The Glass Secret (Chain of Secrets) (37 page)

“I know I shouldn’t feel this way, but it’s hard to believe in love when you begin in a new city with a thrashed heart.” I paused for the space of a heartbeat. “Okay, I have to confess. I was inquiring about who else lives in the brownstone because….” He lowered his gaze at me peculiarly. “When I was drunk last night, there was this man that spoke to me on the stairs from the fourth balcony.” I flashed my eyes upward.

“Impossible, we are the only two who have access to the brownstone.” His eyes shifted, examining the area around us.

“Gosh, could it have been an intruder?” I shuddered at the thought of this.

“It could have been, but it’s highly unlikely. There’s only one way into this place and that’s through the front door.” He tilted his head in that direction. “You and I are the only ones with pass-codes. Did you give it to someone when you were under the influence? I saw from the window how the limo driver was staring at you,” he said with a titter.

Dr. Piccart openly admitted he was watching me. I guess everyone in Paris was into voyeurism of some sort. Although it was good to know Dr. Piccart was looking out for me, it was a bit creepy...eww!

“You are such a beauty Brielle, you need to be careful and curb your enthusiasm with men, for they may get the wrong impression.”

I couldn’t believe my ears; Dr. Piccart was one of the most infamous directors of his time and very precarious when it came to the ladies. He was trying to be protective of me, which I found endearing, but highly unnecessary.

“Hmm, maybe because I am so lonely it was just my silly imagination.” My eyes fell to my knotted fingers, feeling my cheeks burn with embarrassment. “But, he just felt so real.”

“Well, perhaps, he was—I have an appointment soon, so I need to get on my way.”

“Of course. Thanks for listening.”

He turned to leave then turned back around. “I have read your work, and you do have a fascinating imagination. What a powerful tool it is.” He tapped his index finger against his temple. “But, we’re the only humans who live here,” he said, smiling.

My spine tingled at the way he had said the word “
humans.”
I began to understand he believed that the brownstone building truly was haunted. His hint was enough to make me believe it, too. Just a little…



Weeks had passed since that evening. I hadn’t seen nor heard from my mystery man, or whoever he was. Maybe, he was still hiding out in the brownstone. But, I wouldn’t have known. I’d been holed-up in my place plotting the hook for my next novel. I hadn’t been out past sundown, and I certainly was not in the mood to party since I had gotten sick the last time we went out.

Nuilley called me a few times, wanting me to join her at this café or that nightclub. She knew all the hotspots; I begged her off, realizing that my best friend was living
The Life of Riley
.

As much as I loved to shop, she did not. Our schedules were going in two different directions. I had more to accomplish with my nights than going to parties and drinking.

I had my work, and I dove into it with anew enthusiasm, shutting myself off from most people except for Dr.
Piccart. An old man with a big film collection was becoming my confidant, my most trusted platonic friend.

I also gave up on all temptations of spying on my neighbors, for now. As for the man that hid in the shadow of the balcony, perhaps, he was as I told Dr. Piccart, an overactive figment of my imagination due to all of the consumption that night…and wishful thinking.

Though time after time, and after that, I felt his presence, especially in the building and in my apartment, and once, when I bought daffodils for myself. I felt him with me that day as if he were beside me when I walked home from the flower market. Feeling his presence near me made smile, but perhaps, it was the armful of daffodils that lifted my spirit.

Thereafter, I bought flowers for myself once a week, and I believed that he was with me, every time. The feeling of this imaginary friend, as crazy as it was, felt comforting to me. I began to feel not so alone in Paris. The city was growing on me as if I had surely been meant to live here. Perhaps I had.

-45-

Charades of Rain

I exited through the main entrance of the old brownstone, sauntering along the rocky path through the courtyard that would eventually convene with the street to the city.

Throughout the garden, roses were in first bloom. I peeled off my gloves. I love wearing anything vintage, especially from the nineteen forties. Carefully, I plucked several open blossoms from the rose bush. I cradled the small cluster of beauty in the palms of my hands, inhaling its intoxicating fragrance.

“Ah-choo!” I sneezed, dropping the flowers to the ground.

I gingerly knelt down, balancing my weight on my four-inch stilettos and picked up the scattered roses. I ran my fingers across their velvety textured petals. They felt as soft as baby powder. Tiny dewdrops still clung to each petal.

I once believed that dewdrops were tears left by sad little fairies that desired to be mortal. How I’d still like to believe in this romantic fantasy. As I touched the fragile dewdrops, they disappeared, melting like sugar onto my warm fingertips.

As I flitted down the hillside cobblestone road, I heard in the near distance the low rumbling sound of a lawn mower. I stopped and stretched out my arms into the cool breeze and drew into my nostrils the crisp scent of the fresh-cut grass that emanated through the air.

The scent of fresh-cut grass unraveled a quintessential memory in my mind, the same way a magician uncoils his handkerchief from his hat. It just happens, like magic and takes me back to a time long ago:

I’m a child again, visiting my grandparents in upstate New York, and waking up at dawn to the imperceptible sound of a lawn mower’s motor. I can see from my open bedroom window my great-grandfather riding around on his big red mower. The monster mower seemed to come alive to me as it chomped into the dense green blades of grass. As it spit from the sides of its mechanical mouth the fresh cut grass, it emitted into the air the scent of watermelon rind. I almost could smell the sweet mixture as if I were still there...

A few bike riders swiftly passed me by, startling me back to reality, so I continued to walk on toward the city while observing the budding of spring, awakening after a long winter of hibernation.

When I turned the corner into town, I could see that overnight the tourists had returned in handfuls. Nearly all seats in the outside cafés were occupied with beautiful people. They bask in a nonverbal state of mind, like that of a cactus that never moves. They nibble buttery croissants, sip lattes, drink vino and chain-smoke cigarettes, watching the day go by.

