distract her for a couple hours.
One problem persists, however. Even if Mrs. Suarez doesn’t come until Wednesday, as planned, Ferdinand still has to tackle the cursed housework, and soon. A saying surfaces in his memory, one his old supervisors used to use every time Ferdinand made a suggestion: “We can’t all be good at everything.” A way of sending him packing and asking him to concentrate on his own work instead of his neighbor’s. And it’s true that Ferdinand’s thing, his forte, is . . . what is it, anyway? One thing is certain: it’s not housework! Then again, a woman, more precisely a cleaning woman, would know how to solve the problem. But where to find such an expert on short notice?
Ferdinand sees two options—either ask Juliette for their housekeeper’s contact info, or ask one of the neighbor ladies for her housekeeper’s contact info. But Ferdinand doesn’t fancy letting Juliette know he wasn’t able to do his housework. He had the time—taking into account the diversion he’s planning—and he had the products. But neither the desire nor the courage. As for the second option, he’d have to find a neighbor lady who wouldn’t say anything to Mrs. Suarez, and that’s mission impossible. Ferdinand is at an impasse. Or he could call an agency and pray they send someone competent. But it’s likely all the good ones are taken. The clock is ticking. Ferdinand decides to set up Mrs. Suarez’s diversion.
His trap set, Ferdinand is climbing back up the stairs when he hears the door slam on the second floor. Darn, it’s the old bat Mrs. Claudel. He doesn’t want to cross paths with her, not now. She’s going to ask him how he’s been doing since Daisy. Back against the wall, he risks a peek. Oh, no, she’s carrying glass bottles. She’s going to ruin everything if she goes in the trash area. Shoot! Ferdinand has no choice: he has to detain her, otherwise, it’s the retirement home for sure! He climbs the last few steps and calls out, “Hello, ma’am. I’d like to have a word with you, if you don’t mind. It’s important and extremely urgent.”
“Of course, Mr. Brun. What is it?” she asks in surprise.
“Since my dog died, there are too many memories at home. It would be easier for me to say good-bye if I had some help to put her things away.”
“I was just about to go to church—I’m organizing guided tours there—but tomorrow afternoon I can give you a hand. I understand this isn’t exactly easy.”
“That’s very kind of you, but I was thinking more along the lines of your housekeeper. You do have one, don’t you?”
Beatrice nods.
“Could you ask her to do me a favor? The sooner the better.”
“If it’s that urgent, you should call her right now.”
Beatrice gets her keys out of her purse and motions for Ferdinand to follow her. A few steps into the entryway, he’s dazzled by the brightness and beauty of the place. How can an apartment identical to his own, and with the same exposure, be so different? Magnificent, even. How can he be bathed in sunlight at 3:50 p.m.? Everything is in perfect order and sparkling clean. It’s like being in a mansion. The walls are papered in a discreet English pattern, with beautiful moldings and millwork. The chandeliers and chevron-patterned parquet floor give the impression of a ballroom. The timeless family heirloom furniture is ornamented with finely gilded handles. On the walls are numerous oil paintings, probably paying homage to illustrious family members. Above the old mantel hangs a masterpiece—the portrait of a marshal of the Empire, surely an illustrious member of the Claudel family.
Most impressive, however, is the library that occupies the entire length of the dining room wall. The wood is magnificent, the finish delicate. The wide shelves hold hundreds of old books, arranged by publisher, whose gilded bindings match the amber color of the wood. Ferdinand doesn’t know much about art, literature, or even
One problem persists, however. Even if Mrs. Suarez doesn’t come until Wednesday, as planned, Ferdinand still has to tackle the cursed housework, and soon. A saying surfaces in his memory, one his old supervisors used to use every time Ferdinand made a suggestion: “We can’t all be good at everything.” A way of sending him packing and asking him to concentrate on his own work instead of his neighbor’s. And it’s true that Ferdinand’s thing, his forte, is . . . what is it, anyway? One thing is certain: it’s not housework! Then again, a woman, more precisely a cleaning woman, would know how to solve the problem. But where to find such an expert on short notice?
Ferdinand sees two options—either ask Juliette for their housekeeper’s contact info, or ask one of the neighbor ladies for her housekeeper’s contact info. But Ferdinand doesn’t fancy letting Juliette know he wasn’t able to do his housework. He had the time—taking into account the diversion he’s planning—and he had the products. But neither the desire nor the courage. As for the second option, he’d have to find a neighbor lady who wouldn’t say anything to Mrs. Suarez, and that’s mission impossible. Ferdinand is at an impasse. Or he could call an agency and pray they send someone competent. But it’s likely all the good ones are taken. The clock is ticking. Ferdinand decides to set up Mrs. Suarez’s diversion.
His trap set, Ferdinand is climbing back up the stairs when he hears the door slam on the second floor. Darn, it’s the old bat Mrs. Claudel. He doesn’t want to cross paths with her, not now. She’s going to ask him how he’s been doing since Daisy. Back against the wall, he risks a peek. Oh, no, she’s carrying glass bottles. She’s going to ruin everything if she goes in the trash area. Shoot! Ferdinand has no choice: he has to detain her, otherwise, it’s the retirement home for sure! He climbs the last few steps and calls out, “Hello, ma’am. I’d like to have a word with you, if you don’t mind. It’s important and extremely urgent.”
“Of course, Mr. Brun. What is it?” she asks in surprise.
“Since my dog died, there are too many memories at home. It would be easier for me to say good-bye if I had some help to put her things away.”
“I was just about to go to church—I’m organizing guided tours there—but tomorrow afternoon I can give you a hand. I understand this isn’t exactly easy.”
“That’s very kind of you, but I was thinking more along the lines of your housekeeper. You do have one, don’t you?”
Beatrice nods.
“Could you ask her to do me a favor? The sooner the better.”
“If it’s that urgent, you should call her right now.”
Beatrice gets her keys out of her purse and motions for Ferdinand to follow her. A few steps into the entryway, he’s dazzled by the brightness and beauty of the place. How can an apartment identical to his own, and with the same exposure, be so different? Magnificent, even. How can he be bathed in sunlight at 3:50 p.m.? Everything is in perfect order and sparkling clean. It’s like being in a mansion. The walls are papered in a discreet English pattern, with beautiful moldings and millwork. The chandeliers and chevron-patterned parquet floor give the impression of a ballroom. The timeless family heirloom furniture is ornamented with finely gilded handles. On the walls are numerous oil paintings, probably paying homage to illustrious family members. Above the old mantel hangs a masterpiece—the portrait of a marshal of the Empire, surely an illustrious member of the Claudel family.
Most impressive, however, is the library that occupies the entire length of the dining room wall. The wood is magnificent, the finish delicate. The wide shelves hold hundreds of old books, arranged by publisher, whose gilded bindings match the amber color of the wood. Ferdinand doesn’t know much about art, literature, or even
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