Page 18 of Host for the Holidays
And just like that, he flips to perfect English. He is a modern world wonder.
And then his words click.
“My suitcase!” I say, as though my entire life has been leading up to this reunion.
“He said he’ll leave it in the courtyard. Apparently they don’t deliver right to apartment doors because a lot of buildings here don’t have elevators.”
“So they lose bags and then force the owners to lug them up the stairs? Super sweet.”
“We aren’t known here for our customer service.” Rémy jerks his head toward the door. “Come on. I’ll show you the elevator.”
Once we’re outside the apartment door, we walk toward the stairs. Rémy stops just in front of a bunch of black iron bars and presses a lone silver button amidst the tangle of metal.
I stop mid-step as some banging noises echo in the stairwell. Things start clicking in my brain, and I look at Rémy. “That?Thatis an elevator shaft?”
“Bienvenue à Paris,” he says, clearly enjoying my reaction.
I watch as the cable inside the shaft moves. It takes almost two minutes for the elevator to reach us, during which time Rémy just leans against the bars like he’s got all the time in the world. The elevator stops with aclang.
“You won’t be able to open this outside door until the elevator is level with the floor.” He opens the iron-gated door, inside of which stands a similar door. Using his back to keep open the first one, he opens the second one and puts out a hand to invite me to go in.
I shake my head, backing up slowly like the cage might swallow me if my movements are too sudden. “No no no no. That is not an elevator. That is a deathbox.”
“I promise it will not kill you.”
I make my way to the stairs. “I will walk, thank you very much.”
Rémy chuckles and starts following me.
I stop, putting a hand on the wall. “You don’t have to come.”
One of his brows quirks. “You’re going to carry your suitcase all the way up here yourself?”
“No,” I say, lifting my chin. “I will send it up the elevator while I come up the stairs.”
“You’re sending your suitcase in the death trap? And here I thought you cared about it.”
“Hey, I saw how the baggage handlers throw suitcases around at the airport. That thing”—I point to the elevator—“can’t do anything to my bag that hasn’t already been done to it.”
Rémy gives a smiling nod and turns back toward the apartment door, making me kind of wish I hadn’t said anything and had just let him come.
I make my way down the small, winding staircase that leads to the ground floor. As promised, the delivery man has left my suitcase in the courtyard. I pull it across the cobbles and back into the entryway, where I press the elevator button and wait, watching the cable and listening to the clanking. I can see the bottom of the elevator about two floors up when there’s a big clang, and it stops.Probably for someone to get on.
But it doesn’t budge, even after two minutes. I press the button again. Nothing. The elevator is protesting, and I can’t say I blame it. It looks like it was made at the same time as my keys to Rémy’s apartment were. It deserves to be spruced up. And by spruced up, I mean destroyed and replaced with a contraption from the modern age.
I sigh and look down at my massive suitcase. I should have listened to Josh when he told me to pack light.
I have no other option but to lug the thing—all fifty pounds of it—up the stairs. The thought makes me want to cry, but it can’t be helped, so I grab my suitcase by the handles and heave it up two stairs at a time. By the time I reach the landing of the next floor, I’m wondering if Rémy will just let me wear these sweats for the next three weeks. Anything so that I don’t have to bring this thing up another four flights of stairs. Yes, four flights, because here, the “first” floor is the one above street level.Sob.
I gather my strength, wishing I had at least eaten some baguette and cheese before attempting this, and start hefting it up the next set of stairs. Between the suitcase and me, we take up the entire stairwell.
I’ve managed to get it up five more stairs when the dreaded noise starts: someone is coming down. I’m hoping they’re a skilled hurdler because otherwise, the only option is to go back where I came from or for them to wait while I make my way up the rest of the stairs to the next level.
“Need some help?”
I look up and find Rémy looking down at me. He’s shed his blazer and rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt.
I wipe the hair that’s escaped my ponytail and is sticking to my sweaty forehead, pushing it away from my face. “The elevator decided to stage a protest halfway down the shaft.”
