Meet Me in Venice (17 page)

She called Cathay Pacific immediately and got a seat on the same flight as Lily. She knew Lily would be flying business and booked coach for herself. She also knew that first- and business-class passengers were always boarded before the others, and that their section was separated by the entry area, so there would be no chance of Lily seeing her. At the airports she would be sure to keep well out of sight and be amongst the last to board and disembark, and anyhow Lily would never suspect she was being followed. She’d be so caught up looking for her baggage and in a hurry to get out, she wouldn’t even know she was there.

A while later she sat back on the black silk bedspread in her poppy red bedroom. The steam had gone out of her and now her
plan seemed ridiculous. Even if she managed to find the necklace in Lily’s hotel room, how would she sell it? She shook her head, despairing as all her wild plans seemed to disappear out the window, no doubt flying across the Huangpu River into the arms of the Dragon River Gods, who she was sure now were against her. She could not do this alone. She would have to go crawling back to Bennett. She would have to tell him she knew where the necklace was going to be and how they could get it, and take a fifty-fifty deal. Even though she didn’t trust him it was her only chance.

She dialed Bennett’s number, praying that he would answer. When he did, she was taken aback because she’d half-expected him not to.

“It’s Mary-Lou,” she said in a low scared voice. “I have something to tell you.”

“I don’t want to hear it,” he said abruptly.

“It’s about Lily . . . the necklace . . .”

“So?” He wasn’t wasting words on her.

“She’s running away to Paris. She’s going to see Precious, she’s taking the necklace . . .” The story poured out of her.

She told him she was following Lily to Paris, that she would get the necklace somehow; that they still needed each other; that they would go fifty-fifty as he had suggested . . .

“When does she leave?” he asked.

“Tomorrow morning. I’m booked on the same flight.”

“I’ll get the flight out via Singapore,” he said. “I’ll call you when I get to Paris.”

“Bennett?” He still hadn’t said what he planned to do, nor had he agreed to her fifty-fifty deal.

“I’ll call you when I get there,” he said again, and rang off.

Mary-Lou didn’t trust him. She was afraid. She opened the bedside drawer and removed the Beretta. Then she remembered, of course there was no way she could take a gun on a plane. But she didn’t trust Bennett. She
needed
a gun.

She was a very small cog in the wheel of Shanghai’s crime machine, but she knew a man who was “connected.” She called him now, told him what she wanted and that she would need it delivered to her in Paris. It would cost, but the deed was done.

Next she called the Paris Ritz and made a reservation. She could not afford it, but she needed access to Lily’s room. Then she packed a bag and, like Lily, waited for morning to come.

PARIS

U
NUSUALLY
for the time of year, Preshy had had a busy day, with a dozen potential customers, at least two of whom had expressed strong interest in her Etruscan bowl, even after she had told them honestly that though it had been broken and carefully pieced together, she believed it might be a later fake. No matter, the price was good and she was pleased. At four o’clock, with the cat under her arm, she ran up the stairs to her apartment, slamming the door quickly behind her to keep out the cold.

Maow sat on the kitchen counter, watching as Preshy fixed herself a cup of hot chocolate—from Angelina’s on the rue de Rivoli, and the best in Paris. Throwing all thoughts of calorie counting to the wind, she piled on the whipped cream, gave it a stir and, with the cat at her heels, put on a CD of Joni Mitchell singing about her
failures at the game of love. She sank into the cushy sofa with her feet on the coffee table, sipping the hot creamy, silky smooth chocolate, with her eyes closed, dreaming of a new life. One where she would be strong, and svelte and glamorous, and in charge of her own destiny. Hah! She drained the mug and sat up again. Unfortunately real life never worked out quite like that. It was much, much harder.

She went to her desk, did the day’s necessary paperwork, thought about calling up a friend, going to a movie, decided against it, and turned on the TV. Bad weather was approaching, the solemn-faced forecaster said. Snowstorms were expected. She sighed. There went her business. She hoped the Etruscan bowl buyers came back before the storm began.

She checked her e-mails; the usual business stuff—but then something strange. An e-mail from Cousin Lily Song.

