Write...Edit...Publish monthly bloghop - my flash fiction - Interrupted in Paris

Welcome to the inaugural Write...Edit...Publish regular monthly bloghop. As you visit participating bloggers, you will find all sorts of stories and other creative postings. Anyone is welcome to join us! Entries close Friday August 23. If you've missed this one and would like to join in for September...theme -- Moving On...the linky will go up early September. Would love to have you on board!

Here is my entry for VACATION...a flash fiction set in Paris...

Interrupted in Paris

Willow leaned over the parapet of the Pont Neuf bridge, ignoring the wind that snatched her long blond hair from her face. She strained for a better view of the redheaded woman in the orange hat who was yelling at one of the booksellers along the Seine.

‘Alors, not planning to jump?’ a voice asked in perfect French.

Willow hadn’t expected to be interrupted in Paris—Parisians ignored you, she’d been told.

The guy was a bit older than she was, about twenty. Would have been the perfect Gallic specimen except for his Harry Potter glasses and cowboy boots.

‘Merde, are you crazy?’ she snapped in her schoolgirl French. ‘Jumping into the Seine would be like jumping into a swimming pool.’

Harry Potter pushed his glasses higher up his nose with a leather-gloved finger and laughed out loud. She liked the sound. It was nice hearing someone laugh instead of yell.

‘Mademoiselle, it would be like diving into an ice rink. Don’t jump in head first. Such a pretty head.’ He slipped off his gloves and handed them to her.

He folded his arms, studied her while she slipped them on. ‘Well?

‘Well, what?’

 ‘Why are you standing on the Pont Neuf this freezing winter’s day, with only that, uh, flimsy thing between you and becoming an ice sculpture?’ He removed his cashmere coat as he spoke. Was this a Paris striptease?

‘Not your business.’ She backed away. ‘No, it’s okay. Keep your coat on.’

‘It’s fine. I’m wearing another underneath, see?’ He indicated a uniform jacket,  with an embroidered ‘B’ on the pocket. ‘I keep a spare for damsels in distress.’

He seemed harmless enough. Willow cracked a smile, then tossed the cashmere over her battered army-surplus jacket. Bliss!

‘Come, Mademoiselle.’ He took her hand.  ‘I’ll buy you coffee. There’s a cafe nearby that the bouquinistes use.’ Bouquinistes? Later.

She searched for the redheaded woman in the crowd, but all she saw was black coats moving through snow like extras in a movie.

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‘Mercy beaucoop.’

‘A plaisir, Mademoiselle. Bon appetit!’

She spooned three teaspoons of sugar into her frothy brew, gave it a quick stir then gulped down a few delicious mouthfuls. She handed back the gloves.

‘Mercy. You’re a lifesaver.’ She held out a toasty hand.  ‘Willow.’

‘Jacques.’ He looked like he was about to kiss her hand, but refrained, unfortunately.

She crammed her face full of macarons—raspberry, triple chocolate, champagne drops dusted in gold—oh, the French! Her mother would be appalled at her table manners, but it was all her mother’s fault anyway…

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Her mother had run away to Paris after the last blazing row with her dad. Natch Dad didn’t believe his wife could do such a thing, but Willow knew. But why hadn’t mum taken her too? No doubt she thought Willow should finish school. As if she could concentrate! She’d flunked her exams big time—too busy planning how she would solve the mystery of her mum’s disappearance…

‘Now, what brings you to Paris?’ Jacques interrupted her thoughts—again!—picked up his gloves, slapping them against the edge of the table--schlep, schlep, schlep.

‘Mum,’ Willow said without thinking. Whoops! What if he was fully a creepster? Stranger danger alert! ‘Er, it’s school holidays.’

‘Is your maman here?’

‘Uh…I…yes. She’s on a long holiday, er, in Paris.’

‘You mean you don’t know where your maman is?’

‘She has to be here.’ Willow pointed to the door. ‘I think I saw her…I’m not sure.’

‘Oh?’

‘When you interrupted me today. I think she hangs out at the book stalls.’

‘Why would you think that?’

Willow shrugged. Why not tell him? She had a good feeling about Jacques, and she had a great creep-o-meter.

‘Her life with Dad was pretty damned horrible.  She always said she’d run away to Paris, so I’m thinking she finally did.’ Tears pricked her eyes.  ‘She just disappeared one day. I’d hate to think anything bad happened to her.’

Jacques reached across the table and held her hand.

‘Books are her life. Maybe she got a job selling them here.’

‘I doubt it. You have to stand in line for years to buy a stall.’

‘How do you know? She could be working one, right?’

‘Doubtful. My father officially manages the bouquinistes, but they’re a law unto themselves. They have their own controllers.  I work with Papa while I’m on vacation from the Sorbonne.’  He handed back the gloves. ‘Come. Do you have a photo?’

‘Of course.’

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The bitter breeze chased them along the footpath under a grey and heavy sky. Puffs of white blew from tree branches into their faces. Willow opened her mouth and let the snowflakes fizz on her tongue. Jacques wrapped his scarf around her face. She’d be loving this day except for her mum.

At the curb of the Quai Saint-Michel, they paused to watch spluttering bateau mouches surge past Notre Dame like icebreakers. Tourists waved hello, their voices like squawking seagulls.

They reached the line of green metal bookstores. Willow was momentary distracted by retro postcards, Toulouse Lautrec posters, old books.

‘Je m’excuse.’ Jacques addressed a bookseller stooped over a metal box, the hem of his ragged black coat filthy with brown slush. ‘Paul, have you seen this woman?’

The old man squinted at the photo. ‘Alors, Monsieur Hoareau.’ His lip curled. ‘She was a thief. She tricked me into selling her an uncatalogued first edition. Gave me €500. Worth €200,000 at auction I since found out.’

‘The name of the book?’ Willow and Jacques asked together.

‘The Great Gatsby.’

‘That’s her favourite book!’ Willow yelled. ‘Mum’s been collecting different editions for years. Totally annoyed my father.’ She hugged herself. ‘So…where is she now, Monsieur?’

‘Probably at the bottom of the Seine. You don’t mess with the bouquinistes and live.’

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©DeniseCovey2013

I would like a Critique Partner who writes romantic fiction.

WORD COUNT: 976

FULL CRITIQUE WELCOME

I hope you enjoyed my story for the VACATION prompt. Click on the names in WEP's linky in my top right hand side sidebar to read more entries.