Blame it on Paris

by Lise McClendon

  “Sounds like a dream job,” Merle said. “What kind of law?”

  “It runs the gamut: business, family, a little corporate. What about you, Francie? You still an attorney?”

  Merle snorted. “Till the day she dies.”

  Francie rolled her eyes. “I am the most dedicated of the five Bennett sisters, I’ll give you that. I’ll probably be like old Joshua Ward. My senior partner who keeled over at his desk recently.”

  “Did he die?” Merle asked.

  “No. But I doubt he’ll come back to the firm and that will kill him.”

  The conversation lagged then. The three of them glanced at each other, wondering where this was going. Finally Merle asked the inevitable: “How long are you in Paris, Dylan?”

  “About three more weeks. Enough to see in spring, I hope. I love Paris in the springtime.”

  “Isn’t that a song?” Merle asked.

  Francie said, “I’m here for awhile myself. Maybe we’ll run into each other again.”

  Dylan’s face was pleasant but unreadable at that news. Francie had forgotten to ask if he was married and now was too embarrassed. No doubt he had a passel of kids and a glamazon wife back home.

  He made a noncommittal muttering and excused himself. He backed away toward the stairs, gave a quick wave, and turned to go. They watched him take the stairs two at a time and disappear down the sidewalk above them.

  “What, may I ask, was that?” Merle asked cheerfully.

  “That, dear sister, is the awkwardness of meeting your ex in a strange land.” Francie took her sister’s arm and led her down the cobblestones by the river. The afternoon was cooling. Francie felt a shiver go down her spine. Cold or—?

  “No, Francie. What I’m asking is— what was that reaction? It wasn’t just awkwardness. And the way he hightailed it out of here like you telegraphed some scary message with your eyebrows.”

  Francie laughed. “I’ve been known to scare people with my eyebrows. But I have no idea why he ran away. That was weird.”

  “Without even telling us where he worked, or giving us his card or anything. Like he doesn’t want to see us again, which is frankly impossible.”

  “Yeah, I wonder where he lives now, I mean back in the states.”

  Merle said, “You really haven’t seen him since law school?”

  “I didn’t say that.” Francie had actually seen him a couple times at bar events and was fairly certain he worked not too far from Greenwich. White Plains? “I’ve seen him around. I just didn’t make an effort to talk to him.” A bit of a lie. It seemed like he avoided her at those affairs. She resented it at the time but she had dumped him. What did she expect?

  “I guess he’s fluent in French,” Merle said. “That’s pretty cool.”

  Francie hadn’t remembered that about Dylan. But it never came up back then, they were too busy doing other things.

  “Now where is this adorable apartment you told me about?” Francie asked. “And that adorable Pascal.”

  “Just a few blocks away. Can you walk?” Merle looked at her stupid shoes again.

  “Tomorrow— shoes.”

  The apartment was up a flight of stairs, near a small square a few blocks from Place des Vosges. Francie’s suitcases had been delivered by the Uber driver and left in the lobby. They bumped them up the stairs and unlocked the scuffed door. Inside was a small, two-bedroom apartment with a kitchen about the same size as Francie’s tiny one at home. But this was Paris. They would eat at sidewalk bistros and glittering cafés.

  Merle had already been here for four days but offered Francie either bedroom. They were similar spaces so Francie took the unoccupied one and unpacked her bags. Then they ventured out for supplies. Merle was familiar with French shops and they quickly found themselves in a below-ground grocery, picking out wine and cheese and coffee. Feeling very Parisian, they bought a market basket as well and headed home with it full of good things.

  Since the unexpected appearance of Dylan Hardy, the sisters kept the conversation light. Merle mentioned Pascal was working in the city but he would be in and out for the next couple weeks. Otherwise no plans were discussed. Until, that is, the cheese was laid out on the small coffee table and the wine was poured.

  “This is a great place, Merle,” Francie said, glancing at a framed poster for an art exhibit long past. The furniture was not particularly fashionable or comfortable. Serviceable? Yes. And she didn’t even care. She was in the heart of Paris.

