The Paris Secret (2 page)

The clerk typed furiously on the computer’s keyboard as he stared intently at the screen. However, after hearing her name, I knew exactly what had happened. And from the way the clerk’s face turned bright red, he’d just realized it as well.

“Pardonez moi,
madame,
” mumbled the clerk. Then he turned and called, “Zalima!” followed by a flood of rapid-fire French. I only understood a couple of words, the most recognizable one being
probleme.

The woman who had checked me into my room emerged from the small office behind the front desk. The clerk and Dr. Rice started talking at the same time. It took three tries to get them calmed down. Once she looked at the reservation, my suspicion was confirmed. The young clerk, whose name was Georges, was new and his understanding of English was limited. He’d mixed up Dr. Juliet Rice’s reservation with Dr. Julius Price’s reservation and had mistakenly put Dr. Rice in the room with me.

Unfortunately, checking Dr. Rice into my room had somehow canceled her own reservation. In the meantime, her room had been given to someone else. The hotel was now full and there would be no more rooms available until the next morning.

“You’ve got to be kidding me! This is completely unacceptable!” Dr. Rice threw up her hands in disgust. “I’m calling your corporate office to let them know what I think of your customer service!” She started fumbling in her purse for her cell phone, as though she had the number on speed dial.

I tried to take some of the heat off the situation. “The names are so similar. It was an easy mistake to make. There are two beds in the room. I don’t mind sharing if it’s only for one night.” Actually, I hoped Dr. Juliet Rice would be so pissed off she’d go stay at another hotel. No such luck. Zalima quickly went into damage control mode, refuting everything I’d heard about Paris’s lack of customer service. Lucky me.

“Ladies, please accept my sincerest apology of behalf of the Bienvenue Hotel. I will give each of you a complimentary night stay for tonight as well as a meal at our restaurant,” said Zalima, looking directly at Juliet. Smart girl.

Apparently,
free
was a word that appealed to Dr. Juliet Rice. My new roommate didn’t hesitate before asking, “And you’re sure they’ll be a room available in the morning?”

“Yes, Dr. Rice. I am showing there will be several rooms available,” Zalima said, consulting the computer. “Just come down after breakfast tomorrow and we’ll get you all settled into your new room.”

“Oh, you can count on it.” She tossed her phone back into her purse and headed back up the steps without a backward glance.

“Merde!”
exclaimed Georges, leaning against the counter in relief after she was gone, earning him a scowl from Zalima.

My understanding of French must have been improving because
shit
was exactly the word I’d have used, too.

By the time I got back upstairs, Juliet had dragged her luggage into the small room and was attempting to pull the beds apart.

“Don’t just stand there. Come help me,” she commanded.

Only I wasn’t Zalima or Georges. And I wasn’t having it.

“Come help you, what?”

“Move the damn beds apart, of course. I agreed to share a room not a bed.”

“Help you move the damn beds apart,
what?
” I asked again, not budging from the doorway. She stared at me a moment in confusion before the lightbulb went off in her head.

“Please,” she said, letting out a breath. “Will you
please
help me?”

After we moved the beds as far apart as the tiny room would allow, Juliet pulled a red sleeveless dress with a Christian Dior label out of one of her suitcases and hung it on the back of the bathroom door.

“What type of medicine do you practice?” I asked, attempting to make small talk.

“I’m not a medical doctor. I have a Ph.D. in art history. I teach at Stanford.” She said it like it was something I should have already known.

And since I work at a university myself, I
should
have recognized her attitude of arrogant entitlement immediately. It was one I dealt with regularly. Professors who thought they walked on water and treated anyone without a doctorate degree as an inferior being were the bane of my workday existence. Dr. Rice pulled black three-inch pumps with a peep toe from her bag. The red soles identified them as Christian Louboutin. At least the woman had good taste in clothes.

“Wow. Must be some hot date if you’re martyring the Christians,” I commented since it appeared she wasn’t going to ask me anything about myself. She sighed and rolled her eyes.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but I can afford quality so I only wear the best. I’m an important woman. My clothes reflect that. She eyed my very wrinkled jeans with distaste. “I don’t do jeans. It sends the wrong message.”

“Well excuse the hell out of me.” Why was I even bothering to talk to her? And just why was Ms. Quality staying at a budget hotel?

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly, shocking me. She was sitting on the side of her bed. Her face was drawn and pale. “I’m just on edge. I’ve got a lot on my mind. I’m not usually so abrasive.” She nervously fingered a chunky rectangular-shaped sterling pendant around her neck. It had a large letter
J
engraved on the front. Like the rest of her stuff, it looked very expensive.