She read Lily’s message. Then she read it again, still not quite sure she understood.
Lily
was coming to Paris? Book her into the Ritz—but under Preshy’s
own
name? Why on earth would she want her to do that? It was
“imperative”
she speak to her. Something that
“involves”
her . . . .

Puzzled, she sat back in her chair, almost squashing the cat who had settled in comfortably behind. Of course it was exciting to think she would finally get to meet Lily, but why so mysterious? And why was it
imperative
she speak to her? And why the hotel room under
her
name? Since Lily would be arriving tomorrow, she guessed she would soon find out.

Feeling foolish, and a little like a fraud, she dialed the Ritz and
booked the room as requested. She said she would be arriving tomorrow from Shanghai, and that she would stay one week.

Before she went to bed that night she pulled aside the curtain and checked the sky. It was clear and starry. With a bit of luck the forecasters had gotten it wrong again and Lily’s flight would arrive on time. She couldn’t wait to meet her and find out what this was all about.

A
T ten o’clock on the freezing January Saturday morning that Lily was to arrive, Preshy was in the crowded café near the rue de Buci breakfasting on her usual double café crème. Inside, the cafe’s windows were steaming up, and outside the first flakes of snow were beginning to fall. Shoppers at the street market wrapped their woolen mufflers tighter and walked a little faster.

Preshy’s newly short hair began to frizz in the steam and she dragged her fingers exasperatedly through it. She’d imagined being short it wouldn’t frizz, but no such luck.

Today was the last of her Pity Days and she thought with relief she was finally getting over it. Or at least coming to terms with what had happened. She had called Daria and Sylvie and told them
Lily was coming, and they’d both thought it was interesting and were dying to know what she was like, and what she wanted.

In fact Preshy was looking forward to Lily’s visit, even though her e-mail was mysterious. Looking worriedly at the now heavily falling snow, she hoped it wouldn’t delay Lily’s flight, and she made a quick call to Cathay Pacific just to make sure it was still on time, which it was.

She drained the last dregs of coffee and stood up to leave, wrapping her winter coat closely around her. Actually, it was Grandfather Hennessy’s old sheepskin, a shapeless olive green garment that reached down to her ankles and could easily have wrapped twice around her, but it kept her warm and that was all that mattered. She pulled a Russian-looking fur hat with droopy earflaps over her newly shorn hair, momentarily regretting the loss of the long curls that had at least kept her neck warm. Then with a goodbye wave to her regular waiter, she prepared to brave the elements.

Head down against the blowing snow, she switched her thoughts to the cheese she would buy from her favorite market stall. Ten minutes later, carrying a paper parcel carefully wrapped and tied with string and containing a slab of fromage de montagne and a Banon from Provence prettily encased in chestnut leaves, and with a crusty loaf fresh from the baker’s oven under her arm, she headed for home, tearing off bits of the bread to eat on the way.

The pretty apartment seemed to welcome her. Its tall narrow windows let in streams of snowy gray light and the old-fashioned radiators hissed warmth into the long L-shaped room. The cat
unfurled herself from the cushioned window seat and ran toward her, slender legs crisscrossing, elegant as any runway model. Preshy crouched, allowing the cat to put her two front paws onto her shoulders, then leap up.

“Okay, Maowsie,” she murmured. “Time for work, though I don’t think we’ll be getting many customers today.”

She was right. Traffic down the usually busy street was light and the snow was already settling on the narrow sidewalks. In the shop, the cat parked herself on a cushion in the window, watching the snowflakes falling and loftily acknowledging the admiring smiles of the few passersby who stopped to say hello through the glass, while Preshy dusted her stock then took care of some paperwork. At five, without a single customer, not even those interested in the Etruscan bowl, she closed up the shop and, carrying Maow, who was trying to catch the fat snowflakes, went back upstairs.

She put a match to the kindling in the fireplace, waiting until it caught before arranging a couple of small logs over it, then went into the kitchen and cut a slab of the montagne cheese. “Heaven in the palm of my hand,” she said, biting into it.

She and the cat established themselves on the slouchy gray linen sofa watching the flames dance and the snow falling even more heavily outside. Sighing, Preshy picked up the phone and dialed the airline one more time, resenting the unknown Lily for potentially dragging her out on a lousy Saturday evening when she would much rather have stayed home. But this time she was told that the airport was closed and that the Cathay Pacific flight had been diverted to Frankfurt.