  “It was perfect timing, you coming over, I mean. Did I tell you Annie is having me do a little work for her in Paris?”

  “Yes. That’s awesome. We do like having a purpose.”

  “It’s mostly lobbying. She calls it recruitment, trying to talk to government people about environmental protections. How the US can still work through the states and cities, even if the feds are letting us down. She seems to think she can keep the Paris Accord on the table through sheer force of personality.” Merle rolled her eyes. “Maybe her personality. Not so sure about mine.”

  “You’ll do fine, I’m sure. Do you have appointments set up?”

  “I’ve got a call in to a lawyer who is supposed to hook me up with some of the French administrators.”

  “Well, for whatever reason, this is a super location. Thanks.” Francie raised her glass.

  “It was surprising how many apartments were available,” Merle said. “I guess lots of people have a little pied-à-terre tucked away in Paris.”

  “Really? Who are these people and how can we marry them?”

  Merle smiled. “Unfortunately Pascal does not have one. But maybe Dylan Hardy does.”

  Francie frowned into her glass. “That was a strange encounter.”

  Merle tipped her head. “We don’t have to talk about it— him.”

  Francie sipped her wine and set it down on the table. “I don’t care. What do you want to know?” She crossed her arms, hoping Merle would pick up on the body language. She didn’t.

  “Oh, I don’t know. How long were you together?”

  “Almost two years. We met in a first-year class. Legal writing, I think.”

  “How?”

  “How did we meet? Um, in the hallway, I think. You know, just chatting and flirting.”

  “You never had a difficult time meeting people, Francie. To this day.”

  “Social butterfly that I am.”

  Merle ate some cheese and pronounced it delicious. “You said that before. ‘Social butterfly.’”

  Francie shrugged. “I used to be. I flirted way too much.” Merle said nothing, concentrating on her cheese. “So I need to tell you why I’m here, Merle. It’s not just to get away for awhile. It’s this kid I am trying to help. The one who needs a Paris lawyer.”

  “I wondered. Did Antoine Lalouche help you?”

  “Not really. So I figured I’d work on it from here. Since I’m in Paris.”

  “I wish I knew someone. Maybe this lawyer I’m trying to talk to does. Or maybe Pascal.”

  “We need to seriously network everyone we know. We need a criminal lawyer who speaks English and French. The kid— his name is Reece Pugh— he got some court-appointed lawyer who only speaks French and he has no idea what’s happening.”

  “Damn.”

  “What?”

  “We should have got Dylan Hardy’s card. I bet everybody speaks French and English at his firm. Maybe Dylan could represent him himself.”

  Francie grimaced. She didn’t want Dylan Hardy to represent Reece but she couldn’t really say why. Too much water under the bridge? Or did she just not want to let Dylan win a case for her? Was she really that petty?

  “Okay, maybe not Dylan,” Merle said, eyeing her.

  “Maybe somebody at his firm?”

  “He probably doesn’t do criminal law anyway. They’ll have a French guy for that.”

  “You think they’re all men?”

  Merle sat back. “Let’s do some snooping.”

  Francie sat bac
k, the jet lag of the sleepless overnight flight kicking in hard. She let Merle open her laptop and log into the wifi. Maybe they would find a criminal lawyer right off the bat. They would spring little Reece quickly and she could go to museums and shoe-shop every day. Dylan’s words— I love Paris in the springtime— rang in her head. So do I, she mused. Very much. Actually she loved almost anywhere that wasn’t Ward & Bailee Esquire in this particular springtime.

  While Merle tapped on her keyboard, making sighs and squeals over whatever she was reading, Francie closed her eyes. What was happening at work? It was Tuesday here, was it Tuesday there? Yes, of course it was. That meant what? Committee meetings, depositions, and the investigation into one assistant managing partner’s so-called bad behavior.

