Christmas in Paris (18 page)

Isabel felt the air leave her lungs. Once Rory returned to Philadelphia, they would regain their rhythm. They'd buy a small Christmas tree and celebrate Christmas by themselves. Then they would drive out to Ardmore and join their parents at the Hunt Club for venison and plum pudding.

“I want to travel for a while,” Rory said. “Spend the winter in Sardinia and the spring in Ibiza.”

“The JPMorgan Chase trainee program is very competitive.” Isabel frowned. “I wouldn't have a job when I returned.”

“I was actually thinking of traveling for a year,” he said slowly. “I have enough money for a couple of generations. Why shouldn't we have fun?”

“Fun,” Isabel repeated, something hard clamping her chest.

“It's not a four-letter word,” he said and smiled.

Isabel wanted to say they weren't children whose only task was to learn to spell and play with their dog Spot. Adults had to do something important, or there was no point in any of it.

“And you want me to come with you?” she asked.

Rory looked up, and his eyes had never seemed so green, like the emeralds in Shreve's on Post Street.

“Only if you want to.”

Isabel remembered when he proposed and she had to say yes. Her body was drawn to him like a magnet and she couldn't imagine being apart. But now she felt strangely still, like damp firewood in a fireplace.

“I don't think so.” She shook her head. “I should go back to Philadelphia.”

“We can postpone the wedding for a year,” Rory suggested.

“You don't know where you'll be next Christmas. Maybe you'll be sailing in Portofino or snorkeling in the Maldives.” She paused and looked at Rory. “It's all right, we'll both be fine.”

“Are you sure?” Rory asked.

“Perfectly sure.” She nodded, blinking back sudden tears.

“I do love you.” He touched her hand. “You're the only thing that ever held my interest.”

*   *   *

ISABEL SPRITZED HER
wrists with Lancôme perfume and thought love wasn't just physical attraction. And it wasn't the steady feeling she had with Neil, as if they were interlocking pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.

Love was magical and elusive, like a number series that seemed random but couldn't be arranged any other way. She had been approaching it all wrong, but now she was finally going to get it right.

It had stopped raining, and the lights on the Champs-Élysées glittered like a diamond bracelet. She slipped on her satin pumps and ran down to meet Antoine in the lobby.

*   *   *

“THIS BUILDING WAS
built in 1727 for a wealthy financier,” Antoine said, standing at the bottom of a marble circular staircase. “The grounds are almost two acres, and there's a chapel and English gardens.”

Isabel gazed at the black-and-white marble floors and thick ivory columns and thought she had never seen such a beautiful house. Gold chandeliers dangled from the ceiling, and wide arches led to a music conservatory.

“It must have been wonderful to live in Paris in the eighteenth century.” She looked out the French doors at manicured green lawns and thick hedges and gravel pathways. “All those horses and carriages and women wearing fabulous gowns.”

“The French aristocracy have always known how to enjoy themselves,” Antoine mused. “My ancestor the third Comte de Villoy had a house on the Rue de la Varenne. He employed forty manservants and gave elaborate costume balls. His robes were lined with rubies and emeralds and cost more than my entire wardrobe.”

“Paris really is the most romantic city,” she sighed. “I would move here in a minute.”

“I thought Americans love their country.” Antoine smiled. “They fought so hard for their independence.”

“Paris is filled with wide boulevards and elegant palaces,” she said. “Philadelphia is all docks and railway stations.”

“In the summer, the Champs-Élysées is so congested, the taxi drivers have shouting matches,” Antoine mused. “If you try to leave the city on Friday evening, you can be stuck in traffic for hours. But if you stay you spend the weekend avoiding crowds at the Louvre.”

“It sounds like people love Paris too much,” Isabel laughed. “Everyone wants to be here.”

Antoine's eyes were serious and he murmured, “There is always room for a lovely young American.”

Isabel stumbled and tripped over an Oriental rug. Antoine steadied her and his arm brushed her chest.

“It's warm in here.” She flushed. “Why don't we walk in the garden?”

