A Dangerous Dress (25 page)

I took out the ticket. “I’ve never been to New York,” I said. I looked at the seat number: three-B. Which is a First Class seat. Then I looked at the date of the flight. It was the day after tomorrow.

“I didn’t want to waste any time,” Reed said.

Buying a girl you just met a First Class plane ticket to New York before you’ve even had dinner with her is certainly not wasting any time.

“Don’t you think you’re being just a little bit forward?” I asked.

“What?” Reed started to chuckle. “Oh,” he said, still chuckling.

“What’s so funny?” I asked.

He made himself stop laughing. “Sorry,” he said. “I’m offering you a
job
in New York. As a commentator. I want to get you on the air right away.” Now he wasn’t laughing at all. In fact, he was blushing. The blushing was actually kind of cute. He paused and looked down at the plane ticket in my hand. “So,” he finally said, “it isn’t . . . what you thought.”

“It isn’t?” I probably sounded disappointed. I was—at least a little. Sure, if he had bought me that ticket solely because . . . well, you know, that would’ve been very forward. But it also would’ve been quite flattering. And did I mention how good-looking he was?

“Well, I guess maybe it is, too. What you thought. A little.” Then he blushed again—a lot. Which was more like it. I wanted him to be at least somewhat interested in me. Because I was at least somewhat interested in him.

In theory, I still wanted to learn more about this whole Fox News star thing before I made up my mind. And I was in no rush to leave Celestine. But remember, I hadn’t been paid for either my movie job or Armani. So a job that would actually put money in my bank account seemed like a good idea. Having somebody else pay for my flight home seemed even better. And First Class, better still. Plus Reed was assigning his best investigative team to find Grandma’s dress. That made it okay for me to leave Paris, because they would undoubtedly do a better job of searching than I ever could.

I suppose I could’ve just said I had to go home. But we are talking about
TV.
Reed was going to make me the fresh new voice of Fox News. How could I pass that up?

“Who’s in three-A?” I asked.

“I am,” said Reed.

So I said, “Okay.” And that was that.

Reed ordered wine and dinner, again in French. Even though I don’t speak any French beyond
bonjour
and
bonsoir
and
excusez-moi,
I could tell that his accent was not good. Still, he got the order across. I had yummy wok-stirred fish with a sweet curry sauce that I think had coconut milk in it, and Reed had a delicious veal thing in an orange sauce. I know his was delicious because we shared.

I let Reed do most of the talking. First, because I was interested. Second, because he liked that I was interested. Third, because he was going to have his team search for Grandma’s dress. And fourth, because he was flying me to New York for some kind of glamorous job as a fresh new American voice, whatever that meant, and I was afraid if I talked too much, he might decide my voice was old or wilted or un-American and change his mind.

I learned several things about him. He was in a fraternity at Dartmouth—yuck—but that was several years ago and I could forgive him some youthful lapses, like the fact that he played varsity lacrosse. He got a Master’s in Communication at Columbia. He had been engaged but they broke up six months ago, which meant he wasn’t afraid of commitment, and enough time had passed that I wouldn’t be a rebound. All in all, I thought everything was going very well.

Until Reed started looking over his shoulder. At first I barely noticed it, but then he picked up speed, until he was doing it like twice a minute.

In my experience, when you’re on a date and the man keeps looking over his shoulder, either he’s watching for somebody, like an almost-but-not-quite ex-girlfriend, or else he sees a girl he thinks is prettier than you, and he’d rather get whiplash watching her than at least pretend to pay attention to you. “Are you looking for somebody?” I finally asked.

“What?” He turned back to face me.

“You keep turning around. Who are you looking for?”

“Oh.” He blushed again. “This is kind of embarrassing,” he said. I took that as a bad sign. Then he didn’t say anything. So I waited.

My patience won out over his embarrassment. “I’m looking for”—and he lowered his voice—
“Johnny Depp.”

“J
ohnny Depp?”

Reed actually giggled. Which on a big tall shouldery guy like him seemed, I don’t know, kind of . . . girlie. “He owns this place, you know. So I thought maybe we would see him.”