  She felt anxious and helpless so far from the fray. Should she have hired a lawyer before she left? Something stopped her— perhaps it was her bank account. She would need that money when they cut her loose. What was she going to do then? Should she start looking for work? How far away did one have to be to not have your sexual harassment file chase you down? She was admitted to the bar in New York and Massachusetts, besides Connecticut. She might have to go out-of-state. Her apartment was the only thing pinning her to Greenwich, and it wouldn’t be hard to get out of her lease.

  “Oh, wow.” Merle said. “Wake up, Francie.”

  Francie popped open her eyes. “What is it?”

  “Not only does Dylan Hardy work for a very elite international law firm. . .” She gave her younger sister a mysterious smile.

  “But what?”

  “He is single.”

  Fifteen

  Merle sat opposite Pascal in a dimly-lit restaurant on a side street in the Marais. The meal had been delicious in every way and having Pascal back made it all quite romantic, not to mention the candlelight. He had been away on assignment and had just returned in the afternoon, Francie’s second day in Paris.

  They sipped cognac, an extravagance. Pascal said, “Dining out in Paris makes me feel strange, like a tourist.”

  Merle smiled. “I always feel like a tourist in France. Still.”

  “Does it change you? This feeling?”

  “It opens your eyes. Gives you that now feeling, an urgency. As if everything is new but ephemeral. Like if you don’t see something now, do something now, eat something now— you may never get another chance. You take nothing for granted and seize every moment like it’s the last.”

  He grimaced. “It sounds more like anxiety to me.”

  “That’s been mentioned before.” Merle smiled at him then frowned. “My sister isn’t herself. I’m worried about her. She went out just once today, to buy walking shoes, then went home and took a nap. She went to bed before dinner last night too.”

  “Jet lag. C’est normale.”

  “I don’t know. I think it’s more than that. Something is bringing her down.”

  “This is Francie? With the freckles and the— how do you say— perky? The red-haired one with the —“ He gestured to his chest. Merle chuckled.

  “Yes, the one with the bosom. She is always so outgoing, she even calls herself a social butterfly. But now that’s, like, a bad thing. I don’t get it.”

  “Maybe she has been flitting about too much. She’s worn her wings out.”

  “Maybe,” Merle agreed. But why come to Paris to cocoon? Nobody did that. You come to Paris to walk, to eat, to drink wine, to see art and monuments. Or help a kid in prison. Francie hadn’t done any of that. She had dark circles under her eyes and all she did was sleep. Plus her reaction to the fact that Dylan Hardy was single had been underwhelming. The old Francie’s eyes would have sparkled, finding out her ex was in town and available. It was baffling.

  “Have you ever been to Fresnes Prison?” Merle asked.

  “Once, many years ago. Why?”

  “Francie is supposed to help this kid, an American, who is in there for a drug bust. His parents have hired her to find a French lawyer for him. To get him out at least until the trial. Is it a terrible place?”

  “It has a bad reputation, that is true. As do all the big prisons. I heard they were improving conditions there but I think it is still overcrowded.”

  “Do you know any criminal lawyers who speak English?”

  Pascal narrowed his eyes, thinking. “Their foreign language skills rarely come up with the police.”

  “Can you ask around?”

  “Of course, blackbird. I will ask tomorrow. What is the charge for this American?”

  “I’m not sure. Possession.”

  “Of what exactly?”

  “I think marijuana.”

  He nodded thoughtfully. “Possibly something more, chérie. He would not be in jail for possession of cannabis.”

  “No?”

  “Not in that prison. Unless it was a large amount.”

  “Well, Francie probably knows the whole charge. She’s going out there tomorrow to try to talk to him.”

  “By herself? Her French is not so good.”

  “Should I go with her?”

  “Your French is not so good either.” Merle swatted him. “But it is better than hers— which is not saying much.”

  “Do you have time to go?”

  “Not tomorrow. Does she have an appointment?”

  “I think so. The kid’s parents arranged it.”

  “Then go with her. You know where the prison is?” She shook her head. “Far from here. It will take at least an hour, maybe two, on the Métro and the bus.”

  Merle left Pascal sleeping the next morning as she and Francie rose early, mapping out the route to the prison on their phones. A light rain was falling from a dark sky as they stepped down into the Métro tunnel. As they waited for the subway Francie got a phone call.

