Suzie’s true crime podcast addiction was definitely rearing its ugly head. Yet, no mention of Dwayne getting cut from the team.
Completely baffled, I sent through another text message.
Why didn’t you tell me about Dwayne? And why did you tell him about Mick???
Then I waited for her reply as the taxi navigated the busy Paris streets… until I realized when the three dots didn’t immediately appear like they almost always did with Suzie, that it was 5 am in L.A. On a Suns Organization payday.
That meant she wouldn’t be waking up for several more hours. Even then, there was the morning rush of dropping her son off at his Chinese Immersion magnet school all the way in L.A. proper before coming back to Inglewood. Paydays were always a mess of inquiries, outraged calls, confusion, and various demands.
And I wasn’t there to serve as the self-appointed first line of defense before the employees who decided to just show up in person to make their inquiries about their checks reached her office. Which meant she’d be arriving to “a shitshow”—her words, not mine, when she reluctantly approved vacation time, despite it falling over our biweekly payday.
Anyway, I’d be lucky to hear from her before she took her mandatory break to eat her lunch in front ofScuzz.com on TV.
But if Dwayne was back in Missouri at his mother’s house, he’d probably answer the phone if I called him—also, my questions about how he found out about Mick.
“Madame, we are here at your location, I believe,” the driver said from the front seat just when I was considering breaking the bank to make an international phone call to my ex.
“Oh, sorry, thanks!” I put the phone away and pulled out my wallet. “How much do I…?”
The driver held up a hand. “No need, madame. It is all paid for. Perhaps this is the door to the establishment?”
He pointed his hand sideways to a set of teal doors nestled inside an exterior wall of weathered brick. “I will wait here for you to give me a sign that it is OK to drive away.”
As I got out of the car and walked up a little cobblestone path toward the doors, I could see why the driver sounded a bit uncertain if he’d taken me to the right place. I had to squint to see the little sliver of a golden sign with Je T’aime Tourdin etched into it.
Beneath the tiny sign hung a much larger one, declaring in both English and French that the shop was private and by appointment only.
I turned to give the French cab driver a thumbs-up. But just as he drove away, a pretty young woman opened one of the doors before I had the chance to push the buzzer. She was tall and the kind of vibrating thin that made me think of L.A. actresses who only ate almonds. She wore her tastefully blonde hair in a refined chignon and her pencil skirt and pretty silk blouse like a uniform.
“I am Isabelle. Right this way, Madame Edwards!” she said, ushering me with an elegant wave of her long, thin hand into a space with glossy hardwood floors and pink-and-silver damask wallpaper. “Monsieur Atwater is already seated and waiting for you.”
“Oh, wow…” I said, gaping as I followed her in. “This place doesn’t look like any clothing store I’ve ever seen before.”
Beautifully dressed mannequins stood in a half-opened circle in the front of the shop as if they were having a private conversation, not displaying outfits customers might want to buy. In fact, there was more open space than actual clothes. And the sprinkling of settees throughout the space reminded me more of the VIP lounge at Kentucky than a place to shop. There weren’t even any counters or cash registers that I could see.
About halfway toward our intended destination, an older woman took me away from Isabelle—who I guessed was some sort of shop hostess. She wore a chic peplum dress and welcomed me in English so rapid, her accent almost sounded British—though way more refined than the kind of English Mick spoke.
“I am Giselle, and I will be guiding you through your shopping experience,” she informed me crisply before directing me to a tufted couch with a high back, which was positioned in front of what appeared to be a raised runway.
This was where I found Mick waiting for me, just as Isabelle promised.
He grinned and stood to greet me with a kiss on each cheek as soon as I walked up.
“How ya doin’ there, love?” he asked, reintroducing some reality into this situation with his working-class accent.
“Good,” I answered, even though guilt twanged in my chest, thinking of the messages I had woken up to a couple of hours ago.
“Did you have a chance to go back to the Pantheon?” he asked.
“Um, no. I actually didn’t wake up until late. And then, I was kind of rushing to get ready and here on time….”
I trailed off. I didn’t want to lie to him, but I also didn’t want to ruin the mood by telling him that Dwayne had tried texting me from his mother’s number.
Luckily, Giselle chose that moment to ask me if there was anything I wanted to view from their current collection.
“Um…” Seeing as how I had only just learned of the store’s existence the night before, I had no idea about their current collection.
Mick quickly took over.
