4
Bright light streams through the window—too bright. I groan, burying my face in the pillow. Last night is a blur, and it takes
me a long moment to find my bearings, but when I do, it all comes rushing back: Bainbridge Island, wine, the guesthouse. The guesthouse. I sit up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. What time is it? How long have I been asleep? Rosie must be making breakfast. I freeze as my surroundings come into focus—the antique pane windows fitted with wispy linen drapes, the crystal chandelier
overhead, the... black silk negligee I’m wearing, and nothing else. I gasp, reaching for the white duvet to cover my chest.
This is not the guesthouse, nor is it Bainbridge Island.
Where the hell am I?
“Hello, mon amour ,” a shirtless man says from the doorway holding a silver tray, which is when I let out a shrill scream.
“What was that for?” he continues, walking closer, setting a breakfast tray with croissants and scrambled eggs beside me.
“Did you have a bad dream?”
My eyes dart around the room, pausing briefly when I notice an oversize candle in a thick glass jar on the nightstand. It’s
gigantic, like weapon-size, and, when I creep a few more inches to the right, fortunately in my grasp. With any luck, I can
hit him over the head, stun him long enough to get out of here.
“What was it this time?” he asks, my heart racing as he inches closer. “The plane crash dream, or the other thing—you know, the one when you try to speak and nothing comes out?”
His accent is thick—French, definitely—and also familiar , though I can’t quite place him, nor do I have the slightest recollection of how I ended up here. I’ve been kidnapped, obviously—and
probably drugged. Rosie’s undoubtedly looking for me at this very moment, probably even called the police. My hands tremble
as I clench the herculean candle under the sheet, adrenaline coursing through my veins. I feel like I’m in a horror movie,
but the terror is real. If he gets any closer, I’ll...
“I know what’ll cheer you up,” he says with a mischievous grin. He plants his elbow on the bed, the edge of his face resting
in his palm. “What always cheers you up.” He brushes a lock of his wavy brown hair from his eyes, then reaches under the covers, caressing my left
thigh.
“Get your hands off me!” I scream, adrenaline taking over as I reach for the candle, leap out of bed, and race to the corner
of the room, where I stare at him, shaking like a frightened animal.
The man laughs, walking toward me, as if he thinks this is some sort of game, albeit a sick one. “Feeling feisty this morning,
I see.”
I hurl the candle toward him, but he ducks, and it shatters against the wall leaving a mess of jagged shards of moss-green
glass and chunks of candle wax beside the window.
“Lena? What the hell?” He shakes his head, muttering something in French, which I can’t understand. “I get it. You’re not
in the mood. But there are better ways to convey the message than destroying a Monique Pierre candle.” He sighs. “I guess
that’s what I get for marrying an American woman.”
Marrying... me?
He’s obviously delusional, but I have no business arguing with my kidnapper. I’ll have to play nice until I figure out how
to get out of here.
“ Merde ,” he grunts as he glances at his gold Rolex, then slips into a tailored white shirt and pulls on a pair of pants. “I made coffee with those beans you love from Seattle—get it while it’s hot.”
Okay, so he’s a hospitable kidnapper? Still, I’m hardly in the clear. At any moment he might handcuff me to the bed. Instead, he laces up his shoes
and heads to the doorway.
I clear my throat. “So, you’re... just going to leave me here?” My voice is jittery and high-pitched.
He shakes his head, obviously confused.
“You’re not going to... tie me up or anything?” I continue, instantly regretting the words that have just flown out of
my mouth. Apparently I am the idiot who feeds her captor ideas.
“No, my naughty, naughty wife,” he says, shaking his head with a laugh. “But we can do that later, if you’d like.”
Wife. I stand still, speechless, as he reaches for his cell and wallet, blowing me a kiss from the doorway. “Oh, be sure you arrive
before six, okay? Just to make sure everything’s perfect. You know how important this night is for me.”
“Before six,” I mutter despondently, as his shoes clack against the hardwood floors.
When the door clicks shut, I fall to my knees, exhaling deeply. I’m relieved to be alone, though I imagine he’s probably locked
the door from the outside. Why wouldn’t he? I tell myself not to panic, though goose bumps erupt down my arms. Maybe I have
a head injury? I check my scalp for lumps—nothing—which is when I determine that I must have been drugged. I’ve seen those
8 Hours specials, where the innocent woman’s drink gets spiked, and she ends up in a strange hotel room—or worse.
No. I’ll find my way out of here. But first I need to get dressed.
