Free The 13th Fellow: A Mystery in Provence by Tracy Whiting Page A

between here and down there.” He pointed up and then down before pressing for the elevator.
    “Let’s walk down together then.”
    As they entered the lobby, he held out his arm. She hesitated to take it. Thierry Gasquet then leaned in. And this time when he whispered, he accidentally brushed his lips against her ear, “Havilah, remember, we are old friends.”
    He sent a jolt through her body. She had had six blissful months of clarity, celibacy, and man-free drama. She chalked it up to a purely physiological response devoid of physical attraction and exacerbated by celibacy. She latched onto his arm to accommodate his request. She smiled up towards him as they exited the lobby so that those who knew they had separate hotel rooms would understand that they were indeed old friends being as discreet as possible. Old friends with benefits .
    And then it was Havilah’s turn to lay some ground rules. “Okay, old friend, I need to share a few things with you.”
    They moved towards the car. It was still too warm to walk to the Félibrige without working up a sweat trudging up the hills of Cassis before the dinner. Not to mention having cars whizz by on the narrow road and pedestrian walkway leading from the hotel to the foundation. Gasquet opened the door. Once he was buckled in, she gave him some details in case anyone— that meant Laurent— asked.
    “I’m single. 34. Broke off an engagement two years ago with Lucian Patrick, Astor Law School’s dean. No children. You and I met while I was studying abroad in Paris as an undergraduate at Brown. We’ve kept in touch over the years. When did you have time to pick up the suit?” she had to ask. He had had no luggage when they arrived.
    He then obliged by giving her some background on himself. He was 38 and single. No children. One sister. He was French and Moroccan.
    “I lived in New York for two years and then went to London for a year. Did I see you then, Havilah?”
    “When was that?”
    “About ten years ago. I would have been 28.”
    “Why not? Sure. I was in graduate school at Yale. So nothing improper about a visit to New York to see an old friend. Lucian and I didn’t even know one another.”
    No, they had met when she was 26. She graduated at 27 and they were hired at Astor as a couple— though he had not yet even proposed marriage.
    * * *
    Gasquet’s lips turned upwards in a half-smile. Americans and their concerns about propriety, appearances, and respectability even though they typically wilded out when they arrived in Paris because of how repressed they were in America. There was something refreshing about it, he guessed. An innocence . He resisted going into a foreign policy or any other political direction with this analysis. It always ended up less flattering for the Americans, to his mind anyway.
    “I had the concierge arrange the purchase and delivery of the suit from a boutique in town. Did you find your things put away to your satisfaction?”
    “Yes, thank you.”
    “I didn’t put them away, Havilah. I tipped the concierge. She sent a room attendant up to do it.”
    He didn’t want her thinking he had rifled through her belongings. He sensed that the thought of it would bother her terribly.
    “Thank you for having my things arranged just so, then.” He thought she had tried to sound casual but was actually immensely relieved.
    They pulled in front of Avenue Jermini at the foundation’s main entrance.
    “This Lucian. Is he French? Why did you break off the engagement?”
    “His family is from New Orleans. So he might very well have some French or Spanish ancestry. But in America, he’s African-American. He didn’t want children. Though he assured me he did or maybe he didn’t and I presumed as much. At 32, all I could hear and see were my biological clock clanging and my best eggs releasing themselves monthly. Do you like children, Thierry?”
    Her directness and the question caught him flatfooted. He was again struck by the