Blame it on Paris

by Lise McClendon

  Paris, as they say, is always a good idea— when the sun is out. In the rain, the sky lowering against your head like a lumpy pillow, everything sticky wet, no outdoor cafés open— merde! The crowds inside the restaurants! The closeness of smelly patrons! The museums overflowing!

  The lack of lingering on sidewalks is positively shocking.

  I know you’ve been just dying to know all that. Seriously, I am overdue with a missive about the law firm affairs, or lack thereof. *I* certainly had no affairs, if you get my drift. And I finally heard from my assistant, who we’ll call Pollyanna, after a late-night nudge.

  It was only mid-afternoon back at the law firm, a time of drowsy coffee breaks and — oh look at the time!— tee times. Pollyanna apologized for not keeping in touch but she’d been busy playing step-and-fetch-it for all the older partners. One sent her to the drugstore to pick up his prescription. Another ordered lunch for the junior associates and told her to pick it up, all eighteen box lunches plus drinks. Apparently they think she’s a gal Friday, available for almost anything, instead of a sharp legal assistant. I am so sorry, Pollyanna. I will get back as soon as I can.

  But will I? What is happening on the sexual harassment front, I asked. She claims to know nothing but she’s heard a few rumors. One rumor is that the accuser is gay and hates women. Pretty sure the latter is true. Don’t know about the first. Does it matter? No. Stupid gossip.

  The second rumor is that accuser is in a new relationship with someone in the firm. A junior associate or two is suspected because of the age range, plus a couple of them are single and attractive. Again, pointless talk.

  The investigation into the claims by the accuser are still a secret. Nobody’s talking. Which seems weird, doesn’t it? One would think some sort of juicy tidbit would leak. My mentor at the law firm is avoiding Pollyanna, steering in other directions whenever they are set to pass in the hallway. What could that mean? Mentor knows something and doesn’t want to project it to Pollyanna? What does Mentor know?

  Oh, I wish I had someone on the inside. But alas I have been banished to Paris. Actually doing a little legal work here, which is not as fun as it sounds. Have you ever imagined the inside of an overcrowded maximum security prison? Me neither but now I don’t have to. Let me just say one four-letter word: RATS.

  Trying to stay positive here, which would be easier if the sun came out. It’s dark now, the rain is sluicing down the windowpanes, and besides being snug and dry in my miniature French bed, I am not succeeding. Must smile more, let the sun come from inside me. That’s the ticket.

  Right?

  Ooh, look, there’s a little wine left in the bottle…

  Twenty-One

  The display in the patisserie just off the Rue de Rivoli made a woman blush with desire. Francie and Merle walked in silent awe— and lust— down the glass case, pointing at epicurean delights: mouthwatering gateaux with chocolate icing and elaborate decorations, simple tarts with strawberries and raspberries and more, fancy éclairs and macarons in every color, sumptuous concoctions called Absolute Lemon and Green Absinthe.

  “I’m gaining weight just from the aromas,” Francie whispered. “Decide quickly.”

  They had gone out on a mission to find a dessert to take to the dinner party. When Merle had called Brant Prescott back to ask whether Pascal was invited (the answer was a resounding yes), she asked what to bring. Dessert was the answer. The Prescotts were very fond of desserts, he said, and enjoyed the leftovers, whatever they were. Since neither Merle nor Francie felt the need to impress with their baking skills, had they possessed any, they did a little research and found the fanciest patisserie nearby. Not too close, Merle said, so they could walk off any luscious samples.

  They had already hit the Saturday market on the boulevard, another display of so many good things Francie had to stop at a bunch of daffodils and a baguette for fear of sensory overload. Pascal had run off to work after declaring last night’s restaurant, Les Saisons, ready for its Michelin star. Merle took Francie’s arm as they walked through the streets of Paris.

  “I’m sorry about Les Saisons,” she said. “I thought you would go with us.”

  Francie chuckled. “Seriously?” She was practicing smiling and kept a big grin stuck on her face. Merle looked askance.

