Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 133138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
“We have arrive,” the driver states, obviously thinking hard about his word selection.
He’s stopped outside a building made of weathered gray stone that looks as though it’s seen lifetimes of stories. I get out, wondering if this is the beginning of my own story. Maybe a mystery? Or a romance? More likely, the tale of a spunky, can-do girl taking France by storm. That’s the book I want to write, and hopefully, read.
If it has a happy ending.
The driver helps unload my bags and gestures for me to follow him. He pushes through a black iron gate buried in vinery and reveals a small courtyard. I feel like Alice stepping into Wonderland, absurdly joyful at the tiny details of the texture of the old bricks, the vibrant green leaves, and the narrow wooden staircase the driver is moving toward.
Up the stairs, he unlocks the first door we come to and then offers me the key. It’s oversized, with a large head and a double-flanged shaft that looks like an ancient skeleton key. It’s heavy in my hand, reminding me that though this is a dream trip, it’s also a big responsibility . . . to myself, to Nora, and even to Mom.
I open the door, ready to be wowed, only to be shocked in a bad way. “Wow, I thought New York studio apartments were tiny.” I laugh at my own joke, but the driver simply smiles and nods agreeably, not understanding what I’ve said.
He sets my bags on the bed, and I move to reach into my purse for a tip. He shakes his hands, “Non, non, mademoiselle. Uhm . . . enjoy Paris.”
He touches the brim of his hat and disappears down the stairs once more, leaving me alone in my Paris apartment. Despite the tiny size, I squeal and spin in place, ungracefully knocking into the iron-framed bed that’s somewhere between a twin and a full size but looks comfortable and fluffy with quilts. “Ouch,” I mutter to the empty room.
Beyond that, there’s a small desk with a stool tucked under it, a cooking area with a single electric eye, which is below a shelf that contains two place settings of white porcelain dishes and a coffee pot. The bare necessities, I suppose. Most importantly, there’s a single armoire closet to hold the outfits I brought with me and the special fabrics I felt would speak to my creativity for the competition.
What there isn’t is . . . a toilet.
Uhm, that’s a bare necessity too. I look around again, as though a door to a water closet will have magically appeared in the last five seconds, which it hasn’t, nor has a toilet manifested in the corner. Confused, I look at the apartment door.
I pocket my key and step out into the hallway. There are New York studio apartments that have shared facilities. I’ve been fortunate enough to not live in one . . . until now, I guess. I glance at the handful of other doors, seeing similar locks and deducing that they likely have skeleton keys too. At the end of the hall, there’s a door with a different type of knob.
I knock twice. “Pardon?” Hearing nothing, I slowly turn the knob, hoping I’m not about to walk into my new neighbor’s private space. Nothing like barging in uninvited to mark myself as a stupid tourist with no boundaries, common sense, or manners.
Thankfully, all I reveal is an equally small bathroom with a sink, toilet, and clawfoot tub. “Hallelujah!” I whisper before making quick work of using the restroom.
Back in my apartment-slash-room, I see something I missed. There’s a packet of information on the pillow that bears the House Corbin monogram, an offset H and C encircled in filigree swirls.
The city outside calls to me, tempting me to run and explore, but the questions of what’s going to happen tomorrow when the competition begins win out, so I take off my heels and climb onto the bed to read and prepare.
CHAPTER 3
AUTUMN
The next morning, I think I’m ready. Or at least, I’ve read and re-read, showered and primped my trademark red mane, and agonized over my outfit before following the packet’s directions down the street. Apparently, House Corbin took proximity and walkability into account when renting my apartment.
As I walk down the street, I can’t help but feel as though I’m floating. The sun is bright, making everything seem fresh and clean, and the cafes I pass have cute tables out front with people sitting and drinking their coffee as though they haven’t anywhere to be. I turn a corner and nearly run into a woman sweeping the stoop outside a storefront. “Good morning,” I say, and then correct myself. “I mean, bonjour.”
“Bonjour,” she answers, not pausing her sweeping.
The streets are narrow, with the buildings pushing in on them, but rather than feeling claustrophobic, it feels like a hug full of charm and warmth. I know large portions of the city have been rebuilt over the years, but the impression I get is one of history and the passing of time. Even the gargoyles on the corner of the building in front of me seem protective and cute, in a semi-creepy way.