Up the Seine Without a Paddle

by Eliza Watson

  I welcomed the distraction despite the subject line:

  Cheesey Eddie’s Job Application.

  Mom had just discovered that one of the cheese company’s seasonal employees had quit. Only the end of October and the person was already sick of wearing a yellow foam cheesehead hat and telling customers to Have a very dairy holiday. Cheesey Eddie’s hired temporary help to assemble cheese and sausage holiday gift baskets and to fill thousands of orders for their killer cheese curds, which they claimed were shipped as far away as New Zealand and Nepal. I couldn’t picture people trekking down the Himalayas to pick up their packages of Cheesey Eddie’s curds. Guess I should appreciate the fact I only had to trek two blocks. But even the lure of free, world-famous curds couldn’t convince me to submit a job application to Cheesey Eddie’s.

  “Everything okay?” Declan gestured to my phone.

  I nodded faintly as the taxi pulled up in front of my hotel. I plastered on a bright smile, as if nothing had happened. “You were right. It was too far to walk. Thanks.”

  He nodded without making eye contact. “No problem a’ tall.”

  “See you in the morning.” I stepped out and shut the door.

  The taxi sped off.

  An empty feeling sucked me into a black hole of despair.

  I’d just lost my only friend.

  I had to keep our relationship professional. No more laughing at Declan’s funny stories. No more random texting. No more chatting over a glass of wine…

  This was going to be one of the most difficult things ever!

  I entered the hotel. Madame Laurent sat slouched in a chair behind the front desk, her eyes closed, chin resting on her chest. Her sleeping at the front desk wasn’t safe for either of us. Didn’t someone else work third shift?

  “Bon soir, Madame Laurent.” I forced a halfhearted smile.

  When she didn’t open her eyes, I raised my voice. “Bon soir.”

  No response, not even a twitch. She wasn’t snoring either. I cautiously approached her, unable to tell if she was breathing. Omigod. Was she…dead? My panicked gaze darted around the empty lobby, searching for help. I had no clue how to call for help, besides running outside and screaming like a mad woman. I reached out to gently touch her shoulder.

  Esmé let out a bark, waking up from her bed by her owner’s feet. Startled, I snapped my hand back.

  The woman’s eyes shot open. She slowly tuned in to her surroundings, smiling. “Bon soir.”

  I let out a relieved sigh, my shoulders relaxing for the first time since encountering Fanette.

  A slender, middle-aged woman with short dark hair entered the lobby from the door by the desk. Madame Laurent introduced her third-shift relief, Mariele, who wheeled out my luggage from the room behind the door. I slipped the carry-on strap over my shoulder and grasped the suitcase handle with both hands. I heaved it up one narrow, red-carpeted step at a time, giving the women a reassuring smile. Esmé gave me an encouraging bark, leading me up the stairs. Upon reaching the first landing, I peered up the open, spiral staircase to the ceiling, feeling like the fifth floor was at the top of the Eiffel Tower. Esmé let out another bark.

  “Shhh.” I placed a finger to my lips. It was after midnight. However, I appreciated her cheering me on.

  By the time I reached my floor, I was out of breath. Esmé trotted to the end of the hall as if she knew my room’s location. She did. It was the last of six. She stood in front of the door, tail wagging. I gave her a pat on the head. “Good girl. Or rather, bonne femme.” She padded back down the stairs.

  I fished the long metal key from my purse and unlocked the door. I hauled my suitcase into a cozy—i.e., très petite—room with daffodil-yellow walls and shabby chic cream-colored furnishings. I tossed my jean jacket and beret on the blue-and-yellow floral bedspread. I dropped my shoulder, allowing the carry-on strap to slide down my arm. The bag hit the wooden floor with a thud. Crap. Grandma’s photo. I’d packed in such a frenzy I hadn’t taken time to wrap it in a piece of clothing.

  I set the bag on a blue velvet chair wedged in the corner. I dug through it, finally finding the framed photo of Grandma and her older sister Theresa still intact. Phew. I placed the yellowed black-and-white photo on the nightstand, facing it toward the bed so I could say good night before drifting off to sleep. Grandma and Theresa wore bright smiles and calf-length dresses made of a flowing fabric. Long strands of beads hung around their necks, and cloche hats and light, shoulder-length wavy hair framed their faces. Quite fashionable, they’d have fit right in here in 1920s or ’30s Paris.