As soon as she put down the phone, it rang. Lily, she thought, snatching it up. But it was Daria calling from Boston.

Before Preshy could even speak, Maow had climbed onto her shoulder and was yowling, Siamese-style, down the line.

“Oh my God,” Daria groaned, “now the cat answers the phone.”

“Actually,” Preshy said, “I’m teaching her to say Mama.”

“What?”

“Mama. She already says Maa . . . all she has to do is repeat it.”

“Jesus, Presh, you really need to get a life.”

“I can’t,” she said gloomily. “It’s snowing, the airport’s closed and I’m waiting for Lily to show up. I thought it was her calling, but it’s only you.”

“Thanks a lot! Here I am taking time out of my busy life to call internationally to see what’s up, and you wished I was someone else.”

Preshy laughed and Daria joined in. “It’s your final Pity Day,” she said. “I see you’re making the most of it.”

“No, no, really, I’m fine,” Preshy said, hoping it was true. “I’m just bored, Daria,” she added wistfully.

“So, close the shop for a few days and fly back here again.”

“I can’t. Besides, I told you, the airport’s closed. And anyhow, I’m supposed to wait for Lily to contact me. Last I heard the flight was diverted to Germany.”

“Then there’s no point in waiting in, is there? At least call Sylvie and go out for a drink.”

“It’s Sylvie ‘s busy night—Saturday—though I guess in this weather the restaurant won’t be
that
busy. Still, I know her, she
won’t leave until closing time anyway, just in case some stragglers brave the storm and show up.”

“So why don’t you go over there for dinner?”

“I can’t go alone, Sylvie would worry about me.”

Daria laughed; she knew Preshy was right and that Sylvie would be hovering in and out of her kitchen, checking to see if there was anyone suitable she could introduce her to.

“Listen, sweetie, I meant it when I said why not come back here for a few days, after Lily’s visit. Tom’s going off to St. Louis for a conference, Grandma can take care of Super-Kid—and you and I would be free. We could do a spa weekend, get ourselves fit.”

“I am fit,” Preshy said. “And anyhow I can’t just close up shop and leave.”

“Why? Is business that brisk in snowy weather?”

Preshy had to admit it wasn’t, and even Paris’s everlasting fairs and conventions, fashion weeks and aircraft shows didn’t really affect her business. Interior designers to the rich, and well-heeled tourists who fell in love with something displayed in her window, were her sort of customers.

She twirled a short strand of hair in her fingers. Even with Lily’s surprise visit, a long gray winter seemed to stretch interminably in front of her and she was tempted. Maow shoved her nose against her face and she stroked her absently. “Anyhow, I can’t leave Maow,” she said finally. “And the airport’s closed and when it reopens flights will be impossible.”

Daria sighed. “I’ll accept the second excuse, but not the first. Perhaps I’ll just come out and see you instead. Meet Lily.”

“Great. Except—no flights.”

“Okay, okay, I’ll wait and see. Meanwhile, I love you, baby.”

“Love you too. And thanks.”

Preshy’s thanks were not only for Daria’s offer but also—thanks for loving her. She needed all the love she could get, and unfortunately there seemed to be too little of it around.

She thought about Sylvie. After being jilted at the altar, she hadn’t so much as felt like looking at another man, but Sylvie, good friend that she was, hadn’t let it rest there.

“It’s like getting back on the horse after you’ve taken a fall,” Sylvie had said, dark eyes flashing. “I know I’m not one to talk,” she’d added, hands on her plump hips, “but hey, I’m a chef and I have an excuse. My hours are hell and the only men I ever meet are other chefs. With their egos who needs that! But you, Preshy Rafferty, have no excuse.”

“Maybe I don’t like nice guys,” Preshy had told her gloomily. “I’m doomed to fall for the scoundrels.”

But now, despite what she’d said to Daria, she was lonely.

She decided to call Aunt Grizelda. Mimi answered.

“What are you doing home at eight o’clock on a Saturday night in Paris?” she demanded.

“Mimi, it’s snowing.”

“And since when did a little snow stop a girl from having a date?”