“No harm done,” I said, not believing her. I’d bet my left eyebrow that
abrasive
was this woman’s middle name.

She gave me a thin, tight smile and headed into the bathroom. Once Juliet was finished, I quickly showered and changed into black pants and a tan sleeveless V-neck sweater. Though we didn’t have much else to say to each other, we remained cautiously polite even as we left the hotel.

“Enjoy your first day in Paris. It’s an amazing city,” Juliet told me before disappearing into a waiting cab.

I wondered where she was going but deduced that any woman wearing a show-stopping red dress and fuck-me pumps in the middle of the day wasn’t planning to go have tea. I assumed I wouldn’t be seeing her again until very late, or, if I was lucky, not until tomorrow morning when she moved her things to her new room. Of course, I should have known I’m not that lucky.

Since it was time for lunch, I bought food from the open-air market set up under the elevated metro tracks around the corner from my hotel. I decided on a picnic at the Eiffel Tower. I found a spot on a grassy area and devoured a baguette, some wonderfully runny Camembert cheese, roasted chicken, olives, a raspberry tart and pretty much an entire bottle of red wine. Drinking so much wine hadn’t been in the plan but seeing so many people in love, and being constantly reminded that I was alone, gave me an excuse to keep my glass filled.

There had been a couple lying on a blanket practically screwing a mere ten feet away from me, so I just kept my back turned to them. But then another couple walked by. Their heads were bent together and they were laughing at a private joke. Their arms were wrapped around each other’s waists as though they’d never let go. On a nearby bench, an elderly married couple held hands. By the time a beaming bride and groom arrived to take photos for their wedding, my bottle was more than half-empty and I was a pitiful, weepy wreck.

I knew wandering half-wasted and crying around Paris wasn’t such a great idea. I figured I’d be nice and safe on a cruise until my buzz wore off and I headed across the street for the docks along the Seine. Fifteen minutes later, I was sitting on the top deck of a Bateaux-Mouches tour boat, well away from the large groups of German, Italian and Japanese tourists vying for the best vantage points to take pictures from. I left my digital camera in the canvas day bag slung across my torso. I just wanted to savor the sights for now. There would be plenty of time for picture taking once I was sober. The bright sunlight made my eyes water. I reached inside my bag for my sunglasses and—ouch! I pricked my finger. I had thrown in a kitschy brass corkscrew I’d bought from the market to uncork my wine. Its handle was a miniature replica of the Eiffel Tower. Carefully reaching past the corkscrew, I located my sunglasses and put them on.

The boat had already passed under the gorgeous Pont Alexandre III with its tall pillars topped with golden gilded statues, and was heading toward the Pont de la Concorde, which, according to the boat’s recorded multilingual commentary, spanned the Seine between the Quai des Tuileries on the Right Bank and the Quai d’Orsay on the Left Bank. As I was looking off into the distance at the Obelisk of Luxor in the Place de la Concorde, a flash of red on the bridge caught my attention. I took off my sunglasses and leaned forward slightly in my seat to get a better look.

It was a blonde woman in a red dress. It was Juliet Rice! She was talking to a man but as the boat inched closer their body language and expressions revealed they were in the middle of a heated argument. He kept circling her and shoving something that looked like a picture in her face. She kept trying to get away from him but he kept jumping in front of her, blocking her path. Juliet was scared. I tried to stand but my bag got caught and I was pinned to my seat.

“Juliet!” I waved my arms, trying to get her attention. She didn’t hear me. Other people on the boat turned to stare at me. I could only blame what happened next on the wine. I extricated myself from my bag, leaving it wedged between my seat and the empty one next to me, and ran toward the front of the top deck, pushing my way through a crowd of tourists.

“Juliet! Juliet!” I called out again.

This time Juliet turned to look and so did her companion. Juliet spotted me and frowned. She used the momentary distraction to turn and hurry away from the persistent man. He sprinted after her and grabbed her by the elbow.

“Hey! Leave her alone! Let her go!” I yelled.

Juliet hardly needed my help. She swung around and slapped the man hard across the face. The crack of her hand on his flesh was so loud I heard it clearly. The boat passed under the bridge and I lost sight of them. I ran to the back of the boat and looked up as we emerged from the other side. Juliet was gone. But her companion was not only still there, he was leaning forward looking right at me.

