I dialed Ma’s number and crossed my fingers that she was in a meeting and I could leave a voice message.
No luck. My mother picked up. “Vanessa, why haven’t you called? Are you avoiding me?”
“It’s been busy here. I need you to do me a favor: please don’t freak out.” I then detailed what happened in a gush of words, an inundation of trivial facts in a shower of syllables. It was the preferred tactic of a guilty child caught in the act. “And I’m about to have dinner now with Uncle Michael and Aunt Evelyn. They’re going to meet Marc.”
Ma created a series of exasperated noises that made me thankful I was 5,571 miles away. “You almost died and you didn’t even call your mother!” Her scream made me pull the phone away from my face.
“I am okay. Only minor scrapes. My suitcase took the brunt of it. I’m fine, Ma, really.”
“That’s not the point. I’m also upset with Evelyn, but that’s between me and her.”
I didn’t want to be privy to that conversation, nor the current one, where my dear mother needed to be placated like an angry deity. “She didn’t want to alarm you. She talked to the doctor and knew I was fine. Calling you would have freaked you out when the situation was handled. She probably asked them to keep me overnight, and I was discharged the next day.” The last part was a lie, but my aunt needed all the points with my mother that I could give her.
“Still.” The decibels decreased as her outrage subsided. “You both should have told me sooner.”
A message flashed across the screen. It was an incoming call from Marc.
“I have to go. It’s Marc. I have to take this.”
“Fine. We’ll talk later.”
As I hung up and switched to the other line, I felt a foreboding sense of dread, not from any kind of preternatural ability, but born from the repeated experience of being stood up.
Forty-One
I’m sorry. I couldn’t call earlier. The boss has me working long hours and is making me come in during my time off to help out. It’s worse then ever, if you can imagine that. I miss you.”
“I miss you too.” The sound of his deep voice was soothing. “Did you get my earlier message?”
“About the hotel. Yeah, I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to respond.”
“Marc, I almost died the other day. I was going to the hotel. A van almost ran me over.”
“Oh God, are you all right? I should come over. I’m so sorry. I should have been there . . .”
“It’s okay. I was a bit shaken up, but my suitcase bore the brunt of the impact. My aunt helped me and I decided to stay with her.”
There was a pause, and then he sighed.
“You’re not coming tonight, are you?” I asked.
“I was set to come, but then, a few minutes ago, he called me back in. I swear, he’s sabotaging my life. It feels like forever since we shared pancakes.”
I pushed down my disappointment. The slight bothered me, but I didn’t want to make a fuss: I understood the pressure he was under, but I wanted him to make time for us.
“As bad as my problems are, I’m sure they’re minor compared to your aunt. How is she doing?” he asked.
“Not well. Few people are going in. The boycott and setbacks are killing her business, and her hopes. Everything she has, she poured into the store. Did you find out anything?”
“Claude’s sister, Leticia, is responsible for the flyer. She’s been in love with the boss for years. She eats dinner at the restaurant every night just to see him. Beautiful woman, but obsessive and territorial.”
“Leticia Chirac?”
“You’ve heard of her? There are some scandalous stories. I haven’t found out anything else. I hardly have time to get home, sleep, and take a shower before I’m back in the kitchen.” He paused. “Have I told you I miss you?”
“You have, but it doesn’t hurt to hear it again.” I smiled.
“Can you send my apologies to your family?”
“I will. My aunt and uncle will be disappointed, but I know you can’t afford to lose your job.”
“When do you leave?”
“A little less than two weeks. We have plenty of time.” I opted for false bravado to help alleviate his guilt. If circumstances were ideal, we’d spend every minute together, and begin to figure out what would happen after Paris. I wanted this to continue, despite the challenges of a long-distance relationship. The future was murky, but at least I had a future—one I embraced.
“Did you get my drawing?”
“Yes, I didn’t know your heart was made of delicious butter and carbs.”
