Up the Seine Without a Paddle

by Eliza Watson

  “I’ll take the lad for a burger and chips,” Declan said.

  Heather and I stared at him, surprised by his offer to babysit. How sweet. I’d been talking to him nonstop about the dinner cruise, but I couldn’t allow him to once again come to my rescue.

  Could I?

  “Caity better take him, since Brooke requested her.”

  I flashed Declan an appreciative smile.

  “It’ll earn us some brownie points with Big Henry anyway.” Heather glanced over her shoulder, checking for attendees. “Butler and McDonald is putting their meeting business out to bid. My company might not keep it. We’re up against our fiercest competitor. My boss told me to do whatever it takes to keep the client happy. So much of this business is about building relationships. There’s a ton of money in the funeral industry. I mean, everybody’s going to die. It’s a given. We can’t lose the account. This trip has to go flawlessly.”

  So if “we” screwed up, her Miami-based company, Upward Productions, could lose the account? Could she put any more pressure on me?

  “We lose their business…I lose my job, unless we pick up another major client.”

  Yep, she could put more pressure on me.

  She shot Henry a peeved look, then glanced at me. “Thanks again. I can see why you work with VIPs a lot on programs.”

  A lot? And programs, plural? She’d also assumed I’d done the dinner cruise scads of times. Declan avoided my gaze, wearing a guilty look. What else had he embellished about my background? That I spoke fluent French? I planned gala events at the American Embassy in Paris, catering to international diplomats and political figures? Heather had supposedly been fine that I had little experience. No wonder she was willing to match the generous pay Rachel had given me.

  Declan had put his reputation on the line recommending me to his client. Why would he do that? My stomach clenched. I went from dealing with Rachel’s low expectations of me to Heather’s unrealistic ones. I wanted to fess up and tell Heather the truth, but I didn’t want to get fired from another job, and I couldn’t expose Declan as a liar.

  My first big screwup would take care of both.

  Chapter Two

  “An au pair is a distinguished job in France,” Declan said back at the staff’s temporary office located in the Hôtel Sophie’s Salon Elysée. Named after the Champs Elysée, the grandest boulevard in Paris, one would expect a big impressive room. Instead, it was tiny with dark woods, sparse décor, black linens and chairs, and no windows. We called it Le Dungeon. A much different feel than the rest of the elegant hotel.

  “It’s a job I could have landed straight out of high school.”

  Probably not, since my experience with kids was limited to my three-time mall stint as Santa’s elf. My mind flashed back to a confrontation with a bratty kid over the correct lyrics to “Frosty the Snowman.” Even when I was dressed up like an elf and singing Christmas carols, I hadn’t always done a stellar job handling kids. I lacked maternal instincts and didn’t see kids in my future.

  Except for Henry.

  I glared at my chocolate-stained sleeve.

  “We’ll go another night,” Declan said. “Without the attendees.”

  I nodded faintly. As if we’d have time.

  “I’ve dreamed about a boat cruise on the Seine since I was little. My mom’s a huge Audrey Hepburn fan, so growing up I saw Charade a dozen times. Audrey and Cary Grant kiss for the first time on a cruise when Paris is all lit up at night…” I exhaled a dreamy sigh.

  “Ah, right, a chick flick.”

  “A classic.” I groaned in frustration.

  Yet, life could be worse. I could be dead.

  Like the poor guy in the picture I was pasting to a photo collage of the winners’ themed funerals for the awards ceremony this evening. Laid out in a coffin in the middle of AT&T Stadium, a guy in a Dallas Cowboys jersey had a blue-and-white painted face, a team-autographed football tucked in the crook of his arm. The funeral had won Big Henry the Eternal Slumber Award. Someone must have had great connections or dropped some serious dough to use AT&T Stadium. I wondered if Dad had connections to the Packers’ Lambeau Field…

  “Never had to mind a child, but once had to mind a cat while working an event in Monte Carlo,” Declan said. “Cats despise me, especially Sir Nigel. But Sir Nigel’s nutritionist had him on a strict diet and an hour of exercise daily. While I was out walking the yoke on a leash, he spotted a small dog and slipped from his collar. He was off like a bloody horse at Leopardstown track, chasing it into the Princess Grace Rose Garden. Rose petals were flying. Security was going mad. By the time I finally caught him, thought it was going to cause an international incident. Expected to see it on feckin’ CNN.”