He was gorgeous—muscular with a medium build and at least a good decade younger than Juliet. His dark hair was close cropped. He had sensual lips and something my friend Kelly calls sexy scruff—a five o’clock shadow that would be a full grown beard if he didn’t shave soon. He was wearing faded jeans and a navy T-shirt that was just tight enough to emphasize his well-defined chest without showing off. Our eyes met and I could see his were a vivid, startling shade of green. I couldn’t tear my gaze from his and continued to gawk at him until he finally walked away.

Was he the one Juliet had gotten dressed up for? Had I witnessed a mere lovers’ spat? People were whispering and pointing at me like I was crazy. Feeling really stupid, I headed back to my seat. I reached between the seats for my bag. It was gone.

“Has anyone seen a brown canvas bag with a long strap?” I asked. No one answered.

I sat and tried to calm down. While I’d unnecessarily involved myself in Juliet’s business, someone had stolen my bag. And it was my fault. I’d practically given my bag away. I resisted the urge to cry as I mentally inventoried the contents of my bag. Thankfully, my passport was back in my hotel room, safely locked up in my suitcase. But I’d had two hundred euros, an ATM card, an expensive digital camera and my cell phone in my bag.

“Did you get your purse nicked?” asked a young woman with an English accent sitting two rows ahead of me. All I could do was nod as hot tears spilled down my face.

“Oh, that’s a shame. You should go file a report with the crew,” she suggested and the older woman with her nodded in agreement.

“Thanks. I will.” I got up and quickly headed downstairs to the first deck.

I was really too embarrassed to go talk to the crew. What could they do? There must have been a least hundred passengers on board. It would have been so easy for someone to take my money and valuables and drop the bag over the side of the boat. But I guess it would be better than doing nothing. I spotted a young crewmember in an enclosed booth near the front of boat and knocked on the glass, startling him.

“
Parlez-vous Anglais?
” I asked when he opened the door.

“
Non,
” he replied dismissively and began picking at a zit on his chin. I struggled to think of the French word for
stolen.
My French/English dictionary had also been in my bag.

“
Uh, ma bag…ah…volee?
” I said uncertainly.

That did the trick. He rolled his eyes and pointed to a sign in French with multiple translations underneath. It read:
Bateaux-Mouches is not responsible for lost or stolen property.
I was officially S.O.L. Then he closed the door and sat back down.

“Asshole,” I mumbled under my breath.

I headed into the bathroom to pull myself together. I splashed my face with cold water. When I lifted the lid of the trashcan to throw away my paper towel, relief washed over me like a tidal wave. Because there, sitting on top of a pile of wet paper towels, pop cans, candy wrappers and lots of newspapers, was my bag. I sat on the toilet to examine it. Every pocket and compartment had been unzipped and unsnapped.

Oddly, only my souvenir corkscrew and hotel key card were missing. My money, ATM card, camera and cell phone were all there. The corkscrew was meaningless, but a stolen key card was bad news. I began to pick through the garbage hoping to find it, but once I encountered a fragrant crap-filled diaper, I gave up.

It was after six when I got back to the hotel. The desk clerk assured me that it was impossible to know which room the key card unlocked and that it would be useless to the thief. But he checked the room for me anyway. Juliet walked in just as I had my new card in hand and headed past me without speaking.

“Juliet, are you okay?” I caught up to her at the bottom of the steps.

“What are you talking about?” She glared at me.

“You were on that bridge earlier with a man. It looked like he was harassing you. Are you okay?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“But I saw you. And I know you saw me. You looked right at me. I was on a cruise. You slapped him.” I knew what I’d seen. Why was she lying?

“Are you drunk?” She backed away from me. I put my hand over my mouth in embarrassment and took a step back.

“No,” I said.

“Yes, you are. You reek of alcohol! I don’t know who you saw but I can assure you it wasn’t me. I was in meetings all afternoon. And how dare you address me by my first name. Only my close friends call me Juliet, and you are certainly no friend of mine. Now, leave me alone!” She hurried up the steps.

Stunned and embarrassed, I headed up after her. Her sobbing could be heard loud and clear through the closed door. She was crying so loudly that she startled from the fetal position on her bed when she finally realized I was in the room with her. Whatever had happened had left her completely devastated.

“Just pretend I’m not here and I’ll do the same. Clearly I made a big mistake in being concerned about you.”

“Well, I made a mistake, too.” She turned onto her back, letting big sloppy tears fall down the sides of her face. “A big, big mistake. I don’t know how I could have been so wrong.”

“Welcome to the club, honey. It happens to the best of us. You’ll get over it.” I refused to be drawn into her man problems when I had problems of my own.