  I set copies of Theresa’s letters to Grandma next to the photo. Grandma had read the originals so many times the folds on the yellowed pages were worn through, making the words on the creases difficult to read. They didn’t hold any clues to Grandma’s background, mainly discussing people we assumed were their siblings or Theresa’s children.

  Were one of them the rellie Peter had found?

  Crap. Thanks to Fanette, Declan had never finished the story about my rellie. I didn’t even know her name.

  I had to e-mail him.

  I couldn’t e-mail him.

  Not only because I was unsure if the hotel had internet access, but I was supposed to be keeping things professional. However, my genealogy research was also for Rachel, Declan’s client, and if I didn’t get the info from him, I’d have to explain why to Rachel… So this really was professional.

  Justification at its finest.

  A card with complimentary Wi-Fi instructions, in several languages, sat on the desk. Yay! I sent Declan a brief e-mail.

  My last e-mail to him. Ever.

  I checked my credit card account online. The ninety-six-euro minibar charge hadn’t been removed. Apparently the hotel had released the hold so they could run through the minibar charge, since I hadn’t had enough available credit. Once my charge from dinner went through, I’d have just over a hundred bucks.

  Damn Antoine.

  My diamond stud earrings on Craigslist better sell soon.

  I Googled Istanbul and located it on a map. It was as far southeast from Paris as you could get while still being in Europe. I then noticed the city was actually divided, part in Europe, part in Asia. My geography lesson for the day reminded me of my travel journal, which I hadn’t yet written in. I grabbed it from my suitcase and described the light show at the Eiffel Tower. My souvenirs. My first Turkish restaurant. Fanette crashing our dinner. Fanette kissing Declan…

  I ripped out the page and crumpled it. This was supposed to be a travel journal, not an intimate diary.

  I stripped off my clothes and threw my new pink Eiffel Tower T-shirt back on. I hoped I could sleep, alone in a strange hotel room, in a foreign city, thinking about Declan. And I wasn’t barricading the door like I had in Dublin. I wasn’t that same frightened Caity anymore. I was stronger, braver. I glanced over at the door, realizing it didn’t autolock. I grabbed the key and locked it. I slid the two deadbolts in place.

  Why did the room need two deadbolts?

  I reminded myself that I was a braver Caity.

  My computer chimed. I zipped over to the desk, finding an e-mail from Rachel, rather than Declan. Finally. The link to Grandma’s Ellis Island record. I clicked on it, and a record popped up for a Bridget Daly rather than a Bridget Coffey. Rachel was confident this was Grandma. It matched the ship’s name and arrival date, 1936, on Grandma’s naturalization papers. This woman’s birthplace was Killybog, and her closest relative in her homeland was Theresa Lynch. Grandma’s sister Theresa? Too many coincidences to not have been Grandma.

  Except for the fact this woman was married.

  I scanned the ship’s manifest, unable to find a Mr. Daly. The name and address for the person she was staying with was barely legible but looked like Murphy and New York City. Had her hubby remained in Ireland, planning to meet up with her later in America? Passengers had the option of selecting single or married. No widowed or divorced. If widowed, Grandma might have s
till considered herself married. If divorced, she’d likely have considered herself single. However, there was probably a stigma to being divorced back then, so she might have still claimed to be married. Maybe she’d been trying to escape her husband in Ireland or traveling under an assumed identity, fleeing the country. But then why be honest and give her sister Theresa’s name and her hometown? Habit?

  I e-mailed Rachel that Declan’s friend had found a rellie and I was waiting on the name and contact info. I told her my thoughts on her discovery and that it was probably best not to mention it to Mom until we learned more. If Mom knew Grandma had been previously married, she’d have told us. She’d given me any information I’d requested. However, when we’d invited her on our trip to Killybog, she’d declined, insisting she didn’t want to fly over water. Did she think I’d forgotten about her and Dad’s trip to Hawaii?

