by Tyler Flynn
Hart pursed his lips, thinking he was about to save his career. “Well, I know we can be that gateway into the United States. I think first, though, I will need to take a look at your financials.”
“I am happy you’ve asked.” Renard sat forward and smacked his knees. “So, this means you are interested in helping?” He began typing vigorously on his cell, and before Hart could answer affirmatively, he hurled a follow-up question. “How long were you planning on staying in Paris before heading back to New York?”
“My flight is Sunday morning.”
Renard drew his head back, made a disappointed tsk-tsk sound with his tongue, and laughed. “No, the weekend is a time for relaxation and rest, not business travel. I have things for you to do here, in Paris. You’re okay spending more time here, into next week? No girlfriend to rush home to? If there’s one and she’s impatient, we could always fly her out here to spend a few days in the romantic City of Light.”
“Ah.” Hart smiled sheepishly. “No girlfriend. I’ve learned to not mix business and my love life, anyway.”
Renard scoffed. “Perfect. I’d maybe suggest calling James and telling him things are progressing, but you will need a few more days. In the meantime, you can take some documents back to your hotel to review. But I will make sure you enjoy yourself this weekend, see what Paris has to offer.”
Renard placed a phone call, speaking quickly in French. “Clara, please come back into my office. I have a favor to ask of you.”
8
Paris
Paris turned to night without anyone noticing, as it usually had a way of doing. People were busy at cafés, walking home from work, stopping at the store, or heading for dinner. The sun vanished across the Seine behind slanted rooftops, and the arched dome of Les Invalides finally rested after another day brightening up the City of Light. Night blanketed the city, but only for a brief moment before the streetlights, restaurants, and apartments flooded light back onto the streets.
The Mercedes navigated back through the Place de la Concorde to Rue de Rivoli as the sidewalks filled. Tourists scurried about, their cameras flashing away, while locals strolled, in no particular hurry, making their way to a rendezvous perhaps at a café, as if happiness could be found amongst friends and a glass of Burgundy.
At the front door of the hotel, Hart stepped out and circled around to the passenger-side window. He laid eyes on the black-silk-covered legs of Clara, who sat cross-legged in the back of the car. The urge to stare at them longer than appropriate was overpowered by the need to know his plans for the evening.
“So, you’ll pick me up at eight thirty? Where are we going again?”
Clara gave a coy smile. Renard had evidently told her to entertain Hart before they’d left the offices at La Grande Arche, but she hadn’t shared the details of her plans.
Renard had made it understood that Hart would be staying through the weekend into the following week. Hart had called Hutchens to explain the new itinerary from Renard’s office. The only feedback from Hutchens was a huff of annoyance before Renard had impatiently taken the phone from Hart. Stern but courteous words were spoken, and Renard hung up the phone with a wink at Hart. He’d felt a pang of admiration for the man who had stood up to Hutchens.
Clara peered out from the back seat of the car and met Hart’s lingering eyes.
“Oui. Maxim and I will pick you up. Just be in the lobby at eight thirty. À tout à l’heure,” she said with a polite smile as she closed her window. Maxim, the same driver they’d had all day, drove off.
Hart nodded to himself. “Yeah, that sounds good to me, thanks.”
The sedan turned off of Rue de Rivoli and went out of sight.
In his room, there wasn’t much to do besides fight the desire to take a nap, the original sin of frequent travelers. Instead, Hart decided on a cold shower to freshen up and changed into a fresh white dress shirt. Though jet leg would have normally set in, his adrenaline from the day and the prospect of the night to come kept him alert.
He had several emails from work, including three from Hutchens requesting exact details of his travel changes. Hutchens could be aloof, and overbearing in his efforts to micromanage. The irony was that while Hart had been picked for his client visit, he was still required to be informative at every turn.
Nevertheless, the trip had been surreal, better than he could have dreamed. He sat in his red suede armchair that overlooked the darkened Jardin. The relief of having an amiable client in Renard had provided him the hope that he could salvage his career. But above all else, the newfound company of a beautiful Frenchwoman, whom he had a sneaking suspicion enjoyed the arrangement just as well. His career had taken many turns, but at the moment it seemed easily to be the best it had ever been. The work at the firm had been mundane and testing, but for the first time in as long as he could remember, he felt utilized.
The opportunities had been few and far between, but through a series of unimpressive and demoralizing tasks—the clichés of getting the coffee and picking up dry-cleaning, and the tedious work of typing up minutes—he found himself progressing by the good graces of his boss for a while. The question that had preyed on his mind, however, was how to determine when it was time to seek another path. The thought kept him up at nights when he was frustrated at the behavior of ruthless coworkers seeking credit, or longing for the social life he didn’t have. But the question of when to choose the next path would have never crossed his mind had it not been for a client dinner he’d attended years ago in New York.
The encounter birthed an idea that stayed deep within him. Calhoun Capital had taken their client, Robert Mayfair, out to a steak dinner at Peter Luger’s to celebrate the sale of his manufacturing company. The deal had been lucrative, and Wall Street tradition called for a celebration of red meat, red wine, and cigars.