“No, I won’t,” she replied cryptically in a flat voice.

“Why?”

“I broke my promise. I broke it for nothing. I thought I was finally doing the right thing. But it was all a lie. Now, I’ll never be trusted again. I gave up everything! Everything!”

“Look, Dr. Rice, I got my bag stolen earlier and had to get a new key card. If you’re not going back out, deadbolt the door after I leave just to be on the safe side, okay?”

Her response was to turn toward the wall and start crying again. I went into the bathroom and quickly brushed my teeth and freshened up. It didn’t take long for my anger to evaporate, especially since Juliet might be going through similar man problems as me. Sitting on the side of her bed, I gently touched her shoulder. She tensed but didn’t turn over.

“Are you going to be okay? Would you like me to bring you anything? Some food or maybe—”

“Please,” she said without an ounce of emotion, “just leave me alone.” I left Dr. Juliet Rice to her tears and headed out of the hotel. I had gone half a block when someone called to me from outside a Lebanese restaurant. Jarrod and his partner, Brian, waved to me. I crossed the street to join them.

“We saw what happened in the lobby and were just wondering if you’d like to join us for dinner. No one should eat alone in Paris,” proclaimed Brian. It looked like Jarrod had been at the hair gel again.

“Come on. We’re not taking no for an answer.” Jarrod pulled me into the restaurant with them.

I allowed myself to be pulled. Truth be told, I was lonely and needed the company. I was also hungry again. Drama has a way of doing that to me. Once we were settled at a table and our orders were placed, our waiter uncorked a bottle of red wine. I covered my glass with my hand. I’d be sticking to Perrier. While we nibbled on complimentary olives and pickled vegetables, they told me a little about themselves. They’d been together for twelve years and had come to Paris to celebrate their anniversary.

“What about you, Maya? Do you have someone special?” asked Brian. I filled them in on my pathetic love life.

“Well it’s his loss, babe,” replied Jarrod. “Don’t even sweat it. Men like that aren’t worth the energy it takes to fart. I ought to know ’cause I’ve been with my share of them.”

“She doesn’t want to hear about your sordid past,” Brian teased as he pushed his horn-rimmed glasses up on his nose.

Jarrod rolled his eyes. “Brian just doesn’t want people to know the love of his life is a felon. Before I met him, I was strung out like a junkie on a car thief who looked just like Brad Pitt from Cali. It was exciting as hell until I ended up in jail. But this man here,” he said, reaching over and squeezing Brian’s hand, “set me on the path to the straight and narrow.”

“Narrow, maybe. Straight, hardly,” exclaimed Brian, making us all laugh.

“So, what’s the sitch with the bitch?” Jarrod didn’t even attempt to hide his nosiness.

“Please excuse him, Maya,” said Brian, cutting his partner an embarrassed look. “He’s as addicted to gossip as he is to hair gel.”

“Don’t pay him any attention.” Jarrod dismissed his partner with a wave of his hand. “He won’t admit it but he wants to know too. So, spill it girlfriend. What’s that woman’s deal?”

“You mean Dr. Juliet Rice?” I strung her name out for full effect. “She’s an important woman. She teaches at Stanford and you’d damned well better remember it or she’ll remind you…repeatedly!” We laughed again. Our food arrived and I dug into my lamb and rice.

“You mean that hussy’s a professor?” asked Brian, with his mouth half-full of couscous.

“Yeah, with that counterfeit couture and bad highlighting job we thought she was an old hooker,” said Jarrod.

Water almost squirted out of my nose. “You mean her clothes are fake? How can you tell?” I was truly impressed.

“Oh, don’t look at us like that. It’s not some kind of gay man’s intuition. We own a drycleaners in Portland. We can spot bootleg designer duds a mile away,” concluded Brian.

“It’s all in the cut, the fit and the detailing,” explained Jarrod. “Real designer clothing shouldn’t be ill fitting, especially as much as they cost, and the stitching should be seamless. The hem on that red Dior knock-off was lopsided. It looked like someone high on crack sewed it.” Brian nodded his head in agreement.

I hadn’t even noticed the hem of her dress.

“Well, what about the shoes? Are they fake, too?”

“Now they might actually be real. We do minor shoe repairs occasionally. One of our wealthier clients owns about two dozen pairs of Louboutin pumps and loves them more than her children. She has a pair something like that prof was wearing. But then again, if the dress is bootleg then the shoes probably are, too,” said Jarrod.

“Why lie about something so stupid?” I asked.