Christmas in Paris (21 page)

*   *   *

ISABEL SAT IN
the floral booth and sipped a Kir Royale. She gazed at the hanging potted plants and red velvet wallpaper and felt impossibly Parisian. She had attended the opera, and now she was having supper at one of the most famous cafés in Paris.

She had read in the guidebook that Café de la Paix opened in 1862 across from the Palais Garnier. Patrons lingered over French onion soup and almond sponge cake and glasses of Campari. Oscar Wilde had been a regular, and Marlene Dietrich had her own table.

The third act of
Rigoletto
was mesmerizing, and when Rigoletto collapsed over his dead daughter's body, Isabel brushed away tears. Antoine clasped her hand and she smiled and moved closer.

Now she glanced at women in glittering cocktail dresses and remembered Antoine's friend Jacqueline. She was the kind of woman who slipped on a turtleneck sweater and loafers and ran into the street looking like a supermodel.

Antoine probably knew countless Jacquelines and Aimées and Chantals. Isabel had never been jealous, but she didn't live in a city where all the women had smooth chignons and pouty lips and smoky eyes.

“Jacqueline is charming.” She ate a bite of veal kidney. “What does she do?”

“Jacqueline doesn't do anything besides buy lipsticks and handbags,” Antoine laughed. “Her family is a
noblesse de cloche
and their title dates back to the fourteenth century.”

“She must do something,” she insisted.

“She skis in the Alps and sails on the Riviera and squeezes in cooking classes.” He shrugged, nibbling oysters on the half shell. “I'm sure she would say she is terribly busy.”

“It sounds refreshing, but I'd get bored if I spent all my time on the ocean or tossing vegetables into a skillet.” She paused. “I've wanted to be an analyst since high school.”

“I dreamed of being an Olympic skier after I graduated from Le Rosey,” he said. “But I broke my leg and spent an entire season reading detective novels. The surgeon said I'd never be able to race and my father asked me to join the bank.”

“Does your father work at the same bank?” Isabel asked.

“It's the family bank,” he explained. “My great-grandfather opened the first office on Place Vendôme. I'm the client liaison. I have a pleasant secretary and paneled office and healthy expense account.”

“You don't actually work with numbers?” She felt something hard press against her chest.

“My job is to make sure the automaker from Munich leaves Paris with a stack of postcards and bottle of eau de cologne for his wife.” He smiled. “It's quite enjoyable, though too many dinners of cheese soufflé makes you fat.”

Isabel ate new potatoes and her thoughts swirled in her head. Antoine had never said he was an analyst; she just assumed they held similar positions.

And what did it matter if his family owned the bank? He wasn't like Rory, who flitted from one interest to the next, or Neil, who was ready to give up his career for bundles of hay and a bucket.

She had to trust the fortune-teller. Antoine was perfect and she should relax and enjoy herself.

They ate chocolate with praline for dessert and talked about the French Alps. Every year a group of school friends rented a chalet in Megève or Courchevel. They skied off piste and spent the evenings eating fondue and complaining about their knees.

“I bought you a gift,” Antoine said, reaching into his pocket.

“You took me to dinner and the opera,” Isabel protested. “You don't need to get me a present.”

“It's Christmas and I'm with a beautiful woman.” He placed a red velvet box on the table. “How could I not buy something special?”

Isabel gazed at the square jewelry box and gasped. Was Antoine going to propose? Everything about her stay in Paris had been magical; now the fortune-teller's last prediction was coming true.

“Are you going to open it?” he interrupted her thoughts.

“Of course.” She snapped it open and discovered a pair of silver earrings. She looked at Antoine and her voice wavered. “Oh, they're lovely.”

“They're silver snowflakes. I saw them in the window at Cartier.” He noticed her expression and faltered. “If you don't like them, I can exchange them.”

“I'm just overwhelmed,” she said quickly. “I'm sitting at the Café de la Paix eating Belgian chocolate and raspberries.” She looked at Antoine and her face broke into a smile. “There's nothing else I want, and I'm having a wonderful time.”

*   *   *

THEY STROLLED ALONG
the Champs-Élysées, and Isabel thought Alec was right; she had to invite Antoine to her suite. What could be more romantic than gazing at the Christmas lights on the Place de la Concorde and sipping aged cognac?

“See that star in the sky?” He pointed at the night sky. “When I was a child, I received a telescope for Christmas and spent all my time studying the stars and the moon. I thought the stars were made of precious jewels and wanted to launch myself in a rocket ship and grab them,” he continued. “Then I got older and put the telescope away and concentrated on tennis and skiing.” He took her hand. “When I met you at the Red Cross charity ball, I realized I didn't need to go to space to find a treasure. It was right here on earth. You're the loveliest woman I've ever met.”

