Up the Seine Without a Paddle

by Eliza Watson

  I shook my head.

  “It’s very French. You have to try one.”

  He waved over a bartender—thirtyish, closely cropped dark hair, wearing a white banded-collar shirt and black pants. Declan ordered our drinks along with rumaki and mini spinach quiche from an appetizer menu. A few minutes later, the bartender delivered champagne flutes containing a peach-colored cocktail with dancing bubbles.

  Declan placed money on the bar.

  “The first drinks are free, for wearing, er, the outfits.”

  “Sorry?” Declan cocked his head in confusion.

  “Because you are in the costumes.”

  So Marcel hadn’t been lying.

  Declan laughed. “Ah, mate, I wish this was a costume. Then I wouldn’t be wrecked, having just flown eighteen hours from Hong Kong.” He glanced over at me. “At least we have a day in Paris to recover before Istanbul. It’s been mad.”

  I nodded, not missing a beat. “But I love Istanbul. Looking forward to some mezes and Turkish wine.” I mentioned the name of the wine we’d drank the other night at the restaurant, surprised I remembered. The only good thing about that night’s dinner was my new knowledge on Turkey. “Oh, maybe we’ll be able to meet up with Burak this time.” Our waiter.

  Declan raised his champagne glass. “Cheers to Istanbul.”

  We clinked glasses. I took a sip of the yummy, sweet peach-flavored drink, the bubbles teasing my nose. It definitely contained champagne.

  “I have never been to Istanbul,” the bartender said.

  I let out a dreamy sigh. “You’d adore it. The people are wonderful.” At least our waiter had been.

  “Nothing beats a Bosporus cruise at sunset,” Declan said.

  “Well, except maybe a cruise on the Seine,” I said.

  Which I’d probably only experience vicariously through the movie Charade.

  “Yes, a Seine cruise at night is very romantic.” The bartender flashed me a flirtatious grin, arching a suggestive brow.

  “We’ll do a cruise again one of these trips.” Declan placed a proprietary hand on my bare knee, giving it a gentle rub while staring down the bartender. His warm touch caused a rush of heat to wash over me. Hopefully, he didn’t notice my flaming-red cheeks. Why did he care if the bartender flirted with me?

  Just how far would Declan go to stay in character?

  Stay focused on your mission, not Declan’s hand on your knee!

  I pulled out my phone. “Can you take our pic?” I asked the bartender, then glanced over at Declan. “You know how your sister loves Paris. She’ll be très jealous.”

  We leaned toward each other, Declan placing his hand on the back of my barstool. The bartender snapped our pic with the Eiffel Tower in the background. It was the best picture ever. The kind that was going to cause Gretchen to hurl herself off the cruise ship she was currently on—according to Facebook—and into the Mediterranean. I didn’t dare post it to Facebook yet, for fear Fanette would show up in the sexy nun or nurse costume. Besides, Zoe didn’t appear to be on Facebook very often. At least she didn’t often comment on Declan’s posts.

  “What’s Zoe’s e-mail addy? I’ll shoot this off to her.”

  Declan looked surprised by my request, but to stay in character, he had to give it to me. Even if he didn’t know his sister’s e-mail off the top of his head, it’d be stored in his phone. He gave me the address. In the subject, I typed Declan’s Halloween. I sent the pic, wondering how Zoe would respond. Or if Declan had given me a bogus address and she’d never get it…

  Declan shared several of his childhood Halloween pranks. Like the time he and his mates hijacked a Guinness truck outside the local pub when they’d been old enough to drive, but not to drink. Dressed as Robin Hood and his Merry Men, they’d taken the truck for a joy ride but returned it shortly, deciding that sober pub patrons would cause them more trouble than the garda.

  Declan talking about his past, even if it was with his mates and not Shauna or his family, was a step forward.

  We continued our impromptu role-playing, in sync, rambling on about our travels, finishing each other’s sentences. I was becoming as good of a storyteller as he was. I’d been bitten by the travel bug, as Declan had predicted. I suddenly wanted to go to Istanbul, Venice, Singapore…

  I gazed longingly out the window at the Eiffel Tower.

