The Apartment in Paris
By the time my plane landed, I’d made a decision.
I wasn’t going to my hotel first. I was going to that address.
The building had pale stone walls and iron balconies, exactly Richard’s taste.
I climbed the stairs and knocked.
An elegant woman around my age opened the door.
“Bonjour?”
“Hello. Do you speak English?”
“A little.”
“I’m Mrs. Wilson. I believe my husband owned this apartment.”
I showed her the letter.
The moment she saw Richard’s name, her expression changed.
She began speaking rapidly in French.
“I’m sorry,” I interrupted. “I don’t understand.”
“You must leave.”
“Please, I only want to ask…”
“This is my home.”
She produced paperwork from a drawer.
“My name. My apartment.”
“Perhaps you bought it from him?”
Her face hardened. “Leave, please.”
Then I noticed a framed photograph on a shelf.
Richard.
He was smiling beside the woman standing in front of me.
Had she worked with him? Richard had traveled to Paris on business for years.
“Wait. Did you know my husband through his company?”
Her face went pale. She slammed the door.
I stared at the closed door.
“Who are you?” I whispered. “And what was Richard doing here with you?”
As I descended the stairs, dizziness made me grab the railing. I stopped to catch my breath, suddenly afraid I wouldn’t have the strength to uncover the truth.
At my hotel, I called Emma.
“Mom! How was your flight? Did you see the apartment?”
I froze. “What apartment?”
Silence.
“Emma?”
“Oh, Mom.”
“How do you know about it?”
“Because I arranged the envelope.”
“You did what?”
“Remember when we cleaned out Dad’s old things?”
“Yes.”
“I found his letter inside that wooden box.”
“And you didn’t tell me?”
“I wanted it to be a surprise.”
“Emma, that letter is over thirty years old!”
“I thought maybe Dad had left you something nobody discovered.”
“Did you check whether he still owned it?”
“I tried, Mom. But the French property records were confusing, and I couldn’t find a clear answer.”
“So you sent me there anyway?”
“I thought Dad might have left you something wonderful. I’m sorry.”
“I know you meant well, sweetheart. But I wish you’d told me before I came here.”
“I wanted it to be special. That’s why I arranged for the airline to deliver the letter. But Mom, what’s wrong?”
I needed to know why that woman had looked so frightened when she saw Richard’s name.
I told her about the woman. And the photograph.
Emma went quiet. “Maybe she bought the apartment and kept some old pictures?”
“Why would she keep your father’s photograph?”
“I don’t know.”
“Neither do I. But I’m going back.”
May you like
“Mom, please don’t upset yourself.”
“Emma, I’ve spent thirty-two years talking to a photograph. I deserve a conversation with someone who can answer.”
