Moonlight in Paris

CHAPTER FOUR

PEOPLE STAYING AT bed-and-breakfasts do this all the time, Tara told herself as she passed the plate of croissants to the little boy who’d insisted on sitting beside her. Of course, it would probably have been easier to convince herself there was nothing weird about eating breakfast in a new country with total strangers if she hadn’t seen one of them naked a few minutes earlier.

She tried to focus on the inch-long scar that cut diagonally through the left side of Garrett’s upper lip—the one that disappeared almost completely when he smiled—rather than let her mind wander to the foot-long one on his thigh that pointed like an arrow to his masculine assets.

“I finally decided it was time to see Paris.” She answered Dylan’s last question just shy of the complete truth. “How long have you lived here?”

Dylan piped up before his dad could answer. “Three years. We moved here when I was three, but I’ll be seven soon, so I guess then I’ll have to start saying we’ve been here four years.”

Garrett used his spoon to point at his son. “Quit talking so much, sport, and eat your breakfast.”

With a grin that could charm the sweet spot from a Louisville Slugger, Dylan opened his mouth wide and shoveled in a spoonful of Greek yogurt and fresh berries.

The boy’s grin was a replica of his dad’s, as was the sandy color of his hair. But the jade-green hue of his eyes was a far cry from the walnut-brown of his elder’s.

No mention had been made of a wife or mother. And something about Garrett Hughes’s manner seemed standoffish, despite the fact he’d invited her to stay for breakfast. If he’d kidnapped his son and moved to a foreign country, Josh Essex would’ve let her in on that, wouldn’t he?

“So you’re originally from St. Louis?” Tara probed, trying to get Garrett to continue where he’d left off before Dylan had started in with questions again.

Garrett held up the carafe as a question, and Tara offered her cup in response. “I grew up in St. Louis,” he said, “and moved back there after college. Not too long after my wife died—”

Ah, a widower. “I’m so sorry.” She took another sip of the incredibly strong brew and settled a hand on her chest to check for any hair it might cause to sprout through the T-shirt.

“Thanks.” Garrett acknowledged her condolences with a curt nod. “The brewery I worked for was bought out by a Belgian company that was expanding. Dylan and I moved here with that expansion.”

“How exciting that must’ve been.”

Garrett shrugged one of his broad shoulders, and even though a sport coat now covered it, Tara’s mind flashed back to how it had looked unclothed and damp from the shower. “It came at the right time,” he answered.

The concoction Garrett called coffee had chased away any effects of jet lag and set her mouth to chatty mode. “And what do you do at the brewery?”

“I’m head of the marketing department.”

The formality of the country she was visiting struck her as she wiped away the last remains of the buttery croissant from her lips with the linen napkin that had been part of her place setting. “Were you already fluent in French before you moved here?”

Her question brought a low chuckle from Garrett that tickled at the bottom of her spine. “Whether I’m fluent now is still debatable.” He jutted his chin in his son’s direction. “Dylan’s the language wizard. He speaks it like a native.”

Dylan paused, the spoon halfway to his mouth. “C’est vrai, Tara. Je parle le français très bien. La langue n’est pas difficile.” He cocked his head and grinned, looking like the cat that ate the berry-and-yogurt-covered canary.

Garrett shook his head as his mouth rose at one end. “And he’s obviously quite modest about it.”

Tara smiled, her heart touched by the endearing relationship between these two. Would she and Jacques Martin ever have anything that approached this? The thought caused her hand to tremble as she set her cup back on its saucer. “How did you get so good, Dylan?”

“Only French at school. Only English at home.”

“And speaking of school, we need to be on our way.” Garrett stood and started clearing the table. “Go brush your teeth and get your stuff, bud. We’ll walk Tara down to the front entrance.”

Hearing her name from Garrett’s lips sent an unexpected, pleasant zing through Tara. She gathered her and Dylan’s dishes as the child hurried to the bathroom.

“With our key, we can get in the courtyard below and take the shortcut through the building.” Garrett loaded the dishwasher while he talked, and Tara stored the items that needed to be refrigerated. “Madame LeClerc is quite taken by Dylan. If she balks about giving up the extra key, he’ll be able to talk it out of her.”