I glance around the room, but the jeans and sweater I was wearing last night appear to have vanished—he destroyed the evidence, no doubt—so I tiptoe to a nearby closet, where I’m shocked to find a smorgasbord of female wardrobe selections. He probably stocks the shelves for his victims, I think, though I don’t waste any time dwelling on any of the nuances of a criminal’s mind. This is my chance to escape, and I need to move fast .
I pull on a pair of black leggings and a light gray hoodie, both of which fit like a glove, then slide my feet into an expensive-looking
pair of nude sandals that I find on the shoe rack—exactly my size—which is when I hear a thud coming from the adjoining room.
Fresh adrenaline surges through my veins as I tiptoe out of the closet, grateful to find a steel poker resting against the
bedroom fireplace. I grab it.
The parquet floorboards creak beneath my feet as I make my way to the doorway. I cautiously survey the apartment’s grand living
room and well-appointed chef’s kitchen, admiring the Lacanche stove and impressive collection of red Le Creuset enamelware.
Apparently it’s possible for psychopaths to have impeccable taste.
Confirming that I’m alone, I drop the poker, just as a mass of black fur descends upon me like a whirling dervish. I lose
my footing, and moments later I’m lying in the kitchen, flat on my back, pinned by four paws and one overly exuberant wet
tongue.
“Down,” I say, struggling to sit up. “I mean, no! Stop! No! Halt?” The enormous canine obeys, retreating to the living room
where he lies down on the rug with a defeated sigh that echoes my own befuddled exhale. Well over 150 pounds, he looks like
a Saint Bernard, with a white chest and front legs and a brown patch on his midsection—cute, if you’re into beasts that slobber.
Where the hell am I?
I eye the balcony outside the windows—in a city, obviously. But where? Seattle is the only logical explanation, and yet...
this is definitely not Seattle . I study the scene outside the paned glass, following the rows of gabled roofs and quaint centuries-old-looking stone buildings, as far as the eye can see. On the street, below, an older man ambles along the sidewalk—a cane in one hand, a baguette in the other. When I look out into the distance, the hair on my arms stands on end. It’s impossible, of course, but there it is: unmistakably the Eiffel Tower, sticking out of the low clouds like it was painted against the horizon.
I gasp, clutching the edge of the windowsill. Paris? No. Absolutely no way . I really must have been drugged and the effects are still wearing off. Water. I need water. I find a glass in the kitchen and fill it, then guzzle every last drop.
After a quick twist of the front doorknob, I’m relieved to discover that it’s unlocked. (Climbing out the window wasn’t exactly
a welcome Plan B.) But, before making my exit, I pause, noticing a cell phone plugged into the wall on the kitchen counter.
I tuck it into my hoodie pocket, then open the counter drawer, which, good news, appears to be the junk drawer. There’s a
handful of bills and some loose change, which I also stuff into my pocket. As I make one final glance around the apartment
for anything useful, a framed photo on the coffee table catches my eye. I pick it up to get a better look. My eyes nearly
pop out of their sockets. There I am, in a fluffy white wedding dress, hair swept into a loose bun and arms wrapped around... the French kidnapper.
No. This isn’t happening. This is not real. I’m just dreaming, or under the influence of some sort of psychedelic substance. I went to sleep in the guesthouse
on Bainbridge Island. How could I have woken up here? With him? Married? My stomach churns and my mouth waters. I stumble to a potted plant beside a nearby window and vomit into the well of a bespoke
urn.
On my knees, I wipe my face and take a breath, glancing down at the vintage-looking diamond ring hugging my left ring finger.
The oval-shaped yellow diamond is staggering, and I let out a little gasp as the picture frame slips from my hand. Its collision
with the parquet hardwood floors leaves a jagged, spiderweb-like pattern on the glass, blurring the smiles in the photo—only
their gazes remain visible—four piercing eyes. That’s when it hits me.
Sebastian. His name is Sebastian. I shake my head, struggling to process the memories as they rise to the surface, one after the next, like waves depositing lost relics onto the shore. Was it six years ago? Seven? We met at a mutual friend’s wedding and, being the only two singles at the reception, the two of us spent most of the night talking... well, mostly questioning the institution of marriage.
“Want to make a guess at how long they’ll last?” Sebastian whispered to me as the newlyweds took to the dance floor with Elvis’s
voice crooning through the speakers: “I... can’t... help... falling in love with you.”
