by Helena Maeve
Piotr was encroaching on my space.
“It was nice of you to come with your parents,” I retorted. “Not many men your age would.”
“They insisted,” he answered, clipped. He thinned his lips into a not-quite smile. “They might have mentioned their friends’ granddaughter would be here. And that she was very beautiful.”
Oh, right. This is a setup. You know your romantic life is truly hopeless when your grandparents try to set you up.
“That’s…flattering.”
“They were right.”
I smiled, because that’s what you’re supposed to do—smile, be nice, don’t make a scene—when men butter you up. Above all, don’t let on that you know they have ulterior motives. “I hope they didn’t give you the wrong idea. Truth is, I just got out of a bad relationship—”
“Me too,” Piotr said. “He and I were a wrong fit from the start.”
“He?”
Piotr smiled indulgently. “My parents are aware, but they hold out hope that someday I’ll meet the right woman.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. I needed another man in my life like a swimmer needs water in his lungs.
“Sorry.”
“It happens.” He leaned back in his seat and gestured to the glossy pages of the encyclopedia. “So how do you do this? Just pick a subject at random?”
“Pretty much…” It was a childish pastime.
Piotr was undeterred. He folded one leg over the other and propped his hands over his stomach. “All right. Then name seven species of dinosaur.”
I eyed him long and hard. Are you serious? His smile was unabashed, unflinching. What the hell, I thought, and flipped through the heavy tome. “Obviously you have to start with the T-Rex…”
* * * *
Piotr offered to drive me home, but I declined. For one thing, I didn’t want Mr. and Mrs. Komorov thinking that there was something going on between us. For another, the subway was still running when I left my grandmother’s town house.
It was dark out, the street lamps casting a dim glow over the pavement, but this was Paris. I was used to seeing single women walking rat-sized dogs well after midnight, or young girls laughing as they ambled arm in arm through the streets. The city moved at a different pace from my native Topeka.
I reached Le Marais just as the bells of Notre-Dame-des-Blancs-Manteaux struck midnight. I shivered and drew my trench coat tighter around me. Perhaps I should have stayed the night at my grandparents’. I knew they could put me up. They had the space—my bedroom was one of six—and tomorrow was Saturday.
Traffic wouldn’t be so terrible that I couldn’t get away with a cab.
Naturally, the thought only occurred to me when I was a hundred feet from my apartment building. I kept my head down for the last stretch, keys thrust through the gaps between my fingers as I slipped inside. I made sure the lights were on before I ventured up the stairs.
No one followed me, no one was waiting when I reached the fourth floor.
Relief warred with disappointment in my chest. I was jumping at shadows these days. I’d never been assaulted, never been attacked or mugged since I’d moved to France.
The Devil that I knew was miles and miles away.
I opened my apartment door and hit the lights. Home again. Alone. An envelope caught beneath my heel. I might have mistaken it for a piece of trash or a flyer were it not for my name scrawled in spidery cursive across the back.
I had a feeling I knew who it was from.
I’d prided myself on not wasting more than a moment’s thought on Javier all night. My record as far as Ashley was not so irreproachable. And now here he was, sneaking letters under my door.
There was something satisfying about snatching it up and throwing it into the trash. Petty and ineffectual, sure, but so satisfying.
I took a shower and scrubbed my makeup off with the TV running in the background. Another rom-com played out on my screen while I scrolled through social media. When that failed to distract me, I resorted to kitten videos. A feline fascination with boxes usually kept me entertained for hours when my insomnia kicked in.
It didn’t work tonight.
In a moment of weakness, I decided to listen to my voicemails. With two weeks to go before the anniversary, the crazies and the bleeding hearts should be stepping up their harassment.
Didn’t I want to recant my testimony? Hadn’t I hurt my father enough?
The first message was from Melanie. She wanted to know if we were still on for brunch on Sunday. I texted her back straightaway, stopping short of asking if she’d heard from Javier. I’d have a better chance of explaining myself face-to-face.
