Free A Paris Apartment by Michelle Gable

family hasn’t had a chance to read these yet,” April said, realizing she had to give them up.
    “Actually,” Luc said and paused. “Why don’t you take them? I’m not due back in Sarlat for a few days. It’s fine for you to hold on to them in the interim. I’ll let my client know. You seem very conscientious. Doubtless they are in great hands.”
    “Oui! I will take excellent care. My entire career is based on taking excellent care. Thank you,” April said, extending her arm for a departing handshake. “Again.”
    Luc reached for her arm, and much like their first meeting, pulled her closer.
    “Thank you for a delightful meeting, Avril,” he said, politely kissing each cheek, this time, though, lingering a moment longer than he had earlier in the day. His scent was still smoky and perfumed, but now also tinged with the smell of the wine they shared. “I’ll be in touch.”
    April watched him walk away. To any outside observer she appeared obvious and gawping. April knew this, yet could not stop herself from staring, nor could she stop the feeling that was right then crawling through her gut, a result of the wine, no doubt, and access to the journals. Yes, it had to be those things. There was no other explanation that was acceptable, or that April could afford to entertain.

 
    Chapitre XIII
    April’s flat was no match for Marthe de Florian’s.
    The buildings shared the same Haussmann facade, the utterly Parisian look with its height and horizontal lines and scrolled wrought-iron balconies. That’s where the similarities ended, though. Where Marthe had seven rooms, April had only three. Marthe’s flat was so thick with museum-quality furnishings one could hardly walk through without stumbling. April’s flat was so sparse she wondered if there were enough places to rest both her backside and her computer simultaneously. It was a pity, she thought, to throw such a thirdhand jumble of self-assembled furniture into a quintessential Haussmann, even if it was a rental property.
    Despite its lack of decorative charm, April loved the place upon sight. She loved the location, its original thick-plank wood floors, and how one side of the living room was more windows than wall. April imagined herself leaning against the panes at night, a glass of wine in hand, the city twinkling before her. The apartment did not show all it had to offer, but it still showed Paris.
    After checking her e-mail (no impending crises so far), April thumped her tote and BlackBerry onto the white-lacquered dining table, though “dining table” was a rather grandiose term for something that could hold, at most, two dinner plates—or in April’s case, serve as combination computer desk and makeup vanity. She could not imagine an instance requiring multiple dishes.
    All the table-plate contemplation made April’s stomach rumble, though it was not food she wanted to consume first. She was hungry again, despite the bread-scarfing during her meeting with Luc, but instead of trying to find something to eat she reached for the white protective gloves in her leather tote.
    “Oh, be quiet,” April said to her still-roaring stomach as she gently removed Marthe’s journal entries from her purse. Hunger was fierce but the pull of the diaries stronger.
    April’s plan was to spread the pages on the kitchen counter and read them quickly, fast-food style, standing up with her shoes still on. But the language appeared suddenly blurry, smudged, indecipherable. It was as though April had lost the entirety of her French skills in the hour since she last used them. Perhaps it was due to jet lag, or maybe because her only sustenance over the last two days was in the form of wine, bread, and enormous slabs of butter.
    “Food,” April said aloud to no one, a wicked headache spreading across her brain. “I need food.”
    Light-headed and unable to muster the energy to leave the flat, April fished around in her tote for the pack of cashews she had