Up the Seine Without a Paddle Page 3

  So they had a hold on all my available credit.

  Actually, how had the minibar charge gone through if they had over a two-hundred-dollar hold on my card?

  “We’ll talk to Louise and get the hold removed ASAP.” Declan gave me a confident smile.

  I needed it removed now. If the next hotel wanted to put a hold on my credit card, there’d be nothing there to hold. What if they wouldn’t give me a room? What if I was sleeping on the streets of Paris? No way was I getting kicked out of one more place today!

  I wanted to grab Antoine by his crisply pressed jacket lapels and wrinkle the hell out of them while shaking him senseless. However, I was already attracting the attention of the distinguished-looking guests with designer luggage waiting in line behind me. Declan placed a hand on my arm. I took a calming breath, maintaining my composure.

  Antoine handed me a copy of the bill, still reflecting a ninety-six-euro minibar charge. “Thank you for staying at the Hôtel Sophie. Please come again.”

  I gave him the evil eye and walked away with my head held high, hitching my worn carry-on bag up on my shoulder. Declan grabbed my purple floral suitcase. We headed toward the door, stopping at the concierge desk, where Marcel, a gray-haired dapper-looking gentleman in a black suit, stood.

  “Bonjour,” I said, forcing a friendly smile.

  He expelled an impatient puff of air between his lips. “How may I be of assistance, mademoiselle?”

  How had he pegged me as an American in one word?

  I requested a popular kids’ restaurant. Marcel recommended a new magician-themed one, La Grande Illusion. It was all the rage with families in Paris. Luckily, he was able to work his magic—his lame humor, not mine—and get us in that evening. I was still fuming over missing the dinner cruise, but at least I was going to a restaurant that was all the rage. Even if it was all the rage with Parisians under age ten.

  Marcel handed me the restaurant’s address.

  “Merci.”

  “With pleasure, mademoiselle.” The polite, obligatory statement lacked sincerity.

  A bellman in a blue overcoat and top hat opened the front door, inquiring if we’d enjoyed our stay, offering to get us a taxi.

  I smiled at him. “Thanks, but we’ll walk.”

  With a curt nod, he whisked off to assist an elderly lady stepping from a Bentley.

  “If I’m being walked from this hotel, I’m walking. I need to know where I’m going. I’m not paying for a taxi every day. We’ll walk fast so we’re back in a half hour.”

  Declan took my carry-on bag, perched it on top of my suitcase, and wrapped the brown leather strap around the pull bar.

  “Thanks,” I muttered, appreciating having at least some weight lifted from my shoulders.

  We headed down a sidewalk bordering the Tuileries Gardens. A cool breeze carried the crisp, earthy scent of fall leaves and children’s squeals of excitement from the Ferris wheel in the gardens. The sun now shining, people were enjoying leisurely strolls along the garden’s tree-lined dirt paths.

  “I thought you said Heather was fine that I’m new to the industry?”

  Declan shrugged. “I might have given her the impression you have a wee bit more experience than you do.”

  “What if she expects me to know stuff I don’t? Like my job?”

  “Getting work in this industry is largely by recommendations. People aren’t always willing to recommend you, afraid you’ll take their work.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m no threat to you, that’s for sure.”

  Declan laughed. “I oversold myself in the beginning and then lived up to it. Like they say, fake it till you make it.”

  “What if I can’t even fake it?”

  My résumé wasn’t exactly honest. However, I hadn’t sent one out yet. And it wouldn’t be legit after this trip if all I did was babysit Henry. Yet now I knew about minibar sensors, being walked, and hotel credit card holds. That’d look really impressive on a résumé.

  “I have faith in your abilities.”

  I arched a brow. “My acting abilities, which are limited to playing a sausage?” He didn’t know about my elf stint.

  “I’ll send you my client list. Several plan meetings in the States as well as Europe.” Declan typed away on his phone, e-mailing me the list.

  What if I couldn’t live up to Declan’s résumé of me and I made him look bad? What if I made myself look bad? Like he said, getting work in this industry was largely based on recommendations. If it wasn’t for him covering my ass, landing me jobs, and training me, I’d have no job. Thanks to Declan, I had more faith in myself than I’d had before Dublin, after Andy had whittled away my self-esteem.

