Up the Seine Without a Paddle

by Eliza Watson

  We’d taken more than one step backward tonight.

  I’d gone into a Dublin pub alone, but that was different. I’d been to it before, and the bartenders had spoken English. I couldn’t go in here by myself. Yet tomorrow when Declan asked me how the Guinness had tasted, no way was I saying I’d chickened out. I peeked in the window at the Irish sports memorabilia on the walls. It looked like an authentic Irish pub. Maybe this was where the Irish in Paris hung out. Maybe there was a Coffey sitting at the bar.

  I walked inside and marched straight for an open stool at the end of the bar, next to a group of young guys wearing soccer jerseys. I slid up on the stool, placing the cardboard tube and my small black purse on the bar next to me. A large stained-glass Murray family crest, an extensive liquor selection, and small bags of Taytos lined the back of the bar. The taste of Ireland’s cheese-and-onion potato chips filled my mouth.

  A middle-aged bartender in a Jameson T-shirt set a Jameson coaster on the wooden bar in front of me. He gave me a welcoming smile. “What will you be having, luv?” His thick Irish accent put me at ease, and I relaxed.

  “Taytos please.”

  He snagged a bag and handed it to me.

  I eyed the bag. “Maybe a few more. Like…six.”

  He smiled. “Have a craving, do ya?” He set my stash of Taytos on the bar. “Just here for the crisps, or would you be liking a jar?”

  “Do you have Brecker Dark?”

  I was curious if Brecker distributed dark beer in France.

  “No, but it does sound familiar.”

  “They recently bought Flanagan’s beer. It’s a great beer. You should look into carrying it.” I pulled a Brecker business card from my purse and handed it to him. Rachel would be proud.

  “Thanks.” He shook my hand. “Nick Donoghue.”

  “Caity Shaw. I’ll take a Guinness, please.”

  I texted Rachel.

  Just handed out a Brecker card at an Irish pub in Paris. Soon they’ll be serving it at runway parties.

  Nick set my pint on the bar and gestured to the pin on my purse. “Are ya a Coffey?”

  “My grandma was. Do you know any Coffeys?”

  “Oh yeah, several of them.”

  “Do you know Gerry Coffey? Owns Coffey’s pub in Dublin?” Rachel had taken the staff there for dinner and had gone a bit gaga over the owner.

  Nick let out a hearty chuckle. “Everyone knows Gerry. You’re related, are ya?”

  I shook my head. “Not directly anyway.”

  “His father ran the pub before him. Fine man.” He excused himself to help customers.

  I’d love to make it back to Coffey’s pub one day.

  I took a drink of Guinness. The smooth beverage slid down my throat, the familiar coffee flavor filling my mouth. A contented feeling washed over me. I was drinking in an Irish pub in Paris when I hadn’t yet been to an authentic Paris café. Was this similar to Americans eating at Hard Rock Cafes for a sense of comfort and familiarity when traveling around the world?

  Here I was in Paris, where I’d dreamed of visiting forever, yet I was longing to be in Ireland.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Despite a horrible night’s sleep without Esmé to cuddle with, and my mind filled with neurotic thoughts over why Declan had ditched me at the Irish pub, I plastered on a perky smile before entering Le Dungeon. I planned to rave about the great craic I’d had at the pub.

  “Happy…Halloween,” I muttered.

  Declan was alone, shuffling through Heather’s massive binder. He looked panicked. Declan never looked panicked. My smile vanished.

  “Heather’s sick. She thinks food poisoning from dinner last night. She’s back from the hospital and in bed.”

  My stomach took a swan dive. We should have gone to dinner with Heather instead of gift shopping. I could be at my hotel puking my guts out right now rather than here sick over what my day had in store.

  Declan waved a hand in front of my face, and I returned to our nightmare. “I went to her room and collected her binder. Luckily, there isn’t much on today.”

  I tore up the mental tour agenda I’d compiled when Heather had assured us we’d be off midafternoon. Touring Paris was now the least of my concerns.

  Heart thumping, I sucked in a calming breath and eased it out. Declan always had my back. I had to have his.

