Up the Seine Without a Paddle Page 9

  Was she waiting for me to offer to take him? No way. This was the first night I’d had off before ten. Too late to do the dinner cruise, climbing to the top of the Eiffel Tower was on my agenda, not bobbing for apples and carving jack-o’-lanterns with Henry. I had to draw the line.

  I had to…do it.

  Not just to earn Heather brownie points with the group, and myself brownie points with her, but more importantly, for Declan. When we’d visited Malahide Castle in Ireland, Declan had reminisced about Halloween with Zoe. Shauna’s death had distanced him from family, like Andy’s controlling behavior had distanced me from mine. It was difficult, and important, to rebuild those relationships. Positive childhood memories with Zoe might bring them closer together again.

  “No problem. We’ll take him,” I said.

  Heather smiled. “Wonderful. I’ll give you my Amex card to expense the costumes.”

  Declan raised a questioning brow. We would?

  “You said Halloween’s your favorite holiday. That it’s big in Ireland.”

  He nodded faintly. “It is. Suppose I kind of miss dressing up as a ghoul or goblin.”

  “Or a leprechaun or Buzz Lightyear.”

  An intrigued smile curled his lips. He was impressed that I remembered his childhood costumes and that he’d been required to dress like a clichéd leprechaun for a meeting. “Right, then. Maybe they’ll have a sausage costume.”

  “Touché.”

  * * *

  Marcel directed us to a year-round costume rental shop a short taxi ride away. The shop’s window displayed the Grim Reaper, Dracula, and Freddie Krueger with razor-blade-tipped fingers reaching out toward passersby.

  “I’m surprised the French are familiar with Nightmare on Elm Street,” I said.

  A demented look seized Declan’s face, and he held up his hand, fluttering imaginary razor blades on his fingers. “Come to Freddy.” He let out an evil laugh, imitating the psychotic serial killer character.

  I gave him a playful smack on the arm. “Stop. That movie scared the bejeezus out of me. When I was ten, I watched it at my friend Tara’s when her parents were gone. I had nightmares for weeks.”

  “Hope you didn’t live on Elm Street.”

  “Ha-ha. No, but I’d been too scared to go trick-or-treating that year and had to confess why to my mom.”

  We entered the shop, greeted by the eerie piano score from Halloween. Visions of the creepy Michael Myers in a mechanic’s uniform and a white mask sent a chill zipping through me. I was a complete wimp when it came to scary movies.

  The salesclerk—a young woman dressed as Morticia Addams—recommended the store’s latest arrival, the Addams Family costume display.

  I selected the black button-up dress and black braided wig. “Wonder if we could get Henry to dress up as Wednesday.”

  Declan raised a skeptical brow. “Doubt it. And I don’t fancy being Gomez with a bloody mustache and striped suit.” He gestured to a costume on another rack. “How about that one?”

  I hadn’t attended church in a while, but last I knew a nun’s habit didn’t include a skimpy black skirt, see-through midriff top, black garter belt, and veil. At least not in Milwaukee. “I don’t think that’d be appropriate for a kids’ party.” Neither would the naughty nurse or sexy schoolgirl costumes.

  Gretchen had undoubtedly dressed as a seductive French maid last year on their business trip to Paris.

  I scrambled to change the subject, pointing out a bright green velvet suit hanging on the far wall. “Oh look, your favorite costume.” I walked over to the leprechaun outfit and placed the green velvet top hat on my head. “Top o’ the mornin’ to ye. Do they celebrate St. Paddy’s Day in France?”

  “I’d assume, but doubt they dye the Seine green like we do the Liffey. Dublin is mad. The parade is great craic, more tourists than locals though. All the small towns have parades, mostly with farm equipment. St. Patrick driving a tractor.”

  Maybe one day I’d get to see the Liffey dyed green.

  “Hey, you could wear that costume for old time’s sake.” Declan walked over to a black jumpsuit with an eye mask and cat ears. He remembered the story about me dressing as Catwoman and Rachel as Batman one Halloween.

  “So you and Rachel were close growing up, were ya?”

  I nodded, slipping off the green top hat. “A lot closer than we are now. Trying to change that.” As if to prove it, I snapped a shot of the costume and texted it to Rachel. Look familiar?

