Up the Seine Without a Paddle Page 7

  Whoa. Mom had been nagging me nonstop about getting a job, and now she just wanted me to be happy?

  This job hadn’t been keeping me out of a funk—Declan had. What if I fell back into a depression? Lost another job? My already limited ability to pay bills? The progress I’d made recovering from my relationship with Andy? The self-confidence Declan had helped me gain?

  I told Mom I had to go and promised to e-mail her pics of Versailles. After disconnecting, I realized she hadn’t asked if I’d submitted the Cheesey Eddie’s job application.

  She must really think I was in a downward spiral.

  Was I?

  Between healing from Andy and my attraction to Declan, I was still an emotional mess. Maybe I should give group therapy another shot.

  Five women had attended my first and only session. Martha had an emergency client, so another therapist had facilitated the group. She’d allowed one woman to dominate the entire session. That didn’t upset me as much as the fact that the woman had recently escaped a physically and emotionally abusive relationship. I’d felt like my troubles weren’t as serious. So when it was my turn, I’d barely said a word. I hadn’t mentioned this to Martha. She would reassure me that my feelings were valid and I shouldn’t allow someone else’s experiences to diminish them.

  Easier said than done.

  I crossed the street in front of the Hôtel Sophie. Declan stood by a bus, having a lively conversation with the driver, laughing. I approached, and his cheery smile faded. We exchanged brief good mornings. Apparently feeling the tension, the driver excused himself and retreated inside the bus.

  “Sorry I didn’t e-mail you last night about your rellie.” Declan ran a nervous hand through his hair, and a tuft fell across his forehead.

  I forced my gaze from his hair. “That’s okay. I’m sorry I went off the deep end over Fanette crashing dinner.” I needed to clear the air and convince him my actions hadn’t been fueled by a jealous rage. “I was tired and a bit stressed that I didn’t get to go on the cruise and the Eiffel Tower was closed. She crashed our dinner and was totally rude. I just didn’t have the energy to deal with it. Sorry.”

  He shrugged off talk of the previous night, as I suspected he would. “Your rellie’s name is Sadie Collentine. She’s the daughter of your granny’s sister Theresa.”

  “Catherine was the daughter who wrote my grandma when Theresa died. I wonder if Sadie even knows about our family?”

  “She doesn’t have e-mail, but I’ll forward you her address and mobile number.” He pulled up e-mail on his cell and sent me the info. “She lives near Killybog but is at her son’s in Cork for a few weeks. In poor health, I guess. Maybe you can call on her when we’re in Dublin in December.”

  “I can’t wait to meet her and…” My gaze narrowed. “I’m not in Dublin in December.”

  “Oh, I figured you were working Rachel’s meeting. Maybe it’s too small for additional staff, then.”

  Why hadn’t Rachel mentioned returning to Dublin, even if I wasn’t going? And why wasn’t I going? Was Gretchen going? I wanted to ask Declan but didn’t want to appear jealous over Gretchen also. Rachel’s Milwaukee meeting had gone great. So why hadn’t she asked me to work the December meeting?

  Declan tilted his head to the side, studying my face. “Do you feel okay? You’re looking a wee pale.”

  Stupid shirt. “I’m fine.” I zipped my jacket up to my shirt’s neckline.

  “Heather’s in the lobby, talking with some attendees. She’s staying to work on the bid for Butler and McDonald. She doesn’t need help with anything else, so I’m going on the tour.”

  Relief over not flying solo as the group’s escort only slightly diminished my feeling of dread over working closely with Declan.

  “I’m sure she’s been to Versailles, but I can’t imagine missing this tour,” I said. “Have you ever been there?”

  Declan nodded faintly. “But today’s the underground tour, not Versailles.”

  “That’s today?” My enthusiasm faded. I’d memorized the agenda but messed up the days. “I did a mob tour once in Chicago. It was kind of cool seeing Capone’s hangout, but there’s no way this tour can compare to Versailles.”

  Declan quirked a brow. “Ah, this is an underground, not an underworld, tour.”

  “I can’t believe there are over six million people buried there,” one attendee said to another as the two guys exited the hotel. “Can’t wait to see it.”

  They stood off to the side chatting.

