She was normally an efficient and well-honed traveler, but the thirty-day trip was screwing with her luggage ratios. While her husband tightened his bow tie and straightened both sleeves, tucking and pulling to make his appearance ever more immaculate, April packed for her redeye to Charles de Gaulle. April's were high, but for a different reason. According to April's boss the seven-room apartment held "enough pieces to outfit twelve upmarket bordellos." Peter's expectations were low.
He'd called in reinforcements from New York because they needed another appraiser, specifically a furniture expert, to bolster their shoddy credentials in that area. April pictured him right then winding through the apartment, tablet in hand, scratching out notes with bony, crooked fingers.
As every writer, poet, painter, and, yes, furniture assessor knew, it was the perfect place for escape. There would be work involved, but no matter, she was going to Paris. When her boss sidled up and said the words "apartment," "ninth arrondissement," and "a ton of nineteenth-century crap," April instantly thought: vacation.
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