I let my head thump down on him. “Nooo.”
He marched on. “Apparently, when she moved to Paris at thirteen, she lived in model housing in, coincidentally, this neighborhood.”
All of a sudden hot anger swamped me. I shoved my hair out of my face. “Who cares? What do you want to do, traipse around her old stomping grounds? What’s that going to do?”
He shrugged, still keeping those light, steady eyes fastened on me. “It’s where she grew up.”
I snorted. “She never grew up.”
“Can you blame her?”
I tilted my head, some of my anger fading at the odd note in his voice.
He stared at the Eiffel Tower. “She spent years working when she should have been having a childhood.”
I also looked at the metal structure. “It got her fame and money.”
“Was it worth it?”
He looked so calm, his chiseled face imperturbable. It struck me how few people he ever let in, how few realized there was anything behind the charm. “I don’t know. Was it?”
He turned back to me and reached out to trace my cheekbone with his finger. “I’m just saying. It was a large part of her life.”
I laced my hand through his. “All right, then. Let’s go.”
* * *
The walk through the narrow streets was beautiful. Even the tourist shops added flare. Bright scarves caught our attention from sidewalk stands. Every block seemed to have a boulangerie piping the scent of fresh, crusty baguettes into the air. Small, round pastries and fruit glazed with sugar filled their windows. We almost smacked into a man carrying a giant slab of half-alive meat into the boucherie, and almost keeled over from the yellow perfume of the fromageries.
I was in heaven.
Little nooks and crannies kept jumping out at us, demanding our attention: a hidden churchyard with a mossy fountain; a marble plaque on a building declaring this the site where two members of La Résistance died. A florist shop with such beautiful bouquets; a tour crawling by on Segways; a park with an old Metro sign done up in beautiful Art Deco style.
The model house was tucked away, down two quiet streets, through a gate and a private garden. The gate pushed open, though it looked like it was supposed to be latched, and we walked past potted plants and into the small lobby of the building.
On one wall, bright flyers waved in the summer breeze as the door fell shut behind us, while straight ahead a man in a suit glanced up from behind a counter. He didn’t quite frown as he took in everything from our sandals to my ponytail, but he spoke with no little disdain. “Puis-je vous aider?”
My French, which I’d had to learn for grad school, was decidedly rusty. I cleared my throat and tried anyway. “Ma mere avait l’habitude de vivre ici. Pouvons-nous jeter un coup d’œil?”
He heard my accent and didn’t even bother speaking in French. “The residences are private.”
“Oh. Desole. Merci.”
Mike leaned closer. “What’d you say?”
“Just that my mom used to live here and we wanted to look around.” I shrugged and turned. “Well, that was a fail.”
Mike grabbed my arm. “Hey, no.” He turned back to the man. “Her mom lived here for five years.”
I twisted so I could catch his wrist and tugged him toward the door. “It’s not a big deal. We tried.”
The man behind the counter didn’t deign to chime in.
Mike reached into his pocket, and I yanked harder on him, embarrassment rising. “Mike. There’s not even anything to see.”
Behind us, the entrance bell chimed, and another wave of summer air swept in. I tugged again, determined to catch the door and be on our way. Two tall girls in slimming black passed us, chattering rapid-fire in some language I didn’t understand. They looked at Mike and one giggled.
“Come on, Nat. Don’t you want to talk to them?” To the man he said, “There must be some way—”