Page 9

NINE

Paris

Vivianne

The flight into Charles de Gaulle Airport is uneventful, but even flying first class, the eight-and-a-half-hour flight takes its toll.

I keep myself hydrated, drinking a glass of water every hour. It’s a trick I’ve learned over the years to ease post-flight headaches, but the champagne I imbibe counteracts the benefits of the water.

I miss Dr. Phillips, and despite my repeated requests for him to accompany me to Paris, I travel alone.

He made excuses about being unable to leave work or abandon his students in the middle of the term, but I understand. He wants to push my career forward as much as possible before I sink beneath the responsibilities of my unwanted nuptials.

I hold nothing back from Dr. Phillips. He’s more of a father to me than the man who saddled me with the Faulks name. He claims his presence on this trip will detract from my success.

“The limelight needs to be on Vivianne Faulks making a splash on the international art scene and not on an aging professor content with his work.”

He even used air quotes when he explained his rationale.

I miss him.

As quiet as the flight was, I battle jet lag, but Customs proceeds quickly. A perk of flying first class is hitting the line first. I collect my bags with little hassle, and it’s easy to spot my ride when I exit baggage claim.

My father is displeased with my assignment as an attaché to the American embassy. He relented only after I explained the potential connections this would open for Prescott and the Faulks name. Overprotective as always, my father took control of my travel plans—booking my flight and hotel and even hiring a local driver.

A gentleman in his late forties holds a sign with my name printed on it. He wears a crisp, clean uniform—the universal symbol of the quiet, dignified trade of a chauffeur—setting him apart from other transportation professionals.

Beneath his pressed jacket, he wears a plain-collared white dress shirt. Understated, it serves the purpose of not drawing attention. His black tie is simple and unadorned, as is his black jacket and matching black pants. A hat completes his uniform, sitting atop dark black hair, cut short.

Even his eyes are dark. Forgettable, invisible even, and perfect for the job, he stands at rigid attention. Fingerless driving gloves encase his manicured hands as he grips the sign proclaiming my name.

I walk up and smile. “ Bonjour .”

I use my best French accent, butchering the greeting with my American tongue.

A smile lifts the corners of his mouth. “ Mademoiselle Faulks? ”

“ C’est moi, ” I say. “ Parlez-vous anglais? ”

“But of course. My name is Jacques, Jacques Pierre, and it is my pleasure to serve you.”

“May I call you Jacques?”

“Mais, oui.” Reaching into the inner breast pocket of his suit, he pulls out a card. “I’m at your service during your visit.”

“Thank you.” I take his card, glance at it, and then tuck it into my purse.

“How was your flight, Miss Faulks?”

I breathe out a relieved sigh. “Long. I’m looking forward to some sleep.”

“ Oh, non, ” he says, turning his wrist to glance at his watch. “You don’t want to do that. It’s best to acclimate to local time.”

My body tries to tell me it’s way past midnight, but local time states it’s morning. I want nothing other than to snuggle into my bed, but I can’t ignore the wisdom of his words.

He takes my luggage and sweeps out an arm, urging me forward.

“The car is waiting.”

“I’d like to go to my hotel and shower. If you think I should adjust to local time, could you suggest some sightseeing? Something off the beaten path.”

My meeting at the embassy isn’t scheduled until morning, giving me time to explore on my own.

“Absolutely, mademoiselle. May I suggest you breakfast with a patisserie in the hotel and then explore Montmartre? It has a thriving art community, which you might enjoy. Or, if you prefer, a walk along the Seine by Notre Dame?”

“Montmartre sounds wonderful.”

Now what to do about Paul de Gaulle?

He left the limits of our false relationship ambiguous, and while I have the sanctity of my name to protect, I’m not opposed to the possibility of exploring something more with him— before life smothers me with the obligations of an empire.

Two hours later, Jacques takes me to Montmartre, a large hill capped by the Basilica du Sacré-C?ur. I ask him to drop me off at the base of the hill because my guidebook insists the journey is more important than the destination.

I don’t want to follow herd instinct and stampede my way up the steep mount. Instead, I begin my walk at the base of the hill.

The Basilica isn’t going anywhere. The vast church dominates the mound, and I’ll eventually wind up there.