Mayfair was a short man, wide set, who swam in his expensive tailoring, cut for a man much larger and taller. He had a bushy gray mustache and was balding, with gray hair that clung stubbornly to the sides of his head. He had built up a bike manufacturing company that produced less energy waste, thanks to solar panels and the recycled rubber used for the tires and handlebar grips. A stroke of luck saw his company become the sole provider for a start-up bicycle company that aimed to create rideshare programs using bikes built from reusable materials.
Hart had met Mayfair when he was seeking help to sell his company. Mayfair had won a competition for green companies, with the city of San Diego rewarding them with their first big contract. That led to San Francisco, then to Minneapolis and Chicago, and soon the small company couldn’t keep up with demand.
The deal had come through for Mayfair to sell his company for nearly two hundred million dollars. Hart had been invited to celebrate out of charity because he happened to be in the room at the time of the sale. Over the course of the celebration dinner, he had enjoyed a few glasses of Brunello, the wine seemingly his only companion at the table. The others from Calhoun Capital were in the mergers and acquisitions area, the kind of people who proudly displayed their master’s degrees in the art of being condescending.
The celebration wound down, with everyone deciding to go to a club nearby to have some better-looking company. Hart had quietly made for the exit and was waiting for his taxi when he noticed Robert Mayfair had enjoyed himself a bit too much. He stood swaying as both men waited for their rides.
“Congratulations.” Hart had smiled and patted the man’s back.
Mayfair turned to him and, with one eye a little more closed than the other, spoke deliberately. “You know, no one ever asked me how I felt about all this. Just it’s a good deal, take it.” He had pulled his hands from his pockets and waved them about wildly in mock celebration. “But what people don’t know is this is never what I wanted. I came from a small town where my goal was to do okay so I could hire friends and my friends’ children, and provide for my town and family. We started doing too well, and my whole life fell apart. I worked all the time; my
wife never saw me. When I did get away and we’d go on a trip to a fancy place that we could have never afforded staying at before, it was just another reminder of my success.”
Hart had listened with confusion to the same man who had just sold his company for hundreds of millions of dollars. “Well, now you can enjoy retirement and have some more family time, man.” Hart smacked him on the back once more, anxiously longing for his cab.
“No, son.” Mayfair looked down at his feet, then back up to Hart and grabbed him by the shoulder. “Things aren’t the way they were. There is no going back. Money changes everyone. My wife hates me for choosing a company over her, and there’s no changing that, no matter how many trips. Just remember: never forget why you started whatever it is you do in the first place. Always remember why you started.”
Hart slumped in a plush chair, looking at the darkening sky creeping over the Jardin de Tuileries. He was exhausted. The grind of the travel, and the pressure to win Renard’s business and please Hutchens was wearing. Hart thought back to Robert Mayfair, and his words echoed in his mind. With what ambitions had he started his career? He couldn’t quite remember.
9
Paris
The noise in the lobby grew steadily in volume as Hart sat waiting for Clara and his 8:30 p.m. pick-up. The revolving doors shuffled finely dressed people in and out of the darkened space. Most of the men wore blazers with silk scarves, polished black oxfords, and beautiful ladies on their arm. The women wore sparkling blouses, silk flowing dresses, and high heels. A buzz had developed at the hotel, emanating from the bar and dining room. It was most definitely a Friday night in Paris.
Hart wondered about Clara and their rendezvous. How would she act for a night out with a new colleague? Perhaps, Hart thought, she’d dress and act conservatively, but she was Parisienne, after all, and it was a talent of Frenchwomen to draw desire and attention from men who had no business giving either.
Hart checked his watch and figured he would wait outside under the archways of the Rue de Rivoli. There, he watched scooters and taxis with their red roof lights race by.
Finally, a black Mercedes pulled up alongside the curb and crept to a stop. In the front passenger window, a man with dark features, a beard, and long black wavy hair and severe eyebrows glared at him. A woman stepped out. She uncurled her long legs, clad in black jeans along with black ankle boots, and stepped onto the curb. Hart felt the eyes of the man in the front seat upon him and turned to see him staring with thinly veiled menace. When he turned back to watch the woman exiting the vehicle, he found Clara inside the car, hidden behind the woman who had stolen his attention.
“Bonsoir, Paul. Allez!” Her smile was framed by dark-red lipstick. Her friend in the leather jacket stood by the car waiting for an introduction.
“Paul, this is Justine,” Clara shouted from inside the car.
Hart smiled and returned the traditional French double kiss; her jet-black hair brushed off Hart’s shoulders. She had an oval face with full lips, dark-brown eyes, and soft skin.
Not to be deterred by the tight intimacy of the back seat, Justine squeezed between Clara and Paul. Perfume filled the car, floral notes with hints of cinnamon and a squeeze of citrus.
Clara pointed to the front seat. “That is Julien. We will all be going out together in Montorgueil.”
From the front seat, Julien offered a, “Bonsoir,” then went back to his cell phone, barely giving Hart the chance to say hello. Maxim, the driver, gave Hart a smile and curt tip of the cap in the rearview mirror, and the Mercedes sped away from the hotel.
