I'll See You in Paris

by Michelle Gable

  “You don’t know me,” she went on. “But I know you. I think. You see…”

  “You must be Annie. Come on in.”

  “Um, what?”

  Despite her confusion, or because of it, Annie stepped through the doorway. If she ended up hacked to pieces it would be her own damned fault. She’d not mention this in her next e-mail to Eric. That is, if she made it out alive.

  “Yes, I am Annie,” she said. “Annie Haley.”

  “Haley. Really?”

  “Yes. And … how did you know who I was? I’m … I honestly feel like I’m about to pass out.”

  The man laughed. Even that was familiar.

  “My brother,” he said with a grin that also somehow rung bells. “I’d been informed there was a chance you’d show.”

  “Your brother told you I was coming? Who’s your brother? No one knew about this, not even me. The trip was very spur-of-the-moment.”

  “Welp, somehow he knew. The old tosser said that a pretty American had my address and might try to make an adventure out of it. He never imagined you’d go through with it, mind you, but felt I needed due warning.”

  Perhaps it was the smile, or the laugh, or the use of the word “tosser,” but suddenly it struck Annie. She had seen this man before. He’d been at the George & Dragon, talking to Gus.

  “And that, my dear,” Gus had said at the time, “was no friend. That was my brother Jamie.”

  Jamie. Gus’s brother.

  Jamie as in James as in James E. Seton. Annie felt for the luggage tag, her trusty good-luck trinket. All this time she’d been talking to the wrong brother. No wonder Gus was so dismissive of Win. Typical sibling rivalry, not that she knew anything about it.

  “Well.” Annie exhaled and threw out a rigid, unpracticed smile. “You’ll have to tell your brother he misjudged my fanatical interest in the story. Though I suppose you’re acquainted with that level of zealotry. The chasing-down of Lady Marlborough, for instance.”

  Jamie laughed again, same as before, same as Gus.

  “Indeed I’m acquainted with that story,” he said. “Quite well as it happens.”

  “I’m sure you’re busy, but if I could steal a few minutes of your time.”

  “Not busy at all. I’m pleased to have you here. Come. Let’s go to the kitchen.”

  Annie nodded and followed him deeper into the apartment, trying to concentrate on the gleaming parquet floors and ornate crown molding. Better to appreciate the architecture than remember she was in a stranger’s home and that there wasn’t a person alive who knew where she was, or that she was even in France in the first place.

  “Your apartment is beautiful,” Annie said. “Mr. Seton…”

  “Jamie, please.”

  “Jamie, you must wonder why I’m here. I don’t know what your brother told you. I don’t even have a sense of how much he knows.”

  “He had a few guesses as to why you might appear,” Jamie said as they walked beneath one chandelier, and then another. “Then again, he scarcely knows his arse from a hole in the ground.”

  “I’ve heard that one before,” Annie said with a smile as her shoulders loosened.

  They stepped into the kitchen.

  “What can I get you?” he asked. “Café? Vin?”

  “Coffee for now, thanks.”

  “Espresso okay? Have a seat.”

  He gestured toward the long, oak farm table as Annie lowered onto a gray linen chair.

  “So,” Jamie said, grinding the espresso beans. The smell was sharp and warm. Annie’s shoulders relaxed. “Let’s get to it, shall we? Why are you here, exactly?”

  He packed the coffee grounds into a sleek, silver machine.

  “It’s about the book,” Annie told him. “The Missing Duchess.”

  “Ah, the book,” he said. “The famous book. Only joshing on the famous bit.” He fiddled with something on the espresso maker. “Rather, it was the white whale. The fool’s errand of a lifetime. I presume you’ve read the dreadful tome.” He peered over his shoulder. “What did you think?”

  “I enjoyed it. The writing is … excellent. Clever, funny at times.”

  “Humph,” he said.

  “But it’s not about the book. I mean, the book started everything, but it’s the story behind the story that I’m after now.”

  “Always the best part.”

  “Your brother has been telling me about the duchess and the…” She cleared her throat. “The man who came to write about her.”

  “And the girl,” Jamie guessed. “Laurel.”

  “That’s the one. Full disclosure, Laurel is my mom.”