I dressed for the day, choosing long, flowing pants and a light, gauzy shirt. My outfit provides little protection against the faint chill in the air, but the temperature doesn’t bother me. I’ll warm up during my walk.

An embellished Valentino tulle scarf is wrapped around my neck, protecting me against occasional gusts, and if I get too cold, I have a lightweight jacket stashed in my backpack.

A light fragrance fills the air, causing me to deepen my breaths. A tantalizing bouquet of flowering plants mingles with Parisian perfume.

What a wonderful city. I can’t wait to see it sparkle with the coming of night.

My journey begins on the Boulevard de Clichy, a street lined with bars, sex shops, and more peep shows than I’ve ever seen gathered in one place.

It’s nearly noon, and there is little traffic cluttering the sidewalks. I can only imagine how the evening will transform the peaceful-appearing boulevard into a living, breathing press of sensual need.

I take a moment to stop in front of the store windows, peering inside while no one watches what I’m doing. Mostly tame describes my sex life. Vanilla, some would call it.

After my father announced I would marry Prescott, my sex life is now completely non-existent, with little to look forward to.

Part of me wishes to experience something more exciting before settling into a marriage brokered over drinks in a boardroom.

I’m not bold enough to wander inside any of the shops, but I linger over the displays, tantalized by leather corsets, cuffs, collars, and many other things I don’t understand.

My exploration, however, soon leaves the sex shops behind. I begin the slow climb up the hill, enjoying the unevenness of the cobblestone streets. It was an excellent choice to wear comfortable shoes instead of high heels.

A small white mini-train rumbles past, filled with children’s laughter and their more somber and haggard-appearing parents. A few older passengers, too frail to hike to the top unassisted, sit quietly as the mini train attacks the steep streets they cannot.

There’s an older church I want to visit, a place steeped in history and founded by the Jesuit order of priests. I spend a few minutes with my map and tuck it away, intent on spending the rest of my day getting lost.

If I find the church, good, if not, I’ll stumble upon something even more enjoyable.

I wander the Place du Tertre, an area filled with watercolors and starving artists intent on sketching my portrait. The entire place has me imagining a distant time when lost generations of artists worked on the streets or studios if they were lucky enough to secure patronage.

Brilliant works of art were created here, and I wish for the freedom to pursue my dreams with equal fervor.

These are the same streets Salvador Dali, Claude Monet, Amedeo Modigliani, Pablo Picasso, and even Vincent van Gogh worked and lived on.

A building I pass displays a plaque stating, “ Hemingway once peed in our bathroom .” With a smile, I resist the urge to run inside and join countless others who did the same.

Wandering the streets brings me to the famous Bateau-Lavoir—Picasso’s studio, one of the most famous art studios in the world. It has since been transformed into a restaurant.

I stop in for a quick bite, soaking up the rich history, before continuing my journey upward.

As my hike winds through the narrow streets, the crowds thicken. I take the lamppost-lined steps upward. Steep, they challenge my endurance, but I’ve decided to walk to my goal and not give in and ride the funicular. Tourists fill the steps, everyone huffing and puffing their way to the top.

With the sun shining overhead, I climb the last step, smiling with the infectious enthusiasm of the street musicians playing for the daily crowds. I file inside the Basilica and admire the domed architecture. My legs ache from my walk, so I sit in an empty pew and let the soreness of my muscles ease.

Walking back down the mount will prove much easier, and I look forward to discovering more about the village lined with cobblestone streets.

With a sigh, I decide against the eighty-meter climb inside the dome of Basilica du Sacré-C?ur. Instead, I head back into the warmth of springtime in Paris. It’s early afternoon, and I still have an entire city to explore.

During my descent, however, the fine hairs on my arms prickle—an electric buzz feathers at my nape. Several times, I feel a watcher’s eye but see nothing when I stop to look.

The Métro and its warren of tunnels are next on my list, but first, I stop at the infamous Moulin Rouge.

Down the street, the Ulysses Montmartre Theatre crumbles into decay. At one time, the oldest Cancan dance theater dominated Paris nightlife. Now, its newer and more famous neighbor overshadows its earlier fame.

I pause outside the Moulin Rouge and admire the posters of the Cancan girls. I keep my clutch tight against my chest, protecting it from pickpockets notorious for preying off tourists caught unaware.

And there it is again, that feeling of being watched.