Honeymoon in Paris (19 page)

Sandrine looked up at me as she hugged Adeline. “You better go. You’re going to be late for your eight o’clock dinner.”

As I walked down the narrow set of stairs in our old apartment building and exited onto the smooth cobblestones of Vieux Lyon, I hoped Luc’s sister wouldn’t mind staying longer than I’d originally asked her to.

Because I wasn’t leaving that restaurant until Luc told me the truth.

It was nine o’clock on the eleventh night of what was supposed to be our twenty-nine days of honeymoon bliss, and as I sat alone at a
candlelit table in the corner of Les Fines Gueules—one of our favorite restaurants in Vieux Lyon—I downed my second glass of wine and wondered if by
bliss,
Luc had actually meant to say honeymoon
hell.

I checked my phone for the hundredth time that hour, but still no missed call or text from Luc. I’d tried him three times already, to no avail, and I wasn’t about to keep blowing up his phone if he couldn’t even have the decency to let me know he was going to be an hour late to our dinner date.

Sandrine’s words grated on me as I took in the sickeningly sweet French couple cooing over each other at the next table.

Luc and I had only been married for eleven days.
Eleven days.

That should’ve been us acting all lovey-dovey at that table, making other restaurant patrons want to vomit.

I finished my glass of wine and decided I wasn’t going to put myself through this misery for another second longer.

After taking care of the bill and leaving the server an extremely generous tip considering I’d only ordered two glasses of wine, I stormed out of the restaurant and down rue Saint-Jean. I needed to blow off some steam before I locked myself in our apartment for the night with Adeline. And Sandrine surely thought we’d be out for another two hours at least, so I could afford some time to myself.

Along my brisk evening walk, I passed by the Smoking Dog Pub, a lively English bar I used to frequent with my girlfriends during my study abroad days as an undergrad. A mixture of French and English cries blasted through the open door as I poked my head in to see if anyone I knew happened to be in the crowded pub. I’d had enough wine by myself. I could use a pint of cider and a few friends to cheer me up right about now.

But inside the rowdy bar, all I found were memories of a different time—a time when I was only twenty years old, having the time of my life, and that life did
not
revolve around a man. Although I did have a boyfriend waiting for me back home during my semester
abroad in Lyon, I’d never felt so free, so alive, and so excited about life as I did in those days. I’d come to Lyon to study the French language, but this beautiful, exciting city had offered me so much more. It had shown me that I was just fine living on my own, making new friends, and discovering a new culture
without
a man by my side.

When I moved back to Lyon on my own only four months ago, this old, charming city brought me that same joy, that same fervor and excitement. How had I let it slip away so quickly?

Here I was, distraught and confused yet again, over a man.

This time, though, that man was my husband. And I loved him more than I could even express. I loved his sense of humor and what an amazing father he was to Adeline. I loved how he fed me chocolate in bed, and how I’d never felt safer than I did when I was wrapped in his arms. But all of Luc’s secrets were threatening that safety. And worst of all, they were making me question my quick decision to run—not walk—down the aisle.

Letting the pub door slam behind me, I took back off down rue Saint-Jean, wrapping my scarf tighter around my neck as a chilly September breeze whipped between the stone buildings and sent a shiver down my spine.

My love for Luc was stronger than anything I’d ever felt before. And I wanted our life together in Lyon to be just as amazing as I’d imagined it when I professed my vows to him only a week and a half ago.

But no matter how much I loved Luc, I refused to spend my days and nights wondering where he was, if he was telling me the truth, or if he was still seeing his ex-wife. Clearly I wasn’t a saint, and I had some explaining to do regarding my career change and my recent interactions with Vincent and Brigitte, but standing me up on a Friday night without even a call or a text was simply unaccepta—

“Charlotte! Charlotte, wait!”

I flipped around to find Luc chasing after me down the cobblestones, his hair a ruffled mess atop his head. “Charlotte, I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting.”

I pulled my phone out of my bag and flashed it in his concerned face. “Ever heard of picking up your phone when you’re going to be over an hour late? I’m not just some girl you’re dating, Luc. I’m your wife.”

Luc took my hand and led me farther away from the restaurant where he’d stood me up, from the pub that made me long for different days, and from our apartment where Sandrine would be tucking Adeline into bed any minute now.

“Where are we going?” I asked, struggling to keep up with him.

He flashed me a mischievous grin, revealing that sexy dimple in his right cheek that always made me forget how to be mad at him.

“You’ll see,” he said.

Damn that dimple. He will not get away with this.

NINETEEN

Twenty minutes later, Luc and I were sliding into a red leather booth at Le Nord, an upscale brasserie situated on the Presqu’île of Lyon.

On the metro ride over, Luc had shown me the dead battery on his cell phone as well as the course syllabi for the evening finance courses he’d been asked to add to his teaching schedule this week. Luc explained that several students had lined up to ask him questions after class, which was the reason for his one-hour delay.

The look in his chestnut eyes had been sincere as he explained his way out of the dog house, but what he didn’t know on our quick metro ride over was that I had a slew of questions ready to unleash as soon as we sat down to eat.

“
Une bouteille de champagne
,” Luc ordered from our tall French waiter, who was clad in a crisp white shirt, a spiffy black vest, and a long white apron.

As we waited for our bubbly flutes that would hopefully ease a little bit of this newlywed tension, I folded my hands over the pristine white tablecloth and smiled sweetly at my husband.

Then I cut the bullshit. “Why did you lie to me about your relationship with your father?”

Luc took a long sip of his water before speaking. “What are you talking about, Charlotte?”