Tara glanced around, noting that everything was done. “I’ll change back into my dress as soon as Dylan gets out of the bathroom.”

“Don’t bother.” Garrett’s eyes met hers, and then darted away as he waved at the outfit she had on. “You can return those...whenever.”

Tara’s stomach did a quick flip. She’d just been given an invitation to come back. A little offhanded, maybe. But, nonetheless, an invitation.

* * *

“EARTH TO FAITH. Can you hear me?”

Sue Marsden’s annoyed tone broke through the deep fog of Faith O’Malley’s thoughts. She glanced around the small circle of women who made up the Ladies’ Prayer Group, noting all twelve eyes were on her.

Being the preacher’s wife, she was used to that, but she still hated it...had always hated it. Living in the glass house had taught her to never throw rocks, but that wouldn’t stop the community from verbally stoning her if word got out of what she’d done.

Sue Marsden would be the first to start flinging.

“I’m...I’m sorry. What did you say?” Even that comment was an admission that she hadn’t been listening and would give Sue something to gossip about later.

Sue gave that laugh of hers, which wasn’t really a laugh at all but more of a tsk-tsk. “I asked if you had any prayer requests. We are a prayer group. Remember?”

We don’t have enough time for my list, lady.

Prayer requests from the group too often gave Sue her weekly start on new items of gossip.

Time and again, Faith had seen it happen, had warned the group that what was shared within the group should stay within the group.

But Sue’s pious contention was that the more prayers rallied on a person’s behalf, the better the chance of God’s listening. She’d back her ideas with much Bible-thumping and scripture quoting. And, yes, the prayer chain she’d formed after Tara’s accident had been much appreciated.

But to have the matters of Faith’s heart bandied about Taylor’s Grove like an item in a tabloid was unthinkable, and even the slightest hint of turmoil in the O’Malley household would start the rumor mill turning.

On the other hand, if she didn’t share something, the ladies would think she was being either secretive or uppity. She’d walked this tightrope for years and knew well how to perform on it without losing her balance.

“Tara called this morning,” she said, at last. “She got to Paris last night around midnight our time. I’d like y’all to remember her in your prayers...her safety.”

Nell Bradley spoke up. “I’ve worried so about her ever since I heard she was gallivanting off to a foreign country. And in such a hurry about it. I’ll never understand why kids these days have to have everything right now.”

“Well, I’m not at all surprised.” Sue waved her hand dismissively. “Ever since she and Louis broke up, Tara’s been a different person. She has a capricious nature that none of us had ever seen. She needed someone like Louis to keep her reined in.”

The comment jarred Faith’s composure, causing it to slip. “Tara’s twenty-eight. She doesn’t need anyone to rein her in. Certainly not a man.”

“You can’t be okay with all her shenanigans, Faith. Motorcycles and tattoos.” Sue rolled her eyes. “Last Sunday, she came to church with her hair tipped in blue, for heaven’s sake.”

That brought out the lioness in Faith. No one was allowed to attack her cubs...her pride. “Sue, I am very proud of my daughter,” Faith said quietly before she gave a swipe, claws extended. “And, yes, her hair might be tipped in blue, but, at least, she was in church last Sunday.”

The astonished looks of amusement told her that everyone picked up on the thinly veiled reference to Sue’s daughter Quinn, who made it a habit of sleeping in on Sunday.

Faith’s cheeks burned with shame that she’d stooped to Sue’s level and had given everyone a story to repeat this week.

Well, at least the talk would focus on her and not Tara.

A muscle twitched in Sue’s jaw, proof that she’d felt the stinging blow. “Let’s pray,” she snapped.

Faith bowed her head and took deep breaths to slow her racing heart.

Another week had passed and her secrets were still secure by all indications.

No one had mentioned the increase in Trenton’s visits home as opposed to the decrease in Thea’s.

No one had brought up the haunted look in Sawyer’s eyes, or the despair that Faith felt was surely reflected in her own.

No one knew that they hadn’t touched each other for going on four weeks now. That the happy faces they put on in public dissolved once they stepped through their door at home. That Sawyer pulled away every time she tried to reach out to him. That their conversations were cordial, but lacked any kind of intimacy, as if they were acquaintances meeting on the street.

