Blame It on Paris

Guilt was so much fun. Kelly Rochard grabbed her shoulder bag and bounded down the cracked porch steps of the centuries-old bed-and-breakfast. She couldn't wait a second longer to inhale all the sights, smells and sounds of Paris in the springtime. Who'd have thunk it? That a gregarious, nosy, hopelessly open person such as herself could possibly have managed to keep a secret this big? No one even knew she was here. Of course, in a week, she'd go back home to South Bend, confess everything to her new fiancÉ, never tell another fib again as long as she lived, and probably do penance for two or three aeons. As her mother loved to say, you could take the Catholic out of the girl, but you were stuck with the guilt for life. But today, she just plain didn't care. Guilt or no guilt, she was thrilled to be here. Blithely she stepped off the curb--and a dozen horns shrieked at her mistake. She backed up fast, heart pounding. A couple taxi drivers yelled as they passed by--something about connarde and ballot and une tete de linotte. She was pretty sure the insults were aimed at her specific genetic heritage, with a few general references about her being an American scatterbrain, as well. Okay, okay. So she was suffering jet lag, not at her brightest, and it was going to take her a while--and a map--to figure out how to get around...preferably without getting herself killed. The small inn where she was staying didn't seem located in exactly the newest, safest part of town, but the neighborhood still exploded with color. Three street vendors in a row tried to woo her into taking a bouquet of fresh flowers. The next one sold cafÉ--which she fumbled with her brand-new euros to buy, and then sipped as she ambled on. Pedestrians bustled past, clearly on their way to work. All the women looked so savvy--their clothes not necessarily expensive, but even basic styles jazzed up with an interesting scarf tied the right way. A man winked at her. She gawked at an open-air grocery, where the smell of fresh fruits mixed with a luxurious array of fresh flowers. The grin on her face just kept getting bigger and sillier. She was free. This was Paris. In May. The city of romance. The city of lights. Her father's city. The open door of a bakery drew her inside. A single look at the croissants and baguettes made her realize she was starving to death. Euros were exchanged--too many, she was positive--but the first taste was better than sin, and well worth whatever the baker had cheated her out of. The pastry was buttery, light, a puff of sweetness on her tongue. Juggling the pastry and the coffee and her bag, she stepped back into the throng of pedestrians... when a stranger suddenly grabbed her arm. Initially Kelly reacted with more exasperation than fear. When the mugger tugged, she tugged back. And no, tangling with a thief wasn't the wisest thing Kelly Nicole Rochard had ever done--particularly when the jerk was a good half foot taller than her five feet five inches and easily outweighed her by fifty pounds. But, as her mother had noted during labor, Kelly was as naturally stubborn as a goat. Her roll went flying. Coffee splattered everywhere. She was so busy struggling just to keep her balance--and free herself--that she didn't originally realize why the mugger was yanking so hard on her arm. But then she did. Fast. Her engagement ring did tend to glitter in the sun, which was probably what caught the jerk's attention. He yanked on her finger so hard she almost cried, but that was just pain. When he managed to wrestle off the ring, Kelly let out a war cry worthy of a marine. "You give that back, you rotten son of a flea-bitten scumbag!" She couldn't finish because the mugger suddenly jerked her around and yanked her tight against his chest. Her courage suffered an instant and complete craGreene, Jennifer is the author of 'Blame It on Paris', published 2008 under ISBN 9780373772780 and ISBN 0373772785.