Falling in Luck, page 8
“I see. Well. Perhaps I should speak franchement, ehm, totally honest.”
“Please.”
The waiter appeared with a tray carrying our plates. I rolled my eyes at the poor timing. Jean-Luc slid back around to his side of the table. We sat quietly as dishes were distributed. I drummed my fingers on the table. I felt like someone had ripped the last chapter out of a book and left me hanging.
As soon as the waiters had moved out of the immediate space of our table, I leaned in. “Please continue what you were going to say.”
“Yes, well, my father. He sent me here.”
“Right, you told me that last night. You are here to immerse yourself more in the U.S. business.”
“That, yes. But he has a vision. It is difficult to explain. But here. Our food is becoming cold. I promise I will tell you more. Let’s eat first.”
The tuna smelled tantalizing, but my mind reeled with questions, and I absently poked at the seared medallions.
“Is it okay?” He held his fork halfway to his mouth, and I realized I hadn’t taken a single bite.
I shook my head and smiled, awkward. To alleviate his worries, I carried on with the act of eating. The meat melted in my mouth, and I closed my eyes to savor it. I was accustomed to eating burgers better known for size than quality. I rarely had the opportunity to eat like this. I really could get used to it.
We ate in silence. Jean-Luc’s eyes also closed as he bit into his tuna. It pleased me to know that he hadn’t gotten so spoiled by life that he couldn’t appreciate what I considered the finer things. To him this was probably the normal things.
The time stretched out, and I soon began to feel pretty stupid about my interrogation of him. I figured his father had sent him here to run the American office for a while. I’d hoped he was looking for someone to promote to a position higher than my own, but so far, I had no clue about that. How stupid I was to think he’d pursue something romantic. I mean, it was one or the other. It couldn’t be both. Then again, either would be better than neither.
The waiter cleared our plates and offered us a selection of desserts. Ready to burst from the food already eaten, I waved it away. Jean-Luc ordered a flourless chocolate cake with two forks. And two glasses of Cognac.
When we were finally alone again, he leaned in and took my hand in his. “I am sorry. I promised to speak honestly.”
The touch of his hand sent little thrill bombs down my spine that exploded in my nether region, threatening to dislodge the contents of my stomach. That would be romantic.
The Cognac came. We swirled it. I tried to take a sip, but the toxic lighter fluid made my lip curl. Jean-Luc laughed. “Bottoms up.”
I tried again, less disgusted the second time. I started to feel its effects, tingly and warm. A smile crept up my face unbidden.
Jean-Luc squeezed my hand. “The thing is, I want to make you a proposal.”
“Proposition,” I said, giggling now. “A proposal is when you ask someone to marry you. A proposition is proper for a business exchange.”
His other hand appeared. Both now wrapped around mine. I took a snapshot in my mind: Jean-Luc fucking Chevalier sitting across the table from me at a five-star restaurant holding my hand in both of his. I could definitely get used to this.
“Then proposal is the word I mean.” He cleared his throat. “Mallory, I would like to ask if you would consider marrying me.”
I was light-headed, and everything seemed funny. “Sure, Jean-Luc. Let’s get married.”
He scowled. “I am serious, Mallory. Would you consider marrying me?”
Could he be serious? I jerked my hand back, slamming against the ridiculous wine glass and knocking it sideways. Wine spilled toward me, and I jumped up, not seeing the waiter behind me. I felt him, though, when we collided. And when the heavy glass on his tray toppled over and landed on my head, I felt that too.
Liquid covered my face. I tasted more Cognac. Someone else’s Cognac. I touched my forehead. My hand came back red with a thick liquid that definitely wasn’t booze. I laughed again. Then I lost all awareness.
9
Up All Night to Get Lucky
“Mallory?”
“She’s opening her eyes.”
“Sit still, honey.”
A bright light forced my eyes back shut. Something pressed down on my head. I lifted my hand to move it.
“This may sting.”
Hands held my shoulders. I forced an eye open, narrowly, adjusting to the light. The man talking to me was a stranger. He brought a cloth to my forehead, and it felt like I’d been attacked by hornets.
I hissed.
“Steady. Make sure she doesn’t move.”
“Hold still, dummy.”
I turned my head. “Benji? Is that you?”
“Don’t move, monkey.”
“Benji? What’s happening?”
The stranger with the horrible cloth blocked my view. I closed my eyes and felt the pressure on my head. It stung. I thought for a minute and remembered then. The blood. Oh, God, my clothes! I bent my head forward to get a look at my dress.
“Mallory, you must be still.” Heavy French accent. “You are injured.”
I reached up to touch, but another voice said, “Mallory, we’re just going to put a bandage on.”
I closed my eyes again and tried not to move.
“That’s good, Mallory. Nearly there.”
He pressed against my forehead, then stood.
“Thank you,” I said.
He glanced up at Jean-Luc. “She may have a concussion. You’ll want to make sure she stays conscious for the next several hours. She can take ibuprofen for pain.”
“Where’s Benji?” I asked.