  Black iron lampposts lined the sidewalk, and traffic zipped past on the cobblestone-paved bridge stretching across the Seine. The Musée d’Orsay overlooked the river on the other side. I was just moving in, and I already didn’t get along with my neighbor.

  Accordion music drifted up from a tour boat, its wake rolling gently across the dark greenish-colored river and lapping against the stone quays along the side. The same river Audrey Hepburn and Cary Grant had floated down in Charade. Declan slowed his pace to a stroll, so I did the same, slipping my phone from my purse and snapping shots. Being walked to a different hotel sucked, yet I was in Paris. The city I’d dreamed of visiting since I was, like, ten.

  The bridge ended, and we crossed the street, encountering an ATM. “I need cash.” I didn’t want the waiter at the magician’s restaurant to make my credit card disappear, cutting it up and using it for magic dust. “I’ve been living off thirty euros I brought home from Dublin.”

  I fed my debit card into the ATM and punched in my pass code. The machine spit out my card, forbidding a withdrawal. I attempted again, and again. My heart raced. My account had at least four hundred bucks. I’d balanced my checkbook last week. However, math wasn’t my strong suit, and previous errors had led to two overdrafts. But I hadn’t recently received an overdraft notice. I’d become much braver at opening my overdue notices since my car had been repoed. The three hundred available on my credit card wouldn’t last the trip, especially if I was footing the bill for Henry’s meals. Besides, the Hôtel Sophie still had a hold on that credit.

  “Don’t think it’s going to give you money, but it might be taking your card if you keep shoving it in there.”

  I let out a frustrated growl, tightening my grip on the card.

  “Advise your bank you’d be traveling abroad, did ya?”

  Relief washed over me. “No, I didn’t. That must be it.”

  Please let that be it. A stupid mistake but better than a four-hundred-dollar math error and an empty account.

  “Of course it’s Sunday, so my bank’s closed. Tomorrow it won’t be open until midafternoon here.”

  “I can loan you a few quid.”

  I hesitated, determined to prove to myself, and Declan, that I could stand on my own and do this job. However, I didn’t have a choice, or Henry and I would be dining on Happy Meals.

  “Thanks,” I muttered.

  Too poor to be proud.

  “I’ll give you the money back at the hotel.”

  Heather texted Declan that the ground company’s representative had arrived. We picked up our pace, heading down a one-way street sheltered by buildings five or six stories high, with wrought iron railings enclosing tiny balconies or merely providing ornamentation on the stone buildings. We turned a corner to find a white building with gold lettering scrolled on a red awning, Hôtel Verneuil Paris—named after the street. I was staying alone at a hotel, and I couldn’t pronounce its name or address.

  “Thanks for walking me here. I’ll be fine.” Could Declan hear the nervous quiver in my voice? “There’s a produce market across the street, a pharmacy, flower shop…”

  This was a quieter, more residential location, compared to the bustling area surrounding the Hôtel Sophie. The narrow streets probably weren’t too lively or well lit at night. Visions of the d
ark, deserted street in Dublin, where I’d blasted Declan with pepper spray, flashed through my mind. Even though I was no longer as paranoid about Andy, I’d brought my defense spray. Mom reminded me once again that Aunt Dottie had been mugged thirty-one years ago in London.

  Declan rolled my luggage toward me. I grasped the pull bar with a sweaty hand, my pinkie finger flirting with his thumb. My stomach fluttered. I scooched my hand over, not wanting him to feel my tension or sweaty palm. He slowly released his grip on the bar.

  He gave me a reassuring smile, yet concern dimmed his eyes. “I’m just a ring away. See you in a bit.”

  He strode down the sidewalk toward the bridge, slipping a hand in his front pants pocket, raising his jacket, revealing his butt. If we were both in different places, emotionally and physically—i.e., at least living on the same continent—and Declan wasn’t an alleged womanizer, I’d allow my gaze to linger. I forced myself to look away.

  A nervous, queasy feeling tossed my stomach. When I’d insisted I needed to be able to stand on my own this meeting and not rely on Declan, I hadn’t meant that I needed to be alone.

