Christmas in Paris (15 page)

“I've wanted to eat here since high school,” she said, cradling her wineglass. “It's the oldest continuous Parisian restaurant and was listed in Baedeker's guide to Paris in 1860.

“They have a wine cellar of four hundred fifty thousand bottles, and after you finish your meal, they give you a postcard with a picture and the serial number of your duck,” she finished. “I can't wait to send the card to my parents.”

“You know a lot about French restaurants.” Antoine smiled.

“I've always loved everything about Paris: the food and fashion and art—” She stopped and blushed. She sounded like a schoolgirl instead of a sophisticated Parisian.

“It's the greatest city in the world.” Antoine nodded. “The museums are breathtaking and the public parks are spectacular. Where else can you leave your office at midday and pop into the Louvre to see the
Mona Lisa
?”

Isabel glanced up from her soup and noticed his blond hair flopped over his forehead and the dimple on his chin.

“I agree completely,” she said, her eyes sparkling. “Everything is perfect when you're looking at the
Mona Lisa.
”

*   *   *

“HOW DID YOUR
family receive their title?” Isabel asked, eating potatoes with caviar seeds.

They ate pressed duck cooked in its own blood and multicolored carrots. There were platters of rice pilaf and small ravioli. Isabel sipped a Louis Jadot Pinot Noir and felt happy. Antoine was handsome and charming, and when he brushed her sleeve, a tingle ran down her spine.

“My ancestor fought for Henry IV in the Wars of Religion,” Antoine explained. “When he returned from battle, Henry rewarded him by making him a
comte.
”

“So it was a
noblesse militaire,
” she said.

“Do you know much about French nobility?” he asked.

“Just a little.” She fiddled with her napkin. “It's wonderful that men with families devoted their lives to the king. France might not be here today if they weren't willing to go into battle.” She paused. “Can you imagine going off to work and not seeing your family for years?”

“I hadn't thought about it like that,” Antoine laughed.

“But it really was a good system. When they returned, they received land and animals and were invited to court.” She paused. “These days you work for a company for thirty years and only receive a gold watch.”

“You are very refreshing,” he said, finishing his wine.

“I am?” Isabel asked, the color rising to her cheeks.

“In France, the old families are so bored, they fall asleep in their soufflé,” he mused. “And other people pretend they don't care there's a ‘
de
' in your name, but they treat you differently.”

“It's the same in America with the Kennedys and Kardashians. People say terrible things about them, but often they're jealous.”

“I don't want to be a Kennedy,” he said.

“Why not?” she asked.

He touched her hand and his eyes were serious.

“Because then I wouldn't have had the good fortune of attending the Red Cross ball and meeting you.”

“I'm glad I went to the Red Cross charity ball too.” Isabel felt the warmth of his palm and a tingle ran down her spine. “I can't think of anywhere I'd rather be than sitting here with you.”

*   *   *

“TELL ME ABOUT
you,” Antoine said, sipping a glass of cognac.

After the waiter cleared the duck, he brought gold plates of crepes with powdered sugar and an orange sauce. The crepes “Belle Époque” were a Tour d'Argent specialty, made with Cointreau and flaming Grand Marnier.

“I grew up on the Main Line in Philadelphia,” Isabel began. “It's very different from Paris. When you stand on my parents' porch, you see trees and fields.”

“I know the Main Line well,” Antoine replied. “My roommate at Le Rosey was from a town called Haverford.”

“That's next to Ardmore!” Isabel exclaimed. “They have a wonderful library and in winter there is ice-skating on the pond.”

“My roommate told me the oldest families in America live on the Main Line,” he continued. “Their ancestors built railroads and banks and factories.”

“My school was filled with McDowells and Sinnotts,” she mused. “But I never thought about it. They were just labels on lunch boxes.”

“I knew when I saw you in the red satin gown and long white gloves that we had a lot in common.” He covered her hand with his.

