name?”
“He doesn’t have a name.” Viola handed her the leash. “I thought you’d want to name him.”
Great. She took the soggy leash and wondered how the day had gone so bad so quickly.
Chapter Seven
Viola ascended from the Metro station onto the busy corner at Place Saint Michel. Some of the milling people were obviously French, with their bags and scarves and dour expressions. Some were obviously tourists, with their maps and backpacks and lost expressions.
Taking a deep breath, she checked the map on her mobile and headed toward Quai des Grands Augustins along the Seine. For the first time in years she didn’t feel lost. She had a purpose. She was going to get Phineas Buchanan.
Or rather his art.
According to Google Maps, she needed to turn left on Rue des Grands Augustins and then right on Rue du Pont de Lodi. His building was toward the end of the block, on the left.
She found it without any trouble. His friend Jasmine had said that his workshop was on the bottom floor.
Sure enough, there was a brass plaque on the side by the door: Atelier de Phineas Buchanan, Menuisier. To the left, there was a button.
She pressed it, and a buzzer sounded somewhere deep inside. Stepping back, she toned her smile down so she wouldn’t scare him.
No one answered.
The lights weren’t on downstairs. Maybe he hadn’t arrived yet? She framed her eyes with her hands to look in the window. It was only ten in the morning. Hopefully he was planning on coming in. She hadn’t considered that he wouldn’t be in every day. It was Friday.
Maybe she should have come here straight from the airport yesterday. She shook her head. She couldn’t feel guilty about that. She’d found a charming little art gallery, and when she’d stopped to look at the work, the owner had invited her in to chat and have a glass of wine. It’d turned out to be a coup, because the owner gave her the phone numbers of a few promising artists to recruit for her opening night.
Vi loved Paris.
Charles had never liked it, saying the French were pompous. Viola wagered they only reflected what he put out.
A cold gust of wind whipped at her, and she moved into the protection of the doorway. Unable to help herself, she pressed the buzzer again. How long should she wait? She tapped her foot, wanting to huff a beleaguered sigh the way Chloe would.
She winced, guilty over leaving her daughter at home. It was more time with Charles, which would only serve Chloe. At least that was what Vi told herself.
She also told herself that she went to Paris for the two of them, for their future, but also to demonstrate that it was important to live your dream. She didn’t want the only example Chloe had to be a cheating father whose idea of affection was a scolding.
The door opened without warning. She whirled around to find herself looking into annoyed brown eyes.
“What are you doing here?” Phineas Buchanan said, his voice gruff as though he hadn’t used it in days. He looked her over from head to toe, making her feel glad that she’d worn some of the lingerie her sister Portia had forced her to buy. Not that he’d see it, but it made her feel confident from the inside out.
Then she realized he watched her like he recognized her. She straightened, thrilled, because while her other sisters were memorable, no one had ever noted her.
She cleared her throat. “I came to find you.”
“How did you know to come here?” A look of comprehension darkened his face. “Jasmine.”
“Don’t be upset with her. I forced her to give me your address.”
“Because she’s so weak-willed,” he said mockingly. He crossed his arms, legs braced apart. “So why are you here?”
“I want you.”
His gaze focused on her lips.
“Not like that.” Although she wouldn’t mind kissing him. She put her fingers to them before she realized she was wearing lipstick. With her luck, she probably smeared the dusky pink all over her face. She surreptitiously rubbed her
“He doesn’t have a name.” Viola handed her the leash. “I thought you’d want to name him.”
Great. She took the soggy leash and wondered how the day had gone so bad so quickly.
Chapter Seven
Viola ascended from the Metro station onto the busy corner at Place Saint Michel. Some of the milling people were obviously French, with their bags and scarves and dour expressions. Some were obviously tourists, with their maps and backpacks and lost expressions.
Taking a deep breath, she checked the map on her mobile and headed toward Quai des Grands Augustins along the Seine. For the first time in years she didn’t feel lost. She had a purpose. She was going to get Phineas Buchanan.
Or rather his art.
According to Google Maps, she needed to turn left on Rue des Grands Augustins and then right on Rue du Pont de Lodi. His building was toward the end of the block, on the left.
She found it without any trouble. His friend Jasmine had said that his workshop was on the bottom floor.
Sure enough, there was a brass plaque on the side by the door: Atelier de Phineas Buchanan, Menuisier. To the left, there was a button.
She pressed it, and a buzzer sounded somewhere deep inside. Stepping back, she toned her smile down so she wouldn’t scare him.
No one answered.
The lights weren’t on downstairs. Maybe he hadn’t arrived yet? She framed her eyes with her hands to look in the window. It was only ten in the morning. Hopefully he was planning on coming in. She hadn’t considered that he wouldn’t be in every day. It was Friday.
Maybe she should have come here straight from the airport yesterday. She shook her head. She couldn’t feel guilty about that. She’d found a charming little art gallery, and when she’d stopped to look at the work, the owner had invited her in to chat and have a glass of wine. It’d turned out to be a coup, because the owner gave her the phone numbers of a few promising artists to recruit for her opening night.
Vi loved Paris.
Charles had never liked it, saying the French were pompous. Viola wagered they only reflected what he put out.
A cold gust of wind whipped at her, and she moved into the protection of the doorway. Unable to help herself, she pressed the buzzer again. How long should she wait? She tapped her foot, wanting to huff a beleaguered sigh the way Chloe would.
She winced, guilty over leaving her daughter at home. It was more time with Charles, which would only serve Chloe. At least that was what Vi told herself.
She also told herself that she went to Paris for the two of them, for their future, but also to demonstrate that it was important to live your dream. She didn’t want the only example Chloe had to be a cheating father whose idea of affection was a scolding.
The door opened without warning. She whirled around to find herself looking into annoyed brown eyes.
“What are you doing here?” Phineas Buchanan said, his voice gruff as though he hadn’t used it in days. He looked her over from head to toe, making her feel glad that she’d worn some of the lingerie her sister Portia had forced her to buy. Not that he’d see it, but it made her feel confident from the inside out.
Then she realized he watched her like he recognized her. She straightened, thrilled, because while her other sisters were memorable, no one had ever noted her.
She cleared her throat. “I came to find you.”
“How did you know to come here?” A look of comprehension darkened his face. “Jasmine.”
“Don’t be upset with her. I forced her to give me your address.”
“Because she’s so weak-willed,” he said mockingly. He crossed his arms, legs braced apart. “So why are you here?”
“I want you.”
His gaze focused on her lips.
“Not like that.” Although she wouldn’t mind kissing him. She put her fingers to them before she realized she was wearing lipstick. With her luck, she probably smeared the dusky pink all over her face. She surreptitiously rubbed her
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