  “You would have loved it. Now what shall we get for dessert?” They were leaving the market and headed toward the fancy pastry shop. “I don’t know these people so it’s a blind guess.”

  “Chocolate. Everybody loves chocolate, especially here.”

  But now, staring at the array in the display cases, the alternatives looked amazing. Everything did. The baker here was a master chef, obviously. This was no mom-and-pop croissant shop. These people were serious.

  Finally they decided on a beautiful flourless chocolate cake decorated with a drizzle of ganache and a spray of preserved spring flowers with green confectionary leaves. Buying an elaborate dessert seemed so French. Francie made herself smile, broadly, causing passersby to look at her strangely.

  Merle carried the box with the cake, delicately in both hands. After a couple blocks she paused and looked at Francie. “What are you smiling about?”

  “Nothing.” Francie flashed her smile at an old gentlemen who blinked and gave her a wide berth. “Just trying to let my sunshine out.”

  Merle glanced at the sky. It was still gray and drizzly. “Well, stop it. You’re scaring people. They’ll think you’re insane.”

  Francie laughed loudly. Merle shushed her. “Stop. Really. This is Paris, not Connecticut.”

  Sighing in defeat Francie let her face go back to resting frown. Now she noticed women gave her little nods and men looked appreciative. All right. So the French don’t appreciate American optimism. She would go back to moping.

  Back in the apartment Merle put the box in the refrigerator. Francie watched her clean up the dishes from last night. “Dry?” Merle said, handing her a dishcloth. Francie didn’t answer, realizing she should have been helping more but feeling disconnected. Paris should be making her smile. But it was fake. All of it.

  “Is everything all right?” Merle asked, handing her the cheese plate.

  Francie wiped down the droplets. “I should go home in a couple days.”

  “Should or are?”

  She bobbled her head. “I don’t think I’m much help for Reece Pugh.”

  “But we can go talk to his friends and teachers. You told Yvon you would.”

  “Sure. But when that’s done— and I don’t expect anything from them— I should go home. Paris is nice and all but—“ She glanced at her sister who was frowning at the sink. “You’ve been so good to me. Both you and Pascal.”

  “Is it because we didn’t make you go with us last night? I knew it. I knew we should have insisted. You were left all alone.”

  “Of course not. I walked all over, down along the Seine. It was lovely in the dusk. All purple-y.”

  Merle turned to her, wiping her hands. “Then what is it? Why are you leaving early?”

  Francie hung the dishcloth on a hook. “Okay, part of it is that I’m a third wheel here. That’s awkward. But that’s not really what’s eating me.”

  Merle said nothing, crossing her arms.

  “I’ve been accused of sexual harassment. At the law firm.” Francie held up her hand when Merle gasped. “It’s bogus of course. Some junior jerk-off who thinks I don’t appreciate him. But— remember last year when I got promoted and helped rewrite the HR manual for sexual harassment claims?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, apparently I did the job too well. The accused must take a leave of absence while the investigation is going on. That’s why I’m here in beautiful Paris. I can’t go to work. I can’t defend myself. I haven’t even found representation yet. I don’t know if I’ll need it, and guess what, I can’t really afford a lawyer.”

  “But— use Elise. Or Daddy.”

  “Neither of whom are employment attorneys. No, I’ll wa
it until I find out what they discover in the investigation which I’m sure will be nothing.”

  “Positive? I mean, sometimes things get misconstrued, like in emails.”

  “I’m positive.” Francie frowned, a little annoyed that her sister had to ask that question. But then Merle knew her, knew she liked to flirt. “I don’t do anything like that at work. No flirting or anything.”

  “I’m sure.” Merle touched her shoulder and pulled her in for a hug. “I didn’t mean that. God, I’m sorry. So sorry this is happening to you.”

  Francie let her sister hold her for a long minute. She needed a hug, she thought, as her eyes began to moisten. No! No crying in law! She pulled away, turning so Merle couldn’t see her tears. She went into the bathroom and grabbed a tissue. Merle followed her.

  “This is serious, isn’t it?” Merle asked.

  “Maybe. We’ll see.”