  “Okay. What can I do?”

  “I’m going to meet with the tour company about Versailles tomorrow and collect the printed tour cards. If you can arrange the room drop for tonight”—he gestured to the wineglasses on the table—“I already crossed our staff off the rooming list. The amenity cards there go with it. Have the bellman return any glasses that were undeliverable last night. Don’t forget the DND notice you did.”

  I nodded, scrambling to retain his detailed instructions. “Anything else?”

  He shrugged, heading out the door. “I’m sure shite will come up.”

  Precisely what I was afraid of.

  I kept insisting I didn’t want to play nanny so I could learn my job. Carpe Diem! If my flight attendant uniform wasn’t back at my hotel, I’d throw it on to boost my self-confidence.

  Al strolled in and presented his DND notice. The bellman hadn’t yet returned the undeliverable glasses to our office, so he opted to have them redelivered with tonight’s gift.

  “Where’s Heather?” he asked.

  “She ran out to pick up something,” I lied. She wouldn’t want me telling the truth since he might panic, like me. “Can I help you?”

  He nodded hesitantly. “My wife, Linda’s, birthday is today. I’d like to do something special for her.”

  Way to plan ahead. Yet the fact that he’d remembered his wife’s birthday made him a tad more tolerable.

  “Like a candlelit dinner at the Catacombs or the crypt at the Panthéon,” he said.

  My skin crawled, but I jotted down the places.

  “I’m kidding.” He gave me an incredulous look, like I was crazy for thinking he was serious.

  Why wouldn’t I think he was serious?

  I laughed, not as fake as the last time. “Of course.”

  I was about to recommend the lounge from last night, wanting to impress him with an ideal spot off the top of my head, but the place only served appetizers.

  “If you could also pick up a gift, that’d be great. I won’t be able to sneak off to shop without her.”

  As if I had time to be this guy’s personal shopper. However, I had to do it after my catacomb meltdown and Monsieur Morbid remark, which I still wasn’t sure if he’d caught or not.

  “What are you thinking for a gift?”

  “Something French, so she’ll always remember where I gave it to her. She likes red wine, macaroons, and loves to cook. I couldn’t get her out of the Julia Child’s kitchen exhibit at the Smithsonian. She watched that movie at least a dozen times, where the woman cooks all of Julia Child’s recipes.”

  “Julie and Julia. I saw it. Julia Child lived in Paris for a while and put out a French cookbook. Does she have it?”

  “No. She was always going to buy it and cook every recipe, like in the movie, but we had little ones at the time. They’re bigger now, so she has more time to cook. She also likes chocolate—milk, not dark—traditional art…a lot of French things.”

  I was impressed at how well he knew his wife.

  “Let me check into all of this for you.”

  “Just have Heather put it on the master bill and invoice me separately. Have it delivered when we’re at dinner tonight.”

  He thanked me and left me with no clue how to pay for his wife’s gift. My credit card wasn’t an option. I hated to bug Heather for her Amex when she was puking her guts out. I suddenly realized he’d also left without telling a morbid joke. So he’d likely understood me shouting out his nickname. I shoved my fear aside, needing to focus on one crisis at a time.

  Hopefully, Marcel didn’t refuse to help me with client requests after I’d canceled the sitte
r interviews and hadn’t tipped the last few times. Euros in hand, I raced up to his desk. After running up the stairs in a panic, breaking into a sweat, I sucked in a deep breath, attempting to regulate my short, shallow gasps for air. I finally spit out my request, and Marcel gave me a faint sympathetic smile.

  His first genuine smile.

  He made reservations at his preferred restaurant and gave me the address. He called a French décor and cooking supply shop that confirmed they carried Julia Child’s cookbook and could put together a gift basket.

  Marcel refused my five-euro tip, his hazel eyes softening. “Ce n’est pas nécessaire, mademoiselle.”

  Not only had he refused my tip, but he’d just spoken to me in French. I must really look like a woman on the edge. Or maybe we were bonding over our dislike of Antoine.