The second call was from Javier. He sounded tired, but far from repentant. “I know you said not to call you,” he started, “but I think I left my glasses at your place. So, um, can you let me know when it’s okay for me to come pick them up? Thanks.”
The line went dead while I quietly seethed. He just assumed I’d agree? I cast a glance over the living room, but I couldn’t see the glasses anywhere in my pigsty of an apartment.
I thought better of answering him in a fit of pique. He already thought he was the more rational between us. I had no desire to prove him right.
The next message was in English. I nearly hit delete, before reminding myself that Ashley didn’t have my number. He couldn’t have called.
“Josh Barnes again,” said the voice on the other end, a crackly note trickling down the line. “Look, I realize your silence probably means you want nothing to do with me. But I’m calling for my daughter.”
I hesitated. I’d heard it all—have mercy, think about the consequences. A man’s life is at stake. And my favorite—God is watching! Like he’d been watching when my mother died, I supposed. This angle was an unexpected, novel approach. It piqued my interest enough that I let the message play out.
“I’m sure you’re aware that the whereabouts of three of your father’s victims are still unknown. My Donna is one of them. For the past fifteen years, I’ve maintained a correspondence with your father. I’ve also visited him at Leavenworth. Two months ago, your father said he’d divulge my daughter’s whereabouts to the police if you agree to see him.” He heaved a breath into the phone and I could swear I felt it ripple across the back of my neck. “Please, miss. I’m begging you…”
I heard a woman’s voice say something to Barnes, but I couldn’t make out the words. When he spoke again, he did it with a soft catch. “I’m sorry to keep bothering you like this. I don’t know if you have kids, ma’am, but if you did, you’d understand.”
He left his number. I had a feeling it wasn’t the first time.
The robotic voice kicked in to rattle off the digits I needed to press to save, delete or call back. I found myself running through another game of useless trivia. Name six Roman emperors. Five movies by Hitchcock.
Five victims of convicted serial killer Tracey Woodrow Kane.
I saved the voicemail message.
* * * *
My eyes were puffy as I stepped out onto the curb. The morning sun didn’t help. It was shaping up to be one of those rare things—a beautiful, sunny day, the air crisp and the wind mild. I should have greeted it with optimism and delight. I didn’t. I had actually given serious thought to calling in sick before I finally managed to drag myself out of the house.
I knew that if I stayed, it would be worse. I’d already replayed Josh Barnes’ message a dozen times. I could recite it word for word if I put my mind to it. It was unlikely to get more palatable with time.
I did my utmost to shelve it as I slotted a pair of Audrey Hepburn sunglasses on and set out on the long journey to the subway.
I didn’t see Ashley until he called my name.
I stopped dead in my tracks, Manolos scraping the pavement.
He was wearing a distressed leather jacket over a white shirt. Jeans, instead of slacks. He looked good and it stung like a personal affront.
“Hi,” I said
and pursed my lips.
“Did you read my letter?” No petty, polite greetings for him, oh no. He was a rebel—a two-timing, good-in-bed rebel.
I could have stabbed him with a shoe, if the pair I was wearing hadn’t cost about half of what I paid in rent.
“I don’t have time for excuses.”
Ashley frowned at me, bemused. “You have the wrong idea.”
The nerve of this guy! “How’s the girlfriend?” I was aware of pedestrians passing us by, but their indignant stares flew right over my head. I didn’t care about making a scene anymore. I was filled with bitterness and hurt all the way to the brim. I could swallow no more.
“You’re going to feel very foolish in a moment,” Ashley said, retrieving his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans.
I snorted, bristling with disbelief.
He unfurled the billfold to reveal a picture of the girl I’d seen in his apartment. Behind her, Ashley had his arm around an older woman’s waist. The family resemblance struck me like an anvil.
“Oh…”
“Her name is Marissa,” Ashley said softly. “She’s majoring in fashion design at Parsons in New York. I just saw her off to the airport.”