That he’d moved into Trenton’s room.

That her family was fractured just like she was on the inside.

That she was searching desperately for something to hold them together. To hold her together before she fell apart completely.

No one knew what she was going through.

No one could ever know

Amen.

CHAPTER FIVE

HENRI LEANED FORWARD in his seat across the table and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Now that we are alone, perhaps you should share with me some details about your unsettling morning, eh? Is Dylan well?”

“Damn, I’m sorry.” Guilt took a swipe at Garrett’s insides. He should’ve realized that his friend would jump to the conclusion that the unsettling morning he referred to in their meeting might mean something had happened to Dylan. “Yeah, he’s fine. But we both got quite a scare.”

“Pourquoi? What happened?”

The approaching media blitz for Soulard Beer had the head of production wringing his hands, but Garrett’s marketing staff and Henri’s IT staff had been treated to a well-earned lunch with the company’s owners. They’d be working late again tonight, so they’d been told to take their time getting back to the office. Garrett and Henri intended to do just that.

“I’d just gotten out of the shower, and I’m standing there buck naked, when all of a sudden, Dylan lets out a scream that would’ve made even your well-lacquered hair stand on end.”

Henri smirked at the mention of his perfect coif. “Jealousy does not sit well on you, mon ami. Now, quickly, tell me what happened to Dylan.”

“Dylan was fine. But I go running out with a towel in my hand—” Garrett held up his napkin in his fist “—and there stands a woman in my foyer, who’s also dripping wet, but she’s fully clothed.”

“Did Dylan allow this woman into your flat?”

The threat of a lecture to Dylan lay in Henri’s tone, so Garrett hurried on to reassure him. “No. She came in through the terrace door, which I’d left open. Turns out she’s an American who’s renting the empty flat that shares our terrace. In fact, she’s a friend of Josh Essex. You remember Josh?”

Henri nodded, and Garrett continued his tale. “She just arrived this morning, and was on the terrace when the rain started, and her storm shutters closed. She was locked out in a downpour, so she came over to our place.”

“But what made Dylan scream?”

“Well, for one thing, she startled him. He’d just woken up. But, damn, Henri, you should’ve seen her. She looked like something out of a slasher movie.”

The side of Henri’s mouth twitched. “Oui? A woman in a wet T-shirt? I am thinking that is not so terrible.”

Garrett shook his head. “No, you’re not getting the picture. She had on this yellow dress that’s soaked and clinging to her, and she’s got bright red hair—” he held his hands out beside his head to indicate how far Tara’s had stuck out “—with the curls tipped in blue. Her eyebrow’s pierced, and she’s got a couple of tattoos. One on the side of her neck, and one right above her ass.”

Henri’s head cocked in interest. “And how do you know this?”

Garrett gave a sheepish grin. “The wet dress was practically transparent, so I noticed that one when she walked past me.”

“Ah, oui. It is always a man’s duty to check out a woman’s ass if it is presented.”

“Exactly,” Garrett agreed. “But the really freaky part was, on top of all this other stuff, half of her right hand is missing. She lost it in a motorcycle accident.”

“Mon dieu!”

“Yeah, exactly. And, of course, Dylan goes from being terrified to being fascinated in about fifteen seconds and invites her to stay for breakfast.”

Henri laughed. “So, did she behave herself at breakfast?”

“Oh, yeah...sure. She was very nice, in fact. She’s from Kentucky, and she’s got this strong Southern accent.”

“Mmm.” Henri smacked his lips appreciatively. “Two very sexy things, oui? An American woman speaking French with the American accent, and a woman from the southern United States saying anything at all.”

Garrett didn’t respond. He shifted in his seat, uncomfortable with the ideas of Tara and sexy being linked.

Henri dabbed the sides of his mouth with a napkin-swathed finger. “I see you brood all morning and now I have to wonder why an unexpected breakfast with a-little-wild-yet-nice woman would make you do that?”

Garrett twirled the demitasse spoon between his thumb and index finger. “She made me uncomfortable.”