  My first instinct was to insist he accept the tip since I had a haunting feeling I was going to need a ton of assistance today. However, not wishing to offend him and his act of kindness, I smiled, shoving the money in my pocket.

  “Merci beaucoup.”

  I headed back to the office, where an attendee was waiting. I plastered on a perky smile. “Picking up your room gift?”

  “Actually dropping one off.” He slipped the box of wineglasses from a plastic laundry bag. “They’re broken.”

  My smile faded. I hoped the artist’s contact info was in Heather’s binder and he could provide replacements. The glasses had been handed over to the bellstand fully intact. The hotel would have to pay for the new ones. How would I prove it was their fault?

  “I’m hoping we can get them before we leave in two days,” he said.

  “Let me get right on that.”

  He left, and I rifled through Heather’s well-organized binder and found the artist’s info under a tab labeled Gifts. Like a true artist, he went merely by his last name, Gautier. I called his number, and a man answered in rapid French. I was about to ask if he spoke English when a beep sounded. I babbled on, hoping he understood English and my incoherent message.

  Heather called, sounding drained. She needed me to make a pharmacy run for her nonprescription stomach meds.

  As if I had time to make a drug run!

  “Of course,” I said in an upbeat tone.

  A half hour later, I returned from the pharmacy with the meds. Heather answered the door, dressed in purple yoga pants and a sweatshirt, sans makeup, uncombed hair, and pillow wrinkles creasing her cheeks. She looked even worse than she’d sounded on the phone.

  “Thanks,” she muttered. “How’s it going?”

  I smiled. “Great.”

  “If Al’s looking for me, just say I ran an errand, then let me know what he needs. Being sick doesn’t look good when we’re bidding on their business. I can’t believe I’m too sick to even work on the proposal.”

  I told her about Al’s wife’s present and his request that it go on the master account. She handed over her corporate Amex once again.

  “Thanks for holding down the fort,” she said.

  I wasn’t about to tell her the fort might go up in flames.

  I raced back to the office. Once inside, I spun around, my gaze narrowing on the unlocked door. My gaze darted to the computers on the desk and my purse next to them, along with the office key. My relief was short-lived when I spotted the empty table.

  The wineglasses were gone.

  Just like a French thief to swipe the wineglasses and leave the computers!

  My heart raced as I mentally calculated the cost of replacing fifty glasses. Get a grip! Heather’s, Declan’s, and my reputations and jobs were on the line.

  Taking a deep breath, I tried to mentally regroup.

  What would Rachel do?

  I called Louise to report the theft and requested she put hotel security on red alert. How easy could it be to waltz out of the hotel unnoticed with fifty wineglasses? Somebody had to know something. And they did.

  Louise called me back and said the bellstand had the glasses. When Declan had dropped off last night’s delivery, he’d advised the bellmen about tonight’s room drop. They’d taken it upon themselves to stop by the open office and pick up the glasses. Louise apologized for the panic. I informed her of Heather’s fragile health and thought it best we didn’t mention this situation.

  For Heather’s sake as much as mine.

  Now was a good time to play the broken wineglasses card and request the hotel pay for them. No way would Rachel incur the expense. Louise assured me the group would be reimbursed for the broken glasses and no further ones would get damaged tonight.

  Way to be assertive, Caity!

  I snatched a bag of Taytos from my computer case. A few cheese-and-onion chips relaxed my shoulders but didn’t loosen the knot in my neck, so I began singing, “Frosty the Snowman…”

  “Was a jolly happy soul,” Declan chimed in.

  I spun around and faced him. “I’m glad it’s you and not Big Henry or Al. Singing carols relaxes me.” And reminded me that I was destined to be an elf for life if I didn’t get it together.

  I rattled off the list of everything I’d done. Not whining, merely wanting him to know the tasks I’d accomplished without having a total meltdown. I was amazed at all I’d done. I glanced at my cell. Declan had been gone four hours.

  “I knew you could do it. That’s why I left ya.”

  My gaze narrowed. “What do you mean that’s why you left me?”

  “The meeting with the tour company only took an hour.”

  “Where have you been?”

  “In my room, catching up on expense reports.”

