling in pockets, ready to open doors that no longer existed.
Years later, having rebuilt with better, treeless views of San Francisco, homeowners displayed these fragments of their old lives in niches, or hung them by fishing line from pieces of gray driftwood. While sipping cocktails they would retell the story: the unseasonably warm day, the shifting winds, the panicked warnings to evacuate. They would speak of wrangling cats and grabbing heirlooms and locating passports; of fleeing down the snakelike turns of hillside roads, a wall of black smoke at their backs. They would think, but not say aloud, that it was unfair that their beautiful homes should have blazed in the inferno while the rest of Oakland—much of it due for a good burning—had remained intact.
The key Genevieve wore around her neck had nothing at all to do with the Oakland hills fire, but she let her neighbors assume it did. It was easier that way. All she had to say was “the fire,” and people nodded and looked away. They treated her with hushed tones, allowed her to avoid their eyes.
“Genie, are you even listening to me?”
“Tell you what,” Genevieve said. “I’ll make this easy: All I want is a ticket to Paris and enough money to take over my uncle’s locksmith shop. You can keep the rest.”
Suspicion clouded Jason’s beautiful eyes.
Genevieve had always thought herself smarter than her husband, her mind able to make quick logical leaps that evaded him. Still, he was much more successful than she. Jason was in software sales. He wooed his clients with truffles made from organic free-trade cocoa, hand rolled in powdered sugar by single mothers at a women’s collective in Berkeley. Jason felt virtuous when he bought these chocolates, the clients felt good about eating them, and, fueled by sugar and caffeine, they placed software orders in record numbers. “It’s a win-win,” was one of Jason’s favorite phrases, and he lived by that credo. But then, fate had been kind to him: Tall and well built, with light brown hair and blue eyes, he worked out religiously, dressed fashionably, and had a knack for remembering names. Nothing in Jason’s experience had suggested that life was anything other than a series of mutually beneficial relationships. Win-win.
What business had someone like Genevieve, she wondered for the hundredth time, had marrying a lighthearted optimist?
A thick sludge covered the bottom of her coffee cup. A freebie from a fund-raiser luncheon, the mug was the perfect size and weight, and she relished the way the palm of her hand cradled it, telegraphing the warmth of its contents to her blood in the mornings. Because although their house was expensive, it was old and drafty and always cold, built in a stand of redwoods on a hill overlooking Oakland and the San Francisco Bay. On a clear day an astute viewer might catch a glimpse of the Golden Gate Bridge, an earthy shade of Tuscan red gleaming in the sunshine. But clear days were rare. The house was engulfed by fog most mornings and by clouds most afternoons, and the soaring trees reached up into the haze and dripped dew onto the roof, the water tap-tap-tapping in a steady cadence that Genevieve found pleasant but Jason did not.
Genevieve knew Jason would have preferred to toss her old chipped mug into the trash in favor of the creamy bisque coffee set he had bought in a tiny Italian boutique in San Francisco’s North Beach not long after they married and moved into the house with the blue door. “It’s called Bianco de Bianco,” Jason had said, showing off the ceramics to their guests as they lingered over after-dinner coffee. “You mean ‘white’?” Mary had asked in her signature dry tone. Genevieve had snorted; then, in penance, had remarked upon the set’s simple, refined beauty. That was back when she had been careful to protect her husband’s feelings, his pride. Not anymore.
Clearly this marriage is no longer mutually beneficial. Genevieve wondered whether the woman Jason had been seeing, Quiana, found their affair a win-win.
“Are you serious?” Jason asked, looking at Genevieve out of the corner of his eye. “All you want is a locksmith shop?”
“Maybe I’ll take this cup, too.”
She could almost make out the sound of wheels grinding as Jason considered her offer, searching for the catch. “How much are we talking? What’s a locksmith shop in Paris worth?”
Priceless. “I’m not sure. I’ll need to speak with my cousin Catharine and figure out the details. For the moment, I just want the plane ticket.”