“But you said she was very nice.” Henri’s bottom lip protruded in the quintessential French pout. Garrett had noticed Dylan doing the same thing lately.

“Oh, I don’t think she’s dangerous or anything...”

Henri pressed him more. “Then what is it about this woman that bothers you?”

“I don’t know.” Garrett was beginning to wish he hadn’t brought up this morning’s escapade. He’d only meant to entertain his friend with the story, and now Henri was trying to turn it into some deep analysis that Garrett was in no mood for. No doubt, the woman had dug up some buried emotions, but it was better to leave them in that dark hole within his psyche.

“Then you are in luck, my friend. I am the world’s greatest expert on...” Henri gave a vague nod in the direction of a middle-aged brunette wearing a power suit with a one-button jacket and, by all appearances, nothing underneath. “A-little-wild-yet-nice women—this new neighbor reminds you of Angela, oui?”

“No, not really.” Garrett shifted his gaze away from Henri’s knowing smirk. “Maybe a little...”

“Mais...?”

“When Angela went off her meds, there was no telling what she might do. She might disappear for hours with no hint of where she was and come home with a new piercing or another tattoo.” Garrett tossed the spoon on the table. “And once, after Dylan was born, when she wouldn’t take her meds and was swinging from one extreme to the other, she dyed her hair a hideous shade of pink.”

Every time he thought he was over his pity and his anger toward his wife, something would happen and those emotions would wash over him, drenching him and making him feel just as exposed as Tara had been in that damn transparent dress. He picked up the spoon again so he could have something to squeeze and transfer the emotion to.

“Many women have colored hair and piercings and tattoos, Garrett.” Henri checked his reflection in his own spoon and adjusted his tie. “This woman. This...”

“Tara. Tara O’Malley.”

Henri leaned forward again, peering closely at Garrett. “This Tara O’Malley is not Angela.”

“But she’s obviously got some of the same idiosyncrasies.”

Henri’s face broke into a wide grin. “You like her.”

Garrett saw where this was going. “Don’t. Don’t even start with all your matchmaking nonsense. Even if I liked her, which I don’t, at least not like you’re thinking...she’s only here for a month. I don’t want Dylan getting attached to anyone who’s just going to leave.”

“Pfft!” Henri waved away his argument. “You have already picked up on something within her that attracts you.” He wagged his finger “And you don’t want to get attached to her, either.”

Garrett opened his mouth to stretch away the tightness in his jaw. “You’re such a damn know-it-all, Henri. But you’re wrong this time. I’m not worried about getting attached to that freakin’ woman. She’s not my type.” He ran his hand through his hair. “The thing is, despite all my efforts to be everything he needs, Dylan misses having a mom. He’s vulnerable with women. I sure as hell don’t want anybody who’s just passing through—be it Tara O’Malley or someone else—to get close to my son. He doesn’t need another major loss in his life.”

Snap!

Garrett opened his hand and sheepishly dropped on the table two pieces of metal that had been a demitasse spoon.

“We will charge that to the company, oui?” Henri calmly adjusted his starched cuffs until the perfect amount showed from below the sleeve of his suit coat. “A spoon that is broken can be quickly replaced. The heart that is broken requires a longer time.”

* * *

MOTHER NATURE PROVIDED Tara with the perfect excuse to give in to the jet lag and slightly delay both her exploration of Paris and her search for Jacques Martin. She napped the rainy day away until late afternoon gave way to clear skies at last.

Calls were made to her family and Emma to let them know she’d arrived safely. They’d all been entertained by her tale of the morning’s adventure. And they’d all mentioned how typical it was for her to have such a strange thing happen, as weirdness seemed to keep her in its sights—but she’d only shared with Emma the splendid details of Garrett’s atypical nude appearance.

Need for sustenance finally prodded her out to rue du Parc Royal in search of a market, but not before she double-checked to make sure the key to her flat was in her possession. With no Garrett or Dylan in tow, it was doubtful that Madame LeClerc would give up the extra key a second time without requiring a pound of flesh as a deposit.