  Grandma had sailed from Ireland alone, at sea for weeks, when she’d been four years younger than me. Chin up. I could do this. I’d be fine.

  As long as the hotel didn’t require a personal credit card. If they did, then I’d really be alone on the streets of Paris.

  * * *

  I opened one of the hotel’s narrow double doors—glass panels trimmed in red. After strategically wedging myself and my suitcase sideways between the doors, I struggled to squeeze through, the other door out of my reach. A petite elderly lady scurried over from behind the front desk and opened the doors so I could fit through. Her assistant, a brown-and-white springer, gave me a happy bonjour bark.

  “Bonjour,” the lady said with a pleasant smile that eased my feeling of impending doom.

  I immediately liked her, and her dog, better than Antoine.

  I returned her smile. “Bonjour et merci.”

  She repositioned a red shawl around her narrow shoulders and red floral dress. A loose bun held her silver hair on top of her head, providing a cushion for her red reading glasses to rest on. Yellow, purple, and red flowers filled yellow ceramic vases at each end of the registration counter. With the colorful flowers, yellow walls, and light wood trim, the place looked cheerful…and clean.

  The dog sniffed my bag. Hopefully, it smelled the small box of chocolates that turndown service had left on my pillow last night and wasn’t searching for a spot to pee.

  “Esmé,” the lady scolded.

  I gave Esmé a pat on the head, and she sniffed my hand instead of the suitcase.

  I smiled at the lady. Too mentally drained to even attempt French, I said, “I’m checking in. Caity Shaw.”

  Unlike the staff at Hôtel de Snooty, she replied in French. I caught one word, une chambre—a room.

  “Parlez-vous anglais?” I asked.

  She shook her head with an apologetic smile.

  Omigod. How was I supposed to communicate with this woman?

  What if, like in Dublin, I woke up in a panic during the night, afraid someone was breaking into my room? If I called down to the desk, this woman wouldn’t be able to understand or protect me. She was also likely hotel security.

  I calmly said, “Une chambre. Caity Shaw.”

  The lady gestured to herself, smiling. “Madame Laurent.”

  I smiled. “Enchantée.”

  After paging through my dictionary, I formulated a sentence to verify that Heather had provided her company credit when booking my room. Madame Laurent confirmed she had. Luckily, she didn’t request my personal card for incidentals. I couldn’t imagine what incidentals I’d have. A petit credenza offered complimentary coffee and tea. No restaurant or gift shop. If I owed money at the end of my stay, I’d pay in cash.

  If I had cash by the end of my stay.

  She handed me a long metal key, like one you’d find in an antique store or to an old trunk tucked away in an attic, filled with family heirlooms and treasures. Not the typical plastic keycard most hotels now used. I grabbed my suitcase handle, peering around the tiny lobby for the elevator. Unless it was hidden behind the door next to the front desk, there was no elevator. Did the place have Wi-Fi? I couldn’t live without internet. Before I could formulate a sentence inquiring about Wi-Fi, Madame Laurent wheeled my suitcase over to the stairs, Esmé trotting behind. She grabbed the handle, preparing to haul the heavy bag up the red-carpeted spiral staircase.

  “Oh no.” I snatched the suitcase from her. “C’est d’accord.” I gave her a reassuring smile. The bag weighed almost as much as she did and would surely break several of her fragile bones before she reached the fifth floor.

  I glanced at the time on my phone. I had to get back to the Hôtel Sophie. I pointed at my bag and to the door by the desk. “S’il vous plaît.” Please.

  She smiled wide, nodding. I rolled my bag over to the desk, thanked her, and left.

  I gave myself a pep talk. Madame Laurent was a sweet lady. This would be the perfect opportunity for me to practice French. The hotel was quaint, like traveling back in time to 1920s Paris.

  A time when Grandma would have visited the city.

  A time without elevators, hotel keycards, Wi-Fi, and…

  I was afraid to know what else.

  My phone dinged the arrival of a text. Rachel.

  How’s it going?

  Great! I didn’t want my sister to know I’d been walked to a different hotel. She’d been texting me every few hours, already concerned for my safety.