“I supposed you're right,” she said and smiled. “We do.”

“There's one thing Paris doesn't have.” He leaned forward. “It doesn't have any women as breathtaking as you.”

*   *   *

AFTER DINNER THEY
strolled along the Pont Neuf and gazed at the Île de la Cité. Isabel saw the barges gliding down the Seine and twinkling lights of the Eiffel Tower and felt light and happy.

“Pont Neuf means ‘new bridge,' but it is actually the oldest standing bridge in Paris,” Antoine explained, leaning against the stone railing. “Henry IV ordered its completion to celebrate the victory of the Wars of Religion. It was the first bridge with a pavement, and citizens used it as a gathering place.”

“It's beautiful,” she murmured.

“Now I am boring you.” Antoine shrugged. “I'm being a typical Parisian boasting about his city.”

“Of course not, I want to hear more.”

“You must be cold.” He glanced at her black velvet dress and bare shoulders. “Would you like to wear my jacket?”

She nodded and her eyes were bright. “Yes, thank you. That would be lovely.”

“I had a wonderful time.” He draped it over her shoulders. “It's not often you meet someone you feel close to so quickly. But there's something about you that I can't stop thinking about.”

Isabel pulled the jacket around her and tried to stop her heart from racing. “I know exactly what you mean.”

*   *   *

ISABEL ATE A
macaron and gazed at the giant Christmas tree in the Place de la Concorde. It was after midnight, but she was so excited, she couldn't fall asleep.

The whole night had been wonderful: the bouquet of roses and the pressed duck at Tour d'Argent and the stroll along the Pont Neuf. Stopping at the bar at the Crillon for a late-night drink.

There was the moment when Antoine waited with her at the elevator and she was afraid she might not see him again. But then he asked if he could call her tomorrow and kissed her.

She took her hair out of its clip and had an uneasy feeling. Was it wrong that they hadn't talked about their careers? Then she glanced out the window at the stone obelisk and Petit Palais and thought she was being silly. Of course they talked about Paris! There would be plenty of time to discuss their goals and dreams.

She noticed her leather-bound journal on the coffee table and picked it up. She had been so certain she and Neil were in love—what if she was wrong this time too?

She sat on the ivory love seat and began to read:

Dear diary,

Can you believe it's only nine months until the wedding? Today the apple blossoms were in bloom and the slush disappeared and it felt like the first blush of spring. I pictured everything we have to look forward to: attending engagement parties and registering for gifts and sending out invitations, and wanted to skip through Rittenhouse Square! Love is the greatest drug, Neil and I are so happy.

We did have a little hiccup yesterday, but we straightened it out. We decided to go to Tiffany's to pick out our wedding rings. I know we have plenty of time, but everything else seemed so daunting: deciding whether to serve cream of asparagus soup or lobster salad as an appetizer, debating whether to take formal photos before the ceremony or during the cocktail hour. I thought it would be fun to go to Tiffany's and admire the gold and platinum wedding bands.

And it was fun! We met after work and the salesman served us French champagne and petits fours. He admired my diamond engagement ring and I couldn't help but smile. Neil chose the most beautiful ring! When you hold it up to the light, it leaves you breathless.

I picked out a platinum band with a row of tiny diamonds. I tried it on and Neil and I both thought it was gorgeous. Then the salesman brought out a tray of men's rings. To be honest, I didn't know there was such a selection. There were plain gold bands and platinum rings set with diamonds. There was even a band made of rubies! Finally the salesman suggested a thin platinum band and Neil tried it on.

“It's a little tight,” he said, wiggling it on his finger.

“All the fianc
é
s say that at first,” the salesman laughed. “It's supposed to be tight, you don't want it to slip off.”

“I'll have to take it off when I play squash or go sailing.” Neil frowned. “Perhaps I should try something a little bigger.”

I got this funny feeling in my stomach, as if I'd eaten too many chocolate truffles.