The third arrondissement, part of the area commonly known as le Marais, was every bit as charming and quaint as Josh had described. Narrow, cobblestone streets were lined with small, yet elegant boutiques and art galleries. Cafés occupied nearly every corner, and entire blocks were taken up by sprawling apartment buildings, whose ancient courtyards were protected by electronically locked wrought-iron gates that allowed spectacular views but no access.

Cars parked willy-nilly along the curb—and some up on the uneven stone walkways—gave the area a delightfully chaotic touch. Pedestrian traffic was heavy, and since the sidewalks were too narrow to accommodate two people passing, most people walked in the streets, stepping aside to let the occasional automobile by while dodging the plethora of bicycles.

A market turned up just two blocks from her building, but she passed it by for the chance to explore a bit longer with empty arms. A few more blocks brought her to a wide avenue—boulevard Beaumarchais—with one specialty food shop after another lining its sidewalks.

A variety of savory sausages hanging in the window of the charcuterie made her mouth water, enticing her to give it a go.

“Bonjour, mademoiselle,” the elderly butcher called as soon as the bell heralded her entrance.

“Bonjour,” she answered, to which he immediately replied something she didn’t understand. “Je voudrais...” She didn’t know the word for sausage, so she simply pointed to the kind she wanted in the case.

He smiled. “English?”

“Oui. Yes.” She gave a grateful nod.

He pulled the sausage from the case and cut off a small piece for her to try. The bite filled her mouth with a salty, savory burst that begged for a chardonnay to wash it down. Her accompanying “Mmm” brought a proud smile to the butcher’s lips.

“Is very good, oui?”

“It’s delicious. I can’t wait to have a glass of wine with it.”

“But of course.” Obviously, the wine was a given. “How much would you like?”

“A quarter pound?”

His eyebrows drew in. “No pounds in France. Kilos.”

Tara cringed. Kilos? She had no idea. “Um...” She hesitated.

The butcher picked up on her distress. “How many people?”

“One. Just me.”

He tilted his head and gave her a glance as if sizing her up. “No, mademoiselle. You are too beautiful to eat alone. This is Paris!” He gave a dramatic sweep of his arm toward the street. “Find someone to share.”

Tara’s cheeks warmed. She’d already laundered the borrowed clothes and had thought about inviting Garrett and Dylan over for a light meal to repay their hospitality when she returned his things—having bought too much food for just her would be the perfect excuse.

The butcher’s mouth turned up in a knowing grin. “Ah, I see you have someone in your thoughts. Bien.” Using his knife as an appendage, he pointed to where he thought the cut should be made. “Enough for two, oui?”

“Actually, three.” Tara held up three fingers. “But one is a little boy with a big appetite.”

He laughed pleasantly and moved the knife over a couple more inches before making the cut and wrapping the portion in the quintessential white paper. He insisted she try some of the fresh pâté, which was exquisite, and she bought some of that also.

Before she left, he gave specific instructions on what to pair the purchases with. “Serve with le fromage, the honey, une baguette, les cornichons and, of course, le vin. If you do this, you will never eat alone.”

She thanked him and left the shop feeling as if she’d made a new friend. He’d given her advice on where to find the best of everything on his list, even pointing out the specific shops that were his personal favorites, so those were her next few stops.

Everyone who waited on her immediately switched to English as soon as she started trying to speak French. Josh had told her that just the effort on her part would be appreciated, and that seemed to hold true. The Parisians, it appeared, would rather speak English than hear their beautiful language butchered by her American tongue.

The two cloth totes provided with the apartment filled up quickly with the butcher’s suggestions and the fresh produce from the open-air market. After tasting the samples, she couldn’t pass up the tender asparagus spears or even the turnips, which she would never have considered serving raw at home.

She had to rein in her sweet tooth at the pâtisserie with its shelves crammed with decadent, scrumptious-looking pastries. She escaped with only three items by promising herself she could have one treat each day.

Who was she kidding? Everything she ate for the next month was sure to be a treat. Like the butcher said, this was Paris!

She purchased a small bouquet of daisies from a wizened old woman who stood on the street corner with two pails of flowers—they would be perfect for what she had planned. And two bottles of wine—one white and one red—from the wine shop filled her second tote to the top, giving her arms as much weight as they could bear for the walk home.