Total pages in book: 161
Estimated words: 154890 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 620(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 154890 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 620(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
She stares at me for a beat, and I swear whatever I see turns the blood in my veins into ice water. It’s like a switch has gone off, dimming the light inside her. It’s just a fleeting moment that lasts as long as a blink. A heartbeat. It’s gone in a second, though the residual energy seems to linger between us.
I want to ask, what was that? What were you thinking there, but it turns out, I’m a chickenshit when Gwen reappears.
“One pineapple juice,” she announces.
I glance at the glass of opaque juice balanced on a napkin on her silver tray. “I’ve changed my mind, Gwen. Could you rustle me up a Bloody Mary when you have a minute, please?”
“Certainly, Mr. Whittington.”
Mimi pulls a distasteful face. “If you think I’m kissing you after you drank spaghetti sauce—”
“I’d be right?”
She shrugs. “Probably.”
“Definitely. You know you can’t resist me.”
She turns her head to the window with a melancholy-sounding sigh. “Yeah, that’s true.”
My drink arrives, and I stare at it. I’m not the sort to try to numb the pain, but I drink the fucker anyway. Not that I’m in pain but I don’t know. I suppose I just want to chase away this sense of foreboding.
“We’ve been in the air a little over an hour, and the plane is beginning to descend.”
“Good deducing, Miss Marple.”
“So I’m gonna guess Scotland.”
“We’d already be on the ground if that were the case.”
“Northern Ireland? Not the other part, because I don’t have my passport.”
“Don’t you?” I pull an oh shit face.
“Do you carry your passport around with you?” she scoffs, unfolding her legs from beneath her and turning to face me fully.
“What? You mean Americans don’t?” I frown, confused, as I slip my hand into the top pocket of my shirt and, “Ta-da!”
“You don’t carry your passport around with you.”
“So what’s this?” I give it a little shake.
“Well, mine is with HR,” she says, flopping back in her seat. “They asked me to bring it in during the week. Something about my visa and the biometric reading.”
“Oh, dear. Sounds like you’ve been scammed. It’s probably been sold one and an Albanian nana somewhere is at this moment opening a bank account in your name.”
“Don’t joke about that.” She folds her arms across her chest and scowls in my direction. After a beat, she adds, “Are we really going somewhere I’ll need it because I really don’t have it.”
“No, but I do,” I say, pulling it out of my jacket pocket.
“You sneak!” She immediately follows this up with, “So, where are we going?”
But I just laugh.
“Paris!” she squeals.
“Steady on,” I faux-complain, sticking my finger in my ear. “These eardrums have got to last me another fifty years, at least.”
“You brought me to Paris!”
“Happy?”
“Try ecstatic!” Mimi practically bounces her way to immigration at Le Bourget private terminal. One of the better perks of flying private, especially into Paris, is avoiding the immigration queues. Charles de Gaulle Airport makes you feel like you need a break just to get over the experience.
Why Paris? It’s the city of love, right? If I can’t make her love me here, what chance have I got? And I will be pulling out all the stops. But also, Mimi had become engrossed in a travel program on TV recently, so I knew it was somewhere she’d like to visit. And then there’s the matter of her favorite movie, which I think I might be able to incorporate.
“Bonjour!” She greets the immigration officer with such enthusiasm, complimenting the woman on her lipstick and generally peppering her with thoughtful questions.
“How to win friends and influence people,” I say, taking her hand as we step out of the terminal. I bring our linked fingers to my lips. “I should’ve taken you with me when I had to meet the FCA.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve missed your calling. If you can make a Parisienne immigration officer smile, you should go into hostage negotiations.”
“It costs nothing to be nice.”
Nothing. Just my heart.
We climb into the Mercedes Town Car I’d arranged.
“Where to first?” she asks, still vibrating with excitement.
“I think it would be rude not to eat a croissant first.” My laughter fills the back of the Mercedes as she wraps her fist in my sweater, pulling my lips down to hers.
37
MIMI
Despite what Whit says, the way to my heart is not through my stomach. And whatever his assertion, he’s embedded himself in there.
My heart, not my stomach.
He is the best of men, and not because he brought me to Paris, but because he pays attention. Because he listens and he watches, and then he offers not just material things and experiences but thoughts and ideas. Conversation and silliness. It’s all so subtle; the way he treats people is almost by sleight of hand. What you see on the outside is this quite upright, slightly austere, successful man, and I’d bet that’s where most people’s observations end. Maybe my history with him makes me see beyond this facade. I’m not sure what it is because it’s hard to see past all this love.