“What are you talking about?” I fired back, a little indignantly. When he didn’t respond, I studied his face with curiosity.
“Aren’t you happy for them?”
“Sure, sure,” he replied. “I’m just saying that they probably have no idea that this is as good as it gets. It’s all downhill
from here.”
Initially, I balked at his sentiments, which struck me as indifferent, but his words lingered—frankly, they hit me to my core.
After all, I’d witnessed the very same thing in my mother’s life before she passed. The endless stream of relationships that
began with fireworks and ended in loathing, the constant search for the one , only to find him... and lose him—on repeat.
“Perhaps you’re just jaded,” I said, sizing him up—at least ten years my senior and handsome. Too handsome.
“And perhaps you’re just naive,” he rattled off with a facetious smile.
I dismissed his words with a wave of my hand as I took another sip of champagne. Still, maybe there was some truth to his
cynicism? What did I know about love, anyway? Only that it ended. But then I thought of the happy couples in my life, Christian
and Frankie, for example.
“Well,” I concluded dismissively, “I think they’re going to be just fine.”
“Sure, maybe,” he replied with a knowing wink as we watched the happy couple on the dance floor.
“So, you’re anti-marriage, then?”
He shook his head. “You’re missing the point.”
“Please enlighten me, then, oh, wise one.”
Sebastian leaned in closer. “I’m neither anti-marriage, nor do I think they’re doomed. I’m just a realist. One person can’t
be your everything . I just think people should remain open to the other people and experience that life brings, you know?”
I raised my eyebrows. “Sounds like something a Frenchman would say.”
“ Touché ,” he replied with a laugh. “But tell me, why must everyone be so hellbent on putting love in a box? Not everything is destined
for... forever. Some relationships burn hot in the beginning—so hot there’s little fuel left to sustain them. Others simmer
at a medium heat, and maybe even get better with time. All I’m saying is that nobody knows for sure. But when we find ourselves
in beautiful moments”—he paused—“like this one... we should enjoy them to their fullest.” He paused, brushing his hand
against mine, letting it linger a little too long.
I shifted my chair back, his words equally obnoxious and provocative.
“Care to dance?” Sebastian asked.
I took a sip of my wine and smiled my reply. Why not? I thought as he led me out to the dance floor, where we both smiled and waved at the bride and groom and their adorable flower
girl twirling around in her white tulle dress.
As he whisked me around the dance floor, thoughts of my mother crept in. Big-hearted and sensitive, she lived her life on
a hamster wheel of sorts, chasing love but never catching it. And for what? To end up exhausted and disillusioned? Alone?
For her, love only disappointed. It remained within view, but always out of reach. Why? Were her problems a function of her
own flaws, or because of the men she fell for—men who could never love her completely?
When the song ended, I told Sebastian I had a headache and needed to sit down. Honestly, though, he rubbed me the wrong way. I couldn’t decide what bothered me more: his flippant hypothesis on love and commitment, or my deep-rooted fear that he was right.
After returning from her Caribbean honeymoon, the bride called me to confess that she’d purposefully seated Sebastian and
me at the same table in the hope that we’d make a connection. “Did you two hit it off?” she asked. “It sure looked like it!”
“Yeah,” I said. “He was... fun.” I didn’t have the heart to tell her that Sebastian had scrawled his number on the back
of a napkin at dinner, and that I’d tossed it in the garbage can later that night.
Sebastian’s enormous canine presses his nose against my leg, leash in his mouth. I clutch my head, reeling. Nothing makes
sense. Nothing at all. All I know is that I have to get out of here—and soon .
“Hey, buddy,” I say, scratching the dog’s neck as I eye the gold tag on his collar. “You’re name’s Claude, huh? Very distinguished.”
I smile, fastening his leash as his tail wags faster—and precariously close to the lamp on the end table. “C’mon, boy. Let’s
go for a walk.”
I haven’t been to Paris since 2012, not that the five-day trip with Frankie left me with any real aptitude for navigating
this city. I’m lost —in the most disturbing sense of the word.
“Claude, slow down!” I scream, clutching the leash with all my might as he barrels out of the building and down the street.
