Letter from Paris Read Online Free Page B

lot. Oh. And by the way, did I tell you Air France lost my bags too? Least of my problems right now I suppose. Bye Susie. Thanks for being there.”
    Luella waved for the check and put her phone into her purse. She sat for a while absently watching a pigeon scavenge bread from a nearby table. Then quickly finishing her glass of Evian, she settled the check and set off across the cobbled streets to Monoprix for a few of the toiletries she needed while she waited for her suitcases to arrive. She pulled her scarf around her to ward off the chilly evening air.
    Leaving the store, she resisted the overwhelming urge to go back to the hotel and curl up under the duvet. Instead, she wandered across the footbridge among the throngs of tourists toward the Louvre.
    Luella’s love affair with Paris had begun years back when she’d found grainy photographs of her grandparents in wartime Paris. She had often imagined the two lovers running toward each other or locked in each other’s arms under the foggy light of a lamppost, oblivious to the people around them. Her grandmother’s story had been the inspiration for One Night in Cap d’Antibes , the romance novel that had been her first bestseller.
    Today she was thinking very different thoughts as she pulled her scarf tighter around her neck and dug her hands deeper into her coat pockets, racked with questions, questions that may well have been answered if she had read the other letters. The thought of that made her throat constrict. One letter had been all she could take. Any more would have been pure masochism.
    As she crossed the Place des Pyramids in front of the Regina Hotel she wondered how often Peter had strolled here with his lover. Who is he? she asked herself. Is he French? Why was he staying at Le Meurice?
    She walked across the square, drawn toward the gilt monument of Fremiet’s Jeanne d’Arc charging on her horse, sword in hand, French flag waving above her head. Gazing up at the monument, Luella remembered the quote from Joan of Arc she had used to open one of her books: You say that you are my judge, but take good heed not to judge me ill.
    “I will do my best Peter,” she whispered. “I will try not to judge you.”
    As the sky began to blacken, Luella turned back in the direction of her hotel and managed to flag down a cab before it began to rain. Throwing her shopping bag onto the backseat, she climbed in wearily next to it.

    India would be dining alone again tonight, a woman of mystery, an international traveler with un histoire . She rehearsed out loud the phrases she had learned from her online Language 101 course many times before calling the concierge to make her reservation. Lifting the phone, she took a deep breath.
    “Bonsoir Monsieur,” she said.
    “Good evening, Madame Butler. How can I help you?” Jean-Paul responded.
    “Je voudrais faire une reservation pour sept ce soir,” she said in her best accent and at speed.
    “Of course, Madame, a table for seven people tonight. What time would you prefer?”
    “Non, la table pour un a sept heure,” she said, enunciating slowly.
    “Of course, a table for one at seven o’clock. Merci Madam.” He clicked off.
    India put down the phone. Damn. Okay let’s try again, she thought, picking up once more and dialing room service.
    “Good evening Madame Butler, Jean-Paul here. How can I help you?”
    There’s no escaping him. All the calls seem to go via the concierge, she thought.
    “Je voudrais un verre de Sancerre, s’il vous plait,” she said, confident his reply would be a simple, “Oui, bien sûr Madame.”
    “I am sorry, Madame Butler,” he answered. “By the glass, we only have a house white. I assure you it is an excellent wine from the Loire valley. I would be pleased to have it delivered to your room.”
    Frustrated at her inability to reply in French, India settled for “Merci Monsieur” and put the phone back down on the receiver defeated. Give up. Jean-Paul is clearly not going to