“How lucky for you.”
He closed his mouth and shrugged, as Gallic a movement as any Genna had yet seen in Paris. “The rent . . .”
“Yes? I paid the first two months as agreed in the contract, and then the terms are week to week.”
He looked at her blankly and then flapped one gnarled hand. “Oui, oui, mais, but—the rate, vous savez, you know, it is reduced because you stay so long.”
“I realize that. It seems reasonable.” Truthfully, it was exorbitant compared to what she’d pay back home, but compared to other apartments in the neighborhood, it was a deal for someone with plenty of money.
Unfortunately, she wasn’t someone with plenty of money.
“Eh bien.” He shifted from one foot to the other. “It is lower.”
“Yes, I understand.” How grateful did he need her to be?
“So, l’électricité, les lumières, vous savez, the lights.”
“Yes?”
“Not too much.”
“You want me to use less electricity because the rent is lower?”
Monsieur peered up at her through sharp black eyes. “Oui.”
“Oh.”
Monsieur cocked his head toward the door to the bedroom. Without a word, Genna went into the bedroom, snapped off the bedside light, and returned to the living room.
“Bon.” He moved toward the door.
“Ah, monsieur?”
He paused, a scowl on his face. “Oui?”
“I need to use the internet, but I can’t figure out how to get online. Do you have the Wi-Fi password?” She pronounced it wee fee in the European way.
Monsieur Leblanc could not have looked more shocked if she’d stripped and jiggled her breasts in front of his red-veined nose.
“The internet?” He shook his head as if trying to rid himself of appalling thoughts.
“I want to be able to check my email and do some research.”
“Email?”
Genna was beginning to wonder if a lifetime of penny-pinching had unbalanced him.
“You know about the internet,” she said, hoping she didn’t sound patronizing. “Pour l’ordinateur. For the computer.”
“Oui, oui, je le connais, je le connais. L’internet. L’ordinateur.” He sucked in sallow cheeks and then let out a long sigh. “No internet.”
“But . . .”
“Non.”
She decided that asking him to fix the television, which so far had emitted only static, was tantamount to throwing herself off the top of the Eiffel Tower.
“Au revoir, madame.”
After the door shut behind Monsieur, Genna sank onto the hard couch. The complete isolation of no internet and no television for six months generated a rush of panic. What was she thinking coming to this city of two million souls—ten, if you counted the suburbs? Not one person knew her or cared whether she lived or died.
“Get a grip, Genna,” she said out loud.
The sound of her voice brought her back to reality. Her phone had the cheapest data plan available, but that didn’t need to be the end of the world. If she wanted to go online, she could find a café with Wi-Fi or, better still, a place with computers and internet access.
Big deal.
It also occurred to her that no Wi-Fi meant she could get Drew’s emails at one sitting every few days, and then delete them all at once.
Smiling again, Genna kicked off her runners and lay back on the couch. The weeks stretched ahead with delicious unpredictability. Paris was waiting for her to explore, and she couldn’t wait for the adventures to begin.
Chapter Two
Mango Macarons
Filled with spicy mango jam and drizzled with bitter chocolate
On her master list of Parisian sites, Genna placed the Eiffel Tower in the top spot followed by each of the museums, gardens, and monuments she thought had potential. Drew liked saying that Genna had a list for everything, and that if death wasn’t on her list, then it couldn’t happen.
He exaggerated, of course, but it was true that Genna loved to make lists, the more elaborate the better.
After spending three days equipping her kitchen for serious cooking and familiarizing herself with the food shops and markets in the neighborhood, Genna struck out on a warm April morning for the Eiffel Tower. She headed west along the Boulevard Saint-Germain for several blocks before angling north through quiet residential streets toward the Seine.
A sense of calm enveloped her when she stepped onto the cobbled walkway bordering the river. The smell of river water mingled with wet stone stirred memories of the Capilano River near the house that she and Drew had purchased sixteen months earlier.
Her former house, she reminded herself.
She walked quickly in an attempt to squelch the memories and burn off the excess calories she’d consumed the night before. Already, the waistband of her skirt pinched uncomfortably. These days, cookbook authors couldn’t afford to look like they ate what they cooked. The rawboned Julia Child figure was no more, which was a shame since Genna tended more toward Julia Child than Julia Roberts. Most of the biggest cookbook authors (big in terms of sales, not girth) looked like movie stars.
Genna’s new cookbook (her sixth) was to be called Eat Like a Parisian and would be her first crossover cookbook/guidebook. Sara Banks, her editor at Gowan Publishing, had been enthusiastic about Genna’s pitch.
Eat Like a Parisian combines a passion for travel with a love of cooking to produce a new kind of travel cookbook. Intrepid travelers can use the book as a jumping-off point for their own explorations of Paris, while adventurous cooks will enjoy creating the tasty, bistro-style dishes. With names like Eiffel Tower Duck, Steak Musée D’Orsay, and Mona Lisa Crème Caramel, each dish offers a playful homage to a Parisian site.
Genna got the idea for the book a few months before her second Christmas without Drew. By March, she’d received a modest advance on royalties from the publisher and a promise from her financial-advisor guy that by June he’d top up her account with the proceeds from several surefire investments.
With the money and a visa that allowed her to live in France for six months, Genna was prepared to devote herself to eating and sightseeing, cooking and writing. She had to make it work. The alternative was to go back to her basement suite in North Vancouver.
No way.
The tip of the Eiffel Tower was just visible above the high wall of the embankment. Genna was sure she’d soon be mounting the stairs to the street at the base of the tower. But after another fifteen minutes of brisk walking, she didn’t seem to have moved an inch closer. The sun that earlier had warmed her face with the softness of an early April morning now blazed across the river, bouncing off the water, searing in its intensity. She kept walking, her feet hot now with a blister just starting to form on the ball of her right foot. She tied her sweater around her waist, took a swig of water from the bottle in her daypack, and trudged on.
“It can’t be much farther. Look at the map.” A woman’s voice, the accent broad New York.
“I don’t need the map to tell me it’s miles away. Can’t we just get a cab?” An older couple passed Genna going in the same direction, the man’s eyes fixed disconsolately on the cobblestones.
“It’s a waste of money,” his wife said. “We’ve got to stick to our budget. We’re already ten euros over and it’s not even nine o’clock.”