“Heel!” I continue, which I immediately decide is pointless, because I don’t know the word in French—or any French for that
matter—which I assume he understands. Obviously—he’s a French dog. In any case, I have no idea why I decided to escape with
a Saint Bernard who outweighs me, but I’m now regretting it—especially when he makes a beeline for the park ahead, where an
older, chic-looking woman with black-rimmed glasses seems to be waving—at me?
“Mademoiselle Gateau!” she says, approaching. Claude leaps up and plants a slobbery kiss on her left cheek; obviously he knows
her. “ Bonjour! ” she says, wiping the slobber from her cheek, unannoyed. “ Ce soir c’est le grand soir! êtes-vous prêts, toi et Sebastian? ”
I shake my head, utterly confused.
“Ah, not in the mood for French today, I see?” she says in English, laughing. “No problem. I ran into Sebastian at the café.
He said you had a rough morning. Poor thing. Well, c’est la vie . You must snap out of it. The big opening is tonight!”
“I’m sorry,” I say, tightening my grip on the leash when Claude spots a pigeon and lunges. “Um, how do we know each other,
again?”
The woman’s smile fades. “Oh, sweet child,” she says, holding the back of her hand to my forehead. “You’re sick. Shall I call
a doctor?”
“No... I’m fine,” I mutter, fumbling for my phone. “I just... need to call my aunt.”
She furrows her brow. “Honey, let me help you, I—”
“Thank you, but...” I pause as Claude darts ahead, pulling me with him. “I... have to goooooo.”
We zigzag through park benches, narrowly missing several picnic baskets, before I spot a café a few blocks ahead where a waiter
points to an empty table. I tie Claude’s leash to a metal railing then sink into a street-facing chair, catching my breath.
The photo in the apartment. The Frenchwoman just now, who seems to know me. The shoes in the closet—just my size. Am I losing my mind? No. Impossible. I must stay rational. This is only a dream. I drive the edge of a fingernail into my palm, wincing inwardly. Wake up, Lena. Wake the hell up! Sadly, the only result of my self-inflicted pain is a fresh blood blister and bevy of worried glances from people at nearby
tables.
I pull the cell phone out of my pocket, noticing the photo on the main screen—another one of me and... Sebastian, he in
a navy suit, me in a figure-hugging pink minidress—if you could call it a dress, more like a scrap of fabric. The hemline
barely reaches my thighs. I study the photo closer. We’re clinking champagne glasses as if we’re celebrating—as if we’re happy . My face recognition unlocks the phone and I scroll through the photo album. Claude wearing a Santa hat; snaps of exquisite-looking dinners; trips to sandy beaches; Sebastian in bed—his chiseled chest starkly contrasted against the crisp white linen sheets. I bury my head in my hands. Enough.
I dial Rosie’s number as quickly as I can, but something’s wrong—an error message chimes, in French—words I don’t understand.
I try again, with the same result, then try Frankie. Fortunately, the call connects, and she picks up.
“Hi!” she says. “Where are you?”
“Um, in Paris.”
“Duh,” she says, unfazed. “Are you still home?”
“Frankie!” I begin, my voice shaky. A teenage boy walks by the café holding a baguette over his shoulder like a rifle. What is it with the French and their baguettes? “Listen, something happened . Something’s... not right.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I don’t know,” I say, my hands shaking. “I went to sleep last night at Rosie’s—on Bainbridge Island—and I woke up here .
. .”
“So, you had a bad dream, then?” I can picture her eyes narrowing in problem-solving mode. “I know you’ve been homesick since
you guys moved to Paris. It’s only natural to—”
“What do you mean, since we moved to Paris?”
“Um,” she replies, unamused, “if you’re joking, Lene, this isn’t funny.”
“I’m not joking.” I bite the edge of my lip. “Frankie, I’m scared.”
There’s a long silence on the other end of the line before she speaks again. “Where are you right now?” she asks. “I’m worried.”
Tears sting my eyes, but I blink them away. “Like I said, in Paris! With an enormous dog!”
“Good, you’re with Claude.”
“How do you know Claude?”
She mutters something unintelligible, though definitely in French. When did Frankie learn to speak French? My life feels like a snow globe, overly shaken and with jagged cracks on the verge of exploding.
“Lena, did you hit your head or something?”
“No! I mean... I don’t think so?” I pause. “I think I was... kidnapped.”
“Okay,” she says slowly. “Can you tell me what street you’re on?”
I glance up at a nearby street sign. “Um... Rue Street?”
“Lene,” she replies with a sigh. “ Rue is the French word for street. Which one? ”
I take another look at the sign. “Uh... Cler?”
