Up the Seine Without a Paddle Page 12

  I allowed Henry to sit in the front with the understanding that he remained in my view and promised not to disappear. A girl came around requesting two euros per person. I paid her for myself and Henry. My gaze darted to the front bench, making sure he was still there. A little boy was waving Henry’s wand, and a girl scrunched her small nose to keep Harry Potter’s round glasses from sliding off. I was proud that Henry was behaving and sharing despite the language barrier.

  The music faded, the stage curtains opened, and silence fell over the audience. The children peered at the stage with anticipation. Two puppets popped up, and excited squeals and gasps filled the air. Rather than running up to the stage and demanding the puppets speak English, Henry shouted oui or non with the rest of the kids in response to the puppets’ questions. You didn’t have to understand what they were saying—actions were universal. The performance was speaking out against bullying.

  Worried about Declan, I texted him a pic of the show to cheer him up. Within minutes, he sent a pic of a massive, ornate wooden coffin on a green marble base.

  Hanging out with my mate, Napoleon.

  Why had such a short man needed such a large coffin? A big ego?

  Following the show, the puppeteer—a gray-haired man in a black bowler hat and vest—encouraged kids to try on his hand-crafted puppets. He displayed a selection of finger puppets for sale: the Eiffel Tower, a white poodle, a man with a black moustache in a beret, a cancan dancer, et cetera. The small felt puppets only cost three euros each. Henry had money left after buying the T-shirt at the magician’s restaurant. Of course, he wanted one for each finger. I talked him down to two puppets, one for each hand. He selected the Eiffel Tower and beret-wearing man.

  “These are the best souvenirs ever.” Henry slipped the puppets on his fingers. “Oui, non, oui, non.”

  Tinny music echoed through the park. Henry grabbed my hand and led me toward it. “Another puppet show.”

  It was actually a vintage green-canopied carousel with wooden horses. Henry selected a white horse with peeling paint. Afterward, we stopped at a crepe vendor. Henry ordered one smothered in Nutella chocolate. Big surprise. It sounded good, so I ordered the same. I snagged a stack of napkins.

  As soon as we sat down at a table, “La Vie en Rose” sang out from my phone. The alarm tone I’d downloaded before the trip, thinking it would be fun to wake up to the French tune. I’d woken up before the alarm every morning because my internal clock was still off from the time difference.

  I had to call Mom.

  I stepped away, Henry still in view, and speed-dialed her.

  A sense of dread clenched my stomach.

  The call went to voicemail. It was 6:00 a.m. She was undoubtedly sitting at the kitchen table, drinking her coffee, eating her oatmeal, and ignoring my call.

  * * *

  On our walk back to the Hôtel Sophie, Declan texted that they’d return to the hotel in a half hour. Perfect timing. Not that I was going to tuck Henry into bed and pretend like he’d been resting, since I didn’t want him to think it was okay to lie to his parents. But maybe I could hold back part of the truth.

  Declan entered the lobby with several attendees and eyed Henry’s costume with curiosity. “Brilliant outfit, Harry.” He slid a discreet glance my way.

  “Ah, I hope it’s okay Louise let me in your room to get it. I didn’t think you’d mind.” And I hadn’t snooped, despite the temptation.

  “You’re grand.”

  I took his key from my purse. “Here.”

  “Keep it. In case you need it again.”

  Why would I need a key to his room again?

  Henry held up his fingers, displaying his new souvenirs. “See what I got.” He spotted Marcel and raced over to show off his felt puppets.

  I slipped Declan’s room key back into my purse. The flutter in my stomach warned me I should force him to take it.

  Yet I didn’t.

  Declan leaned toward me in a secretive manner. “You’re bloody lucky you didn’t go on the tour. The bus broke down, and I had to stand on the side of the road, waving down taxis for people. Almost ended up getting picked off once or twice. Putting my life at risk, I was.”

  My eyes widened in horror. “That’s insane.”

  His serious expression faded, and he burst out laughing. “Sorry. Can’t keep a straight face about that one. Thought it might make you feel better about having to spend the day with the little lad.”