  “Yes.” Jamie nodded. “I’ve gathered.”

  “You’ve gathered?” she said as he delivered the coffee. “From what? We don’t look anything alike and I only just figured it out myself.”

  “You introduced yourself as Annie Haley. Another nosy and animated American with that particular surname. It all made sense.”

  Annie looked at him cross-eyed.

  “How did you … Haley is my mom’s married name. You’ve been keeping track of her all these years?”

  “Not especially.”

  As Annie waited for him to speak, to describe how he could know the “Haley” without keeping track, her stomach roared. When was the last time she’d eaten? Had she even had breakfast that morning?

  Jamie spun toward the refrigerator.

  “You seem hungry,” he said, pushing aside wine bottles and lemons.

  “Oh, um, I just ate,” Annie lied, a blush spreading across her cheeks.

  “Rubbish! Your stomach speaks louder than you do. Hmm, my fridge is in a sorry state. I have positively nothing to eat unless you like olives or gherkins.”

  “Really, I’m not hungry.”

  “A tall tale if ever I’ve heard one. And I’ve heard a few. I have a proposition for you.” He spun back to face her. “Why don’t you relax, watch some telly, enjoy a drink. Wine is one provision I have. In the meantime, I’ll scamper over to the market and pick up a few supplies for dinner. It’s early, but I’m happy to eat now.”

  “That’s very kind, but you don’t have to feed me.”

  “It’d be my distinct honor.” Jamie placed a hand to his heart. “I love to play amateur chef and since my wife left I haven’t a person to cook for.”

  With the words “wife left,” a sneaky, tight-lipped smile crossed Annie’s lips. Win was unattached and so was “Pru.” Was it too ridiculous to think…?

  “You have a wife?” Annie said.

  “Believe it or not, yes. Alas, the ole ball-and-chain’s been in Gstaad for two weeks visiting her parents.”

  “Oh.”

  Annie frowned. So much for that fantasy.

  “Miss her like hell,” Jamie said. “But she didn’t make me accompany her, thank heavens. Bloody awful people, those parents of hers. Extraordinary that they produced such a primo child. So what do you say? Meal for two, made by yours truly?”

  “If you’re sure…”

  Annie was hungry, famished even. She’d have to eat at some point. Maybe it’d slow the spin of her brain.

  “Bien sûr!” Jamie said. “Of course I’m sure. You’d be doing me a favor. Will you be all right alone for a spell?”

  “Yes, of course,” Annie said, thinking of the tapes in her backpack. “I have some work to catch up on. So I’ll be just fine.”

  “Brilliant. Well, young lady, I shall return. I look forward to a delicious meal and an even more delectable chat. Sounds as though my brother’s not talking so I will fill in the gaps. And, believe me, I have plenty to say.”

  Sixty-six

  ÎLE SAINT-LOUIS

  PARIS

  NOVEMBER 2001

  The moment Annie heard the creak of the door she snapped a cassette into the player. It was a tape from the desk drawer at the Grange, freshly repaired by a grumpy man from a clock shop.

  With a thundering heart and the shakiest of hands, Annie swallowed hard and hi
t Play.

  FROM THE RECORDINGS FOUND AT THE GRANGE

  A voice, male: This is a first interview conducted by writer Win Seton.

  A voice, female: Also, the last.

  Male: We’ll see about that. I have with me the lovely and talented Pru Valentine.

  Female: Laurel Innamorati. Let’s get our facts straight.

  Male: Yes, okay. No aliases. I am here with Miss Innamorati at a decayed estate in the derelict hamlet of Chacombe. The last time we were in this location a grievous injustice was committed. Miss Innamorati, how does it feel to return to the scene of the crime?

  Female: Interesting question. Now that you mention it, I am a touch sick to my stomach.

  Male: The interviewer will assume it’s not the company making you ill.

  Female: Feel free to assume what you wish. It won’t make you right.

  Male: Why do you think your stomach is upset? Is it due to “fear” perhaps?

  Female: Yes. I am worried I’ll fall victim a second time.

  Male: Lightning doesn’t strike twice.

