The Paris Key Read Online Free Page A

around here.”
    Genevieve tried to remember why. She knew the U.S. had been involved in World War II, but she was fuzzy on the details. The Gulf War, Vietnam, Korea, the world wars . . . the dates and details bobbed aimlessly in her head, sticking around only long enough to carry her through whatever test she was taking. Ancient history.
    â€œWe helped liberate France from the Nazis,” Dave explained. “Now, can you carry this heavy bag all by yourself?”
    She nodded, grabbing her suitcase and hoisting it as best she could. The little wheels on the bag wouldn’t roll on the uneven stones. Dave limped as he led the way into the alcove.
Maybe everyone had scars by the time they grew old,
Genevieve thought.
    He unlocked the little shop and waved her through the door.
    The locksmith shop was petite, more like a large walk-in closet than a proper store. Its dusty shelves were jammed with locks and keys, doorknobs and doorknockers, decorative hinges and shutter hardware. Small wooden barrels held bolts and screws and other metal tools. It smelled of pipe tobacco and some sort of oil, like a car mechanic’s garage.
    One wall was festooned with clocks: cuckoo clocks, painted clocks, clocks with no numbers, clocks in the shape of the sun. Their frenetic ticking filled the otherwise silent space.
    â€œLet me introduce you to your
tante
Pasquale—that’s ‘aunt Pasquale’ in French—and to your cousin Catharine, and then I’ll run and park the car. Let me tell you, Genevieve, parking in Paris is not for the faint of heart. But your old uncle Dave has a few tricks up his sleeve.”
    He gave her a wink and opened a small door behind the old-fashioned brass cash register.
    â€œBienvenue chez nous,”
he said. “Welcome home.”

Chapter Three

    M ary insisted on taking Genevieve to the airport, located many miles to the south of San Francisco, in the city of Burlingame.
    â€œThose bags are too heavy to schlep on BART,” Mary said. “Besides, I feel like Paris will swallow you up and I’ll never see you again.”
    â€œThat’s not true. And anyway, it’s only a flight away. You should come visit.”
    â€œMaybe,” she answered with a shrug. Mary was nervous about driving on the bridge, so she kept her eyes fixed on the span, her hands wrapped so tightly around the wheel, her knuckles were white. Still, when Genevieve offered to drive, she declined, citing the need to practice.
    This had always intrigued Genevieve: Mary was fearless about so much of life, but occasionally some small thing, some everyday function—like signing up for health insurance or driving on the bridge—threw her for a loop.
    Mary was an artist. Like Genevieve, she had been on her own from a very young age. Probably that was why they’d gravitated to each other in the crowded coffeehouse where they’d met; Mary asked to share the table, and after trading a few snarky comments about the oddly bewhiskered hipsters surrounding them, they recognized kindred souls. Unlike Genevieve, however, Mary had a straightforward way of saying what she needed and wanted and thought, without subterfuge.
    The airport was a series of long lines and overly personal security inspections, but Genevieve barely noticed, buoyed as she was by the prospect of imminent freedom. Her seatmate on the plane was a young Greek man, flying to Paris on business. He was dark and handsome, and despite his nice gray suit and sleek leather briefcase, he smelled like the beach: warm sunshine on bare skin, mixed with exotic spices. After perfunctory hellos, she brought out her book and he put in earbuds and closed his eyes.
    The moment the airplane reached altitude, an exquisite blond flight attendant came by, offering flutes of champagne to everyone of legal drinking age. Upon first glance Genevieve had an irrational thought: Could this be the same woman who had escorted her to Paris so