*   *   *

“IT REMINDS ME
of the dining room in a French farmhouse,” Isabel said, glancing around the restaurant. Square tables were set with starched white tablecloths and Baccarat china. Paintings of purple eggplant and orange squash lined the walls, and the floor was covered with a geometric carpet.

“All the vegetables come from the restaurant's garden,” she continued. “There is a twelve-course tasting menu paired with French wines. If we are lucky, the chef will visit our table.”

“You did your homework,” Antoine laughed, nibbling vol-au-vent in a white onion sauce.

“Neil and I were supposed to visit Paris on our honeymoon and I researched things to do,” she began. “I didn't want to miss any of the tourist attractions. People say they want to see the ‘real Paris,' but there's a reason the Louvre and Eiffel Tower are so famous.

“But I wanted to dine somewhere special. So on our twentieth anniversary I could say, ‘Remember that exquisite meal we had at L'Arpège? The baby turnips were delicious and the chocolate nougat was the best I ever tasted.'” She paused. “We'd realize we hadn't done anything like that in years, and fly to Paris for the weekend.”

“You were supposed to be in Paris on your honeymoon?” Antoine asked.

“Neil thought the buttercream filling on the wedding cake was too dry, so we canceled the wedding.” She hesitated. “Of course, there were other reasons. We couldn't agree about anything. I'm glad we called it off before the ceremony. It would have been awkward to announce things weren't going to work out while the guests were blowing bubbles at the bride and groom.” She stopped and her eyes glistened. “I wanted to stay in bed for a week. But I'm happy I came to Paris, I'm having a lovely time.”

“Neil made a mistake.” Antoine looked at Isabel.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“He should have eaten the cake.”

*   *   *

THEY ATE GREEN
garlic soup and vegetable ravioli. There were plates of Brussels sprouts and beetroot tartare in horseradish cream. Isabel drank a smooth Bandol and felt light and happy.

Antoine knocked the saltshaker with his sleeve and salt spilled on the tablecloth. He picked up a pinch of salt and threw it over his shoulder.

“What are you doing?” she wondered.

“It's an old superstition,” he explained. “It's bad luck if you spill salt on the table unless you toss some of the salt over your shoulder.”

“You don't actually believe that?” she asked.

“The French are very superstitious.” He nodded. “If a pregnant woman sees an owl, she is certain to have a girl. And if you want good fortune when you move into a new house, you must bring the table in first.”

“Most Americans are too pragmatic to believe in superstitions,” she said. “They'll step around a ladder or avoid a black cat, but only because they saw it in a movie. I think they're wrong; the world is so mysterious. Everywhere I go in Paris, I meet someone new or something wonderful happens.”

“Every year I go to Aix-en-Provence for the Christmas holidays. But this year, the hotel mixed up my reservation.” Antoine ran his fingers over his wineglass. “If they hadn't made a mistake, I would be sitting in a château, staring at a damp vineyard, instead of being here with you.”

Isabel remembered thinking the reason they had canceled the honeymoon and she had come to Paris by herself was so she would meet the fortune-teller. She looked at Antoine and her heart beat a little faster.

“I'm glad they mixed up the reservation too.”

*   *   *

THEY STROLLED ALONG
the Rue de la Varenne and Antoine took her hand. The street was lined with creamy stone mansions and iron latticework, and she felt like she was in a foreign movie.

Suddenly she looked up and a snowflake settled on her cheek.

“It's snowing.” She turned to Antoine. “My first snowfall in Paris.”

He pulled her close and kissed her softly on the lips. She kissed him back and tasted cream and cognac.

“There is a superstition that if you kiss a beautiful woman when you see the first snowflake, wonderful things will happen,” he said when he released her.

“I've never heard that before,” she replied.

Antoine touched her cheek and smiled. “I just made it up.”

*   *   *

ISABEL STOOD ON
the balcony and wrapped her arms around her chest. She had told Antoine she had to stop in the hotel gift shop, and said good-bye in the lobby. They were both flushed from the wine and cognac, and she didn't want to risk inviting him to her suite.

