Читать книгу Moonlight in Paris - Pamela Hearon - Страница 12

CHAPTER FIVE

HENRI LEANED FORWARD in his seat across the table and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Now that we are alone, perhaps you should share with me some details about your unsettling morning, eh? Is Dylan well?”

“Damn, I’m sorry.” Guilt took a swipe at Garrett’s insides. He should’ve realized that his friend would jump to the conclusion that the unsettling morning he referred to in their meeting might mean something had happened to Dylan. “Yeah, he’s fine. But we both got quite a scare.”

“Pourquoi? What happened?”

The approaching media blitz for Soulard Beer had the head of production wringing his hands, but Garrett’s marketing staff and Henri’s IT staff had been treated to a well-earned lunch with the company’s owners. They’d be working late again tonight, so they’d been told to take their time getting back to the office. Garrett and Henri intended to do just that.

“I’d just gotten out of the shower, and I’m standing there buck naked, when all of a sudden, Dylan lets out a scream that would’ve made even your well-lacquered hair stand on end.”

Henri smirked at the mention of his perfect coif. “Jealousy does not sit well on you, mon ami. Now, quickly, tell me what happened to Dylan.”

“Dylan was fine. But I go running out with a towel in my hand—” Garrett held up his napkin in his fist “—and there stands a woman in my foyer, who’s also dripping wet, but she’s fully clothed.”

“Did Dylan allow this woman into your flat?”

The threat of a lecture to Dylan lay in Henri’s tone, so Garrett hurried on to reassure him. “No. She came in through the terrace door, which I’d left open. Turns out she’s an American who’s renting the empty flat that shares our terrace. In fact, she’s a friend of Josh Essex. You remember Josh?”

Henri nodded, and Garrett continued his tale. “She just arrived this morning, and was on the terrace when the rain started, and her storm shutters closed. She was locked out in a downpour, so she came over to our place.”

“But what made Dylan scream?”

“Well, for one thing, she startled him. He’d just woken up. But, damn, Henri, you should’ve seen her. She looked like something out of a slasher movie.”

The side of Henri’s mouth twitched. “Oui? A woman in a wet T-shirt? I am thinking that is not so terrible.”

Garrett shook his head. “No, you’re not getting the picture. She had on this yellow dress that’s soaked and clinging to her, and she’s got bright red hair—” he held his hands out beside his head to indicate how far Tara’s had stuck out “—with the curls tipped in blue. Her eyebrow’s pierced, and she’s got a couple of tattoos. One on the side of her neck, and one right above her ass.”

Henri’s head cocked in interest. “And how do you know this?”

Garrett gave a sheepish grin. “The wet dress was practically transparent, so I noticed that one when she walked past me.”

“Ah, oui. It is always a man’s duty to check out a woman’s ass if it is presented.”

“Exactly,” Garrett agreed. “But the really freaky part was, on top of all this other stuff, half of her right hand is missing. She lost it in a motorcycle accident.”

“Mon dieu!”

“Yeah, exactly. And, of course, Dylan goes from being terrified to being fascinated in about fifteen seconds and invites her to stay for breakfast.”

Henri laughed. “So, did she behave herself at breakfast?”

“Oh, yeah...sure. She was very nice, in fact. She’s from Kentucky, and she’s got this strong Southern accent.”

“Mmm.” Henri smacked his lips appreciatively. “Two very sexy things, oui? An American woman speaking French with the American accent, and a woman from the southern United States saying anything at all.”

Garrett didn’t respond. He shifted in his seat, uncomfortable with the ideas of Tara and sexy being linked.

Henri dabbed the sides of his mouth with a napkin-swathed finger. “I see you brood all morning and now I have to wonder why an unexpected breakfast with a-little-wild-yet-nice woman would make you do that?”

Garrett twirled the demitasse spoon between his thumb and index finger. “She made me uncomfortable.”

“But you said she was very nice.” Henri’s bottom lip protruded in the quintessential French pout. Garrett had noticed Dylan doing the same thing lately.

“Oh, I don’t think she’s dangerous or anything...”

Henri pressed him more. “Then what is it about this woman that bothers you?”

“I don’t know.” Garrett was beginning to wish he hadn’t brought up this morning’s escapade. He’d only meant to entertain his friend with the story, and now Henri was trying to turn it into some deep analysis that Garrett was in no mood for. No doubt, the woman had dug up some buried emotions, but it was better to leave them in that dark hole within his psyche.

“Then you are in luck, my friend. I am the world’s greatest expert on...” Henri gave a vague nod in the direction of a middle-aged brunette wearing a power suit with a one-button jacket and, by all appearances, nothing underneath. “A-little-wild-yet-nice women—this new neighbor reminds you of Angela, oui?”