  At least Rachel had trusted me enough last week to sit alone at a hospitality desk. Brecker CEO, Tom Reynolds, had seemed comfortable with me as a point person. I was still far from comfortable with him. I’d distributed badges to thirty-one attendees and surfed the web. The meeting was held at Brecker’s corporate headquarters, so staff members were self-sufficient, familiar with the bathroom and cafeteria locations. I’d tell Rachel about being walked after I returned from Paris. Maybe my staying at a hotel alone would give Rachel confidence that I could work a meeting by myself at a hotel, not merely at Brecker.

  I could do this.

  Chapter Four

  “Why don’t people here speak English?” Henry asked.

  “Because in France, they speak French.” Even though everyone except Madame Laurent insisted on speaking English to me.

  Henry’s forehead bunched up with confusion. “Why do they speak French, not English?”

  For the love of God, how far was La Grande Illusion? The concierge had said a quick taxi ride away. Rush-hour traffic was slowing us down. A scooter hummed past, between the lanes of vehicles.

  “Other countries have their own languages,” I said.

  “Harry Potter speaks English, and that’s a different country than the United States.”

  Was the end of October too early for me to break into “Jingle Bells”? Singing Christmas carols was the only way I knew how to entertain kids. “Oh, look, there’s…a dog.” I pointed at a lady with a Chihuahua prancing down the sidewalk next to her.

  Henry shrugged. “Big deal. We have dogs in Dallas, and in Boston, where I used to live. So how do dogs here know when to sit if people don’t speak English?”

  “I talk English,” the taxi driver blurted out, his gray eyes glaring at us in the rearview mirror. He nodded adamantly. “I talk much English.”

  Henry smiled. “See, they do speak English. Do they speak English in Germany?”

  The driver rolled his eyes, smacking the heel of his hand against the horn, muttering under his breath.

  I broke into song. “Dashing through the snow, in a one-horse open sleigh…”

  The driver looked at me like I was mad as a hatter. Henry sang along enthusiastically, bouncing around on the seat.

  Amazingly, the Christmas carol eased the knot in my neck. I was in the middle of “Here Comes Santa Claus” when the driver swerved over to
the curb and gestured up the street. “Just there.”

  This was my first time paying a taxi fare, so I gave him the travel guide’s recommended tip. When he told his coworkers about the crazy Americans in his taxi, he could at least mention we were good tippers. He pulled out into traffic, cutting off another taxi and almost taking out a motorbike. Horns blared, and obscene hand gestures and profanities flew.

  I placed a hand on Henry’s shoulder, steering him away from the chaos he’d once again caused. I peered down the street, not seeing the restaurant. A blue sign on the side of a building noted a different street than the restaurant’s address. I stopped a teenage guy in a Bruce Springsteen T-shirt, hoping he spoke English, and asked if he knew the restaurant or the street.

  “Ah, yes, that street is near.” He shrugged. “Maybe five, er, six blocks that way.”

  Seriously? I gave him a friendly smile. “Merci.”

  The driver had ditched us.

  I’d just been kicked out of my third place in Paris.

  City of Love, my ass.

  Fuming, I grabbed Henry’s wrist, checking his hand for chocolate. Not seeing any, I held his hand, and we marched up the wide boulevard lined with cafés and shops. Passersby were staring at Henry belting out “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.” I debated slipping my black sunglasses off the top of my head to disguise myself, but I’d look a bit odd wearing sunglasses when dusk was settling in.

  Seven blocks later, we encountered a purple awning with black lettering, La Grande Illusion. We stepped through a door draped in purple velvet, into a room with gilded chandeliers and dark wood furnishings.

  A ding signaled a text from Declan.

  Just held a lady’s bag while she puked off the back of the boat. Her escargot is now swimming in the Seine. Cruise not as romantic as in your movie.

  I laughed. Was he serious or trying to make me feel better about missing the cruise?

  “I wanna shirt.” Henry pointed to a T-shirt displayed on the wall—black with a purple-caped magician tossing purple glittery magic dust into the air.

  “I don’t have money for a T-shirt.”

  “I do.” He pulled a fifty-euro bill from his pants pocket.