Free The Seven Turns of the Snail's Shell: A Novel by Mj Roë Page B

Mark?”
    “Ah,” he said, scratching his head. This definitely wasn’t going the way he had intended.
    To their amusement, the bellman proceeded to demonstrate how one of the loveseats could be pulled out to a full-size bed. “ À votre service , Monsieur .”
    “Er, mercy.”
    Anna made a mental note to teach Mark how to pronounce merci correctly with the accent on the last syllable.
    Jean-Michel opened the door with a professional nod.
    “ Bonne nuit , M’sieur . ‘ Dame ,” he said as Mark handed him a tip.
    Once they were alone, Mark poured them each a glass of champagne then opened his briefcase and started taking out the contents.
    “Oh, no, Mark, you’re not going to work tonight, are you?”
    “No, it’s just that…” he was fumbling around looking for something. “I’ve got something for you. Ah, here it is.” He pulled out a little package. “I bought this for you at the duty free shop in the airport in Paris while you were freshening up. It’s to say mercy,” he pronounced merci wrong again, “for making this trip with me.”
    The prettily wrapped package contained a bottle of Allure perfume.
    “The woman who helped me spoke English.” He grinned. “She told me that Chanel is very popular.”
    She hugged him. “You are a thoughtful man, Mark.”
    “Haven’t you figured out by now that I’m an incurable romantic?” He put his arms around her shoulders and kissed her. “I’m on cloud nine now that you are here with me.”
    Anna looked up to the loft. The fatigue she had felt on the plane was suddenly gone. What the hell. She was in France again. She threw her arms around his neck.
    “Make love to me, Mark,” she whispered softly into his ear.

CHAPTER 17
     
    A t eight o’clock in the morning, Anna was awakened from a deep sleep by sounds from the street. It was still pitch dark. She wrapped a blanket around her, put on her slippers, and descended from the loft. A market across from the hotel was getting its morning deliveries. Fresh produce was being unloaded from a farmer’s truck. C amionettes , small delivery trucks, their doors open, lined the street, panels advertising Orangina, Badoit, Perrier, Vins fins d’Alsace. Anna watched the charming and provincial scene with fascination from the window over the writing desk. She heard pigeons softly cooing from their perch on the red tile roof overhang. At dawn the cathedral’s bells began to toll. Anna peered into the distance. The outline of the single, tall spire of the great pinkish-red Gothic cathedral dominated the view.
    Mark appeared behind her in his sweats. She turned to look at him and put her hands on her hips. “You look rejuvenated.”
    “I’m going for a morning jog,” he announced.
    “In this weather? It’s bitterly cold out there.” Anna glared at him.
    “Hey, I’m up to it.” He glanced out the window at the canal. “The water doesn’t look frozen, and the rain or sleet or whatever it was has quit. Besides,” he reassured her, “I’ve been conditioned. I’ve been jogging in Central Park while I’ve been in New York…in the snow. There were always lots of runners out. Got this winter running garb there.”
    Anna laughed as she watched him pull on a heavy jacket, winter leggings, and gloves.
    “No wonder your luggage was so bulky.”
    He isn’t likely to meet up with a crowd of runners here , she thought. Hardly anyone ever jogs on the streets in France.
    Out he went, looking for all the world like an athlete in training.
    In he came, freezing and grumbling, a half hour later.
    “It’s impossible to run on those cobblestones. And doesn’t anyone ever pick up their dog’s poop in this city? It’s an accident waiting to happen. I nearly sprained an ankle twice.”
    Anna laughed. “It’s the law that owners are supposed to pick up after their dogs, but the French always ignore it. That’s the way the French are.”
    She had managed to unpack, get a shower, and don a pair of black wool pants