If you don’t have the habit of smoking upon arriving in Paris, you will before leaving. Parisians certainly have a way of making the habit seem very vogue and quite sexy.

I took a detour through the park; it was stocked with lazy lovers stretched out on blankets and snuggling. Spring had definitely arrived with a bang. I hoped it would bring new love to those that yearned for it, and that included me.

I crossed the bridge near Champ de Mars, the gateway that led to the upscale avenue of Champs-Élysées. Through the waving branches of the trees, I could see in the distance the tip of the iconic Eiffel tower.

This clued me in that I was reaching my destination. Suddenly, my adrenaline kicked up a notch. My palms were moist and my heart was pounding fast with the sweet anticipation of spending the huge amount of money I’d been saving.

Nearly ten hours later and arms chock-full of packages stuffed with new goodies—my feet were beginning to hurt, appearing as if I were walking on a tightrope.

I fortuitously clambered down a narrow alley, discovering the sweetest little boutique; when out of nowhere, an unnatural strong wind coiled around my petite frame, almost sweeping me off my feet.

The wind gust was trapped beneath my skirt, swirling it up and down like a parachute, similar to the famous pose of Marilyn Monroe. I laughed out loud, trying to hold it down, but the wind was determined to sneak glimpses of my favorite, barely there, pink-laced panties.

I was defenseless against this powerful force. Finally, after a struggle, my skirt slowly settled back into place down around my legs. As the air stream flowed past my ears, I clearly heard a man’s voice.

“Brielle,” a haunting whisper filled my ears.

I stopped dead in my tracks, inhaled deeply then slowly peered over my left shoulder to see the source of this mysterious voice. There was no one in sight. I felt a bit spooked and scurried towards the door of the store with my packages in hand.

I clumsily pulled the large scrolled brass handle of the door toward my direction. It opened slightly then slammed shut hard against the thrust of the wind. I tugged the handle again, but the wind pushed even harder against the door, preventing me from entering.

Another stream of wind whipped around the hemline of my dress. I suddenly felt the oddest sensation, as if cold fingers were crawling up my legs, sending mind-numbing goose bumps from my head to my toes.

My instantaneous thought was that a huge critter was seconds away from baring his teeth into my flesh. I leaped into the air like a crazy bird that flew over the cuckoo’s nest, flapping and waving my arms like wings against my skirt. I could only imagine how ridiculous I must have looked to passersby.

When I landed, to my horror, the hemline of my skirt was flipped up around my hips and lying flat up against my back. I swiftly pulled it down around my slender hips, but not before exposing my lace panties and ivory ass cheeks to the two gentlemen who approached me from behind.
Behind
—there’s a word.
Em-bare-assed
is another word to describe the total scene.

I just wanted to get inside quickly before another wind gust violated me again. I paid no attention to the two men that had gotten a flash of my GQ buns.

As I gathered up my packages, I heard a man whistle at me. How rude, I thought, wasn’t catching a glimpse of my bare ass enough entertainment? Couldn’t he tell I was a damsel in distress and didn’t need to hear his catcalls? Another annoying whistle rang out in my direction. I abruptly swiveled around to see who found me so amusing. The two same gentlemen were now a few feet away. They seemed deeply engaged in their conversation and not paying a whole lot of attention to me. I didn’t see anyone else nearby, so I quickly shifted my weight around and reached for the handle.

Out of nowhere, I saw a white tunnel of air gradually entering into the keyhole; similar to the same way
Jeanie
, in the series
I
Dream of Jeanie
entered her bottle. I loved those old reruns. I rubbed my eyes and wondered if I had been roofied by the cute waiter at Café Le Mar. The thought of this caused me to hyperventilate. I felt as if I was going to have a full-on panic attack. I quickly reasoned with myself that I had way too much caffeine earlier that day.

To my surprise, the gilded door mysteriously opened on its own as if commanding me to enter. I was feeling very out of breath. I gingerly stumbled with my packages in hand into the corner of the foyer. The same two gentlemen entered within seconds behind me. I felt my face turn red and couldn’t make eye contact with them; instead, I peered through the strands of my hair that had fallen into my eyes, watching them pass me by. One of them stopped in his tracks and turned directly toward me.

He gawked at me then flashed a huge toothsome grin that was covered in dark coffee stains and in dire need of dental work. I quickly pretended not to notice him as I fiddled with my packages. I felt my eyes zoom in on his teeth. I know the look on my face was none other than that of utter disgust, screaming silently: how could anyone let their teeth get so bad, and then use them to smile? He apparently got my message, by the expression on my face, and turned away quickly.

I was somewhat feeling embarrassed, still, but mostly, I wanted to laugh out loud. It appalled me that he believed he stood a chance with any woman. Ewww! His teeth looked like wood chips. The wind must have made me look like a mad, desperate woman in need of any man’s attention.

Well, at least, I knew it was “
old yellow
” that whistled at me. For a minute, I thought I was losing my mind. I guess he liked the view from behind me—Or should I say, the view of my behind...

Before I pulled out a small compact from my purse, I waited for the two men to disappear behind the curtains that led into the store. I then quickly reapplied some fresh lipstick. In the larger reflection of the store’s window, I could see random strands of my hair had taken flight from the nimbus crown of locks arranged high on my head.

Cumbersomely, I pulled all the bobby pins from my hair and tossed them into one of my bags. I shook my head slightly and ran my fingers through my hair. It cascaded to my waist like a waterfall of smooth waves and then I did a once over of my reflection in the glass window, for double measure, and retreated inside.

-46-