  I laughed. “I can totally picture you chasing Sir Nigel around a rose garden.”

  I’d missed Declan’s stories. They made me laugh and reassured me I wasn’t the only one who screwed up, just maybe more frequently. I was glad I’d never brought up our near kiss in Dublin. It wasn’t worth jeopardizing our friendship.

  Since saying good-bye three weeks ago, we’d exchanged e-mails about my ancestry research. While in Dublin, I’d learned Grandma Brunetti, née Coffey, had emigrated from Ireland. I’d been only seven when she’d died, so I barely remembered her. Declan’s friend Peter, a pub owner in Grandma’s hometown, Killybog, County Westmeath, hadn’t had any luck yet locating her Coffey rellies. I’d been dabbling in online research, but it was overwhelming, and many sites charged fees.

  Declan and I had also e-mailed about random stuff. Like his thirty-six-hour travel adventure from Dublin to Greece. My biggest adventure was getting from home to the local convenience store without the luxury of my repossessed red sporty car. I refused to drive Uncle Donny’s truck that reeked like wet dog, tobacco, and manure. It’d been a morale booster interacting with someone besides the mailman delivering my debt collection notices and Mom with her daily interrogations about my hunt for a full-time job.

  “If it makes you feel better, McDonald’s serves beer here.” Declan gave me a sympathetic smile.

  As if I could drink while watching Henry. Yet I had a disturbing feeling Henry would drive me to drink by the end of this trip.

  “That board looks great,” Heather said, entering the office, carrying a large box. “And our shirts finally came.” She opened the box and pulled out a long-sleeved bright—almost neon—orange T-shirt with black lettering that read Themed Funerals Celebrate Life, Not Death. The back read The Eternal Slumber Trip, Paris, 2016. “Al wanted to go with Put the fun in funeral. Ask me how. I told him that was a marvelous idea, but I didn’t want staff being approached with inquiries.”

  I stared at the shirt in horror. Some redheads could pull off orange. I wasn’t one of them. I’d spent weeks packing and repacking my most fashionable wardrobe and ended up with a hundred-dollar airline fee when my suitcase was thirteen pounds overweight. And now I’d be wearing the same hideous orange shirt daily?

  Heather handed us each four shirts. “We only need to wear them when we’re around the group. So you’ll have to wear one tonight, Declan, but Caity, you’re off the hook.”

  Declan eyed the shirt. “Ah, grand. We’ll look like pumpkins for Halloween.”

  Or prison inmates. Turned out, Le Dungeon was an even more appropriate name for our office.

  “Al’s wife chose orange. Supposedly it’s the hot color this fall, according to fashion magazines. Sorry again about tonight,” Heather told me. “If it makes you feel better, I have a big program in February I’m hoping I can put you two on if it confirms.”

  So if I didn’t royally screw up, a big if, I could get more work. Talk about a double-edged sword. Playing Henry’s au pair meant not being around Heather and possibly revealing myself as a fraud. Yet then I wasn’t learning the job and building up my résumé, and my confidence, so I could land more clients. I was determined to learn as much as I could this trip.

  “Ask the concierge to recommend a popular ki
ds’ restaurant,” Heather said. “Just don’t take him anywhere with balloons. He was on a trip last year with one of my coworkers, and there was a bit of an…incident with balloons.”

  My gaze narrowed with concern. “What happened?”

  Heather wore a strained smile. “Nothing major. You’ll be fine. He can just be a bit…challenging at times, but you proved you can handle him. Feel free to wear jeans, and make sure you expense back your dinners.”

  I couldn’t afford to feed myself, let alone some kid. In Dublin, my hotel incidentals had gone to Brecker’s master account. Here, they were being billed to my credit card, currently with a $300 available credit. I hadn’t been prepared to front money for all my meals in Paris. The $400 in my checking had to last until I was paid for Rachel’s meeting in Milwaukee last week.

