Midnight in Montmartre: A French Kiss Sweet Romance

T
his is a work of fiction
. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used factiously. Some locations in Paris are real, and others are fictitious.

N
o part
of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.

Cover design by Littera Designs
www.litteradesigns.com

O
n her first
night in Paris, it started to rain. As a dark cloud slowly cut into the bright half moon, a few droplets splattered onto Mia Golden's canary-yellow blouse. She only smiled, looking up at the Sacré-Coeur Church.

In photos, the white-domed basilica always reminded her of meringue, something delicious and light as a cloud. With every step up the stairs, she was getting closer, and the church was becoming something solid, something real.

She admired the heavy travertine stone and the intricately carved details of the facade, all lit up against the black sky. Not black—dark sapphire. The moonlight gave the rain a hint of blue as well. Details were important in Paris.

When she reached the top of the stairs, she took her time to visually embrace the church before allowing herself to turn around. She did that sometimes with beautiful places: stared until the image visually burned a permanent place in her memory.

It was close to midnight, and with the wind stirring and the air still heavy with rain, Mia was alone before the Sacré-Coeur, as far as she could tell. As a Seattle native, she was prepared for gray weather, but even as the drops became more abundant, her pink umbrella stayed closed. Instead, she took advantage of the rain, jumping into a small puddle in her rain boots with child-like glee. Knowing that no one was watching, she stopped resisting her urge to dance and sing out loud.

"I'm singin’ in the rain. Just singin’ in the rain..."

She couldn't carry a tune in a bucket, but she had taken dance lessons as a teen. While not an expert, she could do an impressive two-step, which she did as she danced over to a light pole, slapping her hand on the wet metal and swirling around and around. That caused her to absentmindedly catch a glimpse of the city skyline she'd restrained herself from seeing right away in order to savor it when the time was right. The Sacré-Coeur sat on the highest point of the city, on the hill of Montmartre, overlooking the rest of Paris. She didn't get the chance to brace herself for the wonderful view, and it nearly took her breath away.

The rain and fog of the night cast a monochrome shadow over the cityscape, but it only made it more stunning, recalling the black-and-white photography of old postcards and classic Hollywood movies. A line from one old favorite popped into her mind, and she couldn't help saying it out loud.

"I remember every detail. The Germans wore gray. You wore blue."

It was inevitable that
Casablanca
would flash into her consciousness on such a night. She loved anything Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman were in, and she'd watched
Casablanca
at least a dozen times. It was a beautiful love story amid the horrors of war. And not just any love—self-sacrificing love, the most noble of all.

Despite Mia's main reasons for moving to the City of Lights, she was still a woman: she hoped to find love in Paris. A city this gorgeous was better shared. If only she could find her own Bogart. He could wear gray. She could wear blue. They'd have their own Paris, but without the war and the bittersweet ending.

As she took in the view of the city, with the windows lit golden and the charming rooftops with the crooked outlines of chimneys, she searched for the Eiffel Tower. It had to be around somewhere; it was Paris, after all.

Then she saw it, to her far right, almost obscured by a cluster of trees below the Sacré-Coeur. The iconic iron tower stood in the distance, lit up along with the rest of the windows in the city, its tip grazed by the fog.

She looked at her watch: five minutes to midnight. The lights of the Eiffel Tower were supposed to shimmer as if it was New Year's Eve every hour on the hour after sundown. As she waited, she turned back to the church. Admiring the magnificent basilica, she said a little prayer. The Sacré-Coeur meant "the sacred heart," named after the sacred heart of Jesus. Simply being near the divine monument inspired more hope in her both to find her Bogart and to find her sister.

Being here felt like a dream.

Then again, Mia should've been asleep by now. She'd only arrived on French soil four hours ago. Jet lagged and having slept a bit on the plane, she was too excited to sleep. Immediately after settling into her tiny apartment in the 9th arrondissement and grabbing a baguette sandwich to go from a nearby
boulangerie
, she started for Montmartre, for the Sacré-Coeur, because she had a view of it from her bedroom window. To think, she would be able to see this very church every morning when she woke up.