  She responded almost immediately. Lol. Do they have Batman?

  I replied with a smiley face.

  “What happened between you two?” he asked.

  “Her job. My ex, Andy.”

  My heart about stopped.

  I hadn’t mentioned Andy to Declan since the pepper-spraying incident. I’d never revealed his name. I focused on the Catwoman costume, trying not to look freaked out. Here was another chance for me to discuss Andy without disclosing too much, and somehow segue into a conversation about Shauna.

  Heart racing, I took the plunge before I lost my nerve. “Rachel thought he was a total ass. She was right. We didn’t see each other much when I was dating him.”

  Declan frowned. “Ah, that’s too bad.”

  Did your family like Shauna?

  The question burned on the tip of my tongue. I couldn’t ask without breaking my promise not to discuss Shauna. Awkward silence hung in the air.

  “Makes it difficult when your family doesn’t like your significant other,” I said. “Especially when they’re right.”

  He nodded absently, studying a Batman costume.

  Say something, damnit!

  If he asked me why my family thought Andy was a jerk, would I break down and tell him about the bastard?

  Declan wasn’t going to question me, for fear I’d interrogate him. We were at a stalemate.

  The Halloween party was supposed to be about Declan reconnecting with Zoe and family, not about Andy and me. Yet it felt kind of good to at least tell Declan his name. I’d been unable to say it in my head, let alone out loud—always referring to him as my ex—until three weeks ago in Dublin.

  Declan tried on a pilot’s cap, then placed a powder-blue, retro flight attendant pillbox hat on my head. The type a Pan Am flight attendant would have worn in the 1950s.

  “Perfect for us jet-setters,” he said.

  “Except I hate flying and would have to be drugged up before going to work every day, or I’d be a basket case.” So I would likely get canned from another job. I’d been fired from my first job out of college, an executive admin assistant position, because Andy’s stalking had made me a total wreck.

  “Maybe this will help you face your fear of flying.” He turned me toward a mirror, standing behind me. His hands curled around my arms, and my breath caught in my throat.

  Look in the mirror, not at his hands.

  And the fact that Declan was practically hugging me.

  You are Declan’s Martha. Not one of his Guinness Girls.

  I peered at us in the mirror. The costumes reminded me of the scene in Catch Me If You Can when Leonardo DiCaprio waltzed unnoticed right past FBI agents, disguised as a pilot, surrounded by women in vintage flight attendant uniforms. If the real Frank Abagnale could get away with impersonating a pilot and a lawyer, I could certainly fake being an event planner until I was competent at it.

  Or until I got busted. Like Abagnale eventually had.

  Chapter Eleven

  We returned to the Hôtel Sophie with our flight crew costumes and a Harry Potter one for Henry. He would totally get into the wand and robe. He would love it.

  As long as he didn’t do another disappearing act.

  “I’ll meet you in the office.” I headed in the opposite direction across the lobby.

  “Where you off to?”

  I turned toward him. “To the bathroom, to change.”

  “Why change in a public loo? Use mine. I’ll give you a laundry bag for your clothes.” He
looked at me as if going to his room to take off my clothes was no big deal.

  My heart, and mind, raced. The same reaction I’d had that night in Dublin when he’d invited me to his room to conduct genealogy research. The infamous near-kiss night. If it were any other coworker’s room, I’d change there, so it’d seem strange if I didn’t.

  I smiled calmly. “Sure.”

  On the elevator ride up, my heart pounded harder each floor we passed. Attempting to put myself at ease, I shared Rachel’s discovery of Grandma’s Ellis Island arrival record. “So we don’t know if her husband came over before her or if he was still in Ireland. Maybe they were divorced or she was widowed.”

  “They weren’t divorced. It wasn’t an option back then.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure it was frowned upon.”

  “No, it was illegal in Ireland until 1995.”

  My gaze narrowed. “Like illegal in the eyes of the church?”

  “In the eyes of the law. Even now it takes four to five years for a divorce to be final.”

  My eyes widened in disbelief. “I know people who’ve had shorter marriages.” The elevator opened, and we headed down the hallway toward Declan’s room.