I sucked my lips, grimacing at the waxy taste. I didn’t know what to say. He was right. I felt foolish.
“She seems lovely,” I murmured softly, half hoping that the rumble of idling engines would drown out the empty sentiment.
“She is.” Ashley folded his wallet shut. “I was hoping to introduce you someday. Ideally with both of you fully dressed.”
I winced. “She told you about that…” Tattletale. Could I blame her? Crazy woman shows up in her bathrobe at your door, it makes for an excellent anecdote.
“Yeah… I figured you wouldn’t be able to make it last night.”
“Something came up,” I mumbled, only half sincere.
Ashley nodded and slowly bridged the gap between us. “What about tonight?”
He wanted to see me again? I’d not only accused him of lying and cheating, but I’d broken my word to punish him. Second chances left me stumped. “I have to work.”
“We could meet after your shift.”
“We close at nine,” I said. Saturdays were long and exhausting. The pressure to make them count was on since the recession. I seldom felt like indulging company once I was off the clock.
Ashley smiled, backing off. “Some other time, then.”
“We could order in.” I had a long list of fast food joints I patronized in defiance of my French heritage. “We could do Chinese. Or burgers. I’m good with anything, really…”
My mistakes were only ever as memorable as the hoops I had to jump through to make them up.
“Okay,” Ashley breathed. “Nine-thirty good for you?”
I nodded and, before I could think better of it, I leaned in and pressed my lips to his. Violins twanged, if only in my head, as Ashley circled my waist with his hands and pulled me to him.
We parted after a long moment, my lipstick smudged on his mouth, my knees weak. “Okay,” I stammered, struggling to get a grip on my pounding heartbeat. I could hardly wait for the end of my shift.
* * * *
Yvonne caught up with me as I stepped onto the escalator. “Someone’s in a hurry,” she tittered. “Another hot date tonight?”
You don’t know the half of it.
“The footie is on,” I lied.
Yvonne wrinkled her nose. If there was one thing I could count on, it was her utmost disdain for anything remotely low-class. She’d gotten hammered at the Christmas party a couple of years back and told me all about growing up in downtown Marseille. She had chiseled off the accent completely and she wore the mantle of Parisian elegance with pride, but somewhere beneath that slim and sleek exterior was the daughter of a factory worker, sister to seven brothers.
She took my arm as we hopped off the escalator. “So? How did things go with the Latin lover?”
“We’re on a bit of a break.” It was a delicate way of putting it. Whenever I thought back to Javier’s message, my temper flared.
Yvonne drew us to a stop. “And you didn’t tell me! Oh, you poor thing.” She folded me into her arms before I could protest. I sucked in a rose-scented breath as my chin landed on her bony shoulder. I didn’t know what to do—I’m not a hugger—so I patted her awkwardly until she let go.
She held me at arm’s length. “Never mind the footie. You and I are going to get a drink and get totally smashed!”
My face fell. I hadn’t seen that coming. “Oh, no. That’s all right,” I started.
“Nonsense. You’re hurting. You need a pick-me-up is what you need.”
I wanted to point out that this whole conversation started with her pointing out that I was eager to head home, not go bar hopping all over St. Germain-des-Prés.
Ashley was waiting for me at home.
“I’d really rather not—”
“Don’t be silly,” Yvonne insisted. “What do you want to do? Go home and cry into a bucket of ice cream? Darling…” She made to take my arm again, but this time I dodged.
Yvonne arched her carefully plucked eyebrows as if I’d slapped her.
“I’m going home,” I repeated, hating the way my voice shook. “Thank you for the offer. We’ll have to do it some other time.”
I didn’t stick around long enough to watch Yvonne digest my parting shot. I had to put conscious thought into taking deep, steadying breaths on my way to the Métro. It was easier once I was inside the train car. The racket of students and tourists and people on their way to have a good time overwhelmed me.
Yvonne was, after all, my boss.
I tied a ribbon around the thought and pushed it aside as I made my way to Ashley’s door. My wristwatch read nine-forty-five.
