Christmas in Paris (12 page)

He pictured Patrick's chiseled jaw and blue eyes and knew he'd never had a chance.

Bettina peeled prawns with her long fingernails, and Alec thought he had nothing to be afraid of; he was a grown man with a fifth-floor flat and a membership to the Louvre.

“Celine isn't in Paris.” He took a deep breath. “She's in Australia.”

“Why is she in Australia?” Bettina asked.

“That's what I wanted to know.” Alec rubbed his brow. “Why would anyone rather be in a country where the oldest building is only two hundred years old, and it's so hot and sunny you have to spend Christmas on the beach?”

“When is she coming back? Your rehearsal dinner is in six days.”

“She's not coming back.” Alec picked an imaginary piece of lint from his dinner jacket. “The wedding is canceled.”

“Are you all right? I was afraid she'd call it off!” Bettina gasped. “She is quite beautiful and her father owns diamond mines in Brazil and South Africa. She could have her pick of Saudi oil magnates or even European royalty.”

“Not every woman calculates her fiancé's net worth when she's considering marriage proposals,” he snapped. “Celine picked me. She may have traded me for an Australian cricket player, but there was never an Arabian prince or ruler of a minor European country in the picture.”

“A cricket player,” Bettina repeated.

“Apparently he has an excellent arm,” Alec sighed. “And he looks like David Beckham, but with better hair and leaner muscles.”

Isabel walked over to join them and Alec inhaled her jasmine perfume.

“There you are! My throat is parched and I'd give anything for a glass of Dom Pérignon.” She turned to Bettina. “We haven't been introduced, I'm Isabel Lawson.”

Alec flinched and thought the last thing he needed was to explain Isabel to his sister.

“How do you know each other?” Bettina wondered.

“We are staying at the Hôtel de Crillon,” Isabel replied. “Well, not in the same suite, though we practically share a terrace. I was supposed to be here on my honeymoon, but it fell through. Alec rescued me from being locked out on the balcony.

“He poured me a brandy and put me to bed, and we've been inseparable ever since,” she continued. “We ate lobster bisque at Fouquet's and drank cognac at the Crillon bar and visited the Christmas markets.” Her face lit up in a smile. “I've never attended a ball with viscounts and
ducs,
it was so sweet of Alec to bring me.”

“Isabel is a financial analyst from Philadelphia,” Alec explained. “She's never been to Paris at Christmas.”

“How delightful.” Bettina studied her diamond earrings and white silk gloves. “How long are you staying?”

“I haven't decided. I want to go shopping in the Marais and dance at the clubs in Montmartre.” She paused and her eyes were bright. “Alec said there's nothing more romantic than standing under the Arc de Triomphe at night. The Champs-Élysées glitters like a thousand fireflies.”

*   *   *

“WHAT WAS THAT
about?” Alec exclaimed after Bettina went to find Édouard. “Lobster at Fouquet's and cognac at the bar at the Crillon? And I never suggested standing under the Arc de Triomphe, it's a good way to get run over.”

“I couldn't let her picture you sitting alone in your suite, contemplating throwing yourself off the balcony.”

“I'd never jump off the balcony, I'm afraid of heights,” Alec fumed. “You made it sound like one of those romantic movies where the couple spends twenty-four hours traipsing through Paris and the camera goes in on a kiss at the end.”

“You brought me to the ball and I met a handsome
comte.
His name is Antoine de Villoy and his family has a château in the Loire Valley.” She smoothed her skirt. “I wanted to do something nice for you. I thought you'd want Bettina to think you have a new love interest.”

“I suppose it doesn't hurt. She looked like she swallowed an ostrich egg,” Alec laughed. “Where is this
comte
? He sounds too perfect—are you sure he doesn't have a wooden leg or a mistress hidden in the attic?”

“He's a banker with an apartment off the Rue de Rivoli.” Isabel smiled. “He likes American movies and Stephen King and he keeps a boat in Antibes.” She grabbed a glass of champagne. “I should go find him, I told him I had to talk to a friend.”

Isabel disappeared into the crowd, and Alec thought no French aristocrat liked American movies; they were full of explosions and car chases.

