Chapter 16
Forty Keys
“Not the way I thought I’d see the Eiffel Tower for the first time,” Bailey says. “But okay…”
“Pretty spectacular, no?”
She nods. “Not bad.”
We are in the back of a taxi, on the way to the hotel, Paris laid out before us, its beauty like a magic trick: the Eiffel Tower, and the bridges glistening in the midday sun, the museums along the river.
The taxi turns down Avenue Matignon and drops us in front of H?tel Le Bristol—a historic hotel not far from the Champs-élysées.
From the Arc de Triomphe. It’s a larger hotel than La Réserve—more well known—and feels like a safe place to be dropped.
If someone is monitoring where we went from the airport—if someone manages to figure out we are people that should be monitored.
I pay the driver and we walk through Le Bristol’s revolving doors, past the six doormen and into the magnificent lobby. Antique chandeliers and lavish white tile floors—classically French architecture in every direction.
We head through the lobby, and past the parlor for breakfast and high tea—before circling back around, slipping out one of the lobby’s side doors.
I start walking quicker, weaving us through the crowds, in and out of traffic, toward where we are going—a half a mile down the street to Avenue Gabriel, and the small entrance that will lead us into La Réserve.
“Hey, don’t turn around now, but…” Bailey says as we move at a brisk clip down the street. “There’s a guy behind us, with a beard… black hat, green army jacket… I think he is following us.”
I feel my heart pick up a beat, turn back to take a peek in his direction. I pretend like I’m looking at a store across the street, but watch him out of my peripheral view.
He is too far behind us for me to make out his face, but I see his thick beard. I see his jacket. He does seem to be moving at a steady clip, weaving in and out of people as quickly as we are.
“When did you first see him?”
“He walked out of the hotel the same time we did,” she says. “Or… right after we did. I’m sure.”
I nod, not doubting Bailey on that. She has become schooled in sensing when something feels off—when someone does.
I have done my best to help school her. But, even if she is correct, there could still be a million reasons why this man is rushing down the Paris streets in the same direction we are.
A million reasons that have nothing to do with us.
Still, when a door to a boutique opens, I push past the woman walking out—Bailey and I moving inside quickly, ducking behind a clothes rack. It’s a children’s boutique—pink and yellow tutus standing between us and the street.
We stay out of sight. And wait for him to pass. I want to see what he does, while we are no longer in view. Is he trying to find us? Or is he moving as quickly as he can in whatever direction he is going?
When he does pass, he isn’t looking any which way. He is only looking straight ahead, which should relax me.
But I don’t feel relaxed. Because he looks familiar to me. I can’t make out his face beneath his hat, his pulled-up jacket collar. I can only see the hint of his profile beneath that beard. But that’s enough. It’s enough for me to know that I have seen him somewhere before now.
“That’s him,” Bailey says.
My heart starts pounding, and I force myself to take several deep breaths.
I force myself to stay tucked behind that clothes rack for longer than I would like before we exit the store.
I scan the street, our side of the sidewalk—the other.
The man, familiar as he was, no longer in view. Which does and doesn’t calm me.
We keep walking, my hand on Bailey’s lower back, keeping her close. Until we turn onto Avenue Gabriel and walk halfway down the block, where we arrive at the small path to the hotel entrance, the red and black doors greeting us. I hold the door open for Bailey and we walk in.
La Réserve’s lobby is small and homey, like walking into a Parisian apartment building.
It’s meant to feel like a Parisian apartment building; the reception area like a living room, a beautiful outdoor garden to enjoy breakfast, a library you could spend the afternoon in, brushed up against a small bar.
And then there’s the staircase, winding and solitary, which takes you up to one of only forty rooms.
Forty keys, as the receptionist who showed Owen and me to our room had said. That always stuck with me. Forty keys leading to just forty beds—no other hotel in Paris quite like it. You could go days without seeing the other guests. You could feel like you have the whole place to yourself.
When we walk into the reception area, there is no room number left for us. No one in the lobby to meet us. But I know where we are going.
At least I think I do. I lead Bailey to the staircase, behind the elevators. The large and winding staircase, that will lead us to room 202.
The room where Owen and I stayed for our honeymoon.
Even seeing the gold plate on the door takes me back there.
I remember it well: a cozy sitting area, and a silver soaking bathtub, large steel windows peeking out at The Grand Palais.
The Eiffel Tower clear and promising from the side of the small balcony.
We’ll be back, Owen had said, sitting on that balcony that last morning. This won’t be the last time here.
So it’s no surprise that I’m thinking it. That Bailey turns to me and I know we are both thinking it. We are both thinking it’s him, finally him.
I knock on the door. And Bailey grabs my arm.
She doesn’t ask me if it’s her father who is about to answer. But I know that she wants to ask. A part of her wants to know what to do if it is him. That, I want to tell her, will reveal itself. But that’s not what she needs to hear.
So I lean in and tell her what she does.
“I’ve got you,” I say. “Either way. I promise.”
She nods at me, and I can feel her calm down. I can feel her find her center again, knowing mine is intact.
Why is mine intact? Especially at a moment where it would have every reason not to be. Maybe it’s that I know enough to know that Owen wouldn’t send us all this way unless it was to get to him. Or, at the very least, someone we love.
And I’m not wrong. Not about that part.
But when the door opens, it’s not Owen standing there.
It’s Nicholas.