It really had been a wonderful evening; they shared an interest in history and art and French movies. She loved the way he was so comfortable in his own skin, as if he wore a white dinner jacket and dined at candlelit restaurants every night.

And she could tell he felt something toward her. When he kissed her, he didn't let her go. She remembered the soft snow falling on their hair and shivered. Was it possible that they were developing feelings for each other?

She couldn't wait to tell Alec about the Garden of Orpheus at the Musée Rodin and the fig ice cream at L'Arpège. He would be so pleased things were going well.

She stepped into the hallway and knocked on Alec's door. His light was on but there was no answer. She would have to wait and tell him tomorrow.

She walked back to her suite and unzipped her dress. She pulled on a silk robe and climbed onto the four-poster bed.

“I'm in Paris, and I'm falling love,” she said aloud. “I'm the luckiest girl in the world.”

 

chapter eleven

Alec sat at the Regency desk and rubbed his neck. He had fallen asleep hunched over his notepad and had woken up in terrible pain. He flipped through the Crillon's list of services but couldn't justify spending two hundred euros on a masseuse who would probably make it worse. Celine had given him a massage for his birthday, and afterward he was in such agony, he crawled into bed with a hot water bottle and a packet of aspirin.

His sketchbook was open, and he studied a drawing of Gus and a pert cocker spaniel standing on the Pont Alexandre III. Gus wore a black beret and clutched a bouquet of red roses.

He closed the sketchbook and groaned. The last time he drew Gus romancing a dog, he was falling in love with Celine.

He remembered visiting Victor Hugo's house in the Place des Vosges with Isabel and eating goat cheese tartines at La Poilâne. It started to rain as they walked back to the Crillon and she took his arm.

His forehead was damp and he felt slightly feverish. Maybe the cream in his café au lait was sour. He couldn't have feelings for Isabel; that would be worse than getting walking pneumonia.

How could he think about Isabel while he was getting over Celine? Whenever he discovered something Celine left behind—a pair of stockings in the closet, a hairpin in the bathroom—he wanted to stab himself with his toothbrush. And he was still paying off the Missoni sweater he bought her for Christmas. The salesgirl at Le Bon Marché insisted it was the must-have piece of the season, and he begrudgingly handed her his charge card.

He pictured Isabel's dark eyes and white smile and thought she was the most peculiar woman he'd ever met. She was smart and beautiful, but she trusted a Parisian gypsy with her whole future.

But it didn't matter how he felt about Isabel; she was falling in love with Antoine. He remembered seeing her light on at midnight and wondered if Antoine had spent the night.

He buttoned his shirt and thought he didn't have time to think about himself. In nine days Bettina would evict Claudia and he had to figure out a way to stop her. Bettina's gift rested on the coffee table and he knew he had to go see her.

He splashed his face with water and grabbed his coat. First he would go to Chartier in Montmartre and have a bowl of vichyssoise and roasted chicken. He pictured the
baba au rhum
with Chantilly and almost felt better.

*   *   *

HE STEPPED OUT
of the elevator and saw a woman wearing a black wool dress and beige pumps. Her smooth pageboy curled around her shoulders and she carried a Chanel bag.

“Bettina!” he exclaimed, his cheeks turning pale “What are you doing at the Crillon?”

The elevator doors closed, and he wished he could force them open. Why was Bettina here and what did she want? It couldn't be anything good; she was like the grim reaper with a designer purse and stockings.

“I called your phone, but it was off,” Bettina said. “I thought I would come and see you.”

“I was going to get some lunch,” he explained, wiping the sweat from his forehead.

He couldn't face Bettina without first having a glass of Pinot Noir or a tall scotch.

“I'll join you.” She walked beside him. “There's something I want to talk about.”

“I'm going to Chartier in Montmartre,” he replied. “I know you hate sharing your table with other diners, and the waitstaff has been known to recycle the breadbasket.”

Bettina hesitated and her eyes flickered. “We'll have lunch here. I haven't eaten in the dining room since the Hôtel de Crillon reopened.”

“At the Crillon?” Alec asked. “I couldn't afford a buttered radish.”