His immediate denial of the truth made me want to kick him underneath the table, but the classy French couples seated around us stopped me from committing a childish act of violence.

“Your sister informed me that you still talk to your father, and that you do, in fact, believe he was innocent. Interesting how you’ve told me the exact opposite, don’t you think?”

Luc’s expression remained deadpan, but I noticed his nostrils flaring just the slightest bit.

I’d caught him.

“I’d really love to move forward with our twenty-nine days of honeymoon bliss, so if you could just tell me the truth now, that would make everything so much easier.” I was just about to take a gulp of water when the waiter returned with our bottle of champagne, pouring us each two fizzy glasses.

Thank God.

I took two long sips, then waited for Luc to fess up.

“
Chérie,
” he said, reaching for my hand across the table.

I pulled away, wrapping my fingers instead around the stem of my champagne flute. With all of Luc’s lies, my hand felt safer there.

“Luc, honestly, if you expect me to be your partner, your
wife
, I need you to tell me what’s been going on.
All of it.
”

Luc cleared his throat, then cast a quick glance around the brasserie. “In return, will you tell me why you have been lying to me about losing your job at the language school?”

The last drink of champagne I’d just downed caught in my throat. How did he know I’d lost my job?

“There’s a reason I’ve been holding back, and I’m sorry,” I said after a brief coughing fit. “I was planning to tell you tonight, but first I want to know what is going on between you and the Boucher family, and why you’ve lied to me about your relationship with your dad.”

The server appeared at our table just before Luc began to speak. Since when were French waiters so attentive?

“
Madame, Monsieur, vous avez décidé
?” he asked.

I was tempted to tell our server I’d like an order of honest husband with a side of the truth, but instead opted for the chicken in a
mushroom crème sauce which sounded so much more elegant when pronounced in French—
le poulet de Bresse à la crème et aux champignons
. Luc ordered
la quenelle,
a Lyonnais specialty, and as soon as our waiter zipped off to the next table, I resumed my somber stare.

Luc could woo me all he wanted with fancy dinners, sexy dimples, and mind-blowing sex followed by creamy squares of chocolate, but none of that mattered when my own husband wouldn’t even tell me the truth.

Luc leaned over the table, lowering his voice. “If I told you that soon you would know everything, that this whole mystery would be over, and you would fully understand why I couldn’t give you all of the answers
right
at this moment, would you trust me?”

I took another sip of champagne and raised my brows. “What do you mean by
soon
?”

“I don’t have an exact date for you, but I can assure you that within the next month, everything will come to light, and you will know what I cannot tell you right now regarding the Boucher family and my relationship with my father.”

“But I’m your wife, Luc,” I said softly. “You should be able to tell me anything.”

“It is true that there are things you don’t know about me, Charlotte. But that doesn’t change how much I love you.”

“Could one of those things be that you have an ex-girlfriend named Marion who you were once madly in love with and planning to marry, but then Nicolas Boucher stole her from you?”

The corner of Luc’s mouth twitched as he nodded slowly. “Sandrine told you this as well, I assume?”

“Yes, it was Sandrine. And I have to be honest, I’m having a really hard time with the fact that I have to learn the details of your past from my sister-in-law,” I said before taking another gulp of champagne. “I know we got married really fast, and there are bound to be pieces of our lives we haven’t talked about yet, but do you
honestly believe a relationship, a
marriage,
can survive with all of these secrets?”

Luc crossed his arms over his chest and sighed. “Let’s not forget that I’m not the
only
one keeping secrets here. For the past week, you have been telling me you were teaching at the language school, and yet that is not in any way the truth. Am I correct?”

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, wishing I’d been honest with Luc from the start about my job. I couldn’t be so angry at him for hiding things from me if I was doing the same thing.

“I’m sorry I didn’t say anything—I tried a few times, but you were too exhausted and stressed from everything that’s been happening this week, so I never found the right time.”

The hard look in Luc’s eyes softened a bit, so I continued.

“Last Sunday afternoon, right after I saw the pictures in the tabloids, I received a call from Jean-Sébastien. Apparently the language school hasn’t been making enough money for a while now, and he was in denial about the whole thing. They had to cancel most of the classes for this semester and potentially close down altogether by next semester,
but
I may have found a temporary solution to buy him
and
me some more time.”

“And what would that be?” Something about Luc’s accusatory tone told me he already knew the answer.

“Wait, how did you find out about my job at the language school?” I said. “Did Brigitte tell you?”

“How would Brigitte know?” Luc asked. “Have you been talking to her?”

“Have
you
been talking to her?” I countered.

Before either of us could break the tension that had settled over the table like a thick fog, the server appeared with our creamy plates of French cuisine.

“
Merci, monsieur
,” Luc said as the waiter refilled each of our champagne glasses to the brim.

The aroma of chicken marinating in a creamy mushroom sauce flittered past my nose, making my stomach growl. But before I took a bite, I wanted answers.

“So, how did you know I’d lost my job?” I asked my husband once more.

Luc folded his napkin over his lap, then picked up his fork and knife and cut a piece of
quenelle
. “On Monday, I tried calling you to let you know I’d agreed to teach night classes and that I would be late. You didn’t pick up your phone all day, so I called the language school and spoke with Jean-Sébastien. He told me about your canceled classes. I didn’t bring it up until now because I figured you were upset and that you would tell me when you were ready. Plus we’ve had enough on our plate between the tabloid photos, Brigitte initiating another custody battle, and me working late every evening.” Luc took his first bite, washing it down with another sip of champagne.