  Female: Actually, it often does. I’m quite afraid I’m in a great amount of moral danger.

  Male: You mean mortal.

  Female: No, I mean moral.

  Male: Tell me, what happened the last time you were at the Grange?

  Female: I encountered a suspicious character. He called himself a writer.

  Male: Suspicious indeed.

  Female: This so-called writer, he started out as your basic prowler. Then he ingratiated himself to the woman of the manor. He secured free room and board to boot.

  Male: A real swindler sounds like.

  Female: If you’re being generous. Anyway, he tried to befriend the woman’s guileless, wide-eyed assistant.

  Male: Wide-eyed! Ha!

  Female: The girl didn’t know what she was getting herself into, being sweet and innocent as a lamb.

  Male: Now I think I’m getting sick.

  Female: Within days, the writer began weaving a web of lies and wickedness around her.

  Male: Sounds wretched! Don’t tell me this man is permitted to freely roam the streets?

  Female: He’s free as a bird. This known confidence trickster duped the poor girl into a friendship and then …

  Male: Yes, Miss Innamorati?

  Female: Oh, it’s too horrible to go on!

  Male: But you have to! I insist upon it!

  Female: Well, this con man bamboozled me into falling, GULP, in love with him.

  Male: No! You’re the conned girl!

  Female: I am.

  Male: Please, I must know more details. How did it all start?

  Female: In this very room, less than a fortnight ago, I told him the truth.

  Male: Which was?

  Female: That I loved him.

  Male: Sounds like a very bad decision.

  Female: The worst. But it was and is true and so I had to say it. Even though he is an unclean, unshaven, uncouth cad of a man, I love him. I told him this and then he committed a grievous crime against humanity.

  Male: Which was? I’m almost afraid to hear it.

  Female: He did not return the sentiment.

  Male: What? But you’re so beautiful! Utterly enchanting!

  Female: I know! And, what’s more, he committed this crime in broad daylight, in front of witnesses.

  Male: Dear God. Witnesses? And no one did anything?

  Female: Not a soul.

  Male: The man must’ve lost the plot. Tell me, what happened next?

  Female: Well, we went to Paris.

  Male: You and he? Together?

  Female: Yes. And a third person too.

  Male: You traveled abroad, voluntarily, with a hardened criminal?

  Female: There were extenuating circumstances. We had to help a friend. It was an emergency.

  Male: Oh dear, I hope your friend is okay.

  Female: Yes, she’s fine. She will be anyhow.

  Male: What happened after you got to Paris?

  Female: Well, this man, he continued his crime even as we cavorted—

  Male: Cavorted!

  Female: As we cavorted throughout the city.

  Male: Did you cavort any other places besides?

  Female: I’m not going to dignify that with an answer. What I mean is we dined in cafés, strolled through the quiet, cold gardens, spent hours gazing at da Vincis and Rodins.

  Male: Sounds splendid. “Where we are would be Paradise to me, if you would only make it so.”

  Female: Wharton?

  Male: Hardy. Well, surely after all this so-called cavorting the man finally rectified his crime and declared his love in return.

  Female: He did not!

  Male: I’m gobsmacked! How can that be?

  Female: Truth be told, he’s a bit of a cheese weasel.

  Male: What now?

  Female: A cheese weasel. An idiot. I also believe the man is slow. Socially and mentally. He doesn’t recognize what love is, even when it’s knocked him upside the head.

  Male: And you yourself are an arbiter of the feeling?

  Female: Well, if I’m wrong then the only other explanation is that he didn’t say it because he doesn’t feel it.

  [Long pause]

  Male: Ah hell, Pru, you know—

  Female: Laurel! No aliases.

  Male: Fuck. [Pause] Well, in regard to the writer’s feelings, you are well aware that the two of you are of the same mind. I don’t need to tell you.

  Female: Yes. You do. That’s how this works.

  Male: But you already KNOW it, being a wise woman with vast experience in love.

  Female: Not vast. Very limited, honestly. I thought I knew love—before—but this is something else.

  [Long pause]

  Female: You know, this is an awfully elaborate apology, Mr. Seton. Or are you not planning to apologize at all?

  Male: I have, I believe?

