P.S. from Paris(24)

“Oh my God. Okay. I get it,” Mia sighed. “You’re trying to make me laugh, to get me to unwind. But you can stop, because it’s really not working. In fact, your whole—thing—kind of has me a little frightened. I mean, fair play, fine. Now I get it, and you can just stop.”

“I wasn’t pulling any kind of prank . . . And what did I do to freak you out?”

“All right, confirmed, the guy is completely, stark-raving mad. Just don’t upset him. Worse comes to worst, I order just a starter, and I’m out in under fifteen minutes. You’re right, let’s not wait any longer for them—it’s their fault for not being on time.”

“Exactly! Let’s order, and then you can tell me about your project.”

“What project?”

“Your restaurant!”

“Not much more to tell you—Southern French cuisine. Ni?ois, to be precise.”

“I love Nice! I was invited there for the book fair last June. The heat was kind of unbearable, but the people were really friendly. Well, the few who lined up to get their books signed.”

“How many novels have you written?”

“Six. The first one included, of course.”

“Why wouldn’t it be included?”

“No reason . . . Well, actually, it’s because I didn’t really know I was writing it while I was writing it.”

“This guy is really driving me up the wall. What on earth is wrong with him?” Her muttering was beginning to get louder. “Um, what is it you thought you were doing—building a sandcastle?”

“Either she is a complete and utter moron or she’s sitting there thinking that’s what I am. No, what I mean is that I couldn’t conceive of it being published at the time. I hadn’t even thought of sending it to a publisher.”

“But it was published?”

“Yes. Lauren sent it on my behalf—without asking my permission, actually—but hey, I guess I can’t hold that against her. It wasn’t easy at first, but it’s thanks to what she did that I ended up moving out here.”

“Can I ask you a weird question?”

“You can. I mean, I can’t guarantee I’ll answer.”

“Do you live far from here?”

“In the third arrondissement.”

“Which is more than five hundred yards from where we are.”

“We’re actually in the first, so yeah, it’s pretty far. Why?”

“No reason.”

“And what about you?”

“I live in Montmartre.”

“That’s a beautiful area. Let’s order, shall we?”

Paul called over the waitress.

“So. Sea bream?” Paul suggested, looking at Mia.

“Does that take long to cook?” she asked the waitress, who shook her head and departed.

Paul leaned toward Mia, his lips quirked in a grin.

“I don’t want to stick my nose in where it’s not wanted, but if you’re going to open a seafood restaurant, it might be helpful to know how long it takes to cook sea bream. Just a thought,” he said, chuckling.

This time, the silence stretched on and on. Paul looked at Mia and Mia looked at Paul.

“So, you like San Francisco?” Paul asked. “Did you use to live there?”

“No, but I’ve been there several times for work. And it is a beautiful city—I love the quality of the light out there.”

“Now I get it! You trained as a chef at Alioto’s and that’s why you’ve decided to bring their concept over here.”

“Who in the world is Alioto?”

“I’m going to kill him. I’m going to kill them both,” Paul muttered—this time, unfortunately, loud enough for Mia to hear him. “This is on him, a hundred percent. I mean, the least he could do is provide accurate intel.”

“So, this double murder—you meant that figuratively, I hope?”

My God, how thick is this woman? What the hell am I doing here? Seriously, why am I here when I could be at home? “Yes, I can assure you beyond the shadow of a doubt that I have no intention of murdering anyone, but you have to admit the situation is a little off! I must come across as an incompetent chump who doesn’t even know the ins and outs of the project he’s working on . . .”

“Okay. So I’m a ‘project,’ then?”

“Are you doing this deliberately? I don’t mean you personally, but whatever it is that’s brought us both here.”

“Well,” said Mia in a firm tone, hands flat on the table, “I think we’ve covered the essentials, and as I’m not really so hungry anymore . . .” Nope, not hungry. Absolutely starving. “I’ll let you enjoy the sea bream without me.”

“I completely understand how that sounded,” said Paul, blushing. “That was a clumsy thing to say. Please accept my apology. In my defense, it’s been a long time since I’ve done this kind of thing. I think I must have lost my touch. I told him I wouldn’t be any good at it—I should have just flat-out turned him down. And, of course, he never should have left me on my own like this. That was really unfair of him. Both of them.”

“Are you being haunted by ghosts or do the people you keep mentioning actually exist?”