  “It’s his mother. Should I answer?”

  “Of course,” Merle said. “But make it short.”

  “Claudia. Good to hear from you.” Francie put her finger in her other ear as a subway train roared by in the opposite direction. “Speak up, it’s very noisy here.”

  “Where are you?” Claudia shouted.

  “In a subway station in Paris.”

  “The prison called and cancelled the appointment.”

  “Cancelled?”

  “Yes. Are you on your way?”

  “No, I’m— do you have a number for them?”

  “Yes, I’ll send it to you. And thank you, Miss Bennett, for the email. I’m glad your phone works there too.”

  “Of course. I’ll see what I can find out.”

  Francie waved at Merle and pointed up the stairs again. “It’s been cancelled. I’ll try to find out what’s happening.”

  They emerged on the wet pavement near the shopping street of Rue de Rivoli. Merle paused and looked at her sister. “What now? Shopping?”

  Francie shook raindrops off her hair. “I need to find a lawyer. Somebody who knows criminal procedure. Did Pascal know of one?”

  “No. I asked him to inquire around last night.”

  They walked back toward their apartment, stopping in to a small salon du thé, a teahouse on a side street. It was warm and steamy, smelling of spices. They found a table near the windows and ordered a pot of something from the lengthy, incomprehensible menu. They laughed at their artless choosing.

  “I hope it’s good,” Merle said.

  “Whatever it is.” Francie was checking her email. “What am I going to do about a lawyer? I wonder if they’re going to let me see that kid, even with an appointment. I’m not a relative, or his lawyer. They’ll stonewall me unless I have somebody official with me.” She glanced at her sister. “No offense.”

  “None taken. I have no idea what to do at a French prison.”

  “Can you text Pascal and see if he found somebody?”

  While they waited on a response from Pascal the tea arrived. A white ceramic tea pot, delicate china cups decorated with sprigs of flowers, a small basket of pastry bits that looked like the random leftovers f
rom making croissants and shortbread. They checked the pot, waited, poured, and sipped.

  Finally Pascal responded. “Nothing yet,” Merle said, staring at her phone. “Sorry.”

  Francie frowned.

  Merle asked, “Do you want me to ask this lawyer that Annie set me up with? I haven’t met him yet but I could still ask.”

  “Is he in a big firm?”

  “No, it’s small. Specialized. An NGO, not a law firm.”

  Francie shook her head. “Waste of time.”

  Merle sighed. “What about Dylan Hardy?”

  “I don’t want to. But maybe we should.”

  They argued about who should call him. Merle said she should as they didn’t have a history and it would be smoother. Francie said she should call because they did have a history. Merle said she could tell Francie wasn’t comfortable having him involved.

  “If it helps Reece get a lawyer and gets me in to see him sooner, I guess I shouldn’t be so touchy.”

  “Call on my phone. I saved the firm’s website on here. And then he won’t have your number,” Merle said. “I do love a little subterfuge.”

  As the phone was ringing on the other end, Francie had a spike of anxiety. She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t talk to Dylan. Then she chastised herself. What was she afraid of?

  Someone answered, a woman, in French.

  “Um, excuse me, if you speak English — Is Dylan Hardy available please?”

  “Yes, madame, one moment.”

  Francie whispered to Merle: “She speaks English, hooray.”

  Merle smiled, watching her sister fidget. Suddenly Francie thrust the phone back at her. “I changed my mind. You do it.”

  Merle bobbled the phone and got it to her ear in time to hear his voice. “This is Dylan Hardy.”

  “Oh, hi, Dylan. This is Merle Bennett, Francie’s sister. We ran into you the other day by the river.”

  There was the smallest of pauses. “Yes. Hello. How are you?”

  “Fine. And you?” Francie rolled her eyes at the pleasantries.

  “Good. What can I do for you, Merle?”

  “Oh, well, it’s actually Francie that needs some advice. Here she is.” Merle held out the phone to her sister. Francie pulled a face and took the phone.