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“You won’t need to darn your socks ever again,” he retorted. “Even after we’re divorced. You’ll have the means to buy new ones.”
“But I hate throwing out things that can be fixed!”
To which he parried, “And Marianne would hate feeling useless.”
Given that my earlier faux pas nearly cost Marianne her job, his warning effectively shut me up.
We flew into Paris aboard a private jet.How’s that for a first time in the air?Only two weeks ago, I would’ve laughed at any palm reader predicting that. I would’ve called her a shameless hack and refused to pay.
The passengers on that snazzy jet were Louis, Angie, Rudy, Marianne, and me. After the short flight, Rudy picked up a sleek Mercedes with green plates and heated seats and drove us to a gated residence in a modern Parisian neighborhood.
Louis and I settled into a two-floor penthouse with a rooftop terrace and pool. The lower level consists of vast salons segueing into each other. The upper floor hosts bedrooms, home offices, and walk-in closets. Both levels have a floor-to-ceiling wall of windows overlooking the Seine, and the upstairs bathrooms are equipped with Jacuzzi tubs big enough to fit a rock band. Angie and Rudy will live in smaller apartments in the same high-rise. Marianne occupies a studio attached to the penthouse.
The unchanged urban landscape outside the car window draws me back into the present moment. For the past five minutes we’ve been stuck in the most insane traffic I’ve ever seen.
“If we’re headed to a mountain lake near Paris,” I say, “why drive through the city?”
To my reasonable observation, Rudy remarks, “There are no mountain lakes near Paris, Your Grace.”
“If we were going to a mountain lake,” Louis adds, “we’d rent a helicopter.”
Oops.I better study the local geography instead of assuming that any city has mountains and lakes nearby.
Louis’s eyes sparkle with mischief. “Since you enjoy solving puzzles, I have one for you.”
“Shoot.”
“What does the royal-free French republic do with a big palace in the center of its capital city?”
Phew, I know the answer to this one!“You mean the Louvre? They’ve turned it into a museum.”
“Not the Louvre,” he says. “The Grand Palais.”
I venture a guess, “It must be their president’s residence.”
“That’s the Élysée Palace.”
“The prime minister’s then.”
“Wrong again!” He grins. “The French PM occupies the ducal Hôtel de Matignon. You’ll attend receptions in both, so I suggest you read up on them.”
I pull my phone out. “I’ll do it straightaway!”
“You can do it at home. There’s no rush,” he says. “I’ll lend you my guidebook issued by our foreign service. It covers all sorts of topics. I was going to use it to brush up on my knowledge of France.”
“I can quiz Your Graces afterward,” Rudy offers.
“Deal!” Louis turns to me. “Back to my riddle. Do you have other guesses?”
“I’m out of ideas.”
“A skating rink, bumpkin!” He chuckles, eyeing me. “The French Republic puts an indoor skating rink in the Grand Palais.”
In theory, I should be vexed with him for exposing my ignorant provincialism. But I find myself struggling to work up the pique. Is it the total absence of condescendence in his tone? His teasing is devoid of malice, which must be why I don’t mind him having some good-natured fun at my expense.
I shoot a look at Rudy in the rearview mirror. “Is that where we’re headed?”
“Yes, Your Grace.” He hesitates. “Traffic permitting.”
