Free A Paris Apartment by Michelle Gable Page B

Birds—”
    “She’s not my mother-in-law. Not yet, anyway! So. Yeah. Daniel and I went with them to the gala the other night?”
    April closed her eyes. That she might keel over did not seem out of the question. Who would find her? She could be on that floor for days before someone realized she was gone.
    “And you saw Troy,” April finished so Birdie wouldn’t have to. “He didn’t mention he ran into you, but he already told me all about it. And I do mean all . I know Susannah was running her mouth and that people were talking. I know she was there, too. So, enough.”
    “Fine. Whatever.” Birdie sounded a little short, her feathers plucked. “I’m not trying to make you mad.”
    “I know. And I’m not even mad. Honestly, I’m tired of discussing it. I’m tired of thinking about it. You’re trying to help and support me, and I appreciate that.” April’s eyes were still closed. “I think, maybe, at least while I’m here in Paris … Unless it’s something you think I’d stake my marriage on—I’d rather not know any more. It’s not going to change what’s already happened. I need to start thinking about how to move on.”
    April should never’ve told her. With Birdie it was easy to open up. She invited that kind of emotional connection. April hadn’t planned to grow so tight with her assistant, but neither had she planned to end up in a fourth-floor conference room relaying the details of her husband’s treachery to said assistant while hiccupping through a snotty, slobbery mess.
    “Okay,” Birdie said. “Understood. And I’m sorry.”
    “No apology necessary, promise.”
    “Okay. Good.”
    April opened her eyes again. She turned back toward the counter. That’s when she saw it, sitting on the little blue tiles beside the coffeemaker: a bottle of wine with an envelope propped against it.
    “Oh my god!” April grabbed the bottle and held it to her chest. “The owners of the apartment left me wine. And, a note. A note on linen stationery!”
    “Oh. Linen. Why didn’t you say so? Sounds thrilling.” Birdie’s sarcasm ran a close second to her penchant for clumsiness.
    April tore into the envelope. The owner’s funny, squiggly handwriting lifted off the page. April scanned the note, picking up only the key words. Bonjour. Opéra. Métro. Fermez la porte. And then the most important sentence of all: Fromage dans le frigo .
    Cheese was in the fridge.
    “I have to go,” April said. “Emergency.”
    “I’ll get my catalog copy tonight, yes?”
    “Oui. Good-bye, Birdie. I’ll ring you later.”
    April clicked off the phone.
    Carefully, she stepped across the kitchen floor, the bottle of wine still clutched to her chest. April swung open the door of the stainless-steel refrigerator. Though it was approximately one-half the width of even the most basic Costco model, it had all April needed inside, specifically, a glorious selection of fromages , not to mention truffled pâté de foie gras and several other delicacies the likes of which she’d not seen since last leaving the city. April almost sobbed with these strangers’ generosity. Or maybe it was only her blood sugar.
    Displaying all the couth of a grizzly bear, April ripped off a hunk of Ossau-Iraty, put the bottle under her arm, and marched back into the living room. Gloves back on, she grabbed the diaries from the table. Then, only as an afterthought, April tracked down a corkscrew and glass, though the latter was not strictly necessary.
    Slogging to the bedroom, April nearly tripped over her suitcase. She should unpack, and typically April was a put-stuff-away-first kind of person. But there was unpacking on the one hand and wine, cheese, and Marthe on the other. Organization would have to wait.
    Still in her charcoal pants and a top she suspected was more polyester than the silk promised by the tag, April slid into the formerly made-up bed, uncorked the wine, and started to read.

 
    Chapitre XIV
    Paris, 5 May