There was a sudden pain in his foot and he gasped.

“I'm sorry, I must have stepped on your foot,” an older woman said, holding a plate of vanilla custards.

Alec rubbed his shoe and thought he shouldn't have come. He'd much rather be at home drawing Gus. He imagined Gus wearing a black mask and riding a horse, like a four-legged Count of Monte Cristo.

Taking Isabel to the ball was the right thing to do; he was helping a friend. He filled his plate with petits fours and thought, even if he refused to fall in love, someone had to. If no one did, the human race was doomed.

 

chapter six

Isabel strolled along the Boulevard Saint-Michel and glanced at the distant spires of Notre Dame Cathedral. She had loved exploring the fifth arrondissement when she studied at the Sorbonne. The outdoor cafés were crowded with girls in floral skirts and young men carrying leather backpacks. They all drank endless espressos and pored over copies of Flaubert and Sartre.

The Place Saint-André-des-Arts was littered with colorful sketches and she spent hours in the Cluny Museum gazing at the tapestry of the Lady and the Unicorn. But mostly she loved sitting under the cherry blossoms and watching all of Paris walk by.

Even now, with the tables pushed inside and a soft rain falling on the pavement, she adored the Latin Quarter. The boulevards were lined with galleries, and the alleys were filled with wine bars and old men playing backgammon.

She turned on the Rue de la Bûcherie and remembered the Red Cross ball at the Petit Palais. The whole evening had been glorious: the sixteen-piece orchestra and ice sculptures and platters of lamb cutlets. The crème brûlée that melted in her mouth and the selection of chocolate tortes.

Antoine had been handsome and charming, like a character in a French novel. He explained he never carried his phone in his tuxedo and wrote her number on a napkin. He tucked it in his pocket, and Isabel suddenly felt the champagne sink to her toes. She had met a French aristocrat and he'd asked for her phone number!

The rain fell on her umbrella, and she wanted to dance like Fred Astaire and Audrey Hepburn in
Funny Face.
All she had to do was listen to the fortune-teller and her dreams would come true.

She pictured Alec in his white dinner jacket and frowned. He might think believing in the fortune-teller was silly, but he knew nothing about her. She had tried to fall in love with the right man and failed.

Isabel didn't want to come home at night longing to talk about the surge in Facebook's stock price. Or wishing someone would greet her with a chilled Chardonnay and baked chicken because she had been sitting at her desk all day and hadn't eaten anything except a tuna sandwich.

Isabel wanted to be part of a couple—that's what made working so hard worth it. Even if she could afford her own house, what was the point of having a sitting room and a formal dining room if she curled up every evening with a bowl of instant oatmeal and
The Economist
?

She reached 37 Rue de la Bûcherie and caught her breath. She had spent hours at Shakespeare and Company when she lived in Paris, and just seeing the three-story bookstore with its narrow shelves and piles of books made her happy.

The first time she entered the double brass doors when she was studying at the Sorbonne, a young Frenchman gave her a tour of the seventeenth-century former monastery. In 1951 an American named George Whitman opened the bookstore and invited authors and playwrights to spend the night. Beds were scattered among the shelves so they could sleep.

He reeled off the names of writers who had been regulars—Anaïs Nin and William Styron and Henry Miller—and Isabel wanted to stay there forever.

Now a young couple held hands, and she remembered when she and Rory spent a week in San Francisco. Every evening they visited City Lights bookstore in North Beach. Isabel tried to read the latest Armistead Maupin, but Rory pulled her close and kissed her.

Why was she thinking about Rory again? Neil was the fiancé she had left in Philadelphia. But it was still painful to think about Neil, like a recent sunburn that left a blister.

Rory was so long ago, and their romance was the first time she had given her heart away. They had been like the young couple with their hands tucked in each other's pockets. When you were twenty-four and in love, you had the wisdom of Socrates and the energy of Michelangelo.

She remembered when Rory announced he was leaving. It was early September and she was sorting boxes in her parents' attic. The leaves were turning orange, and she felt their relationship changing, like the new chill in the air.