  My gaze darted to Declan. “Underground, as in like a dead-and-buried tour?”

  Why was I thinking underground was the mob?

  Declan nodded with a smirk. “The Catacombs, then Père Lachaise Cemetery. You’ll get to see Jim Morrison’s and Oscar Wilde’s graves. He was Irish, you know.”

  “I’d rather see living Irish people than dead ones. This cemetery must be huge, with six million people buried there.”

  Declan shook his head. “Six mil in the Catacombs, an underground burial tomb. Back when Paris needed room for the living, they moved bodies from overcrowded cemeteries to tunnels under the city.”

  “They’re just laid out in these tunnels, without coffins?”

  Declan nodded.

  A shiver shot from my toes up through my body, causing the hairs on my arms and the back of my neck to stand at attention.

  More attendees exited the hotel, so we started loading the bus. I stood across from Declan, welcoming people, trying not to appear freaked out over what my day held in store.

  Monsieur Morbid and his wife walked up. “Why do cemeteries have fences?” he asked me.

  I shrugged, giving him a ghost of a smile.

  He grinned wide. “Because people are dying to get in.”

  I certainly wasn’t.

  Chapter Eight

  Stacks of bones and skulls lined the walls as far as I could see down the dank, dimly lit tunnels carved in the earth, buried beneath the glamorous city of Paris. Empty eye sockets stared at me, sending an eerie feeling slithering up my back.

  This was the creepiest place I’d ever been.

  Henry reached for a skull.

  “Don’t touch,” I commanded, envisioning the entire wall of bones tumbling down and burying him.

  Brooke glanced up from her phone, letting out a frustrated sigh at no cell service and her son’s naughty behavior. She grabbed Henry’s hand. “Didn’t Mommy once again tell you not to touch anything? Come on. We’re going outside since you can’t seem to behave.”

  Henry tried to tug his hand free of his mother’s grip. “But I wanna see the haunted house.”

  It was inappropriate for Henry to be there, even if his mom had told him it was a Halloween haunted house and everything was fake.

  “I’ll take him out,” I offered eagerly.

  “That’s okay. I need to make a call and can’t get service down here.” Brooke headed toward the exit, with Henry in tow, her tan heels wobbling on the uneven dirt path. Henry’s protests echoed through the tunnel.

  Sure, let me get kicked out of the Musée d’Orsay and miss a Seine cruise, but make me suffer through a maze of human remains. I stared down the empty tunnel fading into darkness, realizing I’d fallen behind the group. My suggestion that Declan lead and I bring up the rear, enabling me to avoid him while proving I didn’t need hand-holding, had seemed like a great idea, until now. Well, actually until I’d discovered this was one of the ten most haunted places in the world.

  I picked up my pace, stepping on an occasional stone…or bone fragment. Eeww. The ceiling seemed even lower, the dark maze of passages even narrower, closing in on me. Faint voices carried through the corridors. Hopefully, they belonged to our group, or somebody’s group. My breathing became more labored, like the air supply had been cut off, like I was suffocating on the stench of mold, damp earth, and death!

  Now was not the time to discover I was claustrophobic.

  I dashed around a corner, and something stepped
out from the dark shadows. I screamed, stumbling backward.

  “Boo,” the man said.

  “Omigod! Monsieur Morbid. What the hell?” I slapped a hand against my chest rather than across the man’s face. “You scared the crap out of me.”

  His smile faded, his gaze narrowing in confusion.

  I’d just said crap and hell to a client.

  Even worse, I’d called him Monsieur Morbid.

  Had he understood my rant? He looked like he was trying to determine exactly what I had said.

  Something was poking me in the back. A bone. I was pressed against a wall of skeletal remains. I let out a gasp and flew away from the wall. I rolled my shoulders, trying to shake loose anything stuck to me.

  Monsieur Morbid brushed my back. “Just a little dirt.”

  I slowly turned toward him.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I fell behind and heard someone coming. Didn’t mean to scare you. Only said boo after you screamed. I forget some people aren’t comfortable with death.”

  What normal person wasn’t creeped out by six million skeletons with hollow eye sockets watching you?