He laughed. I could picture his gorgeous brown eyes crinkling at the corners. “If I get too busy, I’ll leave you something with Ines. Hey, I . . .” His voice became faint, followed by the sound of shattering glass. The call disconnected.
Great. Now his phone was also broken. As if we needed more obstacles. I braced myself before heading out to give my aunt and uncle the bad news.
* * *
* * *
A family dinner to meet the boyfriend was compulsory. It was an event I always wanted. I yearned for the stress, the aggravation, and the interrogation that I’d seen with my cousins when bringing their significant others. Despite all my recent changes, I was still denied for another day.
My parents notwithstanding, Uncle Michael and Aunt Evelyn would have made the perfect introduction to the Yu family. My uncle was disappointed, my aunt more so. We ordered from my aunt’s favorite Italian restaurant. She pushed her rotini arrabbiata around the plate, and ignored her glass of cabernet sauvignon. My uncle gave me worrying glances throughout the meal as he attempted to engage her in light discussion. After dinner, she retreated to her room, humming her now-familiar melancholy melody.
“I hate seeing her like this,” Uncle Michael said. “The business is her life. If it fails, I don’t see her recovering easily. Have you made any progress in reaching Girard?”
“His bodyguard is a distant relative. I’m hoping he’ll let me speak to his boss.”
He folded an empty takeaway box. “Wouldn’t he be violating some occupational code by allowing you to do so?”
I groaned and slumped into my chair. “You’re right. What do you suggest?”
“If you’re going to use subterfuge, don’t use family connections. At least, not that way.” He withdrew a card from his pocket. “Here’s Jack’s business card. Say you’re his assistant and you’re scouting locations. The restaurant is beautiful, right? Totally plausible.”
I held the card to my chest. “Uncle Michael, what will Jack say?”
“He loves me.” My uncle blushed. “He’ll forgive this. I think. Call to set up an appointment. Use an alias—a name similar to someone you knew from college. It’ll be easier to stick to the details.”
“Are you sure you’re a designer and not a spy from some secret organization?” I teased.
He winked, and pressed a finger to his lips. “Call now. The restaurant should still be open and, providing he’s available, you can get an appointment for tomorrow morning during the off-hours.”
“I should have just asked you to plan this whole thing.”
“I leave tomorrow, and I prefer to go knowing that you and Evelyn are better off than when I arrived.” He lifted my chin up. “She needs our help, but she won’t ask for it: she’s too stubborn. You have that in common. If there was an official test for obstinacy, you both would exceed the recommended level.”
My uncle was correct: Aunt Evelyn wouldn’t dare ask for help. It went against her nature and her infamous streak of independence. Why had it taken me this long to realize that she and I weren’t that different?
“She deserves to have what she came here for,” I declared.
Love. All my aunt wanted was the love she had denied herself due to her commitment to the family.
* * *
* * *
With Uncle Michael’s coaching, I arranged an appointment with Girard for the next morning at eleven. He also had a precise wardrobe: ponytail, dark denim, white blouse, and flats. Annie, Jack’s assistant, dressed in a similar fashion. My uncle’s natural aptitude for subterfuge amused me.
Tomorrow, I would talk to the man who held my aunt’s heart in his grasp.
Forty-Two
Before I donned my disguise, I had my morning errand of fetching a set of biscuits from Ines’s bakery. As I walked out the apartment door, a courier arrived delivering the photograph from Auntie Faye.
I ripped the cardboard envelope open. The picture of a much younger Girard fell into my hands. I turned the five-by-seven-inch photo over and traced my hand across the inscription on the back before sliding it back into the safety of the cardboard jacket.
As I stepped out onto the sidewalk, red threads surrounded me. An elaborate embroidery undulated as the crowd flowed around me.
I took a different route to the bakery—less direct—as there was a place that I needed to return.
Boulevard Saint-Germain and rue du Bac.
Nothing was different. No errant piece of luggage. No stray garment. No physical trace of what happened two days ago. But my body remembered: the trembling of my hands, the scar on my arm, the ache in my hip, the blue cane I now used.