before?”
“It feels like I’m freezing my butt off!” I said, squealing as he dropped the basket and picked me up in his arms.
“Okay, that’s a little warmer,” I conceded as he held me off the ground in a bear hug.
“Let’s drop this basket off at my place, and then we’ll be on our way to destination number two,” he said, setting me back down and swooping the picnic basket up on one arm.
“Which is?” I asked, wrapping my hands around his free arm and drawing him closer as we left the park and headed toward La Maison.
“Well, that depends. Have you been to the war museum at Les Invalides?”
I scrunched my nose in distaste. “I know where it is. But since it doesn’t have many paintings, I never bothered. Are we talking tanks and guns and, um, war stuff?”
Vincent glanced down at me and laughed. “Yeah, they have tanks and guns and a fascinating World War Two collection, but to tell you the truth, it’s a bit of a downer. Especially for those of us who lived through it. No, I was planning on skipping those parts and taking you directly to the ancient weaponry section. The pieces in that room are as much art as a painting by John Singer Sargent.”
“Hmm. I have a feeling that’s going to be a matter of opinion.”
“Seriously, there’s this thirteenth-century dagger worked with silver and enamel inlay that deserves a room to itself at the Louvre.”
“Do they have crossbows?”
“Do they have crossbows! Only a whole roomful. Including Catherine de Médicis’s gold-encrusted one. Why?”
“I love crossbows. They’re so … I don’t know … badass.”
Vincent’s surprised laugh was between a sputter and a cough. “Note to self: Add crossbow lessons to Kate’s regularly scheduled training sessions!” He pushed his front gate open, placed the basket on top of the mailbox, and pulled the gate shut behind us. “Do you think you could arrange for that, Gaspard?” he added.
“Oh, hi, Gaspard!” I said to the air.
“Gaspard asked me to reassure you that he’s not crashing our date,” Vincent said.
“I don’t mind if you want to come along,” I said. “Knowing you, I doubt it’ll be your first time at the war museum.”
Vincent offered me his arm and began leading me back in the direction we had come from. “Gaspard actually contributed the research done on the oldest pieces in their collection. He knows the place better than most of the museum’s curators.” He was silent for a few seconds, listening. “He says he’ll pass on the museum, but will accompany us for a few blocks since we’re going in the same direction he was heading.”
We started toward the museum, a good twenty-minute walk away, carrying on our bizarre three-way chat for a couple of blocks before Vincent stopped abruptly. “What is it?” I asked, watching his face as he listened to words I couldn’t hear.
“Gaspard sees something. We just have a couple of minutes. Come on,” Vincent said, and, taking my hand, began running down a small street toward one of the larger avenues.
“Where are we going?” I asked as we ran, but Vincent was too busy listening to Gaspard and shooting questions like, “How many people?” and “Where’s the driver?” My alarm mounted when we reached the boulevard Raspail and Vincent said, “Kate, stay back, and watch out—there’s a truck …”
And then we saw it cresting the top of the hill: a large white delivery truck careening down the middle of the four lanes. It weaved dangerously as it straddled the center line, obviously out of control. I gasped when I realized that there was no driver behind the wheel.
Turning to the crosswalk, I spotted several pedestrians crossing the intersection, completely unaware of the danger heading toward them. Although it was still two blocks away, the truck wasn’t slowing. And at the speed it was coming, the people in the middle of the crosswalk had no chance of escaping its trajectory. “Oh my God. Do something!” I urged Vincent,
“It feels like I’m freezing my butt off!” I said, squealing as he dropped the basket and picked me up in his arms.
“Okay, that’s a little warmer,” I conceded as he held me off the ground in a bear hug.
“Let’s drop this basket off at my place, and then we’ll be on our way to destination number two,” he said, setting me back down and swooping the picnic basket up on one arm.
“Which is?” I asked, wrapping my hands around his free arm and drawing him closer as we left the park and headed toward La Maison.
“Well, that depends. Have you been to the war museum at Les Invalides?”
I scrunched my nose in distaste. “I know where it is. But since it doesn’t have many paintings, I never bothered. Are we talking tanks and guns and, um, war stuff?”
Vincent glanced down at me and laughed. “Yeah, they have tanks and guns and a fascinating World War Two collection, but to tell you the truth, it’s a bit of a downer. Especially for those of us who lived through it. No, I was planning on skipping those parts and taking you directly to the ancient weaponry section. The pieces in that room are as much art as a painting by John Singer Sargent.”
“Hmm. I have a feeling that’s going to be a matter of opinion.”
“Seriously, there’s this thirteenth-century dagger worked with silver and enamel inlay that deserves a room to itself at the Louvre.”
“Do they have crossbows?”
“Do they have crossbows! Only a whole roomful. Including Catherine de Médicis’s gold-encrusted one. Why?”
“I love crossbows. They’re so … I don’t know … badass.”
Vincent’s surprised laugh was between a sputter and a cough. “Note to self: Add crossbow lessons to Kate’s regularly scheduled training sessions!” He pushed his front gate open, placed the basket on top of the mailbox, and pulled the gate shut behind us. “Do you think you could arrange for that, Gaspard?” he added.
“Oh, hi, Gaspard!” I said to the air.
“Gaspard asked me to reassure you that he’s not crashing our date,” Vincent said.
“I don’t mind if you want to come along,” I said. “Knowing you, I doubt it’ll be your first time at the war museum.”
Vincent offered me his arm and began leading me back in the direction we had come from. “Gaspard actually contributed the research done on the oldest pieces in their collection. He knows the place better than most of the museum’s curators.” He was silent for a few seconds, listening. “He says he’ll pass on the museum, but will accompany us for a few blocks since we’re going in the same direction he was heading.”
We started toward the museum, a good twenty-minute walk away, carrying on our bizarre three-way chat for a couple of blocks before Vincent stopped abruptly. “What is it?” I asked, watching his face as he listened to words I couldn’t hear.
“Gaspard sees something. We just have a couple of minutes. Come on,” Vincent said, and, taking my hand, began running down a small street toward one of the larger avenues.
“Where are we going?” I asked as we ran, but Vincent was too busy listening to Gaspard and shooting questions like, “How many people?” and “Where’s the driver?” My alarm mounted when we reached the boulevard Raspail and Vincent said, “Kate, stay back, and watch out—there’s a truck …”
And then we saw it cresting the top of the hill: a large white delivery truck careening down the middle of the four lanes. It weaved dangerously as it straddled the center line, obviously out of control. I gasped when I realized that there was no driver behind the wheel.
Turning to the crosswalk, I spotted several pedestrians crossing the intersection, completely unaware of the danger heading toward them. Although it was still two blocks away, the truck wasn’t slowing. And at the speed it was coming, the people in the middle of the crosswalk had no chance of escaping its trajectory. “Oh my God. Do something!” I urged Vincent,
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