  I took several deep, calming breaths, but my heart rate wouldn’t slow. Get a grip. I couldn’t believe I’d just wigged out on the client responsible for deciding Heather and her company’s fate. My fate.

  Thank God I hadn’t had my pepper spray in hand.

  I forced a smile, then lied my ass off, playing the sympathy card. “Sorry. I have a heart condition, and you just really surprised me.”

  His gaze narrowed in concern. “Hope you’re okay. But be careful not to get lost again. A guy got lost down here once, and his remains were discovered years later, near an exit.” He chuckled. “Near an exit. How ironic is that?”

  I didn’t find it the least bit humorous. I had the urge once again to smack him.

  Why wasn’t Declan here placing a calming hand on my arm so I didn’t lose it with this guy? Hadn’t he heard me scream? Hadn’t he noticed I was missing from the group? If he’d been with me, I wouldn’t have freaked out on this guy. I would have jumped behind Declan or into the safety of his arms.

  So much for proving I could stand on my own professionally.

  * * *

  “We did one of these scavenger hunts at a cemetery in England a few years ago,” Monsieur Morbid told his friend at the entrance to Père Lachaise. His poor wife stood off to the side, trying to ignore him, needing a break from the guy.

  I felt bad for her, even though she’d selected our hideous shirts.

  “We had to find the most unusual epitaph. I won. ‘Here lie I, and no wonder I am dead, for the wheel of a wagon, went over my head.’” Morbid and his buddy laughed. “My epitaph will be even better.”

  “What is it?” the guy asked.

  “Can’t tell, or you might steal it.”

  “What, as if I’m some kind of a grave robber?” The guy slapped Monsieur Morbid on the back, and they chuckled.

  Rather than my top lip curling back, I let out the fakest laugh ever, trying to suck up so he didn’t report me for flippin’ out on him, even though it had been his fault. I had to work on my laugh.

  Monsieur Morbid peered over at me. “If you haven’t written yours, you really should. Don’t leave it up to others. They never see you as you really are.”

  Yeah, he undoubtedly had no clue his nickname was Monsieur Morbid. Actually, he might after I’d screamed it through the tunnels of the Catacombs. I had to stop thinking of him as Monsieur Morbid so I didn’t slip up and blurt it out again. I couldn’t remember his real last name but could picture his wife constantly groaning Al while rolling her eyes.

  “I could help you write it,” he offered. “I’m quite good at them. Had thought about doing greeting cards at one time.”

  I smiled enthusiastically. “That’d be great. I have no idea what I would have on my gravestone.”

  I was only twenty-four. I didn’t want to think about dying when I felt like I’d just recently started living.

  Monsieur…Al stared expectantly at me.

  He wanted me to write my epitaph right now?

  How did I want to be remembered?

  I just wanted to be remembered and not forgotten.

  Thankfully, Bertrand, the tour guide, began splitting attendees into groups for the scavenger hunt, and Al joined his team members. Bertrand sent each team off with a cemetery map and a list of items to find, including the grave for the famous singer of “Light My Fire,” the most unique sculpture, oldest grave, et cetera. Searching the internet for answers was prohibited, but cell phones could be used to provide photographic evidence of located items. Declan and I had the list of answers so we could track the group. Our job was to make sure everyone made it out alive in two hours.

  Al’s morbid humor was wearing off on me.

  Declan shot an apprehensive glance through the open gate leading into the cemetery, down the grave-lined cobblestone street. “Think I’ll wait out here. Bertrand’s got this.”

  Did he assume because I’d suggested we split up at the Catacombs that I also wanted to here, or was he merely avoiding me? I hadn’t told him about my meltdown and encounter with the bones. Al and I had caught up with the group before Declan had realized I was missing.

  I was afraid of getting lost in another maze of dead people. However, this place wasn’t nearly as scary as the Catacombs, since we were outside, in daylight, above ground. I’d prove I could do fine on my own without Declan’s help.

  “Henry! Get over here!” Brooke’s command shattered the peaceful setting.

  Declan rolled his eyes. “Feckin’ A.”

  We bolted down the cobblestone street, dried leaves crackling from the weight of our footsteps. We paused at a crossroads, scanning the grounds filled with tombstones, haunting sculptures, and stone mausoleums.