Jean-Luc looked at me confused. “Benji?” He pronounced it with a soft “ch.”
I giggled. “Benji. Where did he go?”
“He was never here.”
“Who called me dummy? You?”
“Nobody.”
Jean-Luc helped me stand up, but I grabbed his shoulder, woozy. Probably too much booze all at once. “I’m so sorry. I totally ruined the whole night.”
“It is not a problem.” He laughed. “You should not be saying sorry. I am the one who is sorry for this night. I suppose that I have, how do you say, knocked you out with my offer.”
“Oh, right. I believe you have some explaining to do.”
“Let’s go to the hotel. We can talk without those waiters always there at the wrong times.”
He walked me out and held up his hand to hail a cab. I touched the bandage on my head and tried to imagine the aftermath of whatever accident had befallen me. Jean-Luc must have had to deal with uptight restaurant people to get me taken care of. It amazed me that he took it all in stride, and all in a foreign language. I fixated on that.
“You know, your English is excellent.”
“We must learn it quite young. And my grandmother was English, but it was not my favorite study.”
The taxi cut across several lanes to pull up in front of us. That never happened when I called for one.
As we climbed in, I asked, “What did you like to study?”
He leaned his head against the back of the seat and sighed. “Music, actually.”
“Do you play an instrument?”
“Yes, I play the piano and a little bit of violin.”
“Violin? Really? Wow.”
“Wow? Why is that?”
“It’s unusual, is all.” I’d played the violin in middle school, but I didn’t stick with it. I had zero talent.
“And what did you like to study?”
“Not French. Honestly, I never cared much for school. I wanted to get out and start my life, such as it is.”
“And you like the work?”
“The work? You mean what I do?” I thought about it. I needed to be careful talking to my employer. But I needed him to know I was interested in more. “I do like the work. To be honest, I have higher ambitions than to be an assistant, but I haven’t figured out what exactly I want to do.”
“You want what Raquel is doing?”
I half-smiled at how quickly he’d figured that out. “That would be a nice position.”
He scratched his head. “Of course. But, you know, she has an MBA.”
I wanted to say, And so fucking what? I do her entire job. But I couldn’t. I left it at, “Of course.”
Great. So Raquel’s position was out of reach whether or not she took the promotion.
And that’s when it clicked.
“Wait, were you offering Raquel a promotion yesterday morning? Or were you offering her something else?”
The taxi pulled up in front of the hotel, and Jean-Luc climbed out. Saved again by incredibly bad timing. He wouldn’t be able to escape from me for long though. We were neighbors now.
He came around and held his hand out to help me out of the car. Normally, I would have called this chivalrous, but unnecessary. Tonight, I needed the support. I’d started to feel a little nauseated but understood this was not uncommon with a possible concussion. As I allowed myself to be pulled from the cab, I considered if I should sue the restaurant for their preposterously irresponsible glassware. As Jean-Luc paid, I leaned against a column until he came to escort me inside.
Once we were in the hallway outside our rooms, I excused myself to change since my dress now looked like a costume from Carrie. Who knew a gash to the forehead could bleed so profusely?
He paused outside my room as I unlocked my door. “Please come knock on my door once you have changed. I would like to converse encore.”
I wondered if his English would completely unravel at the stroke of midnight but agreed to hurry over as soon as I found something to put on.
Alone, I immediately consulted the clothes rack. While it had the latest fashions for the work place and nights on the town, nobody seemed to have thought to purchase any pajamas. Or underwear. I flipped past skirts, pants, blouses, and an elegant pair of party dresses. The only thing remotely suitable was a long Polo dress. I’d never much cared for these but now wondered if they were and always had been meant as pajamas, and Ralph Lauren didn’t have the heart to tell anyone.
This thought had me laughing to myself, and I wondered what Benji would make of it. I threw on the dress and snapped a picture. I texted it to him with the caption Marco.
I put my phone down and went into the bathroom, hoping to at least brush my teeth.
The phone buzzed before I had a chance to check out the toiletries, and I rushed over to see what hilarity he’d have to say.
Holy fuck, Frankenstein. What did you do?
I scrolled up to look at the picture. The dress fit loosely, but it didn’t look like a disaster. Then I looked at my face. And my hair. I dropped the phone and ran back into the bathroom to confront the mirror.
“Holy fuck.” Rather than the expected Band-aid, blood-stained gauze covered my forehead. I slowly peeled it back to assess the damage. A patch of my hair was completely gone. In its place, a gnarly gash protruded, held together by butterfly tape and probably just shy of needing stitches.
After readjusting the bandage, I sat down and called Benji. He picked up right away.
“Tell me you’re trying out for a production of Night of the Living Dead.”
“I had a slight accident. My forehead got between a tray full of glasses and gravity.”
He didn’t laugh. “A glass did that?”
“You should’ve seen these glasses.”
“Are you okay?”
“I’ve been a little bit nauseated, but my head doesn’t hurt much.”
“Do you want me to come up there? You shouldn’t be alone.”
“I’m not alone.”
“Oh.” He grew quiet. “Thanks for calling. See you in the morning?”