  I went to give him a playful swat but discreetly drew my hand back. I could only allow myself to touch Declan if he needed consoling. “I believed you.”

  Had his day actually gone well, or was he masking his sadness with humor? Something he did well.

  “Henry was totally into the puppet show. Afterward, we had crepes, and he rode on a wooden carousel.” I sounded like Henry, bubbling with enthusiasm.

  The corners of Declan’s mouth curled into an amused smile. “Sounds like he wasn’t the only one who had a brill day.”

  I smiled. “It didn’t suck.”

  Henry’s parents walked in.

  “I’ll be in the office.” Declan fled.

  Henry ran over to us, and Brooke’s gaze narrowed on her son. “What are you doing out of bed? And dressed like Harry Potter?”

  Henry’s dad didn’t seem fazed by either, still chatting with another guy.

  “I felt better, so we went to a puppet show.” Henry held up his finger puppets.

  Brooke gave me a peeved look. “I don’t think that was a good idea.”

  I opened my mouth to explain that I felt the fresh air would be good for him, but Henry spoke up.

  “I wasn’t really sick.” His smile faded, and he focused on the puppets, avoiding his mom’s disapproving glare.

  I gave Henry a proud smile.

  “I bought you this cute little Eiffel Tower, but I’m not sure if you deserve it since you fibbed to Mommy.”

  Henry shrugged, uninterested in the cheap trinket. He rambled on about the puppet show, then glanced over at me with an earnest expression. “Can we go back tomorrow?”

  “We’ll do something even more fun tomorrow,” Brooke said.

  Henry’s face lit up. “Disney?”

  “Maybe.” She peered at me. “You can cancel the sitter interviews. We’ll do something with Henri.”

  She’d pawned her kid off on me three times, then copped an attitude because her son thought I was fun. It was all I could do to bite my tongue.

  “Now let’s go change out of that costume so we can give it back to Caity.”

  Henry frowned. “I don’t wanna give it back. It’s Halloween tomorrow.”

  I didn’t want to give the flight attendant uniform back either. “It doesn’t have to be returned for a few days.”

  Brooke’s lips pressed into a thin line. She wanted to avoid the embarrassment of her child walking around Paris acting like Harry Potter.

  Big Henry walked over and tousled his son’s hair. “Wow, looks like you had fun today, buddy.”

  Henry nodded enthusiastically. “Can I wear it again tomorrow?”

  Big Henry smiled. “Of course you can.”

  Brooke shot her husband an irritated look.

  Henry waved good-bye with his finger puppets. “Thanks for the puppet show.”

  I smiled. “Sure.”

  The happy family headed toward the elevator.

  I popped over to Marcel and canceled the babysitter interviews.

  He gave me an exasperated look. “You now wish for me to cancel the interviews?”

  “Sorry. Go ahead and bill us.” I’d spent my last euro coins on the puppet show, so I had none for a tip, which would undoubtedly come back to haunt me. Or maybe it would haunt Antoine now that Marcel knew the man was screwing with his tips.

  He expelled an annoyed puff of air. “As you wish, mademoiselle.”

  I went down to the office, surprised to find Heather already back and hard at work on her proposal, slamming a Coca-Cola Light, a b
ackup stash of cans lining her desk. It appeared she was in for a long night. I felt bad, unable to contribute.

  “I snuck out of the tour an hour ago,” she said. “How’d it go with Little Henry?”

  “He was a bit down, so we went to the gardens for some fun. Big Henry was fine with our outing.” I didn’t mention his wife’s reaction. “Brooke asked me to cancel the sitter interviews.”

  “Well, you won’t be playing nanny tomorrow. She can watch her own kid. I know we need to kiss ass, but she’s taking advantage of us. I’ve been thinking—this is setting precedence for future meetings, and I can’t dedicate a staff person every year to watching Henry. I’ve likely created a monster.”

  And here I’d thought at the beginning of the trip Henry was the monster.

  “If she or Big Henry asks again, I’ll tactfully explain that unfortunately we have way too much going on. Even though tomorrow’s a free day for attendees and you guys should be done midafternoon.”

