French Impression

Chapter 1

Miriam's shoes scraped her blisters as she trudged downstairs for dinner. Tennis shoes would proclaim her an American tourist, but the leather pumps tortured her heels.

The waiter might ignore her if she hid in the corner, so Miriam sat in the center of the empty hotel restaurant. The small tables and hard wooden chairs reminded her of a coffee shop back home. It was adequate for her first dinner in Paris, and meant she didn't have to walk any further.

After the young waiter handed her a menu, she kicked off her black shoes to wiggle her feet. Her stomach growled as she opened the menu.

She was deciding between goat cheese salad and baked onion soup when a man tripped over one of her shoes.

I'm so sorry. She forgot her French, and the lecture she'd given herself. According to her research, Parisians didn't say sorry. She'd thought her shoes had landed under the table, but one of them was several feet away.

She braced for an icy glare, but instead saw kind brown eyes regarding her with approval. His lips were half-hidden behind a trim mustache and small gray beard. He looked at her pumps, then her face.

I'm sorry, she said. The heck with the books' advice on fitting in. If he tripped because of her shoes, then apologizing was good manners.

You are American, no? His accent made the words sound like a delightful surprise.

No. I mean, yes. Miriam pressed her spine against the back of the wooden chair, and lifted her chin. She was too old to act like a simpering young miss. Yes, I am American.

He bent to straighten her pumps. "Pretty shoes, but not, I fear, as comfortable as you'd hoped, n'est-ce pas?"

No, they're not. Since only one of her bags had arrived at Charles de Gaulle Airport, her choices were tennis shoes or the tortuous pumps.

Such a shame, and such pretty feet.

She hid them under the table, wondering why he was being so complimentary to a middle-aged woman.

I've embarrassed you. How silly of me. The corners of his eyes crinkled with humor. My name is Raoul.

The interest in his eyes, combined with her embarrassment at being barefoot, made her reluctant to say anything. If she was quiet, he'd probably leave soon.

Let me guess. His deep voice made her skin vibrate. You arrived this morning, determined to conform to Paris time, only to fall asleep in the afternoon, and are now hungry.

She hoped her mouth wasn't open in shock. Had he followed her today? His handsome face and well-cut business suit looked respectable. She managed to squeak, How do you know all that?

His warm laughter sounded like her husband's when telling a favorite story. I've had many trips to the States. I'm always determined to follow the rules about adjusting to the time change, but life is short.

It's difficult, Ra, er, uhm.

Raoul. And you are?

Miriam.

The name suits you. Now, you are hungry. We must fix that. He indicated the chair opposite her. May I?

I wouldn't want to interrupt your plans.

He waved his hand in dismissal. My business colleague canceled so I am free. For a beautiful woman to eat alone on her first evening in Paris is a crime, no?

Miriam could almost hear her best friend urging her to go for it, that enough time had passed.

Perhaps I intrude?

Please, sit down. In her head, she heard her friend's yell of approval. She smiled at the thought.

Ah, I was right. Your smile is like … He sat across from her, spreading his hands wide. All is right with the world.

Pardon?

It's nothing. For now, we must nourish you. He made a subtle motion, and the waiter appeared.

"Oui, monsieur?"

Ignoring the menu, Raoul spoke in rapid French. The waiter replied in an accent Miriam found difficult to decipher. She only caught the words olives, tomato, and cream.

Raoul turned to her. You're not, what is the word? No meat, no cheese, just the vegetables?

Vegan? No. I'm not vegan.

And the meat? Do you eat meat?

Yes, but nothing too strange. It's my first night. She pressed her fingers against the base of her throat, dismayed her voice sounded apologetic.

Not a problem. It is good to give the body time to adapt. His quick smile caused his entire face to lighten.

Until that moment, Miriam hadn't understood why he seemed familiar. It was the sadness. His face contained the same heart-wrenching pain she felt daily. She studied him while he discussed the menu options with the waiter. From the silver in Raoul's hair, she'd guess he was in his fifties.

The waiter left, and Raoul returned her scrutiny. She smoothed her short hair behind her ears, wondering what he was thinking.

So sad, he murmured.

Miriam blinked in surprise at the echoing of her thoughts.

Your husband, he did not come with you?

She twisted her gold wedding band. He died.

Of course. Nothing else would cause him to leave the side of such a lovely woman. When Raoul touched her hand, his wedding ring gleamed bright. My beloved Chantal died five years ago.