  My Dublin paycheck had been like winning the lottery, without taxes taken out. My mom had strongly recommended I put aside money for taxes. Instead, I’d paid off my first store credit card and my gas card, not wanting another reminder of my repoed car. Most importantly, I’d started a Killybog vacation fund to visit Grandma’s homeland. I had a whopping hundred bucks in the fund. I feared if Rachel and I delayed our spring trip, Rachel would lose interest and make up a work excuse not to go, and the bond we’d begun to form in Dublin would be gone. I was counting on the trip to bring us closer together, like we had been while we were growing up. Before Rachel started working at Brecker and before my controlling, manipulative, narcissistic, ex-boyfriend, Andy, had alienated me from friends and family.

  I’d worry about how to pay my taxes come April 14.

  “I hate to tell you this when you’re already taking one for the team,” Heather said. “But I’m going to have to walk you.”

  Walk me? What was I, a dog? Or Sir Nigel?

  “The vice president is now able to join us, and he’s getting in early tomorrow. The hotel is sold out, so I have to move one of you guys to another hotel. It can’t be Declan. His phone number is listed as my backup on the travel letter in case attendees can’t reach me.”

  I was going to be staying at a hotel in Paris by myself?

  My heart raced. My breathing quickened.

  I was proud I’d flown to Paris alone. However, my parents had driven me to O’Hare, helped me check in for the flight, and escorted me to the security checkpoint. It’d been a nonstop flight, and a driver had met me with a sign outside Paris customs. The trip would have been difficult to have screwed up. But way too much could go wrong with me staying alone at a hotel in Paris!

  “It’s just a ten-minute walk across the river,” Heather said.

  “Have you stayed there before?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “No, it’s called Hotel Vern… Not sure how you pronounce it.”

  She couldn’t even pronounce my hotel?

  “The concierge recommended it. He wrote the name on the map. It’s a boutique property.” She handed me a map highlighting the directions in green, a big X marking my new hotel. “I’m so sorry. I’m sure you’ve been walked by hotels before, but it really sucks when the planner does it.”

  It totally sucked because I hadn’t ever been walked.

  I’d never even heard the term.

  I swallowed the lump of fear in my throat, smiling, pretending to shrug it off as no big deal. “That’s okay.” If Heather discovered I was a fraud, she’d better remember I was taking one…two…actually three now for the team.

  In a matter of hours, I’d been kicked out of two places in Paris. What next? Was I going to get deported from France?

  Chapter Three

  I peered longingly out my guest room window, saying au revoir to the Tuileries Gardens directly across the busy boulevard and to the top of the Eiffel Tower in the distance. I massaged the soft, blue mohair scarf from Ireland around my neck, trying to relax. At least I didn’t have to wear the orange uniform shirt to dinner. I’d exchanged my white chocolate-stained blouse for a bright-blue one.

  Forcing my gaze from the breathtaking view, I scanned my room for items I’d missed in my mad packing frenzy. I lifted the champagne-colored duvet and peeked under the four-poster, mahogany bed, then checked the drawers of the matching desk. I snagged an empty packet of antibacterial wipes off the desktop and tossed it in the garbage. I’d sanitized my room after discovering the great lengths Declan went to when disinfecting his guest room. I had no wipes left for my new “boutique” hotel nobody could pronounce, which I feared might need to be sanitized way worse than the immaculate Hôtel Sophie.

  I poked my head in the gold-fixture bathroom at the empty, double-sink vanity. I’d cleaned out the hotel’s complimentary lemon-scented toiletries for Martha’s shelter. I didn’t know when I’d see the women’s counselor again, debating whether to attend her next group therapy session. My first one, two weeks ago, hadn’t gone as well as I’d hoped. After I’d mistakenly blasted Declan with pepper spray that night in Dublin, afraid he’d been Andy stalking me, I’d decided I needed more than merely Martha’s support. I refused to suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder the rest of my life.