  I started planning a mental tour itinerary for my possible free time. First stop, the Musée d’Orsay. Determination calmed the nervous flutter in my stomach. This might be my only chance to see the French Impressionists.

  I turned to Declan. “I might actually get to see some of Paris besides a puppet show, magician restaurant…” I snapped my mouth shut before I said, and dead people.

  “You spent the day like a true Parisian. You’re doing things in Paris I’ve never done, and I thought I’d done it all.”

  Wow, I’d done things both he and Rachel hadn’t.

  “Well, you’ve probably shopped in Paris before, but I have to get my parents an anniversary present. I totally forgot their anniversary yesterday. To make it even worse, I had a blowup with my mom last night. Rachel’s the one who misses birthdays and anniversaries. Not me.”

  “I’d have missed Zoe’s birthday if we hadn’t been talking about her in Dublin.”

  “Speaking of Zoe, I’m surprised she hasn’t responded about the photo I sent.”

  Declan shrugged. “Guess she’s busy.” He turned away with a guilty expression.

  He’d given me a bogus e-mail addy.

  Why didn’t Declan want me contacting Zoe?

  I pulled up the photo on my phone and shared it on Facebook, tagging Declan. Maybe she’d see it on Facebook.

  Gretchen and Fanette undoubtedly would.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Bustling cafés and souvenir stands filled Montmartre’s Place du Tertre. Artists and caricaturists bordered the lively square’s perimeter, housed under red, green, and white umbrellas, trying to lure tourists into their chairs.

  “Pissarro, van Gogh, Utrillo, many artists lived in this area and hung out at the cafés and cabarets,” Declan said. “Absinthe was often their muse.”

  “Absinthe?”

  “The drink of La Belle Époque era. A wickedly strong spirit that made artists and writers think they were brilliant when often they were merely mad from too much liquor. Montmartre was the pulse of the creative types.”

  I could picture the Impressionist artists gathering in a café, chain-smoking, knocking back absinthe, complaining about the lack of respect their work received from the art community.

  “Just think what their art would go for now,” I said.

  “Van Gogh, and others, paid drink tabs with paintings that now sell for millions.”

  My eyes widened. “Maybe I could buy a sketch by the next van Gogh and it’ll be worth millions someday.” I peered down the row of artists, recalling that Declan had once mentioned that he drew. “So you’re an artist. Which of these guys is the next van Gogh?”

  “If it were that easy, I’d own the Jameson Distilleries. Feck, I’d own every distillery.”

  We encountered an artist sketching a couple’s wedding photo. “I could have him draw my family photo.” I dug through my wallet and found the photo taken my freshman year of college.

  Declan studied it. “You look like your mum.”

  I nodded. I had her blue eyes and cheekbones, but my heart-shaped face came from Grandma Brunetti.

  “Do you look like either of your parents?”

  I was hoping he’d share a family photo. He didn’t. The only thing I knew about Declan’s family was that he’d last visited them in the spring. Zoe’s birthday was a few weeks ago, and she’d once had an emergency run to remove a splinter from her butt after sliding down a wooden banister.

  He shrugged. “Have my mum’s eyes, I suppose.”

  I stared deep into his bright-blue eyes. “Nice,” I muttered, nodding. A smile slowly curled the corners of his lips, jarring me. “I mean that you have her eyes, not that they’re nice.”

  Declan’s smile widened.

  Omigod, just shut it, Caity.

  I bolted over to an artist—an older gray-bearded man in a black beret—catering to the tourists’ clichéd image of a Parisian artist. A good thing I hadn’t worn my beret, or I might have been mistaken for an artist. I gestured to the photo in my hand, then his sketch pad. “Combien?” (How much?)

  “Eighty euros,” he said with a confident nod, ensuring me I wouldn’t get a better deal elsewhere.

  I couldn’t afford almost a hundred bucks.

  I had to afford it. Mom would love a drawing. It’d look perfect hanging over their stone fireplace.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  As we strolled off, the man called out, “Seventy-five.”

  I glanced over my shoulder, smiling at him. “We’ll be back.” I turned to Declan. “That’s kind of a lot. What would you charge to draw the photo?”