“No, not really.” Garrett shifted his gaze away from Henri’s knowing smirk. “Maybe a little...”

“Mais...?”

“When Angela went off her meds, there was no telling what she might do. She might disappear for hours with no hint of where she was and come home with a new piercing or another tattoo.” Garrett tossed the spoon on the table. “And once, after Dylan was born, when she wouldn’t take her meds and was swinging from one extreme to the other, she dyed her hair a hideous shade of pink.”

Every time he thought he was over his pity and his anger toward his wife, something would happen and those emotions would wash over him, drenching him and making him feel just as exposed as Tara had been in that damn transparent dress. He picked up the spoon again so he could have something to squeeze and transfer the emotion to.

“Many women have colored hair and piercings and tattoos, Garrett.” Henri checked his reflection in his own spoon and adjusted his tie. “This woman. This...”

“Tara. Tara O’Malley.”

Henri leaned forward again, peering closely at Garrett. “This Tara O’Malley is not Angela.”

“But she’s obviously got some of the same idiosyncrasies.”

Henri’s face broke into a wide grin. “You like her.”

Garrett saw where this was going. “Don’t. Don’t even start with all your matchmaking nonsense. Even if I liked her, which I don’t, at least not like you’re thinking...she’s only here for a month. I don’t want Dylan getting attached to anyone who’s just going to leave.”

“Pfft!” Henri waved away his argument. “You have already picked up on something within her that attracts you.” He wagged his finger “And you don’t want to get attached to her, either.”

Garrett opened his mouth to stretch away the tightness in his jaw. “You’re such a damn know-it-all, Henri. But you’re wrong this time. I’m not worried about getting attached to that freakin’ woman. She’s not my type.” He ran his hand through his hair. “The thing is, despite all my efforts to be everything he needs, Dylan misses having a mom. He’s vulnerable with women. I sure as hell don’t want anybody who’s just passing through—be it Tara O’Malley or someone else—to get close to my son. He doesn’t need another major loss in his life.”

Snap!

Garrett opened his hand and sheepishly dropped on the table two pieces of metal that had been a demitasse spoon.

“We will charge that to the company, oui?” Henri calmly adjusted his starched cuffs until the perfect amount showed from below the sleeve of his suit coat. “A spoon that is broken can be quickly replaced. The heart that is broken requires a longer time.”

* * *

MOTHER NATURE PROVIDED Tara with the perfect excuse to give in to the jet lag and slightly delay both her exploration of Paris and her search for Jacques Martin. She napped the rainy day away until late afternoon gave way to clear skies at last.

Calls were made to her family and Emma to let them know she’d arrived safely. They’d all been entertained by her tale of the morning’s adventure. And they’d all mentioned how typical it was for her to have such a strange thing happen, as weirdness seemed to keep her in its sights—but she’d only shared with Emma the splendid details of Garrett’s atypical nude appearance.

Need for sustenance finally prodded her out to rue du Parc Royal in search of a market, but not before she double-checked to make sure the key to her flat was in her possession. With no Garrett or Dylan in tow, it was doubtful that Madame LeClerc would give up the extra key a second time without requiring a pound of flesh as a deposit.

The third arrondissement, part of the area commonly known as le Marais, was every bit as charming and quaint as Josh had described. Narrow, cobblestone streets were lined with small, yet elegant boutiques and art galleries. Cafés occupied nearly every corner, and entire blocks were taken up by sprawling apartment buildings, whose ancient courtyards were protected by electronically locked wrought-iron gates that allowed spectacular views but no access.

Cars parked willy-nilly along the curb—and some up on the uneven stone walkways—gave the area a delightfully chaotic touch. Pedestrian traffic was heavy, and since the sidewalks were too narrow to accommodate two people passing, most people walked in the streets, stepping aside to let the occasional automobile by while dodging the plethora of bicycles.

A market turned up just two blocks from her building, but she passed it by for the chance to explore a bit longer with empty arms. A few more blocks brought her to a wide avenue—boulevard Beaumarchais—with one specialty food shop after another lining its sidewalks.

A variety of savory sausages hanging in the window of the charcuterie made her mouth water, enticing her to give it a go.

“Bonjour, mademoiselle,” the elderly butcher called as soon as the bell heralded her entrance.

“Bonjour,” she answered, to which he immediately replied something she didn’t understand. “Je voudrais...” She didn’t know the word for sausage, so she simply pointed to the kind she wanted in the case.

He smiled. “English?”

“Oui. Yes.” She gave a grateful nod.

He pulled the sausage from the case and cut off a small piece for her to try. The bite filled her mouth with a salty, savory burst that begged for a chardonnay to wash it down. Her accompanying “Mmm” brought a proud smile to the butcher’s lips.

“Is very good, oui?”

“It’s delicious. I can’t wait to have a glass of wine with it.”

