As I Fade (One Breath at a Time: Book 1) (20 page)

-16-

Another Time in Paris 2013

An Uninvited Visitor

“Hello, it’s Brielle Eden, leave a message at the tone, and I’ll call you back.” For the thousandth time, Nuilley Lambert listened to the greeting on Brielle’s voice mail. The long beep rang in her ears.

Disappointment riddled in Nuilley. The reason Brielle wasn’t picking up was her fault, and she instinctively knew this. “Brielle, I’m outside of your place...please, please, let me in. We need to end this issue between us—whatever it is, I’m sure it’s my fault and I’m sorry. Please let me in, I need to explain!”

Nuilley hadn’t heard from her best friend in over ten days. Her patience was growing thin, and she aimed to see Brielle face to face and end this rift between them.

With courage and one goal in mind, she padded up the beaten down cemented steps of the old brownstone where Brielle lived. Hitting the yellowing button next to the number 311 on the main intercom, she waited nervously for Brielle to answer. She glanced at her watch: 9:35 pm. She hoped it wasn’t too late to stop by unannounced, but she needed answers and didn’t care at this point. Nuilley had no idea why Brielle refused to take her calls—okay, she had an idea but not one that constituted torturing her.

“Hello?” Nuilley jumped back. Unexpectedly, a man’s voice called out from the scratchy, antiquated intercom box. Nuilley recognized him as Mr. Piccart, the landlord of the brownstone, but his voice resembled the voice of a tin man. It sounded as if he were trapped in a tin can to be precise.

“
Hi, it’s Nuilley...Brie’s friend. Sorry to bother you, I thought I hit Brie’s number.”

“
No, you missed hers by far...it’s 311...she’s above me on the intercom. Can’t you see her name, it’s written pretty clearly?” he questioned with a bit of irritation in his voice.

Nuilley winced, and looked at the keypad again, certain she had hit Brielle’s number. She hoped she hadn’t woken the old guy up.

“Okay thanks,” she said, making sure this time she pressed 311. With her finger on 311 she carefully hit the button and waited for an answer.

“
Hello?”

“
Mr. Piccart, I’m so sorry, but I hit 311 and got you again.”

“
Who did you say you were?” he asked, strangely.

“
Nuilley...Brielle’s best friend,” she spoke clearly so he could hear her, remembering that he used a hearing aid from time to time. Brielle claimed it was just a showpiece he used as an excuse for his selective hearing choices. Nuilley made sure to raise the volume in her voice so he wouldn’t have any excuses tonight.

“
Oh yes, I remember you...give me a minute, and I’ll be right out.”

She bit the skin of her bottom lip, anxiously waiting for him to greet her. As she waited, she pondered if Brielle was mad at her for not coming over the night they had a tornado warning. That had to be the problem...

Since then, Nuilley had tried to reach out to her so many times: making phone calls, sending emails and stopping by at odd hours. Nuilley even sent her favorite flowers as an apology for not coming over that night when Brielle had practically begged her. Instead of going to comfort her friend, she spent the night in the arms of a one-night stand, someone who didn’t mean
shit
to her. Of course, Brielle never knew this, but she did. There had been no replies to any of her attempts. Surely Brielle wasn’t still angry—not for this long—although it appeared as if she was. They had never gone over a few days without talking in the past for things far more serious than not showing up during a terrible storm. For days she thought Brielle was behaving unreasonably, but now she was beginning to understand that small choices could result in great losses. Now, it seemed as if her friendship with Brielle was heading down the tubes.

Startled slightly when the large doors creaked opened, her thoughts focused on getting past the gatekeeper and up to Brielle’s apartment.

Nuilley smiled, looking down at the old man she had met on several occasions with Brielle. She towered over him, by far. Barefooted, Nuilley stood 5’10” and in her heels, her height easily reached over six feet. “Hello, Mr. Piccart,” she said cordially, scanning the room behind him, hoping to see Brielle.

He was dressed in black silk pajamas and red flannel slippers. His white and gray hair lay disarrayed, poking out in all directions. The scent of his cologne was overwhelming.

Curiously he asked, “Nuilley, is that you?”

She smiled, happily that he remembered her. “Yes! Hello.”

He gazed at her with a perplexed look on his face. “You look different.”

“
Oh, yes I grew my hair out since you last saw me,” she grasped a wad of it and looked down at her long strands. “When you saw me last it was blond—it’s back to red again—my natural color.” She rolled her brilliant green eyes upward and flashed him a huge camera-ready grin.

“
Any color you wear can’t hide
pretty
on you.” He complimented her in a notable southern drawl.

“
Tsk...you’re the sweetest.”

“
So, what brings you to the brownstone...this late, I mean?” He was definitely surprised by her visit. “It must be important.”

“
Yes, it is...it’s about Brielle,” she said breathlessly, concerned about whether she should mention Brielle’s mysterious absence. Without further thought, she unloaded on him. “I haven’t talked to Brie in ten days.”

“
And? What’s the problem?”

“
It’s not like us! We talk every other day usually. I’ve called her over a thousand times, and her phone goes straight to voicemail. I’ve emailed her, too. I haven’t heard one peep from her since the night we had tornado warnings. I’m really worried about her.” She hoped her disclosure of the facts wouldn’t make things worse between Brielle and her.

“
Hmm...really?” His eyes narrowed, and Nuilley didn’t miss how he looked down, breaking their eye contact.

“
Have you seen her?” Nuilley asked inquisitively.

“
Well...well...let me think for a moment.” He stepped backwards, finger combing his wild strands of hair into place. “Please, step inside.” He closed the door behind her. When he slammed it hard into the tight swell of the doorframe, it shook the surrounding walls.