  “They couldn’t have gone far,” I said. “Not with Brooke’s heels on these uneven streets.” Where the hell was Big Henry whenever his son was causing chaos?

  “Henry!” Panic replaced the anger in Brooke’s voice, which came from a section of graves off the path.

  “Henry!” I reluctantly detoured off the street and weaved between the unevenly laid-out graves, peeking behind tombstones and mausoleums. Numerous graves had cement slabs big enough to contain caskets. Were some people buried above ground?

  “Henry! Get over here this instant!” Brooke demanded. “This isn’t a game of hide-and-seek.”

  Maybe if she wasn’t always bitching at her son, he wouldn’t tune her out. I was starting to not blame him for running away from her.

  “Henry, remember what I told you last night?” I said.

  “I’m coming.” The boy’s meek voice echoed from within a large stone mausoleum with a broken stained-glass window above an iron door hanging on one hinge, as if someone had broken in…or possibly out. Henry stepped out carrying a black-and-white cat, cobwebs clinging to his blond hair and the side of his face. It was straight out of a horror flick.

  “Put that cat down.” Brooke’s sharp tone caused the cat’s ears to shoot back, and it sprang from Henry’s arms. Luckily, he had on a jacket, or the cat’s claws would have torn him to bits.

  “What if that thing has fleas?” Brooke gasped. “You didn’t touch any dead people in there, did you? It’s bad enough your father touches them.” She shuddered.

  Great, give the poor kid, and me, nightmares.

  He hadn’t touched any, had he?

  “They’d be encased,” Declan assured her.

  Phew. After the Catacombs, I wasn’t so sure.

  “Well, of course, but even that…” Brooke trailed off, tearing open a small packet containing an antibacterial wipe. She scrubbed the wipe over Henry’s hands, face, and hair.

  Henry peered earnestly over at me. “I wasn’t hiding. The cat went in there, and I wanted to see if there were more. We’re supposed to be counting ’em.”

  One of the items on the scavenger hunt list was to estimate the
cemetery’s number of resident cats.

  “Ah, fair play to ya.” Declan gave Henry a pat on the back. “But don’t ever be taking off without telling your mum.”

  Henry nodded. “Okay.”

  “Come on.” Brooke grabbed her son’s hand. “We aren’t here to look at graves. We’re admiring the artwork, all the pretty statues.”

  I did a mental eye roll.

  We followed them back to the street. Brooke headed down the uneven cobblestones, teetering in her high heels. Her shoes were a twisted ankle waiting to happen. And I’d be the one in the emergency room, comforting her and massaging her ankle.

  Who was she trying to impress in a cemetery?

  Okay, maybe I was a tad jealous that she was wearing the fashionable wardrobe she’d brought to Paris, while I walked through a cemetery wearing an orange T-shirt that read Themed Funerals Celebrate Life, Not Death.

  We stood at the corner of Ave de la Chapelle and Ave St Mary’s. “I suppose street signs make it easier to locate a grave,” I said. “You can tell someone, ‘My husband resides on Rue de Chaise, third grave on the right.’ Does an address at Père Lachaise tell as much about a person as it does in a city? Is being laid to rest on one street more prestigious than another?”

  Declan laughed. “Probably.”

  I smiled, our gazes locking. Awkward. I glanced down at the cemetery map. “I’m going to look around.” I bolted down the street, escaping into the cemetery, on a mission to find Oscar Wilde’s grave and to avoid Declan.

  After climbing up large stone steps lined with graves, I headed down a narrow, winding street. I came to a crossroads and spotted Al’s group up ahead, so I veered to the left. At the next intersection, I studied my map. I headed in what I believed to be the correct direction. Being lost here wasn’t nearly as scary as in the Catacombs. The smell of soil, moss, and lush foliage mixed with the fragrant scent of flowers decorating graves. Many blossoms were real. Some were plastic. Most of the graves looked too old to have family members who still cared enough to tend to them. However, if, or rather when, I one day found my ancestors’ graves in Ireland, I’d decorate them. I’d also make sure the tombstones were maintained and didn’t crumble into the earth, buried and forgotten, like the graves’ occupants.