I'm sorry for your loss. She flinched at the inadequate words.

It does become easier. Will you tell me what happened?

His sympathy was a soothing balm as Miriam shared Jay's painful fight with cancer. She glossed over why she was in Paris, not wanting to talk about her job in case that increased her nervousness. Her transfer shouldn't be a problem despite the warnings from her American colleagues about the difficulties of working for a French woman.

After answering several questions about Jay, she asked, Would you like to tell me how Chantal died?

You do not find the topic too dull? He stroked the edges of his goatee. I have been told I obsess about the topic. I do not wish to bore you.

You listened to me. She touched his arm, noticing the firm muscle beneath the luxurious fabric. I'd like to hear about your wife.

He rewarded her with a huge smile.

They were deep in conversation when the waiter appeared with a bottle of Bordeaux and the first course of mushroom tart. Raoul tasted the wine, then nodded to have their glasses filled. He concluded his story about how he met his wife while they sipped the dry red.

Miriam took a bite of the flaky crust of the tart. This is marvelous. Do you know what makes it so savory?

"It has wild mushrooms with Gruyère cheese. It's Swiss, but the chef, he mixes it with fresh French cheese, and, voilà. It is, how you say, magnificent."

We could speak French, if you like. Once the words were out, she feared she'd insulted his English.

His eyes twinkled with his smile. We could, but you're tired, and it's good to practice my English. The business these days, it's in English, no?

I hope so. It will make my life easier. My company merged with a French one, it's why I'm here.

Ah, you are here for business. Excellent. Now, finish your tart, then you can tell me more about your husband.

Over several delicious courses, accompanied by wine, she talked about Jay, their life together, his illness, and his death. Far from changing the subject, Raoul encouraged her to tell him everything. In return, he discussed his wife and son. Miriam talked about her own children, and how supportive they'd been.

And you're in Paris to stop the worry? he asked. I mean, to keep them from worrying?

You understand.

It's not easy to move on, dear Miriam, but life is meant to be lived. He squeezed her hand, offering comfort and connection.

The evening passed quickly. For the first time in years, she regretted her appetite wasn't large enough for dessert. Raoul pressed her, but she said, I couldn't, honestly.

A meal, with no dessert, it is not--how you say, not done, for your first night in France.

I don't have room for another bite.

The gleam in his eyes reminded her of an adventurous little boy. We will take a walk, see Paris at night, then you will have room for dessert.

Miriam glanced at her pumps, still under the table where he'd arranged them hours before.

Go ahead, put on the shoes of tennis. I won't tell.

I have to wait for the bill. At his puzzled look, she said, "L'addition."

It is taken care of.

She reached into her pocket for her wallet. I couldn't let you pay.

Miriam. His voice was gentle but firm. Go get your comfortable shoes. It's my joy to treat a beautiful woman to her first meal in France. To think I would let you pay does my honor a disservice. Go, change your shoes so I may show you my sparkling city. Bring a jacket, as it gets chilly in October. He touched her arm. Unlike the men in American movies, we French like to keep our own jackets.

Her senses hummed with anticipation as she hurried up the stairs. Once inside her hotel room, she ran a brush through her short curly hair. Her hand was steady as she applied a light coat of lipstick.

She sat on the edge of the bed to lace her sneakers. It was ten o'clock, which meant it was three in the afternoon in Chicago. She could call her best friend for a pep talk, but she didn't need it.

Adjusting the neckline of her blouse, Miriam opened the top button. She was forty-eight years old and single. An attractive man waited downstairs. Perhaps everyone was right when they said this year would be good for her.

The street outside the hotel was well-lit. As they walked past the Louvre pyramid, it glittered like a crystal. The pyramid's geometry enhanced the Louvre's charm.

Raoul claimed it disfigured the museum, but he smiled as he said it. He wasn't as tall as Jay—no. She had to stop yearning for the impossible. It was natural to be attracted to another man. It was natural to hold hands as they viewed the beauty that was Paris.

When they strolled along the Seine, he pointed out the Eiffel Tower in the distance. She enjoyed his stories about Chantal. He'd loved his wife, but he didn't seem to share Miriam's aching loneliness at the thought of waking up without Jay for the rest of her life. But he hadn't removed his wedding ring either.