*   *   *

“THERE YOU ARE.”
She looked up. “I'm finally going to bring my books with me. I haven't seen my collection of Edith Wharton and Tom Wolfe since I was in high school. The new apartment has built-in bookshelves in the bedroom.”

In a week she started working at JPMorgan Chase and had rented a one-bedroom apartment on Rittenhouse Square. Rory made excuses not to see it: he had to finish a piece about the Bryn Mawr hound show; he was asked to cover the Concours d'Elegance. But Isabel felt a distance between them, like the width of the Delaware River.

“I'm moving too.” Rory perched on a box. He looked handsome in blue jeans and a white button-up shirt.

“Moving?” Isabel repeated.

“An old roommate from Milton founded a start-up in San Francisco,” Rory said. “He's got a penthouse on Nob Hill with views of the Oakland Hills and Bay Bridge.” He fiddled with his collar. “I'm going to stay with him.”

“But what are you going to do?” Isabel felt her heart beat faster.

“Get up in the morning and explore Fisherman's Wharf.” He shrugged. “Sit at a café in North Beach and eat a calzone and strawberry gelato.” He paused. “I'm sure I could write a few society pieces for the
San Francisco Chronicle.
All those dot-com millionaires showing up at the symphony in jeans and sneakers.”

“I see.” Isabel examined the stack of books so he couldn't see the tears in her eyes.

“Your trainee program ends in December, so you can come in January,” he continued.

“You want me to come to California?” Isabel asked.

“Of course, San Francisco is the banking capital of the West Coast,” he said. “And the wedding will be in December, so it will be perfect.”

“What wedding?”

“Our wedding,” Rory replied. “Have you forgotten? I said at my mother's birthday party that she would be thrilled to meet the woman I'm going to marry.” He paused. “We'll have the rehearsal dinner at the Radnor Hunt Club and the reception at my parents' house—” He stopped and smiled. “One of the benefits of having a thirty-room estate is you don't have to deal with hotel staff when you host a party for four hundred people.”

“We're too young to get married,” Isabel said, suddenly flustered. “I just graduated from business school and you…”

“Don't have a proper job?” he finished. “Marriage isn't a contract about who takes out the garbage and who stops at Kroger's to pick up the laundry detergent.” His green eyes flickered. “You get married because everything is brighter when you're together and you'd rather have chicken pox than be apart.

“I'm doing this all wrong, I haven't formally proposed.” He got down on one knee and took Isabel's hand. “We haven't known each other long, but it only took a moment to realize I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you.

“I'm not the best with words, that's why I write society pieces instead of the great American novel.” He pushed his hair off his forehead. “But I love you and I'll do anything to make you happy.”

He reached into his pocket and drew out a green velvet box. Inside was a square emerald surrounded by diamonds on a platinum band.

“Isabel Marie Lawson”—he took out the ring—“will you marry me?”

“Do you always carry antique engagement rings in your jeans pocket?” She tried to laugh, but her legs were shaky and she couldn't breathe.

“I wanted to propose on our weekend in the Adirondacks, but our cabin smelled like fish,” he began. “Tonight Alice, our cook, offered to make us a romantic dinner. But I didn't want my mother to forget her pashmina and return early from the theater.” He leaned forward and touched her hair. “I like proposing in the attic. We're all alone and that sweater is practically see-through.”

“I wasn't expecting company.” Isabel glanced down at her fishnet sweater and beige slacks.

“Well, I found you,” Rory whispered. “And I'm asking you to marry me.”

Isabel inhaled his musk scent and thought they were too young to get married. She barely had started her career, and Rory didn't know what he wanted besides his daily swim and cup of Peruvian coffee.

And could she really move to San Francisco? She loved her parents and their big house in Ardmore. She adored the change of seasons and the giant Christmas tree in Rittenhouse Square.

But she looked at Rory's chiseled jaw and knew she had to marry him. Marriage wasn't about having a joint 401(k) and planning for a golden retirement. It was about laughing together and never wanting to be apart.

“Yes,” she whispered.

He slipped the emerald ring on her finger and kissed her. One hand undid her zipper and slipped beneath her panties.