She continued reading down the list.
Buy a beautiful Hermès scarf.
Buy a Coach purse.
Eat at these restaurants: Le Cinq, Le 39V, Alain Ducasse au Plaza Athénée.
See the Louvre.
Dree sighed. Those would have to wait for her next trip to Paris. Those few euros in her wallet had to last her the whole trip. She needed to eat and, if she wanted to see the rest of Paris, buy Métro tickets to get there. She hadn’t realized that Francis had booked their FlyBNB room quite so far from the middle of the city.
She wished she could have done some of those things, though.
She drank enough coffee to feel human, brushed her teeth, and stepped in the tiny corner shower.
One of the complimentary soaps had been unwrapped and was lying in the soap dish, and it was clean. One of the room’s pink towels was damp where it hung over the towel bar.
Augustine must have taken a shower before he left, which she certainly didn’t begrudge him. That incredible body of his must require maintenance.
She only wished she’d gotten a good look at the huge tattoo covering his broad back before he’d left last night.
Or the one on his arm. That one seemed intricate.
Dree scrubbed herself raw and used some of the shampoo in the tiny bottle to wash her hair, which flipped around her head while she lathered it. She’d never had short hair before. If she’d had enough money, she should have had somebody even it out after her hasty chop job with surgical scissors right before she’d fled from the hospital to the airport. She pulled on an oversized gym tee shirt that, upon sniffing, didn’t need washing too badly.
When she got out of the bathroom, her phone was ringing an odd, octave-scaling ring.
That was weird. Dree didn’t even have cell service in Europe. She’d tried to get her phone to work when she’d been in the airport, but it had just roamed and refused to connect.
When she picked it up, the screen said the call was coming through one of her social media accounts, TalkBook, not her phone. At the top of the screen, the Wi-Fi symbol was lit up.
Oh, she was getting Wi-Fi access in the FlyBNB room, not real cellular service.
Her thumb tapped the circle before she noticed the name on the TalkBook account was Francis Senft.
Oh no, but she’d already accepted his call.
“Where the fuck are you?” Francis yelled through the phone, and his face resolved into a screaming red blob of anger. “You used the airplane ticket! I was trying to get a refund or claim the travel insurance for those tickets, and you goddamn used one!”
“It was in my name,” she said, her voice choking up because it always did when she was ashamed.
“I was trying to get the money for them because I goddamn need the money!”
This wasn’t the Francis she’d known and loved for eleven months. Yesterday, he’d turned into this crazy guy demanding money. “I paid for them,” she said. “I could use one if I wanted to.”
“No, you couldn’t, you dumb bitch! I needed that money!”
He was so different. Dree didn’t even recognize this guy who wore Francis’s face and was screaming at her. Tears spilled over her eyelids and traced hot wetness down her face.
She didn’t know what new-Dree would do in this situation yet. She just knew that old-Dree would apologize to him and figure out some way to give him more than she should because everyone else was more important than she was.
The instinct to apologize gathered in her throat, so she hung up the phone and turned it off.
Just as the phone powered down, it started to ring that odd chime, and Francis’s name reappeared.
The phone died with a sad squawk.
And someone knocked on her door.
Oh, God.
Had Francis used the other plane ticket and come to Paris to find her? He had made the hotel reservations with her credit card. If he was in Paris, he would know where she was.
She crept to the door, stood on her tiptoes, and peered through the fish-eye lens.
Augustine stood outside in the hallway, holding flowers, two large paper cups, and a pink box. He was just as frickin’ beautiful as she remembered, though he was wearing a white dress shirt and khaki pants.
She cranked the two locks that worked and flipped the door open. “Augustine, you’re not supposed to come back. I’m never supposed to see you again. That was the rule.”
He stared at her and said, “I promised to take you shopping for a new coat. Why are you crying?”
Chapter Four
Confession Maxence
Maxence was trying to be good.
He strolled along the streets of downtown Paris, dodging pedestrians and smiling at people who made eye contact. Even in the bright morning sunlight, the evergreen bough Christmas decorations tied with red velvet ribbons were festive and cheered Maxence considerably.
As it was Sunday morning, he’d been to confession before Mass to absolve himself of the mortal sins on his soul, and there were many, before he took Holy Communion.
He had arrived at Église Saint-Sulpice, a massive cathedral near his hotel, only fifteen minutes before Mass was supposed to start.
Inside the airy cathedral, where the air sparkled with color from the immense and many stained-glass windows soaring five stories into the sky of France, Maxence had found Father Moses Teklehaimanot, a friend of his from previous charity missions. Father Moses had visited Max at his uncle Rainier’s hospital bedside just days before to perform Last Rites for Rainier again. Max had been there for weeks, praying and sitting vigil, but the time had come for him to leave.
That morning, Max admitted to Father Moses that he needed to be reconciled before Mass.
Father Moses commandeered a small room behind the main part of the church and sat knee to knee with Maxence, staring directly at him. A beam of sunlight shone silver on the old priest’s ebony skin, illuminating his folds of age and