“
Thank you.” She stepped further into the foyer and mumbled under her breath, “Wow, it’s awfully hot in here.” She glanced back over her shoulder. “Does the door always cause such a vibration?” A chill crawled across her warm skin. Her eyes darted around the lobby. Nuilley never liked the eerie feeling she got when visiting Brielle in the past. She preferred modern buildings to old ones, unlike Brielle who always had a strong fondness for old things for as long as Nuilley could remember. She insisted on living in the charming brownstone when the University—as part of her monthly stipend—offered it to her. Nuilley didn’t see the charm in the brownstone at all. It was old and in great need of renovations.

“
It does,” he replied as if it was no big deal. “Old things groan, you know...”

“
Yes, I suppose they do.” She smiled genuinely, acknowledging that she understood his analogy. She tickled the end of her nose and breathed in deeply toward him, adding a soft smile.

“
Is there something wrong?” Mr. Piccart asked.

“
Not at all. Your cologne, it reminds me of something my father used to wear.”

“
Old Spice,” he grinned and said, “It’s old, but I add the spice,” he snickered out a laugh.

“
That’s cute.” She giggled. The scent sparked a warm memory of her father, not that of a frisky old man.

“
All the men in my day used to wear it. Your father had good taste.” She noted he used the word had.

“
Yes, it’s very nice.”

“
Come in, come in,” he walked further into the lobby towards the sofa. “Sit down. It’s not often I get such a pretty visitor.” He appraised her up and down. “You have such beautiful green eyes.”

Nuilley smiled broadly. “Thank you—I would love to visit, but I really need to see, Brielle.”

“Oh, that’s too bad, she’s not as interesting as me...” he joked, with a hint of disappointment. Now that he had seen her again—he had forgotten how gorgeous Brielle’s friend was, and he wanted to get reacquainted with her.

“
You’re funny, Mr. Piccart.” She laughed and followed in his footsteps. Her heels clicked against the marbled floors.

“
Call me, Mason.”

“
Okay.” She grimaced behind his back, calling him by his first name was not an option for her. Without Brielle present, she noticed the old guy was trying to flirt with her, so it was best to keep things formal.

Nuilley couldn’t help but notice the fire burning in the lobby fireplace. That explained the rising heat in the room. She could tell it hadn’t burned long and could still see the label of the
Duraflame
anytime fire logs.
So this was what took him so long to answer the door, dirty old dog
, she thought,
he was starting a fire.
“You have a fire going in the middle of spring?”

“
Atmosphere,” he said simply.

“
I see.” She softly smiled at him, laughing inwardly. What was he thinking?

“
Do you?” he asked, raising his brow then flashed her a lecherous wink. His eyes played tricks on him. Nuilley was the spitting image of a young woman he used to love, without the height. The young woman was the love of his life, and the one who got away. He missed her still.

Caught off guard by the wink, she immediately recalled Brielle telling her that he often enjoyed the company of younger women, like that of an old fool. Nuilley couldn’t imagine what he could do with any woman at his ripe old age. He was hardly a Hugh Hefner, maybe in his day he was, but “time had done caught up with him,” as the old saying went.

Brielle referred to him as an eccentric old fool who was harmless—she meant this in the most endearing way. Brielle also happened to think the world of him. Nuilley hadn’t spent that much time with Mr. Piccart socially, so she really didn’t know how to handle him. Typically, if a man made an inappropriate pass toward her, he’d wished he hadn’t after Nuilley was through with him, but she couldn’t offend Brielle’s landlord. In this case, ignoring him was the best route to take. He was actually cute and kind of entertaining!

Mr. Piccart took a seat in the club chair. To be polite, as she waited to see Brielle, she sat down on the edge of the sofa, barely. Crossing one leg over the other tightly, her long legs hunched upward because the height of seat was low to the ground, causing her knees to rise higher than they should. She folded both hands over her exposed knees, shifting her weight and legs sideways, trying to hide as much skin as possible. Dressed in a short skirt that retreated even higher when she sat down, she didn’t want to give Mr. Piccart any false hope, ideas or peeks.

“You have a lovely home here,” she said, trying to make small talk before she went up to Brielle’s place.

“
Thank you, we like it here.” His eyes darted around the room.

She knew he meant Brielle and him because there weren’t any others who lived in the big old brownstone.

“Well, I guess I’ll go up and visit with Brielle now,” She slowly began to push up from the sofa. “She’s home, right?”

“
I’m not sure.”

“
Oh,” Nuilley sank back onto the sofa. “When did you see her last? Today?” she asked in an encouraging tone, practically spoon-feeding him the answer she wanted to hear.

“
If my memory serves me well...” He paused with a pensive look in his eyes, contemplating. “Why...yes I did,” he said in a chipper tone. Relieved her friend was alive and well, still her heart sank.

“
Really? You’re sure it was today?”

“
I think so...I’m pretty tired, but yes, it was today.”

“
What was she doing...writing?”

“
That’s right she was.” His answer didn’t validate that he had actually seen her eye to eye.

Without notice, he pushed up from his chair and walked to the fireplace and picked up the iron poker and turned the logs around as he spoke, “Did you two sweet girls have a fight?” He glanced over at her suspiciously.

“No, we didn’t—did you actually see her writing or is that what you think she was doing?” she probed him, standing.

“
You remind me of the character in a detective series I wrote years ago. The series was a big hit. Would you like to hear about it?” he asked proudly and continued on before Nuilley could reply. So much for claming he was tired. “The main character—the detective—he would ask the suspect a series of questions, pause and then stared them down, then answered the questions himself before the suspect could answer. It’s a coy technique to trick people into telling the truth. You have the same knack.”