  She was still bitter toward her mother for not having been a very nurturing or loving parent, and for being a big fat liar, claiming her family in Ireland was dead when she’d immigrated. Mom and her sisters learned the truth after Grandma’s death when they’d found recent letters from her sister Theresa. I was beginning to worry I’d uncover info that would make Mom hate Grandma and resent me for snooping around in our family history, uncovering skeletons in our closet, when we’d just started reconnecting.

  I hit send, and the computer spooled…and spooled…

  The Wi-Fi status flashed weak.

  The spooling continued, slower than dial-up service. The e-mail finally sent. I checked the inbox. Nothing from Declan.

  Rachel responded within minutes.

  She agreed. Mom wasn’t aware of Grandma’s first marriage, if she’d indeed been married. A woman at the state historical society, who’d recommended researching ship records, forewarned her that names were often difficult to read or were misspelled because transcribers misunderstood the Irish accent. But Coffey didn’t sound anything like Daly. She’d also suggested Rachel check the 1940 census on Ancestry.com.

  Great idea, except I’d just lost my internet connection.

  Heaving a frustrated groan, I dropped back against the chair. Ancestry.com probably held all the answers, and I couldn’t access it. I never dreamed not only would I be researching Grandma’s past in Ireland, but also her past in the US. A mysterious past that she’d kept a secret from our family for sixty-three years. However, it hadn’t been a secret to her family in Ireland. A family I was determined to find.

  Whatever the consequences.

  Chapter Seven

  The next morning, I dragged my butt out of bed an hour before I was due at the Hôtel Sophie. I’d barely slept, startled by every faint noise echoing up the open staircase, my mind racing with ideas about Grandma’s past and haunted by my argument with Declan. It had been surprisingly quiet outside, no noise from traffic, police sirens, or drunken tourists heading back to their hotels at the wee hours of the morning.

  Realizing I hadn’t even peeked at my view, I drew back the blue floral drapes blocking out the hint of daylight. Instead of the Eiffel Tower or Tuileries Gardens, my room overlooked a small cobblestone courtyard tucked within the exterior walls of the surrounding buildings. It contained potted plants and three café-style cane tables with matching chairs. Not the Tuileries Gardens, but quaint.

  Ivy climbed the opposing building, framing its tall white-paned windows, some with open curtains, some not. From the varied furnishings inside, it appeared to be an apartment building. Movement drew my gaze to an open window where an older man was smoking a cigarette. Our gazes locked. I snapped the drapes shut, wondering if he thought I was a Peeping Tom. Close your curtains if you don’t want people peeking in.

  I reluctantly pulled an orange T-shirt and black cotton pants from my packed suitcase. I checked the armoire and desk drawers, but no iron. I hung the clothes on the back of the bathroom door, hoping the wrinkles would miraculously disappear during my hot shower. The yellow-and-cream tiled bathroom was barely big enough for the shower stall, toilet, and porcelain pedestal sink. No signature spa toiletries for Martha’s shelter, merely a wrapped bar of unscented soap and small bottles of generic shampoo and conditioner. I spread a yellow hand towel on the floor next to the sink and lined up my beauty products.

  The shower failed to steam out the wrinkles. Didn’t matter. Even crisply pressed, the shirt was a fashion disaster. I got dressed, and what little color I had instantly drained from my face, and dark circles appeared under my eyes, making me look exhausted. My auburn hair now had an orange tinge. Damn shirt. I twisted my hair up in a large barrette and applied lots of blush to give me color. I opted for a clear lip gloss, the only one that wouldn’t clash with my shirt.

  I left my laptop, not needing it on the Versailles tour. I grabbed my purse and headed downstairs, where Madame Laurent was visiting with an older couple dining at a window table. It’d only been seven hours, and she was back at work. Actually, she’d probably been up at 4:00 a.m., baking the selection of pastries and flaky croissants filling a wicker basket next to carafes of coffee and tea on a small credenza. No full Irish breakfast. Good thing, since I’d put on several pounds in Dublin. I wrapped a croissant in a paper napkin and poured tea, rather than café au lait, into a to-go cup. I was due at work in twenty minutes.

