Page 36 of That Weekend in Paris
A knock sounds at the door. Klein goes to answer it, now dressed in jeans and an untucked, long-sleeve, blue shirt. A polite waiter brings the tray into the room, sets it on the corner of the bed at Klein’s indication. Klein gives him a tip, thanks him, and with a nod, the waiter leaves the room.
“That smells great,” I say.
“Yeah, I’m suddenly starving. Would you like some?”
“No, I’m good. I had lunch earlier.”
He carries the tray to the desk and sits down, taking the lid off the soup, and then quickly digging in.
“Mmm,” he says. “That’s amazing. I feel guilty about eating in front of you though.”
“You shouldn’t. I indulged myself earlier.”
“I’m sorry. I’ve pretty much messed up the day.”
“Don’t be,” I say. “It’s not as if you could help it.”
“Yeah, I know this is going to sound weird, but it almost felt like I’d been poisoned.”
“Do you think it could have been food poisoning?”
He shrugs, lifting his shoulders. “I don’t know. Maybe. I’ve had food poisoning before, and somehow it didn’t really feel like that. I guess there are different degrees of food poisoning. Maybe this one was much more severe. Anyway, I feel like I owe you some time out of this room.”
“I’m okay to stay here. You’re probably weak. I can’t imagine you would feel like doing much of anything.”
“I feel remarkably better,” he says. “We could at least go for a walk.”
“I’d like that. There’s a park, a block or so away, that’s really nice for walking around and taking in the sights.”
“That sounds good,” he says, putting the lid on his soup bowl and pushing back from the desk. “I could use some fresh air, anyway. Let’s head out.”
Klein
“Vengeance in bloom shone in her eyes and smiled on her lips.”
?Alexandre Dumas
IT ACTUALLY FEELS great to be out in the fresh air. We walk to the Jardin des Tuileries, a long block or so from the hotel. The sun is sinking, but it’s warm outside, and the park is full of people, all strolling and talking. There are a couple of large fountains around which people sit in chairs.
“They seem to approach life a little differently here,” I say as we pass one of the fountain areas.
“For a city that could legitimately be compared to New York,” Dillon says, “it does have a different feel. It’s not as hectic, frenzied.”
“I was expecting a French version of New York, I guess.”
“New York is a little fast for me. I get the appeal. It’s kind of like being at a party twenty-four hours a day. I just don’t think I have the energy to live that. Nashville’s way more my speed.”
We walk in silence for a minute or so, and I can tell there’s something Dillon wants to say, so I wait, giving her the time she needs to voice it.
“So, I got an email from Riley.”
This surprises me. I stop, pull back, and say, “What?”
“Apparently, she saw a photo that some paparazzi had taken of us going into the rehearsal building yesterday.”
“What did she say?”
“It was just the photo in the email. Nothing else. It seemed a little odd.”
