even for a month.
CHAPTER THREE
TARA BREATHED A RELIEVED sigh as the key turned in the lock. Getting lost twice in the maze of dark, windowless corridors had her convinced she’d entered some kind of Parisian warp zone and might never find the flat she’d rented. The lights in the hallways were on a timer, and didn’t stay on very long. Just finding the switches was like being on a treasure hunt...blindfolded...with no map.
Elbowing the door open, she rolled the duffel into the small foyer, dropping it and her shoulder bag as she took in her new surroundings.
“Well...thank you, Josh...and whomever you got that number from.” Tara tried to recall the name—some college friend of Josh’s. It didn’t matter. What did matter was that this place, with its warm wood floors and modern furniture, was cheery and chic and perfect for a month’s stay. She would have to pick out a nice thank-you gift for the French teacher.
A quick tour found the rest of the apartment much to her liking, too. The bathroom seemed antiquated with its pull-chain to flush the toilet, but the living room and the bedroom both looked out on a terrace rimmed with ivy-covered lattice work and flower pots brimming with color.
A notebook lay prominently on the dining table. Lettering across its front spelled out the word tenant in several languages. She flipped the book open to the section labeled English. Coming to Paris had been such a quick decision that there’d been no time to study the French language in any depth. She’d hoped her two years of high school and college Spanish would help, but it hadn’t yet.
Everyone she’d been in contact with so far had spoken at least a little English, except for Madame LeClerc at the front desk. Hand gestures had been the language that had landed Tara the key to the flat. There were a few other gestures she’d wanted to use with the awful woman, but she would have hated to get kicked out before she got moved in.
Inside the notebook, Tara found a note of welcome, which she scanned for important information. “Oven temperature displayed in Celsius...shutters on a timer, which can be reset to your schedule...take key when you leave as the door locks automatically...terrace shared by one other flat...call if you are in need of any assistance.”
The words blurred on the page. The excitement of being in Paris for the first time and facing the opportunity to find her birth father was fast losing ground to jet lag. What she needed was a breath of fresh air, and with rain imminent, she’d better make it quick.
She unlatched the sliding door and stepped outside into the heat of the sultry morning, careful to close the door behind her so as to not allow any of the precious air conditioning to escape.
Latticework placed strategically around the large concrete patio gave some definition to what area belonged with each of the flats. Her section was a bit smaller than the other, but still quite large.
The sliding door to the other flat directly across from hers was open as were many of the windows of other flats. Vague sounds of morning with families and children drifted through.
Around the corner from her door and several yards away, a railing hung with flowerboxes added an explosion of color to the gray day. Below lay a courtyard with a lovely formal garden and a huge wooden door that looked as if it was left over from the Middle Ages.
She heard a shout, and a boy who looked to be eight or nine ran through the courtyard below, trying to make it to the wooden door ahead of something—or someone. At that point, the first drop of rain hit the top of her head.
Maybe the boy was trying to beat the impending downpour?
But then a second shout filtered up toward her, and two more boys appeared, larger and older than the first, who was frantically working to open the massive door.
One of the older boys pounced on the child from behind, pinning his arms behind his back while the third boy approached menacingly.
Tara’s schoolteacher persona pushed to the forefront. She had to do something, but if she vaulted over the railing, she’d break her neck. And there was no way she could find her way back downstairs to that area in time to save the boy from whatever the ruffians had in mind for him. In desperation, she used her teacher voice and yelled over the railing, “Hey! Stop that! Leave him alone.”
The older boy paused midstride and turned toward the voice. He looked up with a sneer and made a gesture toward her that needed no translation. When he started back toward the younger boy, the child started to shriek and thrash about.
A whirring sound nearby jerked Tara’s attention from the tableau below to the sight of metal shutters closing over the windows of her flat. Mechanical storm shutters. Thank heavens! They would buy her more time here.
A shout obviously from an adult male came from below, and then a short, burly guy appeared, and the big boys immediately stopped their attack. With the rain coming harder, Tara could feel her curly hair growing bushier by the second, but she had to stay long enough to make sure everything was okay.
Even without understanding the language, she caught the word papa from all three boys often enough to figure out they were siblings and Papa was taking care of things. And just in time, as the sky opened up then, and rain pelted her full force.
Relieved that she was no longer needed, she sprinted in the direction of her door and rounded the corner, letting out a shriek of her own. “Eek! No!”
Storm shutters had been installed over the door, as well. She got there just in time to see them clamp down tightly, a metal fortress barring anything—or anyone—from entrance.
Frantically, she looked for a button. Surely there was an override. Lifting a metal flap exposed a numerical keypad, but, try as she might, she couldn’t recall anything about a code in the note she’d read. She tried a few random numbers...0000...1234...but soon gave up, realizing the futility. She wasn’t even sure it would be a four-number code.
“Damn it!” She gave the metal a swift kick. The barrier didn’t budge, but the action bruised her toe and her ego.
She was already soaked. The lemony, cotton sundress, which had made her feel so chic, now clung to her legs, directing the water flow into sodden ballet flats. She squished back around the corner, checking the windows, hoping for a breakdown somewhere in the system, but finding everything in dismally perfect working order.
She would have to wait it out. Crossing her arms, she leaned against the wall, and she was surveying her surroundings when the open door gaped at her from across the terrace. How many times had her dad preached about the open doors in life and choosing the right way?
Shielding her eyes from the pelting rain, she studied the door. No movement came from that apartment. The owners might be gone...might be trusting souls who left their back door open because they usually had no neighbors.
If she cut through their flat, she could find her way back down to Madame LeClerc—not a pleasant thought, but standing in a downpour wasn’t exactly the way she’d pictured her first hour in Paris, either. She could get...beg...the spare key, come back up and let herself in through her own front door.
While she pondered the plan, the sky grew blacker, and despite the heat, she began to get chilled.
A crack of lightning nearby made the decision for her. She loped across the terrace toward the safety of the open door, praying