Since then I have learned a few things. For example, Johnny Depp doesn’t exactly
own
Le Man Ray. He is one of the investors. Along with John Malkovich and Sean Penn. Expecting to go to this restaurant and see Johnny Depp is like it’s 1996, and I’m going to Planet Hollywood because I want to see Bruce Willis. I actually did that. Just like I’m sure a lot of people did that. Once. Then they found out, just like I found out, that Bruce Willis doesn’t actually eat at Planet Hollywood all the time. Or, like, ever. But Reed actually believed he was going to see Johnny Depp.

Even though I did not know an enormous amount about Fox News at the time, I knew enough to understand that Johnny Depp is not exactly a Fox News kind of guy. I said, “It’s kind of funny. You. Fox News. And Johnny Depp.”

“I know,” Reed said, and he blushed again. Still, it didn’t stop him from looking over his shoulder and around the room. When he turned back to face me, he said, “Management probably wouldn’t approve. What with, well, his . . . views.” He lowered his voice. “But
how cool
would it be to see Johnny Depp? Did you see
Pirates of the Caribbean?
How great was he in that?”

I had to admit he was right. Johnny Depp really was just too good in
Pirates of the Caribbean.
But I still had a hard time with Reed getting all girlie about it.

For the rest of dinner, Reed tried to keep from looking over his shoulder quite so much, with only limited success. And no, we did not see Johnny Depp.

When we left the restaurant, the night was lovely, so instead of taking a taxi, we strolled through the Tuileries gardens, the very same ones I’d walked through with Josh Thomas. Right after he kissed me so wonderfully on that bridge and I opened my eyes and saw the Eiffel Tower sparkling in the night.

At that precise moment, Reed took my hand in his. And I completely forgot about what’s-his-name. As I have said, Reed has very big hands, and his just kind of swallowed mine up. I wondered what it would feel like if he held me in his arms. If he kissed me. He did not kiss me. I could tell from the way he was holding my hand that he was thinking about it. But he didn’t.

“Let’s go back to my hotel for a drink,” he said. “It’s really great. It’s called the Hotel d’Aubusson. It’s small. Very authentic.” He lowered his voice so radically it was as if he was passing on classified information. “Very French. I read about it in”—now he was practically whispering—“the
New York Times.
” Before I could think of reasons not to, he said, “Just downstairs. There’s a jazz trio that plays on weekends. And the bartender is the best.” When I didn’t say anything, he said, “Just for a while. Then I’ll put you in a cab.”

So I said, “Sure.”

We kept walking. Through the courtyard of the Louvre, past the big glass pyramid. Which I guess everybody now thinks is part of some big conspiracy on account of
The Da Vinci Code,
but if you ask me, lit up at night, it looked lovely and romantic. Then we cut over and walked along the Seine. We didn’t talk, only walked. It was just us and the river and the lights. In case you are wondering, it is not just good PR: Paris really is the City of Lights.

When we got to the hotel bar, the jazz trio—a piano player, bass player, and drummer—actually were wonderful. The musicians were all men, but there was also a very fine singer, a French-woman with the most beautiful café-au-lait skin who sang scatty, throaty versions of old American standards, the Gershwins and Cole Porter. She was wonderful, too.

As were the drinks brought to us by the bartender, Flavien. He was sweet and slender and perfectly dressed in a suit, shirt, and tie, and I instantly adored him. You could tell the bar was his kingdom. The jazz music was lovely, but the crowd was there for Flavien.

We sipped extraordinary champagne drinks, Rossinis, which weren’t on the menu. What Rossini the composer had to do with a drink made out of champagne and pureed raspberries and some yummy kind of liqueur, I’ll never know. Or care. And if you think it sounds like a girlie drink . . . well, I am a girl, but they’re not girlie at all. They’re perfect and sophisticated. And very easy to drink. In fact, it occurred to me, drinking Rossinis and looking at how long Reed’s eyelashes were, that a girl could get used to this.