“Rue Cler, okay. Stay put. I’ll jump in a cab and be over in a few minutes.”
“Wait, you’re in Paris, too?”
“Wow, you really are in a state.” She pauses. “Don’t leave, okay? I’ll be there soon.”
As I tuck the phone back in my pocket, a pretty woman in her mid-twenties, dressed in jeans and a tight-fitting black top,
waves at me from a nearby table. Her dirty blonde hair is swept back into a low bun, with wisps effortlessly framing her face
and a cigarette in her left hand. Apparently she knows me, though I don’t recognize her at all.
“Lena,” she calls out, before rattling off something in French.
Here we go again.
I walk toward her, shaking my head, confused.
“English today,” she says with a nod. “Right. Sebastian told me you had a rough morning.”
I furrow my brow. Rough hardly describes what I’m going through, but I don’t stop to explain. Instead I triage. “You talked to... Sebastian ?” Maybe all these people—Frankie, the woman in the park, this woman at the café—they’re all in on some prank? My best friend
is the practical joker type—not one of her most redeeming qualities, I’ll admit. How can I forget the time she’d lacquered a
bar of soap in our shower with clear nail polish? Uh-huh.
And yet, this is far beyond the scope of Frankie being Frankie. In fact, it sort of feels like I’m starring in one of those awful reality shows, where they put a poor soul in some nightmarish situation that brings him to the brink of despair while his friends crack up off-camera.
But there are no cameras. Just me and a very large dog in PARIS, where I have a husband, apparently, and there’s a woman with
impressively high cheekbones who is staring at me.
She tilts her head quizzically. “Uh, are you okay, Lena?”
The million-dollar question. I shrug, shaking my head. “I don’t know.”
She shrugs, any trace of concern on her face gone. “Well, whatever you’re going through, snap out of it, okay? As I was saying,
I talked to Sebastian earlier—well, like fourteen times already this morning, and merde . We have a lot to do. If we can somehow pull off this event, it’ll be a miracle.” She lets out a belabored sigh before the
corners of her mouth form a smile again, albeit a forced one. “What are you doing here, anyway?”
“Uh,” I say, pausing when a cab motors by—not Frankie. I turn back to my chic interrogator. “I was... just taking a walk.”
“Hmm. Well, since you’re here,” she says, extinguishing her cigarette, “we have catching up to do. You heard that the florist
fell through for tonight, right?” She sighs. “Something about a sick kid. I mean, who bows out at the eleventh hour like that?
Anyway, I’ve been on the phone all morning, and I think I’ve just found a suitable replacement. Oh, and I’m picking up your
dress in an hour. I’ll bring it over to the apartment around three, okay?”
My dress. The florist. Sebastian. Tonight. I clutch Claude’s leash tightly with one hand and rub my forehead with the other.
“Lena?” she adds, raising an eyebrow. “You really do seem off .”
“Uh,” I say with a sigh. “It’s what Sebastian said. I’m... having a rough morning.”
Her phone buzzes on the table, rattling the espresso cup in its saucer beside her right hand. “Ugh, it’s this guy I went out with last month,” she says, frowning. “He’s been ringing me all week. Men. They have no idea when to give us space.” She rolls her eyes.
“Right,” I mutter as a cab pulls up beside me. Frankie— thank God .
She leans her head out of the open window and waves. “Get in!”
The sight of my best friend’s face is just the tonic I need. I run across the cobblestone street to the opposite side of the
black Mercedes.
“No way,” Frankie says. “There’s no room for Claude.” She points to the woman at the café. “Leave him with Ella. She can take
him home.”
“Ella?”
“That’s what assistants do, right? Besides, we have a lunch reservation. You can’t exactly bring a 150-pound dog into the
restaurant.”
Ella. My assistant. Right.
“Um, okay,” I say, turning back to the table. “Would you mind bringing Claude home for me? Something’s come up, and I...
need you to take him.”
Ella nods begrudgingly, then flashes Frankie a saccharine smile as she takes Claude’s leash.
“Thanks,” I say, dashing back to the cab.
“I’m sorry we couldn’t meet up for drinks last night,” Frankie says, giving me a hug. “Our flight got in so late. It would
have been after eleven before we arrived.”
I search her face as my eyes well up with tears.
“Lena,” she says, her expression shifting to concern. “Talk to me. What the hell is going on? ”