On the Brink of Paris by Elizabeth Cody Kimmel Page B

was one fifteen.
    â€œOh my God! I’ve got to get to the Louvre! Tim, do you have any idea where it is?”
    â€œNot really,” he replied. “Sorry. I didn’t think I was going to need to know.”
    â€œI know where the Louvre is,” said Lindy, in the same tone that she’d used to tell me she’d written a book.
    I swallowed.
    â€œReally? Honestly?” I asked. “Like, not just where it is,but where it is in relation to here? And where here is? And how to get there?”
    Lindy sighed and adjusted the oh-so-wide belt on her oh-so-low-riding jeans.
    â€œDarling, I know Paris like the back of my hand,” she said. “And I did a photo shoot at the Louvre last month for Milk of Human Kindness International.”
    â€œReally?” I asked.
    Lindy looked bored.
    â€œIt’s down the Champs-Elysées and over to the Rue de Rivoli. Past the Jardin des Tuileries.”
    It did not escape my notice that Lindy Sloane had a perfect French accent.
    â€œWell, how long will it take me to walk there?”
    Lindy bestowed upon me a look of sheer astonishment.
    â€œWalk?” she asked. She appeared to consider the word, then repeated it again with the same level of bewilderment. “Walk?”
    â€œWell, uh…what do you suggest?”
    Lindy turned and made a grand gesture toward the curb with her hand, like Moses parting the Red Sea. And then I saw it. How could I not have seen it before? It looked like an ocean liner with tinted windows docked in a marina full of rowboats.
    â€œGet in,” said Lindy.
    There may have been all sorts of reasons, environmental and otherwise, why I should not get into Lindy Sloane’s stretch limo, but I didn’t produce any of them. Time was of the essence, and who was I to look a gift celebrity in the mouth?
    As we approached, a uniformed driver magically appeared and opened the back door. It didn’t so much feel like getting into a car as it felt like going into someone’s living room. There was a television, a fridge, a phone, a bar. Lindy Sloane’s limousine could have provided ground support to a small army for several days.
    â€œI so utterly and completely appreciate this,” I said to Tim as he climbed in next to me. “You’re a good guy.”
    He shrugged, but I couldn’t help thinking he looked a little…pleased.
    Lindy slid expertly into the seat across from me. This was a person who’d had plenty of practice getting into limousines. Out of the sunlight, her face was almost entirely shadowed by her sunglasses. When the driver got behind the wheel, Lindy spoke.
    â€œJean-Michel, nous avons besoin d’aller au Musée du Louvre tout de suite, s’il te plaît. La demoiselle ici est bien en retard.”
    My goodness! While I was still relatively certain Lindy could not correctly name all the continents, I have to admit I was impressed by her French.
    The limousine moved surprising fast through the traffic, in a Titanic sort of way.
    â€œWhat are you going to do when you get there?” Tim asked. “I mean, isn’t the Louvre supposed to be huge?”
    â€œI don’t know,” I said. “I’m making this up as I go. Everybody was supposed to meet at this place called ze glesspairmeed. Do you have any idea what that is?”
    â€œ Glace means ‘ice cream,’” stated Lindy.
    â€œ Père means ‘father,’” added Tim.
    â€œSo you think it’s an ice-cream stand?” I asked eagerly. “Called Father something?”
    Tim pulled a small dictionary out of a little pocket by his door.
    â€œDon’t leave home without it,” he said, flipping through the pages. “What’s the last part? Meed? I don’t see…there’s a midinette .”
    â€œWhat’s it mean?” I asked.
    â€œUh…silly young townie.”
    â€œFather’s Silly Young Townie Ice-Cream Stand?” I