“Sure thing, fool.”
When I hung up, my eyes fell on a set of dressers. There I discovered combed cotton pajamas.
It was close to eleven when I slipped into the hallway and approached Jean-Luc’s room. It went against my better instincts to knock on his door so late, but he’d told me to. Before I rapped my knuckle though, I listened. He was speaking to someone. I put my ear against the door to make sure it was him and not the TV. If it was him, I figured he’d be speaking French, probably on the phone to his parents.
The sixth time Jean-Luc had come to New York, he’d stepped out of Raquel’s office with his cell phone against one ear, speaking French rapidly. He’d walked to the edge of the cubes and back again. I couldn’t understand the words, but the tone of his voice and his agitated movements clued me in to the gist. I’d reasoned that nobody had died since Jean-Luc’s responses were more belligerent than conciliatory. When at last he’d hung up, he’d settled on the edge of my desk. “Parents can be so difficult, no?” I’d agreed with him, though that was something I’d never known.
In his hotel room now, Jean-Luc was speaking in English. “Listen. Please listen. I only have a few minutes.”
I should have either walked away or at least knocked to let him know I was there. But I had a slight a problem with snooping. I pressed my ear to the door and put my finger in my other ear.
“You know I don’t have any choice.”
The elevator chimed, and the doors slid open. I stepped back and waited until a buxom woman emerged and disappeared around the corner.
When I put my ear to the door again, I heard silence. I mustered my courage and knocked.
Jean-Luc opened the door with a friendly smile, apparently glad I’d disrupted his evening. I was happy to see he also wore pajamas. There was something conspiratorial about being up late in a strange hotel room wearing matching PJs. Like we might go down to the Christmas tree and secretly unwrap our presents early.
“I don’t suppose you should have anything to drink?” He handed me a glass of golden liquid anyway.
I sniffed it and wrinkled my nose. I could never stand the smell of hard liquor. Or the taste. However, I was a huge fan of the effects.
I downed the inch of bourbon in one swallow. “Bottoms up.”
He laughed and kicked his drink back. “Would you sit with me?”
We sat together on the same sofa. He lowered the volume on the background music from the cable jazz station. Did he always sit around drinking bourbon while listening to smooth jazz in his cotton PJs? So many things I didn’t know about him.
“So, are you going to unravel this mystery for me now?”
“Yes. Will you hear me all of the way out?”
“I am all ears.”
He stared into his empty glass. “I know it is not conventional to propose a marriage so soon. And I want to say that I am not proposing a wedding.”
“Huh?” Maybe I should have hired a translator to sit with us.
“What I mean is that I am not asking you to marry me tomorrow, or next week. But I am also not, how do you say, shopping for a girlfriend.”
I was so confused. “You want to spend time with someone with the hope of one day getting married?” I hated to tell him, in America, we call that dating.
“I am not making myself clear. Please listen.”
Those were the words he’d said when I was eavesdropping. Was he putting himself up to the highest bidder? “Go on. I won’t interrupt again.”
“My father, he has a vision for my future. It is not one that I necessarily share, but he’s asked me to find a potential American to marry.”
“For the green card!” I shouted. Then clamped my lips closed again and winced. “Sorry,” I whispered.
“Yes. I mean, I can work with my visa, but my father is looking at the future. You see, he wants me to become political. And for this, I need to be a citizen.”
He grew quiet for a minute. I kept my word and shut up while he composed his thoughts.
“You see, Mallory, I do not think that I want this for myself. But I am trying to find what I do want. And at the same time, I am doing what my father asks. I tell you this now because I like you and do not want to, ehm, misdirect.”
“Mislead,” I corrected.
“Yes. That is what I mean. Do you understand now?”
“And did you propose this to Raquel?”
He laughed, a little ruefully in my opinion. “Raquel. She did not agree to the arrangement. It would be a conflict of interest.”
“In what way?”
He shrugged. “Well, for one thing, it would be difficult for her to do her job from Paris.”
I sucked in my breath, “Paris?”
Despite my best attempts to keep cool and use logic in this ridiculous situation, my heart skipped a beat at the mention of Paris. My French might be deplorable, but that didn’t stop me from longing to visit the city of lights. I bit my lip and kept my mask up.
He said quietly, “Oui. My father wants me to do what is called a K-3 immigration. It would mean the wedding would take place in France. You see, my father has connections there. It is not so sure here.”
I exhaled. “And?”
“You would need to move to Paris with me until the wedding. We would stay until the first part of the application is processed. Then we would come back here to apply for an upgrade to permanent resident. It is complicated, but it would mean at least six months in France.”
Time in France didn’t scare me. I’d dreamed of visiting Paris for so long, this sounded like a paid vacation. But how could I promise to date Jean-Luc with the intention of marrying him? It was ludicrous. “This is crazy.”
“In any relationship, there is always the risk that you take. You would not be obligated to marry me if you decided not to in the end. But we could take the chance to get to know one another and see. You might find that you like being with me. It is not impossible, you know. I wanted to know if we were similar . . .”