Reed and I were getting pretty cozy. He ran his fingers through my hair. Then he started to massage my neck with his fingers. His fingers were very strong, but he did not rub too hard, the way a lot of guys do. He rubbed my neck exactly the way you would want a handsome man to just before he kisses you.

That’s when Reed excused himself to use the restroom.

I thought,
Okay, well, so my timing is a little off. Or Reed’s timing. Anyway somebody’s timing is a little off.
But I knew he would be back in a minute. And then he would kiss me.

At that moment, the trio started to play “Bewitched Bothered and Bewildered.” Which in case you don’t know is by Richard Rodgers and Lorenz Hart.

Let me be clear: I have perfectly normal up-to-date taste in music. I like Green Day and Black Eyed Peas and Evanescence. I listen mostly to WXRT and WZZN, except on Saturday afternoons, when my mom tunes every radio in the house to WBEZ so she will not miss a minute of that Garrison Keillor fellow, who I must admit is pretty amusing. And I only download legally. At least after they started suing people. But “Bewitched Bothered and Bewildered” is my favorite song in the whole world. Grandma used to play it over and over on her old hi-fi. It was her favorite, too, and I guess it just kind of seeped into my pores.

At some point it occurred to me that Grandma had pretty sophisticated musical taste for somebody who grew up and spent her whole life—except for her mysterious Paris escapade, anyway—in Kirland, Indiana. At first, it was hard for me to picture my Grandma young, wearing her dangerous dress, and dancing to all those fabulous old songs. But once I pictured it, it all fit. The songs she played seemed to go with the dress. Now that the dress was gone, there was no point thinking any more about the mystery. But at least I still remembered “Bewitched Bothered and Bewildered.”

I was feeling all those things. About Reed. Things were happening awfully quickly—job things, and maybe other things, too. And, even though I hate to admit it, I was also feeling those things about Josh. Who, despite all my best efforts, kept popping into my head at the most inopportune moments. Which was really inconsiderate of him.

The singer’s sweet, sad voice washed over me.
“I’m wild again . . . beguiled again . . .”

At exactly that minute, a man walked up to the bar. He was wearing a Houston Astros baseball cap. My first thought, can you believe it, was
Why are Astros baseball caps suddenly sweeping Paris?
But of course they weren’t. Because the man wearing the cap was Josh Thomas.

Before I could even try to hide, Josh saw me. He looked surprised.

Josh also saw that the seat next to me was empty. In two seconds it wasn’t empty anymore, because he was sitting in it. “What are you doing here?” he asked. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

So I was right: He was stalking me. Maybe I should yell for help. On the other hand, he might know where they had taken my mom’s suitcase, with Grandma’s dress. If Josh knew where it was, I wouldn’t have to sit around and wait for reports from Reed’s investigative team. That must have been why, in spite of myself, some part of me was glad to see him.

“Where is it?” I demanded.

“What?”

“I saw what you did. Just tell me, where did they take it?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I spotted Reed emerging from the restroom, but he hadn’t seen Josh yet. “If you won’t tell me where it is, then you have to leave right now.”

“Are you kidding? I told you, I’ve been looking for you. Now that you’re here, I’m not going anywhere.”

How could I possibly explain to Reed what Josh was doing there? Not only was Josh not going to tell me where they took the suitcase, he was going to stick around for spite and ruin my chances of becoming a star, not to mention my chances with Reed. It was bad enough that Josh had brought down a curse on me for losing Grandma’s dress, but now it seemed he was going to magically reappear at the worst possible moments, just to make personally sure that I stayed miserable forever.

I looked right into Josh’s complicated, attractive eyes. I felt myself getting warm all over. I thought,
This is the first time I have hated somebody so much that looking them in the eyes makes me warm all over.

“Is this guy bothering you?” came a deep voice from over my shoulder. Reed was back.

“Why are you still in Paris?” I asked Josh very quietly.

“I’m chasing a lost cause,” he said.

Reed put his big hands on my shoulders. “Well?”

“Scram,” said Josh. Which he probably should not have done, even though for just a second I thought it was very brave of him. Then he stood up. Which he definitely should not have done. Because as I have told you, Reed is a very tall man, and Josh is not.