“As you say, that’s incredibly unlikely.”
“But you’re a terrific researcher, and I’m betting you dig up something. And whatever it is—whatever is out there to be found—I don’t want it in the paper anymore. Why don’t you e-mail me copies of everything you’ve turned up? And tell you what,” I teased her. “If I stumble into a fortune of a million dollars, I’ll split it with you.”
? ? ?
AS I WAS closing my bedroom curtains that night, a car caught my eye. A compact gray car, parked diagonally across the street from my house.
Nothing remarkable about that, other than I’d never seen it before. I knew most of my neighbors’ vehicles by sight, and we lived far enough up the hill from Georgetown’s restaurants and shops that few tourists parked on the block.
Inside the car, the outline of his head lit by the tiny screen of his cell phone, sat a man. Again, nothing remarkable there. He could be waiting for someone. Or killing time until he had to be somewhere. Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t have given him a second thought. But Beasley had spooked me. I went back downstairs and double-checked the locks on my doors and windows, before crawling into bed to read.
Around eleven, when I rose to turn off the lights, I peeked out.
The gray car was still there.
Inside, the man was still sitting. His phone was switched off now and I could make out no distinguishing features other than a head of dark hair. I could not see his eyes. Only that his face, a pale smear beneath the streetlights, had been turned in the direction of my front door all evening long.
Twenty-seven
* * *
WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 23, 2013
In the morning I was awakened by an insistent knocking.
I ignored it.
It came again.
I opened an eye. The sun was up. My bedside clock read 7:49. Too early for a package to be delivered. Definitely too early for a friend to stop by. Who then? Beasley’s admonition to be careful ran through my mind.
Bang bang bang bang bang bang bang.
I pushed back the covers and padded to the window, cracked the curtains, and squinted down. No. Surely not. I rubbed my eyes. Madame Aubuchon was standing on my front step. She was alone, and at her feet rested what appeared to be a large pot. On her hands she wore chunky, garishly colored gloves.
She must have sensed me staring, for she looked up, shielded her eyes from the sun, and waved. I glanced across the street. The gray car was gone.
When I opened the door, she hoisted the pot and held it out in front of her, stooping slightly against its weight. Steam curled from under the shiny lid. The gloves were not gloves at all, but oversize, crudely knitted, green-and-purple oven mitts. They clashed against the soft rose silk of her suit.
“Hélène?” What on earth?
“Bonjour, Caroline. ?a va?” Are you well? “Here, take this.” She thrust the pot at me.
I tried to lift it from her outstretched arms, but pain shot through my right wrist.
She noticed me blanch. “Ah, je m’excuse. Elle est où, ta cuisine?”
She marched past me toward the kitchen. I trailed behind. I had not expected my premonition to come true quite this quickly. Here I was, groggy and rumpled and still in my nightgown, and here was Madame Aubuchon, charging into my kitchen, dressed as if she were headed next to high tea at the Ritz.
“You can keep the pot,” she was saying. “But my grandsons made these.” She tucked the cartoon pot holders away into a Cartier bag.
“Hélène.” I pointed at the humongous pot now resting on my stove. “What is this?”
“Bouillon de poulet.” Chicken soup. “Properly made, with plenty of garlic and white wine. It needs to cool. Do you have Tupperware?” Without asking permission, she opened a cupboard, peered inside.
I nodded, mute. I have spoken French as fluently as English since high school. More than half my life. But it was so bizarre, the sight of her rooting around my cabinets in search of stackable, plastic bowls, that words failed me in both languages.
“J’en ai fait une quantité énorme”—I made a huge batch—“so you would have enough to freeze and warm every day. While you rebuild your strength.” She banged shut a cupboard door, apparently abandoning the Tupperware quest, and studied me. “Caroline, forgive me, but you look dreadful.”
“Je dormais,” I protested. “I was sleeping.”
“It’s important to keep up your routine,” she scolded. “Do your hair, put on your makeup. Get out of the house. It helps when you’re depressed.”
“I’m not depressed.” Not that it would be any of her business if I were. “And I’ll get dressed in a minute. It’s barely eight o’clock.” Harsh morning light slanted through the window above the sink. The scent of garlic mixed with chicken grease filled the air between us. It must have been seeping into the curtains, the dish towels, my hair. She was right about one thing: I would need both a shower and a generous spritz of perfume before I would be fit to leave the house.
My manners kicked in. “You’re thoughtful to drop by. Merci bien, thanks so much, for the soup. Would you care for a cup of tea?”
“Non, merci. I’m running late. But allow me to make one other suggestion.”
It was tempting to point out that she had forfeited the right to make suggestions for the rest of the semester, but I held my tongue.
“Paris,” said Madame Aubuchon. “Once you’re well enough to travel, you should go to Paris. A change of scene would do you good, don’t you think? You may use my apartment.”
“That’s very kind. I couldn’t possibly accept.”
“Pourquoi pas? Don’t be so damn polite. Jean-Pierre and I won’t get there again until spring. It’s near the Bois de Boulogne, dans le seizième.”