Hart thought it must be nice to have your own chauffeur like Clara as they passed the brightly lit opera house, heading north on Avenue de l’Opéra. They veered right towards the Second Arrondissement and past the silhouette of Galeries Lafayette, the famous department store where one could find anything.
The conversation in the car was casual, French with bits of English mixed in thoughtfully so that Hart could keep up. He wasn’t surprised Clara had invited some friends to join them, and the added company was more than welcome. Clara seemed in a good mood, laughing and chatting away with Justine.
Hart laughed along with the jokes as he split his attention between the conversation and the window. He suddenly found they’d entered an area with smaller cobblestoned streets lined with cafés and restaurants, passable only by foot.
Maxim pulled the Mercedes up to the curb. “Welcome to Rue Montorgueil.” He added a small tip of the hat.
Hart stepped out and held the door open for Justine, who purposefully extended her long legs one at a time getting out of the car. Her thin black top, which clung loosely to her, showed her curves and offered a plunging neckline Hart couldn’t help but notice.
“Merci, Paul.”
Her brown eyes flickered at Hart while she strode toward Julien, who stood brooding with his hands in his coat pockets.
Clara slid across the back seat and took Hart’s helping hand with a broad smile as she exited the car. She wore dark-gray jeans, a golden-hued silk shirt with clear crystals around the collar, and a navy-blue peacoat jacket, anchored by a pair of dark-brown suede heeled boots. She had redone her hair from earlier in the day, invigorated it with volume and a certain wavy, playful curliness. She bid a good evening to Maxim, and the Mercedes merged back into the Friday night traffic.
The four of them meandered down a slightly sloping walkway, passing loud restaurants full of friends out on a Friday evening. The air was damp with the promise of rain.
Hart found himself next to Julien, while Clara and Justine led the way.
“So, Julien, do you speak English?” Hart inquired.
“Oui.”
“Do you live in Paris?”
Julien gave him a soft glare, and Hart could almost see the Frenchman’s internal struggle—should he engage with the American or retreat?—but he seemed resigned to his fate of needing to be social.
“My whole life. But I take my summers in Provence,” he said with a smirk of satisfaction.
“Beautiful. What do you do for a living, if you don’t mind my asking?” Hart was enjoying getting under the man’s skin.
“I’m a writer.”
“Oh? What do you write?”
“Novels.”
“Interesting. What about?”
Julien scoffed. “Life.”
“Ah, I bet it’s profound.”
“Oui.”
Hart stuffed his hands into his pockets and rolled his eyes. He steadied himself for one last attempt at questioning before he would surrender.
“And forgive my curiosity, how is it you know Clara?”
Julien made a puzzled grimace. “I only know Justine. Justine wanted to introduce me to Clara tonight.”
Hart realized that Julien’s cold nature was perhaps because he viewed him as competition.
Justine and Clara led the way further down the street, leaning against one another to combat the unevenness of the cobblestones, which had become slick with dew. The street grew more secluded. The lively restaurants and cafés gave way to smaller boutiques, closed at the late hour, and quaint narrow bars that stretched away from their small doorways. Hart and Julien lingered several yards behind the women.
“So, you and Justine are good friends, I take it?” Hart said.
“We met a few weeks ago. I’ve seen her once or twice. She invited me out tonight and I thought, why not? I love this part of the city. Plus”—Julien raised his eyebrows and nodded towards the women—“not too bad. You really can’t go wrong. Perhaps I’ll take both home.”
Julien picked up his pace, threw a playful elbow, and joined the ladies.
Hart cursed himself for agreeing to go out. It seemed it would be a long night. His inner gentleman protested the behavior of Julien. The women weren’t a game where a man could win the best prize. Hart realized why he’d become upset. I’ve got feelings for Clara, he thought. Naturally, he enjoyed gorgeous women as much as the next man, but there were va
lues he would not sacrifice, such as being chivalrous, and especially not with Clara.
He figured there was a chance she had an interest in him and wasn’t about to dilute that by entering a contest with Julien. He knew he had been burned before when his intuition was wrong, but it was what, he reasoned, made him good at his job. It gave him an edge in almost any interaction because he didn’t trust anyone. He could collect information, facts, likes, dislikes, and their quirks, but at the end of it all, in his experience everyone was out for themselves.
With the arrival of Julien by their side, Clara craned her neck, as if she were looking for Hart. He was still a few yards behind and, knowing she was watching him, faked interest in passing shop windows in an effort to appear distracted, before Clara beckoned him with a wave.
“Paul, allez. If you don’t keep up, you’ll lose us and be lost wandering the streets all night by yourself!” She laughed at the idea.
“La-bas,” Justine said in French as she pointed to a nondescript stone archway that framed two blue doors. A small silver sign on the wall read “Cocktail Lounge.” She knocked twice, and the doors were opened from inside, revealing a large man dressed in a black suit, who greeted them with a serious look on his face. He looked the group over, ignoring Hart and Julien but lingering on the women before motioning for them to come inside.
The lounge was dark and obscured from the front doors by thick red velour drapes with gold tassels pooled on the floor. Behind the dimly lit bar were dark-red brick walls with shelves of bottles. Furniture was scattered across the room, creating private corners and nooks for people.