Mikalo's Fate (The Mikalo Chronicles) (11 page)

I was being a fool.

Willing myself to relax, I followed her from room to room as she told me of the parties she's given here, in this room, the celebrities and billionaires who stood or sat here, on this couch, and how much that couch cost, of course, made to her specific instructions with a very rare material, the eyelashes taken from a herd of highly reclusive and almost extinct goats who lived high in the Andes and only ate golden dandelions and twice milled oat flower, or something.

Oh, who fucking cares?

She continued, explaining how this apartment is on the very famous Avenue Foch, home to billionaires and other very, very important people. How people dream of living here and how this apartment, should she decide to sell it, would go for many, many millions of Euros and be coveted by the best people in the world everywhere.

I didn't care. I just wanted to be shown my room, put down my bag, and sit on the bed for a moment.

We had circled back to the front door, my suitcase still in hand.

Yep, I had been a fool.

"I will have someone call you to tell you when I will meet you tomorrow," the stuck-up bitch with the ruby red lips was saying as she nodded to the maid.

And then she turned on her stilettos and left, the maid holding the door open for me.

What?

In shock, I stepped into the hall.

The door closed behind me with a click.

And then the turn of the lock.

I stood still, not sure what to do or even where to go.

Fighting back tears, I walked to the elevator and, tugging open the metal doors and then closing them with a clang, found myself descending to the lobby.

Once there, I'd have no idea what to do or where to go.

Now standing outside, the cloudy dark of a Paris night so, so different than the hot sun of my afternoon sexual tryst with my Mikalo, I just stopped.

Put my suitcase down, took a deep breath, and just stopped.

I wasn't going to cry, that's for damn sure. And I certainly wasn't going to call Mikalo and complain. No doubt Caugina was banking on me picking up the phone and kicking her out of "her apartment".

See?, she'd say to anyone who'd listen. She's only interested in the money. To kick me out of my apartment when I'm helping her find her wedding dress!

No, I'd figure out something to do. Walk to a hotel, take a cab. Something.

"Miss?"

I turned, following the voice.

The driver from earlier, a burly Frenchman with the beginnings of a beard -- a beard Caugina hated, giving him two hours to cut it or lose his job --, was motioning to me.

Curious, suitcase once again in hand, I wandered over.

"Miss," he said again, reaching for my suitcase, the door to the trunk of the sleek Mercedes open. "Please."

My suitcase in the trunk, the door slammed shut, he maneuvered his bulk to the passenger side, opening the door for me.

I hesitated.

"I'm not sure where to go," I admitted, briefly ashamed at the ridiculousness my situation.

He smiled, god bless him.

"But there is a room waiting for you," he then said.

I sighed, relieved, and slid into the back seat.

Of course, I thought. She was cruel, but she'd hardly leave me hanging homeless in the City of Lights.

Soon the car was pulling into traffic, joining the red tail lights of the avenues and quais of nighttime Paris.

I watched the buildings along the Champs from the comfort of the car, still amazed at their ornate beauty, the inherent history in the brick and stone, the slender trees lining the curbs always mesmerizing in their perfect simplicity. Remembered once again why this was both a city I loved and a city for lovers.

We turned onto the quai fronting the Seine, the car heading far from Caugina's neighborhood. Heading perhaps toward the Marais or even the Latin District on the Left Bank on the other side of the river.

It'd be a pain in the ass to meet Caugina.

I leaned forward.

"Where is this hotel? I asked.

"Bastille," came the response, his eyes catching mine in the rearview mirror, the look almost apologetic.

Bastille? Not a bad neighborhood, but certainly not a neighborhood for me. A lot of tourists, a lot of chaos, action, traffic, noise. A very long metro ride to the center of the city where I'd be doing most of my shopping.

This wasn't going to work.

"No," I said.

This was bullshit. I'd pay for my own room. I didn't care. There was no way I was staying in the hinterlands of the Bastille while that bitch lived it up in style.

I was trying to keep my temper.

And losing.

"The Ritz," I finally said.

"Place Vend
ô
me," came the response. "Of course."

His gaze met mine again. He was stifling a small smile, his eyes twinkling. Now this made sense, they seemed to be saying.

I sat back, relieved.

I was going to buy this damn dress, endure Caugina, gratefully reunite with my Deni, return to Greece, marry the man I love, and then never, ever deal with these horrible people ever again.

Morning came quickly. Sleep had not.

Despite my lingering anger, my perfectly understandable frustration, and my utter confusion over what I was supposed to do when, the call from Caugina's "people" coming at some point today, I was determined to enjoy myself.

And Paris waited.

After a quick shower, I was out the door in search of the perfect cup of coffee.

But first, a call to Mikalo.

Despite being on an island in the middle of the Aegean, his cell worked. Thank god, modern technology, cell towers, and underwater cables.

"It is good?" he asked, his voice clear as a bell despite the miles separating us.

I paused, not sure what to say.

He sighed.

"You are in the apartment, yes?"

"No," I found myself saying.

"And why?"

I could hear the anger growing in his voice.

"I am staying at The Ritz," I quickly said. "It's better this way."

A pause from him.

"I am sorry, my Grace," he then said.