  Like a concerned mother, Madame Laurent insisted I take time to sit and eat breakfast. Deciding I could wolf down a croissant in five minutes, I sat at the other window table, with a view of a man hosing down the sidewalk outside the produce store across the street. I slathered black currant jelly on my flaky croissant. It was delish.

  Madame Laurent sat across from me, sipping coffee from a chipped yellow porcelain cup. It reminded me of the teacups Grandma had given Rachel and me from her collection. Madame Laurent set hers gently on the matching saucer and peered over at me. Oh man. I wasn’t awake enough for the mental gymnastics of conversing in French. I didn’t have time to page through my dictionary, trying to form a coherent sentence. She spoke slowly and concisely, inquiring about my plans for the day. With a patient smile, she gave me an encouraging nod, putting me at ease. I told her I was looking forward to visiting my second castle, Versailles. I struggled for a few words, which she happily provided.

  She became animated, throwing her arms in the air, describing the decadent palace as énorme, incroyable, and extravagant. She then shared the news that her son was coming to visit tomorrow. From her excitement, I assumed it’d been a while since his last visit. Like Declan, had it been six months since he’d visited his mother, or even longer? Her accent wasn’t the easiest to understand, but I was fairly certain she said he lived in the south of France with a wife and deux enfants (two kids), not deux éléphants (two elephants), like it’d sounded.

  I checked my phone. Due to the Hôtel Sophie in ten minutes, I thanked Madame Laurent for a lovely breakfast and for helping me carry on my first conversation solely in French, outside of a classroom. She topped off my tea and packed two croissants in a small white bag for me. I gave Esmé a pat as I breezed out the door, a bounce in my step, anxious to visit Versailles.

  I zipped up my black quilted jacket, blocking out the crisp morning air. The aromatic scent of café au lait and fresh-baked pastries filled the air. I waved at the man hosing down the sidewalk across the street. He returned my friendly gesture with a faint nod and a curious look, unable to determine if he knew me.

  The sun was rising in the distance, over the Seine. I let out a contented sigh. I took a bite of my croissant and a sip of tea, reminded of the opening scene in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. In her black iconic dress and sunglasses, Audrey Hepburn had stood on a deserted New York sidewalk in the early morning hours, admiring the window display of the upscale jewelry store, nibbling on a pastry and drinking coffee, dreaming about being able to one day afford to shop there. The movie’s melancholy theme song, “Moon River,” played in my head.

  My ringing cell phone filled the peaceful air, and thoughts of the eccentric Holly Golig
htly flew from my head. Mom. It was midnight back home. Worried something was wrong, I answered the call while continuing on to the hotel.

  “This darn insomnia.” Mom’s frustrated sigh carried across the phone. “It’s crazy. I’m exhausted during the day but can’t sleep at night. Worried about things, I guess.”

  Things, meaning me. She’d tried to guilt me into not coming to Paris, worried about me traveling alone and not being home to job hunt. Rachel had been a year younger than me when she’d started at Brecker and began traveling the world by herself.

  “How’s the trip going? Have you done the river cruise?”

  “Ah, no, not yet. But I’m on a bridge overlooking the Seine, walking…” She’d wig out if I told her I was staying at a hotel by myself. “Around waiting for our tour buses.”

  “Where are you off to today?”

  “The Palace of Versailles.”

  “Oh, how exciting. I’ve seen it in several movies. Take lots of pictures.”

  “Ah-hunh,” I muttered, distracted by the Hôtel Sophie now in sight and by thoughts of seeing Declan. We’d undoubtedly pretend as if last night had never happened, just like we’d successfully ignored our near kiss in Dublin. Avoiding Declan would be easy if I was working the tour alone. The thought of working the tour alone or with Declan made my stomach clench.

  “Should be cool,” I said.

  “Is everything all right?”

  “Yeah,” I muttered, trying to sound more convincing.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, I’m fine.”

  “Are you depressed again?” She let out a concerned sigh. “I’m sorry I wasn’t real supportive about your trip to Paris or taking this job. Although I think you need a full-time job, you’ve been the happiest I’ve seen you in a long time since your Dublin trip. I hope you aren’t getting depressed again. Not showering for days and eating containers of frosting isn’t good for you. You need to do what makes you happy. Even if it means not having a full-time job for a little while.”