It was almost midnight when they returned to the hotel. She hoped it meant she could forgo eating more, but Raoul insisted they order dessert and a nightcap. When the drink arrived, she shook her head. I finally feel clear-headed after the wine at dinner. I'm not used to drinking this late at night.

Take a sip. If you dislike it, then we can get something else. He shrugged, but his lower lip pouted.

Miriam felt a tug of attraction. She sipped, tasting lemon and chocolate. What is this?

"L'Emeraude. It is good, no?"

She nodded, and sipped again, this time smelling bananas. What's in it?

Citron, coco, pisang ambon, vodka, and bananas.

Apart from the vodka, the ingredients sounded non-alcoholic, so she relaxed. It wouldn't hurt to have one more drink. She looked forward to dessert, which Raoul had promised would be spectacular.

A strong smell made her turn to look at the bar area where a thin man smoked. She coughed. Perhaps we should skip dessert.

One moment. Raoul walked over to the man. They spoke quietly, but with much hand waving and frowning.

Raoul returned and shrugged. He's Spanish, and considers smoking his right. What can you do? The French, we would be happy to honor the request of a gorgeous woman, but the Spanish, they are not so considerate.

Miriam doubted the sensitivity of all the French concerning smoking, but she appreciated that he had tried to solve the problem. Their evening was coming to an end.

Raoul snapped his fingers. It is lucky--the dessert I ordered, it's not necessary for the forks. We could eat in your room.

Before she could protest--or decide if she wanted to protest--he was off again, this time to talk to the waiter. Raoul returned holding a small box which presumably held dessert, and with another drink.

They ended up eating the pastry, drinking the L'Emeraude, and exchanging a sweet kiss that turned passionate. She tasted the lemon and chocolate from the drink mixed with the cream of the pastry as he explored her mouth.

The kiss caused bittersweet memories of Jay to surface. Her body craved touch, but it was too soon. She was about to pull back when Raoul assured her his wife wouldn't mind. Evidently he understood how conflicted she was. She kissed his cheek. He trailed kisses from her earlobe down her neck to her breasts. Making love felt right.

Waking in the morning to the sound of ringing, she struggled to reach the phone. It might be the doctor about Jay's latest tests. Did they have a new treatment to try? The cell phone was on the opposite side of the bed, but she reached across without disturbing him. Half-asleep, she said, Hello?

Allo. Who is this please?

The voice on the phone wasn't from the hospital. Miriam sat up in bed, recalling she was in Paris. Why was she naked? She glanced at the flowered duvet cover. Raoul snored, and turned away from her.

She looked at the phone. The voice sounded familiar, almost like her new French manager. Perhaps Estelle thought she was supposed to be in the office today, but that was absurd. This wasn't even her cell phone.

Allo? Where is my husband?

The voice definitely sounded like Estelle's. Miriam frantically scanned her small hotel room for an escape route. She quashed the impulse to say the five words her French teacher claimed were useful in every situation, Excuse me for disturbing you. Fighting growing panic, she pushed the button to end the call.

Raoul opened first one eye, then the other. Who called?

She dropped the cell phone onto the bed, pulling her hand away as if she'd been scalded. He lay twisted in the pale blue sheets. The morning sun highlighted the unshaven areas above his goatee. She jumped out of bed, only remembering she was naked when his pupils darkened.

She reached for clothing in her suitcase, not caring whether the blouse matched the skirt. Once she was covered, she faced Raoul. That was your wife. You're married.

He looked at her with sleepy eyes. Yes. I told you this last night, before ... He gestured at the pillow next to him.

You told me Chantal died five years ago.

She did.

Miriam pointed at his cell phone. You have a wife who is very much alive.

Ah, yes. I told you.

She'd thought his assurance that his wife wouldn't object was his way of saying he understood her uneasiness about making love with someone other than Jay. She'd thought it had been years since he'd been with a woman. A feeling of nausea rose in her throat. He had meant his current wife wouldn't mind. He was married.

She hugged her chest. What is your wife's name?

Estelle.

Feeling as if a huge vortex was about to suck her in, she asked, Estelle Beauchamp?

He hesitated a second, then nodded.

She collapsed into a soft chair. She's my new boss. Her head whirled with vivid images of the two of them in bed, images she fought to clear. How could your wife be my boss? Did you know who I was last night?

