The Paris Key by Juliet Blackwell

something I can do?”
    â€œI’m just . . . I just flew in from California last night, and I think it’s the lack of sleep. I’m getting a headache—a migraine; I get them sometimes. I’m hoping to head it off with coffee and chocolate—the caffeine helps.”
    He smiled. “And chocolate’s the best medicine anyway, eh?”
    Genevieve tried to return his smile but failed.
    â€œDo you have any medicine I could get you?” Killian offered.
    â€œUm, yes, Excedrin—” Genevieve started to stand, but he placed a hand on her shoulder to urge her to stay.
    â€œWhere?”
    â€œThe red canvas bag, in the bedroom on the left.”
    He brought the bag to her, and she rooted through for the jumbo bottle while Killian got her a huge glass and a bottle of Perrier. She shook three white pellets into her hand, then tossed them to the back of her throat and chased them down with a full glass of mineral water.
    He handed her a wet washcloth. It felt like heaven on her hot brow.
    â€œBetter?” Killian asked.
    â€œNot quite yet, but I hope I caught it in time.”
    â€œI’d be happy to run to the pharmacy. You know how hypochondriacal the French are. I’m sure I could come up with an armful of herbal tinctures and various
digestifs
. In my experience the French are convinced just about anything can be cured with a good stiff drink.”
    She smiled, remembering her uncle giving her “medicine” for a stomachache that turned out to be an alcoholic fruit cordial of some kind, followed by an herbal chaser.
    â€œNo need, there’s a whole cupboard full of such remedies right here. But I’ll stick with caffeine. I’m . . . I’m very sorry I cried. I’m so embarrassed.”
    â€œWhy would you be embarrassed? My mum always said a good cry was good for the soul. So, locksmith Dave, of the sign . . . he was your father?”
    â€œMy uncle,” she said, tearing up again. She hadn’t cried for Dave until right this moment. Now, in front of strangers, surrounded by the smell of his pipe, the rust of his old keys, she could feel the loss. Crying not just for his recent death but for all the years that had passed. All that time she hadn’t come back, had hardly reached out. Long ago Genevieve had played tug-o’-war at a school picnic, and she still remembered the shocking sensation of the rough rope being violently wrenched through her hands, leaving her palms scraped raw. Dave’s loss felt like that: an abrupt, stinging pain, followed by a long, lingering burn.
    â€œI’m new in the neighborhood myself,” said Killian. “Though I’ve been living in Paris for some time now, over in the ninth arrondissement.”
    â€œI didn’t think anyone used those things anymore,” said Genevieve, gesturing to the clunky camera hanging around his neck. She was hoping to get her mind off Dave, her discomfort, her desire to curl up in a ball in the corner, to wail like she had as a child.
    He lifted the camera off his chest. “You mean this? I know—I’m old-school. Don’t care much for phone cameras.”
    â€œWhat do you take pictures of?”
    â€œI like to think of myself as an urban explorer, I’d say. Truth is, I go for the gritty, the manky.”
    â€œManky?”
    He gave her a lopsided grin. “Dirty, grimy. Abandoned, even better. D’ya ever see the photos of the ghost towns of Ireland?”
    Philippe tottered back in, a white paper bag already stained with grease in one hand, a cardboard coffee cup in the other, and his cane looped over his arm.
    â€œ
Ça va?
You are feeling better?”
    When Genevieve didn’t answer immediately, Killian said something in French so rapid she couldn’t understand. He ended with: “She’ll be better soon.”
    â€œI’ll be okay in a few minutes, I think,” she said.