  I stared at him in disbelief. “I can’t believe you ditched me.” That was the second time he’d ditched me in the last twenty-four hours. Had he done it to prove I could handle the job or to avoid me after the Shauna-muse mistake?

  “But you did grand. Handled everything on your own.”

  “That’s not the point. I’ve been running around like a crazy woman here. What if I’d screwed up? It’s your ass on the line, not just mine. We could have lost our jobs. There was a lot at stake here.” I tossed my arms up in frustration. “I have to go get a birthday gift for Al’s wife.” I spun around and marched out.

  But I hadn’t screwed up. I’d actually done well. I smiled, feeling a huge sense of pride. I’d never have known I could handle everything on my own today if Declan hadn’t ditched me.

  Getting ditched and kicked out of places in Paris was proving to be very good for my self-esteem.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I returned to the hotel almost two hours later, schlepping a large wicker basket containing Julia Child’s Mastering the Art of French Cooking, a Bon Appétit cutting board, a blue-and-yellow apron with matching oven mitts in a classic Provence pattern, several cooking accessories, and a pumpkin scone mix to celebrate the holiday. The quaint shop had tucked a Happy Birthday notecard in the basket. It’d cost almost two hundred euros. Thankfully, I had Heather’s Amex.

  When I entered the office, Declan glanced cautiously over at me. “Sorry about that. Thought I was helping you out.”

  I set the basket on a table and, exhausted, dropped down in a chair. “That’s okay.” I didn’t confess that I actually felt good about how well I’d done. It might work to my advantage if he tried to ditch me again this evening.

  The guy who’d dropped off the broken wineglasses earlier walked in carrying a box. “I just received two more glasses, but they aren’t Renoirs, like I’d requested. The sticker on the box is for Bob Riley.”

  For the love of God. The bellman had apparently ignored the stickers when delivering the gifts.

  Because I hadn’t pointed them out. Relieved that the bellstand had the glasses, I hadn’t even thought about the stickers or the fact it might not have been the same bellman delivering today as last night. Why hadn’t the bellman who’d told his coworker about the delivery also left instructions?

  I apologized and assured him when he left that the situation would be rect
ified. And then assured myself I could resolve the issue.

  Both the bellman and I were at fault. Ultimately though, I’d left the office unlocked. I didn’t want to pull a Gretchen and blame someone else. She’d given me the wrong guest room number for an attendee and blamed me when the masseuse had no-showed. So I fessed up. “See, I did screw up without your help. I left the office open, they took the glasses, and then I forgot to give them delivery instructions. That’s major. Our computers could have been stolen.”

  “But they weren’t, were they now?” Declan relaxed a hip against the table, crossing his arms. “Lesson learned. You won’t forget to lock an office door again. And they shouldn’t have taken the bloody things without telling someone.”

  I let out a frustrated groan, dropping my head back. “I can’t believe I did that.”

  “I once left the office door unlocked and came down that night when I remembered and found two hotel staff shagging in the dark. Their secret was safe because I wasn’t about to admit I’d left the door open. Even the most seasoned planner feck’s up when she’s busy. Look at everything you handled brilliantly. Don’t look at the one thing that went wrong. Ten years from now, you could still make the same mistake because you’ll still be human.”

  Declan’s pep talk made me feel a tad better.

  I paced, scrambling for a solution. “I don’t know if I trust the bellstand to pick up the glasses from the rooms and redeliver without breaking more.” I gestured toward the broken glasses on the table. “People may have thrown away the packaging and bubble wrap. Even if they didn’t, the bellman won’t have time to rewrap—he’ll just toss them on his cart.”

  “Once again, you’re thinking like a meeting planner.”

  Yeah, negatively. Always planning for the apocalypse.

  “I’ll leave everyone a message to bring their glasses down for a swap meet tomorrow. Actually, I better do a notice under their doors in case they don’t check their guest room messages. I can’t afford to make twenty-five international calls to their cell phones.”

  I typed up personalized notices with each attendee’s name and room number rather than giving the bellstand a rooming list to go off of. Less chance for errors.