Hidden in Paris Read Online Free PDF

looked like miniature castles to her eyes, with their beautiful facades and moldings, handsome roofs and tall windows framed by well-kept wooden shutters symmetrically placed on either side of impressive front doors. One
hôtel particulier
was lovelier than the next. They had been built in the Haussman era and been kept up with respect to the protected historic monuments they were.
    All except for the house in front of which the real estate woman was standing. She pointed an accusatory finger towards it. “What a pity.
Quelle honte, non?
” she said and turned toward them. Johnny made a sour face and looked at Annie.
    Annie paid no attention. She was in the process of falling in love. Her face showed it before she knew it herself. This hôtel particulier was the very definition of ramshackle. Windows were broken, shutters missing, and the roof seemed to have collapsed in places, but Boston ivy and wisteria laced the stone walls and added softness to the architecture, giving the house a wildly romantic air. The owner “
une folle avec ses chats
” as defined by the real estate woman, had lacked funds but steadfastly refused to move. She had recently died inside the house and had been discovered there, dead among her cats a few days after the fact. The gruesomeness of the visual and the condition of the house made it borderline unsellable.
    “We’ll take it,” Annie had said.
    Johnny had looked at her with amusement. “Do we know that there is an actual inside to this place?”
    The stiletto woman, seeing Annie’s face, started to work on Johnny. With time and money, she insisted, it could become the quintessence of class and luxury in terms of Parisian living. The woman and Johnny spent an inauspicious amount of time trying to open the door, but when they did, Annie thought she had entered Ali Baba’s cavern.
    The house had soaring ceilings, original crown moldings, and crumbling chandeliers that had seldom been violated by a dust broom. Years of wallpaper layers fell in patches, and the smell of cat urine grabbed the throat like a claw. There were only two bathrooms, both with impractical claw-foot tubs, broken bidets, cracked faucets, and exquisite mosaic tile Annie knew instantly she would never tear down.
    The house was purchased. “With time and money” became the motto. With time and money, the fissured stucco could be restored. With time and money, the wood floors could be brought back to their original luster. With time and money, the stories could be connected with proper working stairs. There had been no plan for time or money to run short.
    She now saw things as they were: Johnny had been the world to her, and now the house and her boys were her entire universe. Within the confines of the house, no matter how limiting or punishing it might be, she felt safe. Only in her house did she see herself as master of her life. At home cooking, building, scraping and sanding, she felt capable and purposeful. Focusing on what was still a constant—the house and the boys—she did not need to let questions in, questions about Johnny, questions about what would have come of her had Johnny not died, questions also, about her own worth, the risks involved in loving and trusting someone, the validity of a life devoid of trust or love. Since that night two and a half years ago, she had become like someone with a fear of heights condemned to live on a rooftop.
    Her decision, for someone who had so carefully avoided the exterior world, might seem out of character, but in fact it allowed her, with what she considered to be a modest adjustment, to keep the status quo. She would get to stay home. All she really wanted was to stay home like the old woman who had died amongst her cats.

Chapter 3
    Lola opened her window wide to improve the master bedroom’s Feng shui, but then she remembered that article in the yoga journal on Southern California’s air being the worst in the nation, so she closed it. Surely it couldn’t be