Curiosity overrides my good sense, and I glance in both directions before easing closer to search the ivy. Pieces of the vines pull away in chunks, leaving roots clinging to the iron.
Instead of damaging the plant, I switch tactics, gently spreading leaves, searching for a doorknob. Instead, I find a metal plate and a heavy padlock. My fingers brush over metal, climbing higher and higher until they bump over a hard rim.
I move aside more ivy, revealing a long, narrow window in the door. I close one eye and peek through.
But there’s no garden on the other side, only darkness and the stink of mold filtering from the hole.
The door leads underground.
Stepping back, I rub my nose and exhale, trying to rid myself of the musty smell. Nothing but an old door to an old set of stairs. Probably leading to the basement of the mansion.
Nowhere I’d want to go.
Suddenly chilled, I turn and walk down the path, happy to leave the alley and the mysterious door.
6
Two hours later and the sun has sunk, casting pockets of shade on every street. As I cross the park and head back to the mansion, a cool wind whips through the trees. Two re-usable bags weigh down my arms, bulging with enough groceries for several days.
Along with pens, notepads, sticky notes, and highlighters. Probably more than I need, but office supplies are my secret kink. Other women get excited about jewelry, but I’ll take color-coding over karats any day.
Now that I’ve got supplies, all I need is to find a designated workspace in the apartment. A room with a desk or table, and a comfortable spot to read the script.
As I round the winding trail, I spy the metal bollards rising from the ground. The short poles are my landmark to make a turn, which will take me to the sidewalk in front of the mansion.
Because I amnotcutting through the gardens again.
Walking with my head down, I don’t see the young couple until I’m close. Too close to turn around.
They’re loitering near the gates of Maison Marteau. The guy pivots slowly, repositioning in measured turns. He’s holding up his phone. Taking pictures.
When he notices me, he swings the phone in my direction.
Ducking my head, I whip up my hand to shield my face. “Please, don’t.”
“What?” He lowers the phone, looking bewildered. “Don’t what?”
The girl with him moves in closer. “Sorry about him. He gets excited about the tourist spots.”
My hand falls to my side. Tourists. Of course.
My bunched-up muscles relax, and I glance at the grandeur of Maison Marteau. A gorgeous and historic building, one probably photographed a thousand times each year.
“I get it,” I say, risking a return smile as I shift the bags and tug down my ball cap. I forgot to put the sunglasses back on.
But it’s clear they don’t know me, and I doubt they’re paparazzi. Judging by their age, backpacks, and neon-green skull on the guy’s black T-shirt.
That’s the second time today I’ve let suspicion rule my mind. And as my paranoia fades, embarrassment rushes in.
Worrying I’ll be recognized is stressful.
Neverbeing recognized is humbling.
The girl clocks my grocery bags. “Oh, do you live here?”
“Just visiting.” Without thinking, I nod toward the mansion.
“No way.” The guy’s mouth drops open. “This is where you’re staying?”