  You wouldn’t want to marry on a whim in Ireland. Declan must have really loved Shauna. Marriage was an even bigger commitment if you knew there wasn’t an easy way out.

  “If she wasn’t divorced in Ireland, maybe she got divorced in America,” I said. “I’m guessing it was allowed back then. Might be a big reason people immigrated to the US.”

  “Check out Ireland’s marriage certificates. They’re online through the mid-1900s or so.”

  It was crazy how little we knew about Grandma.

  We entered Declan’s room, with the same view as my old room—the Eiffel Tower in the distance and the Tuileries Gardens across the street. I missed the view and the hotel’s lemon-scented toiletries, but I’d take Madame Laurent and Esmé over snooty Antoine and Marcel. And my new room was much homier, with character, undoubtedly decorated by Madame Laurent and not some hotel chain designer.

  Declan’s room was as tidy as it’d been in Dublin. The champagne-colored duvet was folded neatly on a chair. Even at the Hôtel Sophie he felt the bed cover was too dodgy and rarely saw the wash. A plastic baggie contained the TV remote. And a small bottle of whiskey sat on the desk, for drinking and sanitizing glasses.

  I popped into the bathroom, immersed in the woodsy scent of Declan’s cologne. I hung the powder-blue flight attendant costume on the back of the door. The unused hotel’s lemon-scented toiletries were tucked in the corner of the counter by the tissue box. I should ask if I could take them for Martha’s shelter again. Small plastic bottles on the bathtub shelf contained Declan’s personal hair products. Too bad they weren’t in the original containers, since I was curious what brand he used. Unable to resist, I swept an open bottle under my nose, the scent of freshly fallen rain, and thoughts of Declan, filling my head. A warm feeling washed over me. Smells were strong memory evokers.

  Was I going to think of Declan now every time it sprinkled?

  I replaced the shampoo bottle.

  I peeled off my orange T-shirt and quickly changed. Having tried on the costume at the shop, I knew it was a bit formfitting and the skirt came several inches above my knees, which certainly hadn’t been an acceptable length in the 1950s. I knotted the blue-and-white satin scarf around my neck, no longer looking washed out and tired. Luckily, I had a pair of black heels stashed in the office, having planned to slip them on before the river cruise. I swiped on red lip gloss and secured the sides of my hair back with bobby pins. I peered in the mirror, adjusting the pillbox hat on my head, not wanting to put myself in a similar position as the awkward beret moment at the Eiffel Tower. When Declan had stood mere inches in front of me, fixing my cap…

  I stepped out of the bathroom. My gaze locked on Declan’s chest. His bare, rock-solid chest, with a dusting of brown hair fanned across it…

  Declan tossed his phone on the chair. My gaze shot up and met his. “Sorry about that,” he said. “A client was texting me, needing an answer ASAP, as usual.” He eyed my bare calves, and his gaze took a leisurely stroll up to my skirt’s hemline, raising my body temp. “Jaysus,” he muttered under his breath. “You look…magnifique.”

  I swept a nervous hand down the front of my uniform. “Voila. Marry me—fly for free.” Heat burst onto my cheeks. Unlike Declan, I didn’t have the knack for saying the right thing at the right time. “Ah, my friend’s sister was a flight attendant and gave her a T-shirt that said that…”

  He nodded with an amused grin, snagging the white oxford shirt off his bed, his bicep flexing his tattoo. The tattoo I’d noticed in Dublin that matched the Celtic symbol on his leather bracelet. The symbol for everlasting love. I glanced away. Staring at the tattoo—undoubtedly inspired by his love for Shauna—felt more intimate than seeing Declan half-naked.

  * * *

  We entered the office, and I tossed the laundry bag containing my clothes onto a chair. I grabbed my black heels from under a table and slipped them on.

  Heather smiled. “Those costumes are perfect.”

  “The lad’s costume is in my room,” Declan said.

  Her smile faded. “However, Big Henry just called. He decided they should take Little Henry with them to dinner at Maxim’s.”

  As if a kid would appreciate escargot and filet mignon at one of Paris’s most upscale restaurants. Poor Henry. He’d been so excited about the party, and I’d actually been looking forward to his reaction to the Harry Potter costume.