His brown eyes looked sincere. I did not stalk you. We formed a connection last night, it's not something to be ashamed of. Estelle--

You can't tell her. Guilt made her face heat up. She'd betrayed her dead husband. She was supposed to be starting a grand adventure, not having sex with a married man.

Estelle understands these things, but it would be ill-mannered to give particulars.

Ill-mannered? She couldn't reconcile this cheater with the heart-broken man who had lost his wife. She didn't think he'd been stalking her, but the coincidence made her hug her stomach in shame.

Shall we shower, and have breakfast? He glanced at the clock by the bedside. It's eight-thirty. Do you need to be at work soon?

I don't have work today. She had planned on adjusting to the time difference, and checking out the apartment she'd viewed on a previous trip. But she couldn't eat breakfast with him. Maybe if she was alone she could figure out how she'd gotten into this awful situation.

Then I'll take a shower before breakfast. He pushed the blanket out of his way, revealing a slight paunch, and a partial erection.

She looked away, studying the carpet. I can't--we can't--this is horrible. What should I do?

Raoul sat on the edge of the bed. What do you mean? What is there to do?

She dropped her head over her knees. This is terrible. I slept with my boss's husband.

Relax. Estelle isn't good at recognizing accents. He walked to the chair, and rubbed the muscles of her neck.

Miriam raised her head, trying not to enjoy the comfort of his strong hands.

Did you say anything? he asked. Why did you answer my phone?

The ringing woke me up. I grabbed the phone without thinking. I used to receive calls from the hospital.

He increased the pressure, easing a tight spot on the side of her neck. Despite everything, it felt good. Amazingly good.

Did you talk? At her silence, he squeezed her shoulder lightly. To Estelle?

I said hello. Why did she speak in English?

She had an English father, so she tends to answer in whichever language she is addressed. It's automatic.

What are we going to do?

Think about it from her perspective, he said. Knowing about us could make working together difficult. It is best we say nothing.

I wish it hadn't happened.

It saddens me that you regret our time together. It may be awkward at first, but all will be fine. You'll see.

Why were you at my hotel last night?

Business. It was a coincidence. These things happen. There is no need to dwell on it, nor to tell Estelle.

Maybe saying nothing was best. She couldn't undo the past, and she couldn't make life act the way she wanted. She'd learned that years ago.

I'll take a shower, he said, and then we can have breakfast.

You should leave. Now.

He shrugged. Very well. I'll leave after my shower.

Chapter 2, October 11

It was the hotel cleaning woman, dear. Raoul's explanation flowed from Estelle's office telephone as French and smooth as a Chateau Lafite Rothschild Bordeaux.

Estelle twirled the phone cord around her finger, tightening it to the point of pain, before releasing it. She spoke quietly so no one sitting in a nearby cubicle could overhear her distress. Why would the maid answer your mobile?

Because she's American, I guess.

And why were you in a hotel? Estelle felt a light prickling on her neck, but when she ran her hand over her chignon, there were no loose strands of hair. She twisted the phone cord again.

"As I explained in my text message last night, I had a late session with a colleague. We had one drink too many, and I knew you had a morning meeting. I didn't want to disturb you by arriving home late, only to have you disturb me early this morning, so I stayed at a hotel. We had a great Dutch liquor, pisang ambon."

Raoul's conversation probably wasn't an attempt to distract her. He expected her to be interested in every aspect of food and drink. She scanned her email, approving her group's expense vouchers. If they weren't done today, she'd have to explain why, which meant more email. Managing a group of twenty engineers, including ones from outside Europe, was a challenge.

She waited for Raoul to finish extolling the liquor's virtues. Where?

Pardon?

Where did you spend the night?

Near the Louvre. The answer came without hesitation, proof he had nothing to hide. Across from the Seine at a small hotel.

I still don't understand why the maid answered. Estelle picked up a pen, and drew a large circle on a scrap of paper. She concentrated on drawing smaller circles within the larger one, using the exercise to keep the sharp note he disliked out of her voice. She wished she could be blasé about the possibility of her husband having an affair, but she wasn't. And Raoul knew it. He claimed he'd never cheated on his first wife, and she believed him, so she had no reason to suspect him. But it was unlike him to stay at a hotel overnight.

I don't know why she answered my phone. He sounded bewildered. Silly American custom, I suppose.

