Read Long Lost (Myron Bolitar) for Free Online

Separate sleeping areas so we can have that option.”
    I said nothing.
    “Man.” Terese managed a smile. “It’s so good to see you.”
    I felt the same. Maybe it had never been love, but it was there, strong and true and special. Ali said we weren’t forever. With Terese, well, maybe we weren’t everyday, but it was something, something hard to define, something you could put on a nearby shelf for years and forget about and take for granted and maybe that was how it should be.
    “You knew I’d come,” I said.
    “Yes. And you know the same is true if you’d been the one to call.”
    I did. “You look great,” I said.
    “Come on. Let’s get something to eat.”
    The doorman took my suitcase and sneaked an admiring glance at Terese before giving me the universal man-to-man smirk that said, Lucky bastard .
    The Rue Dauphine is a narrow road. A white van had double-parked next to a taxi, taking up nearly the entire street. The driver of the taxi was screaming what I could only assume were French obscenities but it might have just been a particularly aggressive way of asking for directions.
    We turned right. It was nine in the morning. New York City might be in full swing by that hour, but strolling Parisians were still rousing themselves from their beds. We reached the Seine River at the Pont Neuf. In the distance on our right, I could see the towers of Notre Dame Cathedral. Terese started down the river walk in that direction, past the green boxes that were famous for selling antique books but seemed more intent on pushing chintzy souvenirs. Across the river, a giant fortress with a gorgeous mansard roof rose, to quote Springsteen, bold and stark.
    As we got closer to Notre Dame, I said, “Would you be embarrassed if I rounded my shoulders, dragged my left leg, and shouted, ‘Sanctuary!’”
    “Some might mistake you for a tourist,” Terese said.
    “Good point. Maybe I should buy a beret with my name stenciled on the front.”
    “Yeah, then you’d blend right in.”
    Terese still had that incredible walk, head held high, shoulders back, perfect posture. One more thing I just realized about all the women in my life: They all have great walks. I find confident walks sexy, the near prowl-like way certain women enter a room as if they already own it. You can tell a lot by the way a woman walks.
    We stopped at an outdoor bistro on Saint Michel. The sky was still gray but you could see the sun fighting to take control. Terese sat and studied my face for a very long time.
    “Uh, do I have something stuck in my teeth?” I asked.
    Terese managed a smile. “God, I’ve missed you.”
    Her words hung in the air. I didn’t know if she was doing the talking now or this city. Paris was like that. Much has been written about its beauty and splendors, and sure, that was true. Every building was a mini architectural wonder, a feast for the eyes. Paris was like the beautiful woman who knew she was beautiful, liked the fact that she was beautiful and, ergo, didn’t have to try so hard. She was fabulous and you both knew it.
    But more than that, Paris makes you feel—for lack of a better term—alive. Check that. Paris makes you want to feel alive. You want to do and be and savor when you are here. You want to feel, simply feel, and it doesn’t matter what. All sensation is heightened. Paris makes you want to cry and laugh and fall in love and write a poem and make love and compose a symphony.
    Terese reached her hand across the table and took mine.
    “You could have called,” I said. “You could have let me know you were okay.”
    “I know.”
    “I haven’t moved,” I said. “My office is still on Park Avenue. I still share Win’s apartment at the Dakota.”
    “And you bought your parents’ house in Livingston,” she added.
    It wasn’t a slip of the tongue. Terese knew about the house. She knew about Ali. Terese wanted me to know that she’d been keeping tabs on me.
    “You just disappeared,” I