  “So you have a free night,” Heather said. “My brain is fried from this proposal. I’m going to do room service and have Skype sex with my hubby. With us both traveling for work, we haven’t had real sex in like two months. If I cancel on him again, he’s going to divorce me and take our dog, Daisy.”

  Granted, Heather had been here numerous times, but I couldn’t imagine locking myself away in my room to have dinner and virtual sex when I was in Paris. Whether it was my first or fifth time here, no way would I hang out in my hotel room.

  Declan and I headed toward the lobby, and he suggested we change and go to the Eiffel Tower. I remembered that I’d left my bag of clothes in the office.

  However, I didn’t want to change.

  As we walked through the lobby, guests in designer labels and jewelry stared at us with curiosity, intrigue, and a bit of envy, wondering where we’d just flown in from and where we were jetting off to next. Rio, Hong Kong, Bali… Feeling more worldly and sophisticated, I stood a bit taller, an air of confidence and pride straightening my shoulders. Maybe this should be my new work uniform.

  Marcel did a double take as we walked past. “You are going to the Halloween party, non?”

  “No, Henry’s family’s going to dinner,” I said, setting him straight that Henry was not our kid, even though he appeared to be our responsibility.

  Marcel recommended a lounge serving Halloween-inspired cocktails, located at the top of an upscale hotel with an incredible view of the Eiffel Tower.

  “I thought France didn’t really celebrate Halloween?” I asked.

  Marcel shrugged. “As I said, anything for a buck.”

  “Perfect,” I told Declan. “We can combine the Eiffel Tower and Halloween.”

  Even if we didn’t make it to the Tower by the stroke of 11:00 p.m., tomorrow’s tour included the landmark. I knew how much Halloween meant to Declan, and I hoped to get him to stroll down memory lane about past ones with Zoe, or maybe even Shauna. I also didn’t want to take off my costume and have this overwhelming sense of self-confidence vanish. Ever.

  * * *

  We stepped out of the taxi in front of a contemporary hotel constructed of tinted glass set in an iron framework. It blended in nicely with its neighbor, the Eiffel Tower, partially visible two blocks away. Once again, our costumes attracted people’s attention. I tried to act refined and not squeal, Omigod, there’s the Eiffel Tower. />
  We walked inside to techno, heart-thumping music that complemented the lobby’s modern black-and-white décor with splashes of red. Sleekly molded, red-upholstered chairs resembled modern art pieces that I’d likely slide off of or get kicked out of the hotel for sitting on.

  And it’d been a record twenty-four hours since I’d been kicked out of anywhere in Paris.

  The hotel felt centuries apart from the Hôtel Sophie’s traditional elegance. We crossed the marble floor to the elevator doors lit in red. An elevator whisked us up ten stories to the top floor, a tall building by Paris standards. A swanky Sinatra tune led us down a short hallway to the lounge.

  We walked in, and my air of confidence flew out the door.

  People seated on red stools lined the white bar, dressed as…French people and tourists.

  Not one person was in costume.

  Was this Marcel’s idea of a cruel joke?

  I leaned in toward Declan. “Do you want to leave?”

  “I want a drink.” He strode across the red carpeting with the confident air of an Oscar-nominated celebrity.

  I’d kill to be so self-assured.

  Outside the panoramic windows, the Eiffel Tower sparkled against the evening sky. I tried not to look like a wide-eyed tourist. As a flight attendant, I’d have flown around the world dozens of times, visiting the Eiffel Tower, the Egyptian pyramids, and the Taj Mahal—in India, I was fairly certain.

  “What a great location for a group reception,” I said.

  An amused smile curled Declan’s lips. “Sounding like a true planner, you are. Never off duty.”

  No, that was Rachel. However, I gave myself a mental pat on the back for making the observation.

  I scanned the lounge for a secluded table. For privacy, rather than romantic ambience, so I could get Declan to open up to me. The place was hopping, and the only available seats were two barstools. I sat, legs crossed, facing Declan, while still having a partial view of the tower.

  “Ever had a Bellini?” Declan asked.