Although she wanted to question him further, two people walked past her cubicle, laughing. Since she could hear their conversation, they could overhear her. She'd always pictured her work space with a door that could be closed, but the company had an open office arrangement that afforded no privacy. At least none of her cubicle neighbors were in. Leaning back, she crossed her legs at the ankle, resisting the urge to twist the phone cord around her finger again.

Estelle? Why did you want to talk with me?

She needed to see his face to be sure he was telling the truth. We can talk about last night later. I'd like to finalize plans for lunch with my mother this Sunday. Should we meet around one?

This Sunday?

Of course. She gripped the receiver tighter. My mother invited us weeks ago.

That will not be possible.

His habit of issuing statements as if they were formal government decrees irritated her. Why not?

I have to go to Brussels for a Monday meeting, he said.

You're leaving on Sunday? But, it's the weekend.

Pierre wishes to leave on Sunday, and since I require his company's business, I have little say in the matter.

She couldn't see Raoul's shrug, but she could picture it clearly. His muscular shoulders would rise, then relax back into position. It was his way of distancing himself from his words. You could still make lunch.

I'd have to leave early, he said. You know how I hate to eat a tasty meal, but not have dessert. It casts the entire meal into doubt.

His appetite for desserts made her imagine what their children would be like, clamoring for candy. The image of a curly-haired child decreased her irritation. I'm surprised Pierre didn't suggest going on Friday to participate in Brussels nightlife.

I wouldn't spend the whole weekend away from you, my dear. Plus, we have dinner with Lazare tomorrow night.

Dinner with his son was probably the motivation for Raoul staying in town, but she kept the hurt out of her voice. You'll be home in time for us to leave together for dinner tonight?

"Of course, cherie. There's a new jazz club we should visit after dinner."

Estelle ran long, thin fingers over the silk of her scarf, imagining Raoul's hand stroking her neck. He had a way of applying light pressure that sent the loveliest chill down her spine. Maybe we could order the drink you mentioned. What was it again?

"L'Emeraude contains pisang ambon, and you mix it with vodka, lemon, and chocolate."

Sounds lethal.

It goes down smoothly. Until later.

Until later, she echoed as she hung up. Raoul disliked saying I love you on the telephone. She wished she had waited to ask about last night. It was unlike Raoul not to come home, no matter how late his business meeting ran, but his explanation had sounded natural.

Estelle shook her head, careful not to disturb her hair. A new group member from the United States was arriving today. At the last teleconference, several people had stated that Miriam Roche would be able to answer the query from the customer. But Miriam hadn't shown up at the office. Perhaps she'd gotten held up by HR in which case Estelle could speed things along. A quick phone call revealed that not to be the case. Where was she? Estelle emailed Miriam to request that she stop by as soon as she could.

Her email displayed a new message from Raoul. They'd just talked, so the only reason for email was to avoid her displeasure at his request. He wanted her to pick up Livarot cheese from the shop on Eteinne Marcel since his son had requested it. She wrinkled her nose in disgust. She didn't want the pungent odor of an aged cheese corrupting dinner. A quick scan of past emails showed other cheeses Lazare liked. She'd buy them along with a gift to take on Sunday to her mother's, perhaps some Korean honey tea, although her mother would find it either too sweet or too tart.

Her mother's ring tone cut through her musings. Vienne had the uncanny ability to sense a discourteous thought from miles away.

Excuse me for disturbing you, her mother said. I cannot make lunch on Sunday.

Despite not wanting her undivided attention for a long meal, Estelle disliked the abrupt change in plans. But showing annoyance would upset Vienne. Is everything all right?

Fine, fine. I had a call from Zacharie.

Estelle struggled to maintain a cheerful mood. She might have known it concerned her brother. Is he ready to have you meet his girlfriend?

He has not mentioned her in weeks. He has tickets to a new play. He says it's witty, and wanted to know if I was available.

Does that mean he broke up with his girlfriend?

Probably. Vienne sounded unconcerned. She didn't appear to mind Zacharie's inability to form a lasting relationship. As usual, he could do no wrong.

I take it I'm not invited, Estelle said.

For once, her mother sounded uncertain. I could see if he can purchase another ticket.

It's fine, Mother. I will make my own plans.

You and Raoul can do something else together.

He's going to Brussels. As soon as she blurted out the information, Estelle regretted it.

On Sunday? Vienne's voice dripped disapproval.

It's business.

The skepticism was more pronounced as she repeated, On Sunday?

It's with Pierre.