When she turned around, the Eiffel Tower began to shimmer. It looked so pretty, twinkling as if clothed in countless stars. Mia had to go and see it up close one day.

"Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful."

She sighed dreamily and opened her umbrella. The rain was really starting to pelt down at her. Her hair was in a ponytail, but it would surely frizz up into a puffy Afro as soon as she took the hair elastic out. She started heading back down the stairs.

Through her mother's network of friends in Seattle, Mia had secured herself an apartment in a decent neighborhood in Paris. It was a one-bedroom studio on the fourth floor; the place was small but perfect for her. She even had one rectangular pot of peonies growing outside her living room windows. The owner, Juliette, an Irish English professor at a French university, was using her sabbatical to volunteer at an orphanage in Vietnam.

Mia had come to Paris with two big suitcases. She still hadn't unpacked everything, but the apartment already felt like home, and she had everything at her disposal to be comfortable for the time being. Juliette had already taken off for Hanoi more than a week ago, but she was gracious enough to have left Mia a welcome basket full of a variety of teas, a small Paris map book, and a list of neighborhood information, as well as a lovely handwritten welcome message on an illustrated card of two lovebirds.

The wind howled and chafed her cheeks. Who knew Paris could produce such dramatic weather in May? Mia had a feeling that there were plenty of surprises in store for her here. She wondered if there was really a chance that she'd find her sister—if she even had a sister.

Growing up, it wasn't a secret to anyone that Mia had been adopted. While her adoptive parents, William and Elena Golden, were both Caucasian—British and Irish-American, respectively—Mia stood out with her curly Afro that never behaved and her café au lait complexion. Her birth mother was African American and her father was white. That was the extent of her knowledge. Mia didn't even know if she really had any long-lost siblings out there. Perhaps it was only wishful thinking...

Five months ago, while watching YouTube videos one evening as a way of unwinding after work, she had stumbled across something that struck her eye. In one of the annoying video ads that played before the real video began, Mia noticed a young woman who looked eerily like herself. The commercial was for Fizz, a French soft drink Mia had never heard of before, featuring the famous French rock band Les Slinks in concert at an outdoor music festival. Mia's doppelgänger was just behind the main actor, who was guzzling down a bottle of Fizz in the front row, and she was waving her hands in the air, lip-synching to the French lyrics.

She could've been someone who merely resembled Mia, but the resemblance was uncanny. She had the same kinky hair, even down to the widow's peak hairline. Her eyes were dark and almond shaped, and she had similarly shaped full lips and Mia's high cheekbones. With the band being French and the concert taking place in Paris, Mia could only deduce that this young woman was French too and possibly living in Paris. Was she an extra, or was she really a fan of Les Slinks?

It was a strange coincidence, too, that YouTube would play a French commercial for a French product that she had no way of accessing in America. Was it a sign?

Mia had watched the Fizz commercial dozens of times since then. Each time she was struck by their resemblance, and her heart would skip a beat. If only the adoption agencies would give her more information. Mia had nothing to go on, and she couldn't exactly knock on every door in Paris to find this woman.

However, she was an experienced journalist with good instincts, and she trusted herself enough to go on a hunch. Was this biracial woman her sister? The answer was in Paris. Whether the answer was favorable or not was another story, but she had to come to the City of Lights to find out.

After doing some research, she found out that LUX, the ad agency that created the commercial, was also based in Paris.

Now that she was here in Paris, first on the agenda was to pay LUX a visit, and she'd do that tomorrow morning.

As she walked down a winding street in Montmartre, a gush of wind produced a harsh rattle of rain on her umbrella. Her skirt was already drenched, but thank goodness for her rain boots.

Despite the darkness and wetness, she still thought the small houses, with leaves and vines climbing up their sides, were idyllic. Montmartre was a neighborhood north of central Paris, and it was said that it was more like a village, with small-town mentality and charm.

A man was walking her way, and it looked as if he was going to walk right into her. The streets were narrow, and Mia stepped to the side to let him pass, but he stopped abruptly to speak to her in a gruff voice.

"
Portefeuille."

"
Excusez-moi?
" Mia's knowledge of French was rough. She knew some basic phrases but not enough to know what the man was saying.