Hearing his frustration, his voice growing quiet and weary, brought tears to my eyes.

"Mikalo ..." I began, but then stopped.

I was going to say it was okay and everything was fine. I was going to tell him I was having a wonderful time and, really, there was nothing to worry about.

I was going to lie.

But I stopped, my love for him insisting on honesty. I grew quiet as I searched for the right words.

They came.

"I will be back with you very soon," I said, the thought of seeing him again warming my heart.

I could hear his smile.

"Yes," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "And we will go for a drive in the Jeep, I think, no?"

"Yes!" I quickly said, my lips lifting in a grin.

A grin that felt good.

I was now standing outside, our conversation taking me down the hall of the hotel, into the elevator, through the lobby and out the door where I now stood facing the world famous obelisk centering the Place Vend
ôme.

There was a slight chill in the air, the clouds still low, the light that special shade of gray and silver that one only finds in Paris. Although summer was most definitely upon us, it seems to have passed Paris by, light jackets still slung over nonchalant shoulders, the ubiquitous scarf wrapped around slender Parisian throats.

"I love you," I then said, investing the strength of my very soul into those three simple words.

A pause as Mikalo took it in.

"And I love you, my beautiful Grace," came the perfect response.

Silently I wished he could join me. Could walk these streets and wander these avenues with me. Stumble upon charming corner cafes and drink rich, dark espresso from demitasse cups. Start our day with doughy baguettes slathered with butter and jam, the crust crunching with the first bite.

But I knew there were meetings to attend. Fires to put out. The Byzans to hold off.

Surprising. I had asked Mikalo if the older Byzan, Radek, Mara's father, could join us for our wedding. And he had agreed, of course, the history the Delis and the Byzan families stretching back a generation or more.

Now to think of the Byzans there celebrating our nuptial while doing all they can -- or that Mara can -- to take the company out of Mikalo's hands was bizarre.

But this didn't seem to bother him, Mikalo easily separating business from life.

I wasn't sure I would be as successful.

And the thought of Mara at my wedding made me want to hurl.

I had now left the Place, turning on the Rue de Castiglione and walking the very short walk to Rue Saint-Honor
é
where I was sure to find a cafe where I could grab a quick coffee and maybe a bite to eat. Go whole hog tourist and get a croissant, perhaps.

I smiled at the thought.

I was in Paris. A city I adored.

Even on the relatively busy Saint-Honor
é
I still found happiness, the early morning crowds, the cars turning from the larger, busier Rue Royal and snaking their way on this slender slip of concrete, the clouds overhead, none of that could diminish my excitement at being here.

And of course there was Goyard.

The shop was closed when I walked past, the hour still too early. But I absolutely would make a trip and visit my dear Eric, a charming handsome manager who'd helped me with many an order before. To come to Paris and not do so would feel oh so wrong!

I passed one cafe and then another. I was in no hurry to stop. In fact, I could have easily had a coffee at the hotel. But I wanted to be out and about. In truth, I wanted to walk off my anger, the stench from last night still wafting around me like putrid cigar smoke.

The tears threatened to come again. Tears of anger. Of rage. Of humiliation. Tears hinting at a helplessness I simply abhorred.

My phone rang.

I stopped, stepping to the side lest I be run over by those behind me, Parisians as notorious as New Yorkers when it came to their lack of patience as they rushed to work.

Distracted by those rushing past, I forgot to glance at the Caller ID, barking a quick "Hello" before realizing I had no idea who was on the other end.

I held my breath, suddenly afraid it was Caugina, a black blight of bitchy sent to kill my Paris buzz and ruin my day.

"You're depressed."

I stopped, waiting, the voice familiar.

"I can always tell. Your shoes, the way you walk. The way you hold your head down and watch the sidewalk. You're depressed."

Deni.

"Yes," I said. "It's been rough."

"I'm sorry, sweetie," came the response.

"Well, ... " and then I stopped.

"How did you know my head was down?" I asked, the answer suddenly exciting me, lifting me with hope. My heart raced as I waited for her answer.

"Lift your head and see."

I lifted my head.

Deni stood near, watching me, elegant as always, her blonde hair perfect, her beauty inescapable even here in a city of beauty.

She hung up her phone and waited, watching me. Her hand motioned me near, a small smile on her face.

Relieved, grateful, no longer feeling alone or unloved, I slipped my phone in my pocket and crossed the street.

The tears came.

That nutty, slightly acrid smell of coffee tickled my nose, the clink of flatware against heavy porcelain filling the air as early morning diners hurriedly tucked into their breakfasts.

Deni had charmed us into a semi-private table toward the back of Le Castiglione, a cafe of dark woods and deep, bright reds and a surprisingly delicious café cr
éme
so luscious I almost did a double take.

Before long, the small square of solid wood between us was brimming with coffee, bread and butter, small pots of colorful jam, and Deni's usual truck driver breakfast, only this time
à la Français.

She watched me as I recounted the growing horror of the last few days. And then, after putting away another bite of an impossibly light and fluffy omelet, she took a sip of coffee and spoke.

"It's horrible," she agreed.

Thank god.

"Thank you," I quickly said, relieved she recognized my plight and could see just how horrible it truly was.