“Have a drink,” Ashley encouraged when I started to apologize for the hour. He was wearing an apron over jeans and rucked up sleeves. “Can I take your coat?”
I shook it off and he hung it on a hook by the door.
“How was work?”
“Fine… What happened to burgers?” I asked, maneuvering around the glass he had thrust into my hands. “And why are we drinking champagne?”
“It’s Saturday.”
“So?”
“We’re celebrating the end of the week.”
“Shouldn’t that be Sunday?” I couldn’t resist the pedantic jab.
Ashley smiled, but he was on a set course for the kitchen and didn’t stop to reply in kind.
I took a good look around his apartment—my first since we’d met. It was a work in progress. Boxes still lined the walls, shoved out of the way in haste. A few lay open, their contents on display. I glimpsed a couple of John Grisham covers I recognized and felt giddy at the thought that we liked the same books.
A bookcase spanned the wall in front of the couch. I kicked off my shoes before trooping over to peruse the stacks. He had all the John Le Carrés I’d read and a solid number of Agatha Christies. I was dismayed that he didn’t seem to give Patricia Cornwell her due, but I forgave the oversight on account of his sizable collection of Conan Doyles. I spied a Simeon among the predominantly Anglophone authors. No Maupassant, though. No Voltaire.
I liked him all the more for the omission.
“So, the burgers?” I pressed, trailing Ashley into the kitchen. I suppose if I’d been grown-up enough to keep mine as tidy, we would’ve found some similarities in layout. “Huh. Did you get this done yourself?” I pointed to the laminate counters.
Ashley arched an eyebrow.
“My kitchen was just a sink and a stove when I moved in. It’s Ikea now.” Why did I feel compelled to say as much?
Javier must’ve struck a nerve.
“I got lucky,” Ashley replied as he donned a pair of yellow oven mitts. Black marred the left thumb. “As for burgers…”
He pulled out a tray on which four fist-sized meat patties had browned nicely. “Steaks are done. You want to get the lettuce
?”
We worked together to assemble the burgers—Ashley calling the shots and me following orders as best I could. I felt out of my depth in the kitchen. I’d had a maid to cook all my meals since I was nine and money to waste on takeout and restaurants after I left home. But I liked watching Ashley in his element. He seemed to know what he was doing.
He’d set up a small fold-out table in a corner of the living room, but I was tired, so we took our plates to the living room couch.
“Burgers and champagne… Strange combination,” I mused, draining my glass down to the dregs.
Ashley smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling adorably. “Too much class is bad for the soul.”
“No kidding…”
I found myself telling him unprompted about my grandparents, much like I’d started talking about Yvonne when we were in the kitchen. Ashley was a good listener. He listened without interrupting, he asked questions that didn’t make me want to clam up or freeze him out.
He was too understanding.
“Aren’t you going to ask me about my parents?” I asked, twisting to set my empty plate on the coffee table.
“I assume you’ll talk about it when you’re ready.”
Okay, that’s circumspect. “It?” I repeated. Ashley’s gaze held mine, but I couldn’t decipher what went on behind his eyes. A flicker of suspicion prickled at my senses. It didn’t help that Ashley waited me out, like a teacher holding out hope that his dim pupil would grasp a tricky concept.
Seconds ticked by as I hunted for something to say that wouldn’t be, yet again, blatantly judgmental.
“What do you know?”
Ashley licked his lips. “Before I moved to Paris, I used to write for the New York Times.”
“That’s not an answer,” I said, my voice dropping an octave.
“It’s not,” he agreed. “It’s a hint.”
“You know who I am.”
I wanted to be wrong. My anonymity was hard-won and I struggled every day to maintain it. But the information was out there. Amateur investigators had dredged up my picture before and plastered it all over the Internet. It didn’t matter that I wasn’t a public person. It didn’t even matter that I’d gone to court to protect my privacy when people had started hanging around my last workplace in the hopes of running into me.