  If I had to go back to Milwaukee and work full time, I’d sink into another major depression, like before Dublin. Before Declan. Like Mom thought I was in once again. Milwaukee wasn’t where I wanted to be.

  I didn’t know where I wanted to be.

  Chapter Twelve

  When I entered Hôtel Verneuil Paris, Madame Laurent and Mariele were seated at a window table, drinking a golden-colored liquid in a small glass. Scotch, whiskey… I wasn’t sure. Esmé perked up in her bed next to them and trotted over to me. I scratched behind the dog’s ears, and her tail slapped excitedly against my bare leg. Madame Laurent wasn’t nearly as cheery. She didn’t even appear to notice I was dressed as a flight attendant, yet that could be the alcohol. She was massaging a lace handkerchief between her fingers, her eyes glassed over with traces of tears. She told me that her son had canceled his visit. A tear slipped from her gray eyes and trailed down her weathered cheeks. Choking back a sob, she tightened the red shawl around her shoulders and scurried over and disappeared through the door next to the front desk.

  Mariele shook her head, frowning. In broken English, she explained this was no surprise, that the poor woman’s son frequently canceled and rarely visited.

  Although Mom drove me crazy sometimes, I would never neglect her like that.

  A couple entered the hotel, toting luggage. I told Mariele and Esmé good night and headed up to my room. After securing the deadbolts, I collapsed against the door, exhausted and a tad intoxicated from two Bellinis, a Kir, and a red wine.

  The night had been worth a wicked hangover.

  Romantic, French piano music played outside. I peeked out the curtains. An older couple in an apartment across from me was dancing in their living room. I relaxed against the window frame, watching them. The song ended, yet they continued dancing.

  How sweet…

  I finally pulled myself away from the affectionate display and checked e-mail. I’d received one congratulating me on winning a gift certificate for a popular chain restaurant and thanking me for entering the drawing at the Milwaukee Job Fair.

  Stinking e-mail scams. I’d never attended the job fair.

  Omigod. Was Mom handing out my résumé at a job fair? How annoying. Just because her friend Patsy had gotten me the executive admin assistant job I’d been fired from didn’t mean I wasn’t capable of landing my own job. I punched Mom’s number on speed dial.

  We exchanged brief hellos, and I said, “I just got a restaurant gift certificate from a job fair I didn’t attend.”

  “How wonderful you won!”

  “Please tell me you weren’t handing out my résumé.”

  A hrmph carried over the line. “I went with Loralee last week. She’s job hunting. Thought it’d be nice to enter your name for the gift certificate. That you’d appreciate a free dinner since you’re tight on funds.”

  “Sorry.” I let out a tired sigh. “It’s been a rough day.”

  “I did pick up a few leads for you. But if you don’t want them…”

  I knew it.

  “I have a job, Mom.”

  “It’s not a real job, full time with benefits. It’s temporary, like a mini vacation while you’re looking for a permanent one.”

  “I usually work ten- to fifteen-hour days. It’s hardly a vacation.”

  “You know what I mean. You’re getting to travel and all. And that’s great since you’ve been a bit down, but you can’t avoid job hunting forever. You have to be realistic.”

  “Realistic? Rachel does this job.”

  “Full time with a steady paycheck. And just because it’s a good fit for Rachel doesn’t mean it’s a
good fit for you.”

  Whoa. “So Rachel can do this job, but I can’t?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  Yeah, precisely that. “What happened to being sorry that you haven’t been supportive of this job and wanting me to be happy and not depressed again?”

  “I am supportive as long as it’s temporary and you’re still thinking about your future.”

  “I can’t believe you think Rachel’s capable of this job but I’m not.” Actually, I wasn’t a bit surprised, which ticked me off even more!

  Was Declan the only person who truly thought I could do this job? And Heather, because she didn’t know any better? Rachel had been checking up on me a lot. She must have been slammed at work today, having only sent two texts. Her faith in my abilities was obviously still limited.

  “I have to go. I’ll talk to you later.”

  Fuming, fists clenched at my side, I paced back and forth in front of my bed, which was about ten paces since my room was freakin’ tiny. Not an easy room to blow off steam in!

