Chapter 8

Standing on the Petit Pont, Samantha Bowers thought she was the luckiest woman alive. As the daughter of an oppressive father, she had held out little hope of escaping his house except as the bride of a similarly narrow-minded husband. That she had managed to escape to New York had been a minor miracle to her mind and one she was constantly happy about. Then finding a job that would give her the opportunity to travel to Paris and other exotic locations was simply incomprehensible to her. She still felt that it was a dream and she would wake up to find herself pregnant in the bed of some strange man she had been forced to marry. And then, when it looked like she was on the verge of not only blowing the meeting but the entire opportunity, she had met a man that was caring, good looking and had the potential to help her in more ways than she could have hoped for. His passion in bed and that he seemed to actually care about her for no other reason than it was his good nature was just beyond anything she had hoped to achieve. If it was a dream, she did not want to wake up.

Alex had taken her back to bed after almost physically throwing Josephine out of his apartment, slamming the door and threatening to call the Gendarme if she persisted. Samantha had been shocked at both his vehemence and his actions as he spoke He had told her later that it was not a threat and that the Gendarme already had quite a file on Josephine but he would not elaborate more beyond that, saying the past was the past and it was behind him.

They had made love and showered and he had made them a breakfast that was more American than it was French. She had devoured every bite and two cups of coffee which he admitted was actually from Kona. It turns out he had a friend on the Big Island that ran a small plantation and every six weeks or so a shipment of coffee showed up. Alex told her that he gave most of it to Martin for use in the restaurant. An added draw, he described it. Be he did keep some for his own use. After they had finished breakfast and she had pulled on her clothes for the day, he had given her a small book, exactly like the map book he carried in his pocket. The first couple of pages contained a map of the Metro and the city, the next few were blank, although he had filled one with little tips about places to avoid and some rough advice that any tourist in the city might need. He had filled a couple of pages with phone numbers, his, Monique's, Martin's and a couple of others that he assured her she would want at some point if she needed to find him and he was not answering his cell. Not all of them were in Paris and some of the addresses were not even in France. He had added some of his favorite cafes, bistros, restaurants, shops and galleries, complete with their map locations to the list of numbers and names, but had left her more than plenty of unfilled pages that he assured her she would fill in her visits to Paris in the future. The book had come wrapped in a small box, accompanied by a gold tipped fountain pen. After all, he reasoned, she was in Paris and only the best would do for writing when one was in Paris and one should always take a moment to write when one was in Paris. The pen was a twin to the one he used, only with a purple body, while his was encased in blue.

He had kissed her on the door step, pointing her in the direction of the fashion district and making sure she knew where she was going before excusing himself and heading in the opposite direction, towards the station and the trains to Dijon and the parts he needed to fix Monique's dress maker. Greg was going to meet Samantha at the station in the early afternoon and Samantha and Monique were going to plan a better strategy for making sure that Samantha got what she needed without wasting her time chasing down mediocre merchandise. Alex would join them for dinner or as soon as he could get there.

Samantha took another deep breath and began her walk towards the fashion district. She was smiling slightly as she remembered that he had tucked a couple of francs in the book as well, for "mad money" he said and she seemed to remember that there were several lingerie shops listed in the book as well. She would give Monique a call before she decided which one to visit, once she was done with her meeting. Business first, she reasoned despite feeling happy and feeling like she owned the city. She walked deeper into the canyons that would lead her to her appointment.

"Good afternoon, mademoiselle, how are you this afternoon," Greg asked as he opened the door of the sedan for her.

"Hello, Greg. I am well enough, although I had a completely horrible meeting. It would seem that Maison de Ville does not 'deal with uncultured Americans, no matter who recommends them' and it would seem that my company's money is not enough to turn their opinions around. Personally I think it is just an excuse to change their American distribution chain."

"You are probably correct. From what Monique has told me, Maison de Ville has been looking to break Hermes's hold on the silk scarf overseas, even though their product is not on the same level. Why, it is a product you would see at Target for example. You could certainly do better for your client I think. Monique could better advise you of course," he said as they pulled away from the curb and into the late afternoon traffic and Samantha found herself surprised at his knowledge, not only of the various houses and their products but at the quality of goods carried in stores in the United States. She herself had judged their scarves, while of good quality, not otherwise outstanding and certainly not what she was looking for.

"Greg, I don't know how I could have managed any of this without having met you or Monique. Or Alex for that matter. I really feel like a fish out of water. Rachel is a great person, but I feel like I am trying to trade on her reputation and I am not her. Of the two houses I have met with though, I wonder what Rachel ever saw in their merchandise. It certainly is not of a quality for one of our stores even though the price certainly is," she said, sounding somewhat rueful even to her own ears.

"No, you are not her, you are your own person with a different eye and a different set of requirements and standards and I suspect you will make better contacts. Or you will make different contacts. Or you will find something completely different that is new and original and will take the world by storm, I have no doubt."

"Thank you Greg, I certainly hope so. I really do like shopping. It just seems to be so difficult though when you are shopping for a large organization. More difficult than I thought it would be at any rate."

They had pulled into the large circular drive way and parked behind a white Citroen that had clearly seen better days. Greg made a small noise in his throat.

"I am guessing that is not Alex's car?" Samantha said with growing dread.

"No, it is not. It is Miss Josephine's."

"We've met."

Greg turned to look at her over the back of the seat and she quickly reiterated the events of the morning to him.

"Trust her to be so, déclassé," he said with a little mirth. "But if anyone is capable of dealing with her, it is Alex and it sounds like he is getting tired of 'being polite.' Although it is about time."

"Yes, he was not very polite when he tossed her out that is for sure. So, what do we do? Clearly, I think my presence should not be shoved in her face."

"No, I quite agree with that. Come with me." With that they got out of the car and rather than walking in the front door, they walked around to the side of the house and in the door that lead directly to the kitchen. "Why don't you take a seat Samantha and I will go and let Monique know you are here."

Greg left the kitchen carrying a tray with a glass of wine on it and Samantha smirked at the glass he had left her on the table. Walking over and picking it up, she silently saluted his thoughtfulness as she took a sip from it. She strolled around the kitchen, impressed with the array of utensils and pans. It was bigger than her apartment and half the size of Alex's, and she figured she could cook a Thanksgiving dinner for her entire family in it and still have room for another three or four families worth of food and seating. Giant windows looked over the deck of the pool, trees in the garden blowing lightly in the fall air. She was taken by the simple beauty of it all, wondering what she had done to even earn the right to stand here and enjoy the view, much less be able to walk out onto the deck. It was not something that happened to people like her.