  Heaving a sigh, I walked out, letting the door slam shut behind me. I slowly trudged down the black-and-gold carpeted hallway, pulling my purple floral suitcase behind me, the worn strap from Dad’s brown leather carry-on bag weighing heavy on my shoulder. On the elevator ride down, I slipped my French phrase book from my purse. I practiced how to check out of a hotel, determined to get my pronunciation right this time. I’d vowed to practice French this trip. I regretted giving up on the language after only three semesters, disheartened that I could barely put together a coherent sentence.

  I exited the elevator, slipping the book in my purse. I headed toward the lobby, massaging, for good luck, the Coffey pin attached to the front pocket of my small black purse. The Hôtel Sophie was like staying at a stately French manor, with its cream-and-gold furnishings, crystal chandeliers, gilded mirrors, antique tapestries, and reproductions of French masterpieces. With the exception of our office, Le Dungeon, the prestigious property ruined all future hotels for me.

  Especially the one in my immediate future, no doubt.

  Declan waited for me in the lobby, an open black jacket over his orange T-shirt, which of course, looked good on him. I forced a perky smile, trying to act positive about my new adventure. Despite my empowering Póg Mo Thóin (Kiss My Ass) Irish undies, my stomach fluttered with nervous anticipation. Even Declan’s reassuring smile didn’t make the feeling subside. We headed over to a young man at the front desk. The badge on his crisp black suit read Antoine. I was a bit intimidated after my confrontation with the irate museum security guard and with Declan listening. However, I rattled off the well-rehearsed phrase for checking out, hoping I could understand the desk clerk’s response.

  Antoine brought up my reservation. “Would you like to bill the ninety-six euros to your credit card on file?” he asked, ignoring my attempt at French.

  “The room should be billed to our group’s master account.”

  “The room is not ninety-six euros,” he scoffed, looking amused that I thought a room at the prestigious Hôtel Sophie could be so cheap. “It is for the minibar.”

  “I only used that to chill the diet soda I bought at the store on the corner.”

  Antoine arched a disapproving, skeptical brow.

  “It has sensors,” Declan said. “Any item removed is automatically billed. So you were charged when you removed the hotel’s colas and then again when you took yours out.” He gave Antoine an apologetic smile. “She didn’t know. Can’t you waive the charges, mate?”

  I shook my head vigorously. “I had no clue I’d be charged for just touching something.” I’d never had a minibar in a hotel room.

  “I’m sorry, but the price list clearly states any items removed would be billed. How am I supposed to know you did not really take these items?”

  My jaw tightened. “Because I’m telling you I didn’t. You can’t charge ninety-six euros to m
y card.” I’d have under two hundred dollars left on my available credit limit. I needed to hit an ATM.

  “I’m sure the minibar attendant has a record of what was actually consumed,” Declan said.

  “But how do we know these were not consumed and replaced?”

  “Because I’m telling you they weren’t,” I repeated.

  “Listen.” Declan leaned in toward Antoine, his charming and good-natured manner vanishing. “We’re here with the Butler and McDonald group. Talk to your CSM Louise, our hotel contact. I’m sure she’ll understand the situation and remove the charges from the bill.”

  Antoine looked a bit miffed that Declan was playing the CSM card, threatening to talk to our hotel convention services manager. “I suppose I am able to speak with her and see what I can do.”

  Could I trust him to talk to Louise? And could I trust Louise not to mention my naivety to Heather? An experienced traveler would have known about the minibar sensors. I didn’t want to get busted already over some stupid diet sodas. I would threaten to deny the charge on my card, but Antoine would likely transfer it over to the group account, and Heather would see it.

  “But it may be a few days before I can release the two-hundred-euro hold on your card,” Antoine said.

  My eyes widened in panic. “I thought you said it was ninety-six euros?”

  “Yes, but when you checked in, a two-hundred-euro hold was placed on your card in case of incidentals. Such as these.”

  “The woman who checked me in never told me that.” Of course, she was currently absent from the front desk. “You can’t hold my money without my approval. That’s illegal.”

  “No, mademoiselle,” he said in a condescending tone that about sent me over the edge I was teetering on. “That is standard hotel practice. We must ensure that guests have available credit for any charges made during their stay.”

  My gaze darted to Declan, who nodded reluctantly.