Free Mrs. John Doe by Tom Savage Page B

room, which fronted on the street.
    There were six tables here, with red checked cloths and plain wooden chairs, all but one of them taken. Felicia seated her at the empty table in back, next to the kitchen—and shielded from the front windows, Nora noted. Groups of happy working-class Parisians were making serious work of their meals, joking between tables and calling for bread and wine. Everyone seemed to know everyone, and they all smiled and nodded at Nora. She smiled back. There was no need for a menu; Felicia simply brought things to the table. Thick vegetable soup was followed by a chicken breast sautéed in lemon butter over wild rice, with a basket of fresh bread and a glass of white wine.
    In that simple room, which definitely was not listed in Frommer’s, Nora enjoyed the finest meal she’d ever been served in Paris. In a city that boasted the best food in the world, it was quite a discovery. It was called Chez Felicia,
naturellement,
and the fact that the woman herself was serving the American lady in the corner clearly impressed the locals, who were attended by the young man. Nora inhaled everything placed before her, blissfully refusing to think about her predicament.
    Felicia would not sit at the table, but she hovered, chatting as Nora ate, and Nora was able to practice her rusty French. Felicia was a widow of six months. She’d been the chef here since they’d opened the restaurant thirty-eight years ago, and her late husband had handled the dining room. Now her son, André, did the honors, and his wife—pregnant with Felicia’s third grandchild—helped out on weekends. Nora admired everything and complimented the food, the décor, and the handsome son, but she didn’t go so far as to claim to be a fellow widow. That she simply could not do; it would be an insult to this woman, whose bereavement was genuine.
    Felicia and her late husband had known Jacques Lanier and his family for many years, and Jacques was one of her favorite people, even though she’d never been quite sure what he did for a living. Nora told her that Jacques was a chauffeur who’d met her at the train station this morning, which caused the other woman to raise her eyebrows and shake her head.
    “Vraiment?”
she said.
“Il est un chauffeur aujourd’hui? Quel étrange…”
    So, Nora thought, my gallant little driver is a jack-of-all-trades. A
Jacques
-of-all-trades, ha-ha. Her conversation with Felicia had put her mind even more at ease about him. He was Felicia’s friend and neighbor of long standing, and that was enough of a recommendation for Nora.
    She was sipping excellent espresso and politely refusing a shimmering array of pastries when Jacques arrived from the kitchen. He’d changed his clothes; he was now in an old leather jacket, jeans, and work boots, and he was grinning once more.
    “Come, mademoiselle, it is time for to go.”
    Nora paid for her meal, secretly shocked at the price: An equivalent amount in America would only have gotten her a Big Mac and fries. She smiled, thanked Felicia for the splendid lunch, and followed her guide back through the kitchen to the alley.

Chapter 12
    The new transport Jacques had procured was a dark blue Renault Modus, and it belonged to his eldest son and his family, who were on vacation in America—New York City, as a matter of fact. Nora got in, and he opened the hatchback and produced a pillow and a blanket, which he handed to her. She settled herself in the comfortable backseat as he drove out of the alley and headed in the direction of the A6, the first leg of their journey.
    “This village you wish to visit, mademoiselle—it is in the Franche-Comté, south of Besançon, yes?”
    She nodded. “That’s right. Jeff— My husband used to joke that Franche-Comté means
French completely,
the only part of France that isn’t choked with foreign tourists. His people are from there—well, his mother’s people.
La famille de sa mère
. A village in the mountains, in the