"
Portefeuille
," he enunciated slowly, but just as aggressively. "
Donne-moi ton portefeuille.
"

"I don't speak French," Mia admitted.

The man blinked at her, confused. He was around her age, possibly younger, in his mid-twenties. He hadn't shaved, and his eyes were full of dreary impatience. What was he asking?
Porte
meant door, right?

"Oh." A realization came to Mia. "Do you mean one of the Métro stations, like Porte Maillot? I'm sorry. I don't know."

"
Portefeuille,
" the man said, even more exasperated this time.

"Really," Mia exclaimed. "
Je ne sais pas.
I have no idea."

Then the man really began to get in her personal space, as if he wasn't close enough already. He grabbed her purse.

"Hey!" Mia pushed him away, but he wouldn't let go.

Her passport was in her purse because she hadn't taken it out after she landed. Plus, there were five hundred euros in there and the only key she had to her apartment. There was no way the scruffy young mugger was getting his hands on her stuff.

"NO! You can't have it. Let go, you—”

The man spat out some expletives of his own, at least that was what Mia assumed. Her French was so bad that she couldn't understand a word. She hadn’t even understood his intent to mug her in the first place.

He was really getting rough with her now, pulling her purse with one hand and shoving her backward with the other. Her umbrella dropped with a splash onto the sidewalk.

Mia was athletic, and she took kickboxing classes at her gym in Seattle twice a week. The mugger was scrawny. She could take him. How dare this jerk ruin her first night in Paris?

She was planning on the best way to take him down when the small rumble of an engine was heard and a headlight shone in the mugger's eyes and temporarily blinded him.

This distraction gave Mia the perfect opportunity. She socked him right in the nose, then stuck out her foot and whipped it across the mugger's ankles. He fell sideways. Eyes full of fear, he stumbled to get up. Mia watched him with her arms raised, just in case. As soon as he was on his feet, he ran away.

She turned around. The headlight, now off, had come from a black Vespa. The rider was a handsome man who stared at her with surprise. Dressed in a dark trench coat, he was holding a helmet. He stood closer to a street lamp, and she could see that his dark hair was also drenched, strands curling down toward his amused-looking blue eyes. Azure eyes.

He said something to her in French. Perhaps it was to the effect of "Are you okay?"

"Bonsoir"
was what Mia managed to say back.

He gave her a once-over and smiled in understanding. "American?"

Mia looked down at her rain boots. They were pink with white polka dots. Suddenly she felt like a kid before this elegantly dressed Frenchman.

"Oh, yes, I am," she replied.

He bent down and picked up her umbrella. When he walked closer to hand it back to her, she realized he was a head taller than she was. A gray cashmere scarf was wrapped neatly around his neck. It matched his dark-gray suit beneath the trench coat, which he wore with a crisp white dress shirt and black tie. He looked like the kind of man who would wear expensive cologne. She had the bizarre urge to get closer and smell him.

"Be careful after dark," he said. "You never know who's lurking in these streets, as lovely as the houses around here look."

His English was good. He spoke with a French accent that was more charming than Clouseau-hilarious.

"Thanks for your help," Mia said.

He chuckled. The corners of his eyes crinkled; he had a nice smile.

"I think you took care of it on your own. Nice kick, by the way. Not a bad punch, either."

She laughed back and stuck out her hand. "I'm Mia."

"Luc Deneuve. Nice to meet you."

"Good thing you came when you did, anyhow."

"You're lucky he didn't have a gun or a knife."

"Yes," Mia agreed. "I wasn't thinking. Dangerous, I know. I was purely reacting."

He was still smiling. Her friend Anne in Seattle was wrong. The French did smile.

"What does 'por-teh-fey' mean?" she asked.

"What?" he asked.

"'Por-teh-fey,'" she repeated. "He kept saying that to me."

He was confused at first, but then realization struck Luc and he started to laugh loudly. "
Portefeuille
. Wallet. It means wallet."

"Oh my gosh. I'm such an idiot. I thought he was asking for directions."

"Like Porte de Clignancourt?"

"Yeah," Mia said between giggles. "I kept telling him I didn't know. I guess he didn't speak English."