“Oh, good.” She puts a hand to her chest as if she’s as relieved as I am. “My aunt called from California earlier and asked me to leave it for you. It’s her place,” she adds, jutting her chin toward the building.
Closing a hand around her earbuds, she shoves them into a pocket and lifts her other hand. A key dangles. “Since I’m here, why don’t I give you a tour?”
Before I can answer, she grabs one of my bags, steps around me, and unlocks the door. She leans in and lights flicker on around us.
In the light, I can tell she’s young, maybe late teens or early twenties. She wears a short ivory dress with boots—stylish and chic but with a waifish vulnerability. Young, friendly, energetic.
And not at all what I expected fromthe family.
“So, you are here on vacation?” she asks, stepping back to let me in.
“Yes.” I press my lips together, hoping this is the last of her questions.
The last time I’ll need to lie.
The thought of being recognized used to thrill me. It was a goal, a daydream, to have someone stop me on the street or come over at a restaurant, tell me they saw me in a movie. Andrememberedme.
But since the movie fell apart, I keep my head down and wear sunglasses.
Either the young woman doesn’t know who I am, or she’s too polite to bring it up. “You’ve come to the perfect city for a vacation, sobienvenue. Welcome,” she clarifies in English. “I’m Luci.” She spreads her arms and spins. “And this is Maison Marteau.”
Her game-show exuberance lifts my mood. More at ease, I pull my suitcase through the small foyer to an entrance hall.
I cross the parquet floors, my head spinning with wonder. Reds and wood tones dominate the décor, heavier and more old-world than the pristine white of so many Parisian homes.
A grandfather clock ticks away time in one corner. In another, an antique globe rests on a stand. A lavish staircase, a grand piano. Every corner holds proof of wealth. The air even smells rich—clean but with the slightest hint of something floral.
Mom would love this place.
Mom.
The thought of her is a bubble that fills my chest.
Then bursts.
Grief seeps into the space left behind. I can’t call my mother and tell her about the mansion. I can’t send her pictures of the opulent rooms. Not anymore.
Not since November.
I squeeze the suitcase handle until my fingers sting. “The apartment is bigger than I expected.” My voice comes out as a whisper, strained by the punch of emotion and bittersweet memories.
But Luci doesn’t notice my distraction as she points to a doorway. “The kitchen and dining area are through there. And over here…” Switching directions, she passes me and walks toward the curving staircase.
I’m right behind her when she stops by the wainscoted walls and puts her hand on the dark wood. “This used to open into a main hallway, but my grandfather closed off the ends of each wing. He wanted separate living spaces for more distant relations. The hallway in back is the same.”
Now I can make out two floor-to-ceiling panels that blend with the walls, and I spot the handles. “Oh, doors?” I push down on the brass levers.
A small wrinkle forms between Luci’s brows. “Don’t worry. They lock on both sides.”
“Sorry,” I say, my default method for handling conflict. Smile and apologize, filling my voice with a people-pleasing tone. An instinct hard-wired at an early age.
Followed by a compliment to smooth things over. “Your English is perfect, by the way.”
“Merci.” She beams, pleased by the praise. “English is a Marteau family requirement. We’re practically taught from birth.”
She studies me from head to toe. “And I love your brown hair and blue eyes. Such an American combination.” She winks and tugs lightly on my hair, making her seem younger than I’d thought.
She picks up my bag again and points up the steps. “We’ll go this way. The hidden stairs are too narrow.”