“You never take your ring off,” I explained, trying to keep my voice steady.

“Of course I'll take it off,” Neil replied. “How can I play basketball if it's rubbing against my fingers? And it would be impossible to wear it skiing if I'm using mittens.”

“My father never takes his ring off,” I insisted. “You'll get used to it.”

“But that's silly,” Neil protested. “I take my watch off when I go to the gym. I never forget to put it back on.”

I saw the salesman watching us and bit my lip. I couldn't make a scene in the middle of Tiffany's. But how could Neil not understand?

The salesman put the ring back in the case and straightened his tie.

“Would you excuse us for a minute?” he asked. “I'd like to show your fianc
é
something.”

They walked to another part of the store and I brushed tears from my eyes. I knew I was being silly; Neil's love for me had nothing to do with a piece of gold jewelry. But then I glanced at my diamond engagement ring and thought it did feel different. You can't help thinking about the person you love when you are wearing his ring on your finger.

The salesman and Neil returned and Neil pointed to the platinum band.

“I'd like to try that one on again,” he said.

The salesman took it out of the case and Neil slipped it on his finger. He turned to me and smiled. “Actually it fits perfectly. Should I get it?”

I looked at Neil's blue eyes and my heart swelled.

“I love it.” I kissed him and whispered, “And I love you.”

“Please wrap it up,” he said and handed it to the salesman.

We went to Lacroix to celebrate and ate guinea hen with chanterelles and white chocolate mousse for dessert. We held hands across the table and it was so romantic.

Oh, diary, I'm sure the salesman said something to Neil about wearing the ring all the time, but it doesn't matter. What's important is he understood how I felt. We're in love and we're going to have a wonderful marriage!

Isabel closed the leather-bound journal and sighed. She had been sure that she and Neil were right for each other. How did she know what she had with Antoine would last?

The fortune-teller said she was going to fall in love and marry a French aristocrat and she had to believe her. They had a wonderful dinner; even Antoine said he felt something special.

If she was going to concentrate on Antoine, she had to tuck the journal into her suitcase. But could she really just forget her failed engagement? She suddenly took a deep breath and picked up her phone. She pressed send and waited while it rang.

“Isabel?” Neil's voice came over the line. “What a surprise, are you still in Paris?”

“I'm sitting in the suite at the Hôtel de Crillon…” She hesitated. “I hope I didn't disturb you. I know you are on vacation.”

“I was just headed out the door,” he answered. “How are you?”

“I'm fine,” she wavered, suddenly wondering why she'd called.

She couldn't tell him about Alec rescuing her from the balcony or the fortune-teller's prediction or meeting Antoine. But she had to make sure he was all right. She was the one who had called off the wedding.

“I visited the Eiffel Tower and went shopping on the Champs-Élysées and ate dinner at Tour d'Argent,” she began. “There's still so much to do. I want to take a barge on the Seine and visit the Louvre and see the Grand Palais.”

“I'm glad you went,” Neil replied. “It's good for both of us.”

“It is?” Isabel clutched the phone.

“We needed the break. In the new year we'll both get a fresh start,” he continued. “It's been snowing since you left. I'm going skiing in Vermont with some old fraternity brothers.”

“I hope you have a good time,” Isabel said and suddenly felt awkward.

“I really have to go.” Neil paused. “Don't forget to do what I asked.”

“What was that?” Isabel wondered.

“Send me a postcard,” he answered. “I promise I'll do the same.”

Isabel pressed end and placed the phone on the side table. She felt strangely empty, like when you opened a box of chocolate pralines and discovered they had already been eaten.

She opened the French doors and stepped onto the balcony. She wanted to tell Alec about Antoine and the pressed duck at Tour d'Argent. But the curtains in his suite were drawn and the lights were off.

She walked inside and climbed into the four-poster bed. Her hair rested on the silk pillowcase and she thought she'd tell Alec tomorrow.