Treasure of Saint-Lazare Read Free

the first time, a generous open smile that lighted her deep blue eyes and told him his disappearance was forgiven, if not forgotten. The weight of mortal sin lifted from him.
    She broke the silence as they passed the fifth floor. “What happened after?”
    “Pretty much as planned. I went into the Army, served in Desert Storm, then came home to Paris.”
    “Did you ever marry?”
    “Yes, once. You? My wife died.”
    “That is sad. I married once, for three years. A big-time cardiologist who wanted a younger wife. It lasted until he found another blonde trophy.”
    “Then you’ve stayed in Sarasota?”
    “God knows why. It’s a beautiful town but no place for a single woman my age. It’s a huge, deep pool of blue-collar men looking for college-educated women and, surprisingly, finding them. I’m almost too old for that group now. I suppose I’ll sign up for the club of unhappy middle-aged divorcées and widows who understand deep down they’ll spend nights alone for the rest of their lives.
    “You’re selling yourself short. We’re only forty and you still look like the girl I knew back then. It’s far too early to start wearing black and sitting in a rocker on your front porch.”
    “Thanks for that. You haven’t done badly yourself. You still have all that black black hair I admired. And you still carry yourself like a West Pointer.” She smiled again.
    They stood in silence until the elevator stopped. The door opened and she stepped out into a small lobby decorated in Second Empire style. A marble table held a large bouquet of yellow flowers, which complemented the blue walls.
    “Just one door?”
    “This floor was an afterthought some time after the building was built. It’s a little smaller than the others, which is the reason the city has winked at it. The French are pragmatic about that sort of thing. If it pushes a little over the edge of the law but doesn’t hurt anything, they generally close their eyes. It was a little risky, but I decided to turn the entire floor into my own apartment.”
    “How did you work that?”
    “I needed a place to live seven years ago. This old hotel needed a lot of work but the owners didn’t have the money to do it, so I bought it.”
    He opened the door and with a sweep of his arm invited her inside, following with the suitcase. They walked down an entrance hall hung with bright oil paintings. She recognized one of them, a streetscape at dusk showing an early twentieth-century trolley passing the square of Châtelet, and stopped to look at it.
    “Is that an Éduardo Cortès? I had one of them in my gallery. I hated to sell it.”
    “I remember that painting, and this is one almost like it. My father gave it to me as a wedding present. It’s the only thing I kept from that part of my life.”
    “Will you tell me about it?”
    “Later. It’s not a pretty story.”
    She knew not to pursue the issue. They continued into the living room, where he invited her to sit in a gray leather armchair to one side of a fireplace. He sat in its twin opposite her. A glass wall faced southeast over the city, with the spires of Notre Dame in the distance.
    All the furniture was upholstered in muted shades of gray and beige except for one armchair on the opposite wall, which was a brilliant cardinal red. Jen first thought it was an error, but with a second look realized it was the bridge between the low-key furniture and the two dozen striking oil paintings that lined the wall from floor to ceiling.
    “What a beautiful room. And you have a lovely view, like your mother’s.”
    “Thanks. At Place Vauban she has Les Invalides and Napoleon’s Tomb across the street, I have Notre Dame on one side and the Champs-Elysées on the other. I’ll show you more of the sights a little later, but I think we should get business out of the way first.”
    “You’re right.” A sigh. “Roy is dead. Killed ten days ago by a hit-and-run driver just a couple of blocks from home.”
    “I