  Female: You’re a shit, you know that? You put me through all of this back-and-forth, saying you wanted it recorded. And for what? You’re not even going to say it?

  Male: Pru …

  Female: No. Screw this. Turn off the tape. You act playful but it’s only because you can’t … you can’t … you can’t have real feelings!

  Male: I have many feelings. Every day even. But I’m a Brit. We’d rather not express them.

  Female: You have big-time problems, Seton. Big. Time.

  Male: I agree. My problems are many and they are big. The greatest of them is that I do love you, Laurel Innamorati, my Valentine. I love you more than I can satisfactorily say, which is why I haven’t been able to say it. Love. It feels so … insipid, wishy-washy. I want a better way to tell you.

  Female: Just tell me the real way. Like a normal person.

  Male: I love you, Laurel.

  Female: I love you too. Now turn off the damned tape.

  Sixty-seven

  ÎLE SAINT-LOUIS

  PARIS

  NOVEMBER 2001

  Dead air ran for several minutes.

  When Annie was sure she’d heard everything, she turned off the tape, then swapped it with one of Gus’s recordings. Her eyes were wet but she had a smile on her face. That was her mom, on the tape, professing her love to a man.

  A man who sounded an awful lot like Gus.

  Annie stood. She peered out the kitchen window toward the street. No sign of Jamie so far. After wiping her eyes with the hem of her shirt, Annie sat back down and, once again, she pressed Play.

  Sixty-eight

  ÎLE SAINT-LOUIS

  PARIS

  FEBRUARY 1973

  “This place isn’t half bad,” Mrs. Spencer said as she promenaded through the front door like the duchess she was. “It’ll do quite well in fact.”

  She shucked off her sable coat and handed it to Win.

  Back in Banbury, Mrs. Spencer stuck with dirty trousers and her ever-present threadbare button-down shirt, when she actually wore a shirt. But her ap
pearance was decidedly less ragtag when donning what she called “traveling attire.”

  In addition to the sable, the century-old debutante wore a peach-colored chemise and was thoroughly decked out in jewels. It must’ve been what Evelyn Waugh meant when he called her “very battered with fine diamonds.” She’d even gone to the trouble of a wig, which hung off the back of her head like an inquisitive but friendly raccoon.

  “Welcome to Maison Seton,” Win said. “I’m glad you find the accommodations acceptable. Young James! We’re here!”

  A pair of feet clopped down the long parquet hallway. Soon a tall and gangly man appeared. To Pru he seemed comprised mainly of dark ringlets and nose. Win tried to remember this, the schnoz, whenever he felt inadequate, though he had to admit Jamie possessed a certain beatnik allure that drove girls bonkers. He was probably the very kind of bloke Pru preferred after her stint at Berkeley.

  “Hello!” Jamie said, grinning.

  In addition to the nose and curls, he was also made of teeth. Jamie was so different from Win who tended toward clean-cut and brawny, his smiles mostly closemouthed.

  “You must be the dazzling Gladys Deacon.” Jamie took Mrs. Spencer’s hand and kissed it. “Oh Lord, you give your former husband’s family a decent name. They should thank the heavens for you. How old are you now, Lady Marlborough? Have you even reached fifty yet?”

  “She goes by Deacon, mate,” Win said. “Or Spencer.”

  “This lovely man can call me whatever he pleases!” Mrs. Spencer sang as she danced down the hallway.

  Win and Pru rolled their eyes in harmony.

  “And you must be Pru,” Jamie said and kissed her on each cheek. “I’m James. Jamie. The preferable of the Seton brothers.”

  “Her real name is Laurel,” Win said, voice coming out like jelly. He did not like his pet name being manhandled by his little brother.

  “Righto. Well, old chum.” Jamie pounded him on the back. “I’m tickled to see you. Thought you might end up staying in Banbury forever. Alas, the favored son has returned. I suppose you want the flat back.”

  “Favored?” Pru couldn’t help but blurt, Win still mostly in her bad graces. “That’s a scary thought and doesn’t speak very well to your own attributes, James. No offense.”

  Jamie chuckled. Mrs. Spencer heard the merriment and wandered back down the hall.