Ah. He is divorced, no?

Estelle clenched her jaw as she waited for a comment on how she should control her husband. Vienne's theories may have worked in her own marriage, but Estelle couldn't picture Raoul going along with every demand, no matter how forcefully made. Her mother wouldn't have put up with Raoul's vague excuse about last night. But Estelle refused to make her husband apologize for things that weren't his fault. She used to cringe at how easily her English father said he was sorry.

You may need to curtail that relationship, Vienne said. A newly divorced man is not appropriate companionship for a recently married one.

We've been married for three years. Besides, I can't tell Raoul who to see. Estelle tapped her fingers on the desk.

You can make it clear you disapprove. A woman must use the abilities she has been given in this world, usually charm and wit are enough. We can talk next Saturday.

Saturday? Several other people had arrived at the office. Estelle hoped she hadn't raised her voice. Her colleagues were bent over their computers, though, not paying attention to her.

Yes, I have time next Saturday. We can have lunch, and perhaps shop.

If they went shopping, her mother's exquisite taste would undoubtedly help Estelle find something fashionable to wear. But she didn't want Vienne assuming she was free for the entire day, so she said, I'd love to go shopping, but I may not have time for a long lunch.

Food is meant to be savored, not gulped.

I need to buy groceries. The markets were crowded on Saturday, but she might convince Raoul to go with her. They used to have fun shopping for food, and making elaborate dishes.

I do not go into the grocery stores on the weekend. It's too crowded. You should shop during the week.

A knot of tension stabbed her neck. Vienne thought work was a temporary distraction, but she was wrong. Work provided structure and meaning in life. Arguing with her mother wasn't productive. Was there anything else?

There's no need to take that tone with me.

Sorry, Mother.

After placating her mother, Estelle returned to her computer, eager to eliminate her more urgent tasks so she could tackle the planning for the next few months. She loved the preliminary stages of a project when anything was possible. With Miriam's arrival, the wireless platform team was all in Paris, and progress should be swift.

After checking on logistics, she laid out a high-level schedule. As she compared her notes with the calendar, she noted several potential conflicts, and adjusted accordingly. She made a good start before her morning meeting.

It was almost lunch time when she returned to her desk. The phone rang with the shrill tone indicating an outside call.

Excuse me for disturbing you at work.

Recognizing her best friend's voice, Estelle broke in eagerly. It's fine, Nicki. When are you coming to Paris?

That's why I'm calling. I'm going to be in town this weekend.

All weekend? Estelle wondered if she should call her back from her mobile. Her boss's office was empty, as well as most of the nearby cubicles. She decided to stay where she was. Although she liked modern glass buildings, she disliked the open cubicle arrangement that went with them. Moving into management had meant a single cube instead of sharing one. She wished a corner office was possible, but not in her profession. It wasn't just her company, most technology firms embraced the cubical system, probably due to some silly American cost-benefit study. Once she and Raoul started their family, she'd be too busy balancing a full home life with challenging work to worry about the view. She couldn't wait.

I'll be in Paris this weekend, Nicki said. Can we get together for lunch or coffee tomorrow? I know it's short notice.

Your timing is fantastic. Estelle leaned back in her chair. My mother canceled Sunday lunch. Are you available?

Yes, but I was hoping to see you on your own, and sooner than Sunday.

What's up?

I want to talk with my best friend. Nicki's inflection hinted there was more.

Raoul is gone on Sunday. I could do lunch on Friday, but coffee in the morning would be better. Is there something wrong?

No. I'll tell you tomorrow. Morning coffee sounds good, and we can plan Sunday lunch then.

They made arrangements to meet at a café near Estelle's work. She glanced at her schedule for the afternoon, wondering when Miriam would arrive. She should have been at the office by now. She hoped having her on the team wasn't going to be a mistake.

* * *

Miriam sat on a park bench at the Luxembourg Gardens in Paris watching the yellow, orange, and brown leaves fall into the water. Her spirits sank further with each leaf that descended. She massaged the edges of her eyes, pretending they were sore due to jet lag.

When she'd planned how to start her transfer to Paris, she'd thought spending Thursday on her own would give her time to adjust to the time change, but she felt lost. If she showed up at the office when she'd marked the time as vacation, that would be suspicious.

Nothing was turning out as she'd planned. Since Jay's cancer had been diagnosed six years ago, life had been harsh. First