  He shrugged. “I haven’t drawn in years.”

  “Why’d you quit?”

  Declan scanned the row of artists, as if searching for an answer, his gaze pausing on one around his age. “Lost my muse,” he finally said.

  “Draw my family portrait, and maybe your muse will return.”

  Reigniting his passion for art might help Declan heal. I’d once read an article about how counselors used art therapy to encourage patients to express their feelings. What a great outlet for Declan’s emotions. My enthusiasm faded when I noticed his pained expression, and a look of longing replaced the usual sparkle in his eyes. Rather than observing the artist at work, Declan had been watching the happy young couple cozied up on his chair.

  Declan’s muse couldn’t return.

  Shauna had been his muse.

  “Sorry,” I muttered, placing a comforting hand on his arm, feeling the warmth of his body through the jean jacket sleeve.

  He stared at my hand resting on his arm and swallowed hard, probably trying to force down the lump of emotion in his throat, same as I was. He sucked in a breath, then eased it out as if he was gathering his thoughts, preparing to confide in me. He reached out to touch my hand, and my breathing quickened. His fingers just shy of mine, he lowered his hands and shoved them into his jeans pockets, as if to keep me at an emotional, and physical, distance. My hand remained poised in midair before retreating.

  Declan shook his head. “I’m sorry. Knowing about her puts you in an awkward position. I never should have mentioned her.”

  My heart sank to my feet. Declan regretted confiding in me. Talk about a major step backward. Him opening up about Shauna’s death should have brought us closer together, not pushed us further apart. He was hurting, and I couldn’t help him. What could I say to get him to open up?

  A painting of Paris’s skyline caught my eye.

  “I owned a painting of Milwaukee’s skyline by an awesome local artist. After Andy and I broke up, he claimed it was his and tried to keep it. Everything in the relationship was his, rather than ours, which was a big part of the issue.”

  He nodded in understanding. “That’s mad. What type of painting was it?”

  Seriously? I started spilling my guts about Andy, and Declan was curious about the artwork? My problem might seem minor compared to what he was dealing with, but it was major to me. I was torn between screaming, crying, a
nd…doing a happy dance.

  I suddenly realized how big of a step this was for me. Declan was the first person I’d confided in outside of Martha. I wasn’t divulging all the horrible details about the relationship, but I was talking about it. Baby steps.

  Not only couldn’t I give up on Declan, I couldn’t give up on myself.

  * * *

  As we neared my hotel, our taxi passed an Irish pub painted an evergreen with gold lettering reading Murray’s.

  “How about a pint?” I said. “I’ve never come this way. I had no clue this place is so close to my hotel.”

  Declan shook his head. “I’m wrecked.”

  Since when was Declan too wrecked for a whiskey or Guinness? He’d grown quiet after the whole Shauna-muse conversation. A drink might get him to talk.

  “That’s okay. I’ll go by myself. I’ve been dying for a Guinness.”

  Declan would never agree to me sitting in a Paris pub alone or walking back to my hotel in the dark.

  He leaned toward the driver. “Can you stop, mate?”

  I smiled as the driver pulled up to the curb.

  “Do you want me to take that back to the hotel?” Declan gestured to the cardboard tube containing my parents’ gift—the sketched family portrait I’d dropped seventy euros on.

  What about taking me back to the hotel after a drink? He was seriously letting me go to a strange pub in Paris, at night, by myself, and walk back to the hotel alone? Granted, the pub was only a few blocks from my hotel, but did this mean he wasn’t as concerned about my safety as he had been the other night when he’d insisted on escorting me from the Turkish restaurant? Or had he merely wanted an excuse to ditch Fanette? After I’d blasted him with pepper spray in Dublin, he knew how paranoid I was walking alone at night. Well, I wasn’t as paranoid as I had been, but he didn’t know that!

  “No, I can take it.” I fought to keep the disappointed tone from my voice. “See you in the morning.”

  “Take a right at the corner, and your hotel is just three blocks up. There are loads of people out. You’ll be grand.”

  I slowly shut the door, giving him time to change his mind and hop out. I watched the taxi drive away.