  “No, it is. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me, Francie. Come, sit down and we’ll talk about it.” In the living room Francie felt so like the little sister getting unwanted advice from her perfect older sister, or a paddling. Then felt even worse for that thought. She needed advice, and help, at least the emotional kind.

  “So,” Merle said. “Who is it? This junior associate?”

  “His name is Greg. You don’t know him. He’s been at the firm for two years. A pain-in-the-ass type, always complaining about little stuff, like the fridge defrosted and ruined his frozen dinners.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “That’s a true story. And there’s more like it. When I got the promotion I was so excited. Moving on up. But these kids. I shouldn’t call them that but they act so juvenile sometimes. Like I need to clean up their messes for them. I don’t want to be a den mother. I want to shepherd them to good careers in law. But some of them seem more focused on scoring points around the associates room.”

  “Did something happen that precipitated the accusation?”

  “Well, he asked me out for a drink. It was after dark, in the parking lot, and he jumped out from behind a truck and startled me.”

  “And you said no.”

  “Of course. I was nice about it, said I was tired. I don’t even like him. He’s nerdy and bland. Not my type at all. And even if he was— it’s the damn office! You know how it is. You don’t date at the office.”

  “Always been my motto,” Merle said smiling.

  “And mine. I learned my lesson after Tom and I split up. Remember when I had that little fling with— well, I never told you his name, did I?”

  “Is this the married man?”

  Francie nodded. “It didn’t get far, just a few dinners. About the fourth one, I think, I caught myself up. What the hell are you doing, Bennett? This is wrong on so many levels. So I broke it off.”

  “Is he still there, at the law firm?”

  “No, he moved on to greener pastures. Got a divorce, I think.”

  “Good, she threw him out.”

  “I was vulnerable, you know? I thought Tom was ‘it.’ But he wasn’t.” She shrugged and tried to look nonchalant. “Bygones.”

  Then a flashback popped into her head: her first date with the ‘married man.’ Simon was handsome and sexy. Gorgeous eyes, she remembered. They had an immediate flare of attraction when they met at the firm. Two years later, when he asked her to dinner because his wife was out of town and she was freshly divorced, she went willingly. After dinner there had been a heated kissing session in the car, despite what she told Merle. He wanted to go to her apartment. What stopped them? She tried to remember. He got a phone call. From his wife. That was the cooling-off point. They both came to their senses.

  She hadn’t allowed herself to get into that position again with him, although she did enjoy his company at dinner. He was funny and sweet. But he worked at the law firm. And he was married. She felt the flash of shame from that point in her life. Definitely a low point. She’d been trying to be the person she wanted to be ever since. So maybe Tom had made her life better.

  “Good old Tom,” Merle was saying. “What a mess.”

  Francie gave her sister a weak smile. “Truer words…”

  Merle scooted toward her and held out her fist. “Come on. Case of courage—“

  Francie bumped her own fist down on Merle’s and they reversed positions. “Bucket of balls.”

  “You’ll get through this, Francie,” Merle said. “You will. And don’t keep me out of the loop. That makes me sad.”

  Her pouty face made Francie smile. “We can’t have that.”

  Francie was three steps into the Prescotts’ lovely apartment when she saw him. Had she known somehow, that he’d be here? Had she hoped? Had she simply conjured him from her dreams?

  But no. That was him, all right, his back, broad in the shoulder. Wearing a blue sweater, his neckline untrimmed, hair curling over his collar. Francie froze as Merle and Pascal moved toward Brant Prescott, handing him the cake box and getting introduced. She saw Dylan Hardy move his head and his profile came into view, confirming her fears. She gasped and turned her back, fiddling with her raincoat buttons.

  Suddenly a large woman with a cheery face was in front of her. “Hello! You must be the new ladies my husband invited. Can I help you with your coat?”

  She wore a flowered apron, splattered with something, over a polka dot blouse and skirt with daisies embroidered on it. She had a kind face with round cheeks, dancing eyes, and a messy tousle of dyed blond hair. She peered closer at Francie who stood frozen to the spot.