“But of course.” Obviously, the wine was a given. “How much would you like?”

“A quarter pound?”

His eyebrows drew in. “No pounds in France. Kilos.”

Tara cringed. Kilos? She had no idea. “Um...” She hesitated.

The butcher picked up on her distress. “How many people?”

“One. Just me.”

He tilted his head and gave her a glance as if sizing her up. “No, mademoiselle. You are too beautiful to eat alone. This is Paris!” He gave a dramatic sweep of his arm toward the street. “Find someone to share.”

Tara’s cheeks warmed. She’d already laundered the borrowed clothes and had thought about inviting Garrett and Dylan over for a light meal to repay their hospitality when she returned his things—having bought too much food for just her would be the perfect excuse.

The butcher’s mouth turned up in a knowing grin. “Ah, I see you have someone in your thoughts. Bien.” Using his knife as an appendage, he pointed to where he thought the cut should be made. “Enough for two, oui?”

“Actually, three.” Tara held up three fingers. “But one is a little boy with a big appetite.”

He laughed pleasantly and moved the knife over a couple more inches before making the cut and wrapping the portion in the quintessential white paper. He insisted she try some of the fresh pâté, which was exquisite, and she bought some of that also.

Before she left, he gave specific instructions on what to pair the purchases with. “Serve with le fromage, the honey, une baguette, les cornichons and, of course, le vin. If you do this, you will never eat alone.”

She thanked him and left the shop feeling as if she’d made a new friend. He’d given her advice on where to find the best of everything on his list, even pointing out the specific shops that were his personal favorites, so those were her next few stops.

Everyone who waited on her immediately switched to English as soon as she started trying to speak French. Josh had told her that just the effort on her part would be appreciated, and that seemed to hold true. The Parisians, it appeared, would rather speak English than hear their beautiful language butchered by her American tongue.

The two cloth totes provided with the apartment filled up quickly with the butcher’s suggestions and the fresh produce from the open-air market. After tasting the samples, she couldn’t pass up the tender asparagus spears or even the turnips, which she would never have considered serving raw at home.

She had to rein in her sweet tooth at the pâtisserie with its shelves crammed with decadent, scrumptious-looking pastries. She escaped with only three items by promising herself she could have one treat each day.

Who was she kidding? Everything she ate for the next month was sure to be a treat. Like the butcher said, this was Paris!

She purchased a small bouquet of daisies from a wizened old woman who stood on the street corner with two pails of flowers—they would be perfect for what she had planned. And two bottles of wine—one white and one red—from the wine shop filled her second tote to the top, giving her arms as much weight as they could bear for the walk home.

Once she moved away from the wide avenue, the side streets all looked the same. Twice she lost her bearings and had to backtrack to the park with the rose garden surrounding the statue of the man on the horse, but eventually she found her way back to the apartment building and surly Madame LeClerc.

This time, Tara would follow her dad’s lifelong advice to win over the enemy with love. She held out the bouquet of daisies and said the little speech she’d looked up in the phrase book and memorized before she left to go shopping. “Bonjour, madame. Merci beaucoup pour votre aide ce matin.”

The woman looked stunned, her eyes moving from Tara’s face to the daisies and back. For an uncomfortable moment, Tara thought she was going to refuse them. But then, the woman’s demeanor changed. She smiled a smile so sweet, Tara would’ve thought it impossible a few minutes before.

“Merci, mademoiselle.” Madame LeClerc’s voice shook a little as she spoke. “Merci beaucoup.” She lifted the flowers to her nose for a quick sniff as she buzzed Tara through.

Thanks, Dad.

The thought closed her throat as she headed up the stairs. She hoped her mom and dad had worked out their problems. Oh, they’d tried to act as if everything was okay when she and Thea and Trenton were around. But there was a heaviness that pervaded the atmosphere around them, as if the elephant in the room was sitting on everyone’s chest. How long would it take until someone from the church took notice? If Sue Marsden got the slightest whiff of the juicy tale that lay within her grasp, she would burn up the telephone lines.

Tara unlocked her door and entered her flat, her shoulders now heavy with guilt. She tried to distract herself by putting her purchases away. It was too late for regrets. She was here to find her birth father, and she was prepared to face any ramifications that may come.

Her good friend Summer Delaney had once talked to her about the ripple effect—how every action is like a rock thrown into the pond of our lives. The first ripple causes a second, then a third. They multiply and spread, yet they’re all connected at the source. And there’s no stopping any of them.

Her mom and Jacques Martin had thrown a rock into the water one night, and twenty-eight years later, the ripples just kept coming.

She poured herself a glass of wine. Grabbing her laptop, her handheld GPS and the phone book from the apartment, she headed out to the terrace to kick off the official search for the stranger who gave her life.