Coq au Vin Read Free Page B

even get out of the airport over there. But I thought—since you’ve been there so many times—I thought maybe you could go over there and help her—take this money to her and help her get home. Like I said, I managed to shame your father into giving me enough for your expenses.”
    Expenses?
    â€œWhat are you saying, Mother? You want me to go to Paris!”
    â€œYes. Would you do it? If—I mean, only if you could take the time from work. You’re going to be on spring vacation soon, aren’t you?”
    â€œIt started yesterday, Mom. No problem.”
    A lot to ask.! Holy —
    I felt a kick right then. Right on the shin. I knew who that was: my conscience, Ernestine. I just kicked the bitch right back. Yes, I’m a liar, I told her; a deceiver, a coldhearted Air France slut. I was thinking not of my Aunt Viv in a French drunk tank but of the braised rabbit in that bistro on the rue Monsieur le Prince.
    A lot to ask? Coq au vin, here I come!

CHAPTER 2
    Can’t We Be Friends?
    I know I’m a fool. A sentimentalist. A sucker for a sad song. The same old hokey things undo me every time.
    I was crying so hard I could barely see out the window of the taxi, one of those workhorse Renaults with a driver who smoked Gitanes, a beautifully dappled Dalmatian asleep beside him on the front seat. It was April and the trees were budding and we had just passed the Arc de Triomphe and it was tearing my heart out.
    It helped a lot that I had sucked down about fifty glasses of Veuve Clicquot on the flight over and been hit on big time by both an African diplomat in a vintage Armani and a sublimely big-nosed Frenchman.
    Drying my eyes, I recalled that first time I saw Paris, from the window of a train. I was still a student and traveling on the cheap. I took a charter flight into Amsterdam, where I met up with a couple of classmates and their European boyfriends. After a couple of days of museum going and smoking pot till I was pixillated, I took the train into Paris. That first sight of the roof of the Gare de Nord, alive with pigeons, had produced the same kind of waterworks.
    By the time the cab deposited me at the picturesque little square in the 5th arrondissement, I was working on one hell of a hangover. The address on Vivian’s postcard turned out to be a clean but decidedly unglamorous little hotel at the top of a rise in the pavement. Their one-star rating was not mere modesty—nothing fancy about the place. I set my valise down and walked over to the reception .
    There was no such American madame as Vivian Hayes registered at the hotel, the well-fed gentleman behind the desk reported. Perhaps my friend was at the small hotel at the other end of the square? No, I said, checking the postcard again, this was the address given. It occurred to me then that Aunt Viv might be using either of two—or was it three?—married names. So I began to describe her, thinking even as I did so that she had probably changed so much since our last meeting that the description might be worthless. I was just about to dig into my bag for a twenty-year-old snapshot of Vivian, when the monsieur suddenly realized who I was seeking.
    A sneer pulled at his lips. “Oh yes. I recall your friend now.” I waited for him to go on. “This Madame Hayes,” he said contemptuously, had checked out more than ten days ago.
    â€œChecked out” was not exactly the phrase he used to describe her departure. Apparently Vivian had left without paying the last week’s rent, abandoning her suitcase and clothing and personal items. She had simply gone out one afternoon and never returned.
    Not good.
    I had counted on some kind of trouble. Still, I didn’t have to hit the panic button yet. I might have to mount a search for her. On the other hand, she might be able to raise a few dollars from somewhere, in which case she would show up again to pay her bill and collect her things.
    But I