Page 40 of At the Ready

“Are you all right?” A soft, female voice penetrates the fog. A face crinkled with concern peers at me.

I rub my eyes. “Uh…” My voice is thick, and I have to cough a few times before anything intelligible comes out. “Sorry. Bad dream, I guess. I rarely sleep on planes.”

Soothingly she says, “We’ll be landing soon. For breakfast we have omelet, fruit, a croissant, juice, and coffee or tea.”

My stomach grumbles. I haven’t eaten since lunch yesterday. “That sounds great.” I’m still trying to push away the vision of Sam as killer clown.

Just before we’re told to stay in our seats, I make it to the first-class toilet, wash my face, and put in my contacts. The world looks clearer, but I’m still exhausted. I close my eyes, but Sam’s face comes back. The bastard’s got me, even if he is over 4,000 miles away. I wonder if he feels it, as if he’s hooked me with an invisible line and can reel me in any time he wants.

By the time we’re parked at the gate, I’m paralyzed.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” The concerned flight attendant is back at my seat. “I can call for assistance if you need it.”

Unable to speak, I slowly struggle to my feet. Finally, I choke out, “Thanks, but I can manage.”

Her frown tells me she’s not reassured but she steps aside as I grab my bag. Stumbling slightly, I manage to deplane and walk down the jetway. An agent and a short burly guy in a long-sleeved T-shirt and jeans stand at the entrance. The agent checks a clipboard. “Mme. Michelle Press?”

Still finding speech difficult, I nod, then flinch as the short guy takes my arm. “GSU,” he says shortly. When I finally move, he continues, “This way, Ms. Press. We have a vehicle outside waiting. Let’s go down to baggage claim.” He walks away at a brisk pace. I rush to keep up. Then he takes my arm to move me along. His warm breath and growly, slightly accented English are too close to my ear. “I’m Kurt, by the way.”

I move my head and mumble. “Nice to meet you, Kurt.” We’re silent down to the carousels, where my serviceable bag slowly revolves.

“That it?” Kurt points toward a glittery gold roll-a-board.

Tells me he thinks I’m a ditzy blonde. I frown. “That one.” I point at my medium-sized maroon Samsonite soft side, scrapes and rubbed spots showing its age.

He grabs it and we go off to find the GSU car. A black Renault SUV sits at the curb. Kurt opens the back passenger door and hands me in before putting my bag into the trunk. Then he hops into the front. “Henri, this is Mme. Michelle Press. Ms. Press, Henri Delaunay.”

“Bonjour, Madame. Enchanté.”

“Enchantée aussi, Henri,” I say in my bad French accent.

Instead of turning up his nose, as I expect, he smiles.

Once we’ve navigated out of the airport and onto the A1, Kurt says, “It’s still too early for you to check in to Le Pavillon de la Reine. JL said you’ve never been to Paris, so would you like a private tour?”

Two hours later, we’ve driven up the Champs-Élysées, around the Arc de Triomphe, past the Opera House and Notre Dame, over the Pont Neuf, and through the Latin Quarter. Then Henri drives us up near the funicular at the Place Saint-Pierre, which takes us up to Sacre-Coeur. “I’ll be waiting near the bottom. Just let me know when to pick you up.”

The breathtaking, late nineteenth-century white church, Byzantine in style, is swoon-worthy. I spend too much time enjoying the mosaics in the late nineteenth-century house of worship. Then we walk up, and walk down, and walk up again, enjoying the outdoor artists, the shops, and the village atmosphere. After we finish climbing, I newly appreciate why it’s called La Butte. My head whirls like the windmill of the Moulin Rouge.

When Henri finally catches up to us, I scramble into the car with relief. “You are staying at Le Pavillon de la Reine, Madame?”

“Oui, Henri.” But then my French deserts me.

“You will enjoy it. Very chic and historic at the same time. Built by le Roi, Henry Quatre, in mille six cent douze.”

“He’s Parisian, and proud of it,” Kurt says. “Personally, as a German, I don’t really understand the concept of nationalism. That’s not part of our ethos anymore.” He flicks a finger at Henri. “En anglais, s’il vous plaît, Depp!”

Probably doesn’t mean Johnny, but I’m not sure what the word translates to. Henri gives him a punch in the shoulder, then catches my eye and winks. “Désolée. The king, Henry IV, had it built in 1612 to be called the Place Royale, but it never became the royal residence as intended. Place des Vosges is the oldest square in Paris. There are many places in the city that are older, but no squares older than that.”

Once we arrive near the Place des Vosges, he finds a place to park. Kurt retrieves the suitcase.

“You can take off, Henri. I have to stay to guard Mme. Press.”

Henri gives a fake yawn. “Au revoir, Madame. Watch this one. His hands are quick.”

Kurt’s face screws into a scowl. “Miststück.” Henri starts the car and drives off, laughing.

The sight of the hotel takes my breath away. This stately, white, ivy-covered building looks old, in a square filled with old buildings.

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