“How could Melissa Barlow disappoint me when she’s back in England?” The young man nodded respectfully, started to walk away, then turned around.
“If you’re ever lucky enough to bump into her in London—it is a small world, after all—would you tell her that I think she’s a wonderful actress?”
“I certainly will. I know that would make her very happy. Very happy indeed.”
Mia watched him disappear into the distance. “Good-bye,” she whispered.
She fished her sunglasses out of her purse and walked a bit farther until she spotted a hair salon. It struck her that Creston would give her a severe talking-to, and this idea alone made her even more determined to put her plan into action. She pushed open the door, sat down in one of the chairs, and emerged one hour later as a short-haired brunette.
To test out her scheme, she sat on the steps of Sacré-Cœur and waited. When a tour bus with a United Kingdom license plate stopped in the square, Mia walked up to it as the passengers were getting off and asked the tour guide for the time. Sixty people, and not one of them recognized her! She blessed the hairdresser who had given her a new identity. Now she was just a simple British tourist visiting Paris.
Paul circled the block twice before finally double-parking. He turned to his two passengers with a big smile.
“I hope you two aren’t feeling too out of whack . . .”
“What, from your driving?” Arthur replied.
“Have you ever told him about that night when I spent two hours curled up under an operating table because of him?” Paul asked Lauren.
“Yes, she has. Only twenty times or so,” Arthur answered. “Why?”
“No reason. Here are the keys. Top floor. Bring up your bags while I find a place to park.”
Lauren and Arthur were busy unpacking their bags in their room as Paul came in.
“It’s a shame you couldn’t bring Joe with you,” he said with a sigh.
“It’s a long trip for a kid his age,” Lauren explained. “He’s staying with his godmother, which I think he’s pretty happy about.”
“Right, but he would have been even happier if he were staying with his godfather.”
“The two of us were kind of hoping for a romantic getaway,” Arthur pointed out.
“Romantic getaways come and go. You have time for that. I, on the other hand, very rarely get to see my godson.”
“Move back to San Francisco—you’ll see him every day!”
“Do you two feel like having something to eat? Where did I put that cake?” Paul muttered, riffling through his kitchen cupboards.
Lauren and Arthur exchanged a glance, which he caught.
Smiling at their silent humor, he made coffee and then outlined the schedule he’d drawn up.
As it was sunny, the first day would be spent sightseeing: Eiffel Tower, Arc de Triomphe, Île de la Cité, Sacré-Cœur. And if they ran out of time, they could continue their tour the next day.
“Right . . . and the ‘romantic’ part of the getaway?” Arthur reminded him.
“Oh . . . yeah,” said Paul, a little embarrassed.
Lauren needed a rest before such a marathon, suggesting the two friends eat lunch without her to catch up.
Paul offered to take Arthur to a nearby café with a sun-drenched terrace.
Arthur put on a clean shirt and followed him out the door.
Sitting at a table, the two men looked at each other for a moment without speaking. As if both were waiting to see who would speak first . . .
“So, you’re happy here?” Arthur finally asked.