  I had to get out of my parents’ house. If I stayed there, I’d end up leaving on bad terms and only visiting my family every six months like Declan or Madame Laurent’s son. But I couldn’t even afford a studio apartment with a mini fridge and pull-out bed. I needed more work to keep me on the road and away from home. I didn’t have any future meetings booked. Heather might need me in February. If she still had a job. Rachel hadn’t asked me to work her December meeting. I needed to submit my résumé to Declan’s clients.

  What responsibilities could I add to my résumé from this meeting? I tapped a contemplative finger against the keyboard. Maintain budget and reconcile billing for off-site dinners. I’d made sure Henry and my dinners hadn’t exceeded fifty euros, and I’d handled the payment.

  My résumé was sounding quite impressive.

  I attached it to an e-mail addressed to one of Declan’s clients. I stopped just shy of hitting the send button. I was determined to submit it, yet I felt I needed to add more… I needed…to draft a cover letter. Ugh. I’d almost sent a résumé without a cover letter. Obviously suffering from alcohol-induced brain fog, this wasn’t the best time to write one. It wasn’t because I lacked confidence in my embellished résumé…

  I e-mailed Rachel about our newfound rellie, Sadie Collentine. I also told her that Declan had mentioned working her December meeting in Dublin, and I was wondering if she needed more help. We could go meet Sadie. I informed her that divorce had been illegal in Ireland until 1995, so that ruled out Grandma having been divorced. At least not in Ireland.

  What if she’d never gotten divorced?

  Her marriage to Grandpa would have been illegal, her kids illegitimate. Had Grandpa known about her first marriage? Mom would flip out. One reason for my genealogy research was to bring Mom, Rachel, and me closer together and to give Mom a better understanding of Grandma so she could have closure with their distant relationship.

  I didn’t mention the never-divorced possibility to Rachel.

  I opened Declan’s e-mail with Sadie’s contact info. The post office was likely forwarding her mail to her son’s address in Cork. I’d never written a letter to someone I didn’t know. Actually, I’d never written a letter, period. I mailed birthday and Christmas cards. Otherwise, I corresponded via e-mail or text.

  I stared at the blank page and finally started typing.

  Dear Sadie…

  After several minutes of glancing back and forth between a blank computer screen and Theresa’s letters on the nightstand, I decided typing a letter felt impersonal. I’d bring back the old-fashioned art of handwriting letters. I found some yellow stationary in the desk drawer but decided to save it for the final letter and not waste it on a dozen drafts. I tapped a pen against my legal pad.

  What was the best way to explain that my family hadn’t known Sadie’s mother existed until after Grandma’s death, without us sounding completely dysfunctional and scaring her off? What if Sadie knew some deep, dark family secrets, and I had to make a decision on whether to tell Mom?

  I held Theresa’s letters in my hand, attempting to channel her and Grandma. I closed my eyes, imagining Grandma seated at the scarred wooden table in her sunny, yellow kitchen, penning a letter. While Theresa warmed herself by a fire in a quaint, thatched-roof cottage with a red door, updating her sister on the family news in Ireland. Neither one of them ever dreamed I’d be sitting in a Paris hotel room writing to Theresa’s daughter Sadie, hoping to uncover the mystery behind Grandma’s past.

  A past that would undoubtedly impact my future. For good or bad, I wasn’t sure.

  * * *

  My eyes shot open. I stared into darkness. A brushing noise sounded against the door. Was somebody walking past my room? No, I was at the end of the hall. The brushing grew louder, into more of a scratching sound. Like Freddie Krueger’s razor-blade fingers against a door. I lay paralyzed. Damnit. I never should have watched that movie.

  I couldn’t call Madame Laurent or Mariele to come to my rescue. How had someone slipped past Mariele? Was she asleep at the desk, like Madame Laurent had been last night?

  Louder scratching was accompanied by a faint whimper.

  Esmé?

  I slipped out of bed and padded barefoot over to the door. I peeked out the peephole, not seeing anyone on the other side. I unlatched the deadbolts and opened the door a crack. Esmé stuck her nose inside and pushed her way into the room. She shot past me and sprang onto the bed. She flopped down, laying her head on the pillow next to mine.