  “Are you all right? You look flushed.” The hostess turned to her husband. “Brantley dear! Open a window. It’s too warm in here!” Back to Francie she gestured at her buttons. “Your coat? It will be fine now. Brant is opening the windows. Come now, you must have a glass of wine. You don’t prefer water, do you? Maybe because of the warmth? One of each then.”

  After handing over her raincoat Francie allowed herself to be drawn by Mrs. Prescott into the side of the kitchen where a sink had been filled with ice and various bottles. “Anything you’d like, dear. I like them all, red or white. Sparkling or flat. Pick your poison!” She chattered on as she went to check on her pots on the range. It was a friendly, casual kitchen, the kind that welcomed strangers and friends and dogs. Francie shook herself and regained her composure.

  “I didn’t catch your name,” she called across the room. “I’m Francie.” She poured herself sparkling water. She did feel overheated. Or embarrassed or something.

  “I’m Vera,” the cook replied. “I hope you like cassoulet. I try to make it once a year, usually when it’s cold and damp. A little late this year but, oh, well!”

  “I adore cassoulet,” Francie said, trying to remember what was in the stew. “Duck confit and all that, right?”

  At that moment Brant Prescott burst in. He was as round as his wife, and as friendly, introducing himself and pumping her hand. “So happy to see new faces. A treat. I was told your sister and her friend like wine but what sort, do you think? Red?”

  Francie picked out a rosé for her sister and a red for Pascal. She followed Brant into the living room. She had to find her sister. The room had more people in it than she’d seen as she entered. Three obvious couples— she was an expert on this now— and a variety of singles mingled in the small sitting room, spilling into the dining area and out on the terrace. She tried to sweep her eyes quickly, not stopping on Dylan.

  Definitely not stopping.

  “Francie,” Merle whispered, appearing at her side. “That’s him, right?”

  Francie turned, jumping at the hiss in her ear. She blinked rapidly.

  Merle continued unabated: “Dylan Hardy?”

  “Shhhhh.” Francie rolled her eyes. “Is he looking?”

  “He’s checking out your ass.” Merle tried not to laugh and failed.

  “Oh, shit,” Francie mumbled to herself as the color crept back up her neck. “I thought that was him. What should I do? Can I feign sudden illness?”<
br />
  Merle fake-laughed, throwing back her head. “Oh, sweetie,” she said loudly.

  “Stop it,” Francie whispered. “People will think you’re insane, remember?”

  Merle collected herself. “He’s moving away. I think I scared him.”

  “Of course you did. But the question remains: what am I going to do?”

  “Eat dinner. Have a glass of wine. Relax and enjoy yourself. You know that old adage— never let ‘em see you sweat?” Merle nodded, right up in her face. “That’s what you’re going to do.”

  Francie took a breath. “Okay, okay. You’re right. But I need that wine— now.”

  By the time they were called to sit at the long table for dinner Francie had sipped through the small glass of wine that Pascal had brought her, a nice Sancerre with a buttery glow. It reminded her of the fabulous bistro in the middle of France where she and Merle had once dined. She had calmed enough to move normally, stepping toward the table, wondering who she would be seated with. Surely they would put her with Merle, maybe between her and Pascal.

  But no. Tiny place cards marked their spots. She found hers at the end of the table, next to Vera Prescott who presided at one end. On her left elbow: Dylan Hardy. Their eyes met quickly as they pulled out their chairs and sat down.

  Calm. Breathe in, breathe out. Francie remembered the courtroom rituals that their eldest sister had taught them all. Hold your breath, count to ten, let it out slowly in a slow sip through your mouth. By the time she got to seven she felt lightheaded and gulped a new breath. And felt ridiculous.

  “Dylan.” She turned to him and he looked up from fiddling with his napkin. “What a surprise.”

  “We meet again. Paris has some magical powers, it seems.” He gave her a tiny smile and looked away.

  His words were intriguing but his tone left no doubt. It was cold, dismissive. She felt the words stab her heart. She looked down the opposite side of the table for Merle and caught her eye. She smiled and raised an eyebrow. Francie shrugged, noncommittal.