The Cluny Museum was within easy walking distance of Genna’s apartment. Since the route would take her near the tabac owned by her landlord, Monsieur Leblanc, she decided to stop in and ask about the puzzling matter of garbage disposal. After a week, the receptacle under the sink was overflowing. Monsieur’s instructions had not mentioned garbage. Perhaps Monsieur did not approve of garbage.
The tiny, old-fashioned tabac looked out of place on a street that in recent years had sprouted shops selling designer fashions, upscale objets d’art, and high-priced real estate. Genna pushed open the door, wrinkling her nose at the blast of stale air that made her wonder how often a customer came in.
“Bonjour?”
Nothing.
She walked to the counter behind which rose a wall of cigarette packages, most coated with dust. A display of pipes looked undisturbed since the time when every fashionable wag in town wore a top hat.
“Bonjour?”
Behind the counter, a door flew open.
“Oui? Qu’est que vous voulez?” What do you want?
Genna gulped. The man was not only gorgeous, but to her surprise, he was the same man who had saved her from the speeding Citroën the week before.
“Um . . . Je suis Genna McGraw.”
He didn’t appear to have recognized her. That was good.
“Oui?”
“Er . . . tu, I mean vous, um, vous êtes le fils?” Genna wanted to fall through the ancient floorboards. She’d just asked him if he was the son.
“Le fils?”
“Désolée. Um . . . Monsieur Leblanc. Il est ton, I mean votre, père?” She cursed her high school French teachers who had insisted students use the familiar tu form in mock conversations instead of the more socially acceptable vous.
“Ah!” He laughed and then, to Genna’s infinite relief, switched to charmingly accented English. “You are the tenant at the Rue Bonaparte appartement.”
“Yes. Oui.” Genna stuck out her hand. “Your father asked me to come here if I had any questions or needed anything.”
His hand was dry, firm, and strong, and he held hers a little longer than necessary.
“Enchanté, madame. Je suis Pierre Leblanc. My father has gone out for a while. May I assist you?”
“My garbage!” she blurted.
“Garbage?” One elegant eyebrow rose.
“Uh, I mean my garbage disposal. I mean, I can’t find where to place my garbage.”
“Place?”
Genna was beginning to suspect he was enjoying himself, no doubt well used to the effect he had on women, particularly North American women who had little experience with such a delicious package of easy sophistication.
“You know what I mean.” Her tone sharpened. Now he’d think she was one of those entitled women who were forever asking to see the manager. That was not the impression she wanted to make.
The smile disappeared. “Forgive me, madame. I presume you wish to know where you should dispose of your, ah, garbage. In French, we say les ordures.”
“Thank you. Yes. I couldn’t find any garbage cans in the courtyard.”
“That is understandable,” he said. “Look for the blue bin in the small passageway at the far end of the courtyard. There is where you may place your, ah, garbage.”
“Oh.” Genna willed herself to appear mature and confident. The man no doubt had a wife and several children. If he didn’t, he’d have his pick of elegant French females—or males, for that matter.
“Is there anything else I may help you with, madame?”
“Ah, no.” She didn’t move. The last time she’d felt this awkward, Michael Jackson’s “Beat It” had been playing at the school sock hop.
“You are enjoying the appartement?”
“Oh, yes, of course. It’s very nice.”
“It is appalling,” he said and then laughed. “Do not worry. You will not offend me if you agree. For years, I’ve been trying to get Papa to make les rénovations.”
“Why hasn’t he?”
“Money, of course. Papa cannot see the point of spending money on making the appartement more presentable. If he did that, he’d get more tenants.”
“But isn’t the whole point of running a holiday rental to get tenants?”
“For most, yes, but for my father?” He shrugged, now looking uncannily like Monsieur Leblanc senior, but with better personal hygiene. “Papa would be happy to keep the place empty forever.”
“And forgo the rent?”
“Ah yes, well, it is complicated.” The suave exterior fractured just enough for her to want to see more.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s none of my business.”
He inclined his head. “We are, of course, committed to making sure your stay is comfortable.”
“I’ve brightened the place up a bit.”
“Oh?”
“I bought some new cushions, a tablecloth, some prints. I hope you don’t mind. I plan to stay for six months if all goes well.”
“If all goes well?”
“Well, you know . . .”
He shook his head. “What needs to go well?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Complicated?” he asked with a hint of a smile.
“Not as complicated as the story you don’t want to tell me.” He looked confused again. “About your papa? Why he doesn’t want tenants?”
“Ah, oui. As you say in English, point taken.” He put his elbows on the counter and leaned forward.
“I should be going.”
“Of course. This place”—he gestured at the grubby racks of magazines—“is not for the telling of one’s life story, n’est-ce pas?”
“Perhaps not.”
“Would you consent to meet me later this afternoon for un café?”
“Pardon?”
“Un café, a coffee at Café de Flore.”
“I’m sorry, I know what un café means. I was just a bit surprised.”
“Why should you be surprised?” He had a way of asking questions that made Genna believe her answers were the most interesting in the world.
“Ah, no reason.”
“It is un café,” he said. “To welcome you to Paris.”
“Yes, of course. I’d love to meet for a coffee. The Café de Flore is around the corner from my apartment. But, of course, you know that.”
“Shall we say five o’clock?”
“That would be fine. I’ll see you then.” She turned to the door, wrenched it open, and fled into the busy street. What was she thinking? She’d accepted an invitation for coffee with a strange man in a city where she knew no one except the strange man’s father. Well, so what? Pierre Leblanc probably owned a share of his father’s apartment and wanted to protect his investment by making sure Genna wasn’t going to skip out on the rent or throw wild parties.
Had he been flirting with her? No, of course not. He was a Frenchman. Being charming was his birthright. And obviously he hadn’t recognized her. She glanced down at her white running shoes and pink ankle socks.
Quelle horreur! Had he noticed?