  “Esmé, out,” I whispered, pointing at the door.

  The dog closed her eyes, preparing to drift off to sleep.

  “You can’t stay here. Your mama will be worried about you.”

  Had Madame Laurent been so distraught over her son she hadn’t realized she’d left Esmé out? How hadn’t Mariele or Madame Laurent noticed the dog was on the loose?

  I tried to give Esmé’s butt a little shove. She didn’t budge but let out a bark in protest.

  “Shhh. Esmé,” I whined, “I’m too tired for this.”

  She moaned softly, as if fast asleep.

  I gave up and went down to the front desk. Nobody was there. What if there’d been a burglar or a murderer at my door? Where was everyone? I grabbed a small notepad and pen. Mariele spoke broken English, but I wasn’t sure if she read English. I decided to write a note in French, even though I had a difficult time formulating coherent French sentences during the day, let alone at 1:00 a.m.

  I advised the ladies that I had Esmé. Deciding it sounded like a kidnapping note, I reworded it as best as I could, explaining that Esmé had decided to join me for a sleepover. I trudged back up the stairs. I locked my guest room door and crawled into bed next to Esmé, who scooched over by me, brushing her furry face against mine.

  “You better not be a bed hog.”

  She closed her eyes, placing a paw over my arm.

  I smiled, brushing my hand down her back.

  It was kind of nice not sleeping alone…

  Chapter Thirteen

  A sliver of daylight peeked around the closed drapes. I snuggled deeper into my warm bed, tucking the covers under my chin, unable to believe it was already morning. I’d had the best night’s sleep in a long time.

  A low, contented moan filled the air.

  It hadn’t come from me.

  My eyes squinted open. Big brown eyes stared back at me. Esmé’s furry head was buried into the pillow next to mine. I smoothed a hand over her head, and she pressed her nose into my palm before giving it a lick. It was nice waking up next to someone, even if it was a dog. She pushed herself up from the mattress with labored effort, stretched out, then hopped down and trotted over to the door. She peered anxiously over at me, wagging her tail. She let out a bark.

  “Shhh, you’ll wake everyone up.” Afraid she had to pee, I jumped out of the cozy bed and flew to the door. I gave her a pat. “Thanks for being such a great bed partner. Come back ton
ight.”

  She padded off toward the lobby.

  The internet was up, so I quickly checked e-mail, finding one from Rachel. She was also shocked that divorce had been illegal in Ireland. She asked me to thank Declan for finding our rellie and wondered how things were going with him. Was she wondering if I’d heeded her warning about the charming womanizer?

  Her December program was a consumer promotion, and she was waiting to see how many winners selected a cash payout in lieu of the trip to know if she needed another staff person. She’d confirm in the next week or two.

  I needed to know now that I wouldn’t be living with cheesehead hair and reciting Have a very dairy holiday a bazillion times this Christmas. Foam cheeseheads should only be worn to Packers football games.

  Rachel cut her e-mail short since she was on her way to our parents’ for dinner. She was bringing dessert. Attached was a pic of a white frosted cake with green and yellow lettering reading Happy 30th Anniversary.

  My stomach dropped.

  Yesterday had been our parents’ anniversary.

  Rather than wishing them happy anniversary, I’d called Mom, bitching about her job hunting for me, and we’d had a blow up. It was midnight back home, so I couldn’t call to apologize. Thank God Rachel had told them the cake was also from me. Forgetting an anniversary or birthday was classic Rachel. I was the one who usually had my sister’s back, reminding her about special occasions. I used to get down on her when she’d forget. I now understood when you were on the road you lost all concept of what was happening outside of your group’s world. I hadn’t seen or read the news in days. Not that I was a CNN junkie, but I was trying harder, wanting to improve my geography, if nothing else.

  Had Rachel sent me the pic to gloat? That I’d judged her all those years and now better understood her position?

  I vowed not to turn out like Rachel, allowing my job to control my life. After Andy, I swore I’d never let anyone or anything control my life but me.

  I shot Rachel an e-mail, thanking her. No need to recount my conversation with Mom, since she’d surely mentioned it.