“When I was six I saw a rainbow from my bedroom window and followed it into the garden,” she began. “I discovered a birds' nest and was sure the leprechauns left eggs filled with emeralds and rubies. Magic is everywhere if you let yourself believe in it.”

Antoine drew her toward him and kissed her. His lips were warm and he tasted of praline and almonds.

“That's the wonderful thing about life,” he whispered. “Sometimes the greatest gift shows up when you least expect it.”

She kissed him back and a shiver ran down her spine. She pressed against his chest and suddenly thought the world was spinning.

“I'm terribly sorry, but I have to go,” Antoine sighed, tucking her hair behind her ear. “I promised a client I would take him to the top of the Eiffel Tower, and I can't get out of it.”

“Of course.” Isabel kept the disappointment out of her voice. “I had a wonderful evening.”

“I'd like to see you tomorrow night,” he said, kissing her again. “Perhaps we could take a boat cruise down the Seine.”

She kissed him back and her chest expanded. “I can't think of anything I'd like better.”

*   *   *

ISABEL TOSSED HER
purse on the coffee table and sank onto an ivory love seat. The oysters at Café de la Paix were delicious and the walk along the Champs-Élysées was like being in a Cary Grant movie. And everything Antoine said had been so romantic. He was honest and warm, and when they were together she felt as if she was a glass of sparkly champagne.

Then why did she feel wobbly, like when she went outside for the first time after a bad flu?

Did she really belong in a chalet in the French Alps or on a yacht on the Riviera? Could she learn European customs and chat with Antoine's friends as if she'd attended a Swiss boarding school? And was she ready to give up her position at JPMorgan Chase and Sunday brunches at her parents' estate in Ardmore?

But then she remembered the empty feeling when she canceled the wedding. She couldn't bear eating a carton of Greek yogurt and Caesar salad for dinner. And what was the point of going apple picking if you had no one to share it with?

It didn't matter if she had to learn to use the Paris metro and negotiate with the butcher. Even if her children grew up with French accents and a hazy knowledge of American history, she would have a husband and family.

Antoine was the man she was going to marry; she just had to figure out how to get him to propose. She glanced at the red Cartier box and suddenly her heart beat faster. How was Antoine to know she would consider moving to Paris unless she told him?

She remembered when they were at Musée Rodin and she laughed that she would move to Paris in a minute. But all tourists said that; it was like saying you wish you could spend every day at Disneyland when you arrive in Los Angeles. Tomorrow night she would tell him she always had dreamed of living in Paris.

A bowl of fruit sat on the coffee table, and she wondered if Alec was feeling better.

“I hope it's not too late to take him an orange and bunch of grapes,” she said aloud. She walked to the window and peered at his balcony. “His light is on and I can't wait to tell him my good news.”

*   *   *

“YOU CAN'T KNOCK
on someone's door at midnight,” Alec said when he answered the door. “I could be half naked and asleep.”

“You don't look half naked, you're wearing a suit.” Isabel placed the fruit basket on an end table and looked at Alec. He wore a navy suit and white shirt and red tie. “I didn't mean to intrude, are you going out?”

“Where would I be going in the middle of the night? I'm not a Midwestern tourist who has to see the lights on the Arc de Triomphe,” he asked. “I put on a suit when I get blocked. I pretend I'm sitting in an office, and if I don't finish my illustrations, my boss is going to breathe down my neck.”

“I thought authors get writer's block.” She ate a bite of a peach. “I've never heard of artists suffering the same thing.”

“It took Michelangelo six years to paint the Sistine Chapel,” he replied. “Creating art isn't like building a house, it doesn't come with a set of blueprints.”

“It looks like you're still blocked.” She picked up a sketch of Gus leaning over a princess lying in a coffin. The princess had long black hair and Gus kissed her on the mouth. “Isn't this a scene from
Sleeping Beauty
?”

“There are only so many stories in the world.” He snatched the paper. “Everyone relates to fairy tales. How many family situations remind you of Cinderella, and how many women think they need to be rescued by a handsome prince like Rapunzel was?”

“I don't need rescuing,” Isabel said sharply. “I just want to fall in love.”

“Ah, yes,” Alec said. “How was the opera?”

“We ate chocolate pralines at Café de la Paix and saw
Rigoletto
at the Palais Garnier.” She paused and her eyes were bright. “The men wore elegant tuxedos and the women were dressed in jeweled evening gowns and it was like a scene in
Casino Royale.
”

“Then why aren't you drinking Drambuie with Antoine instead of eating a peach with me?” he asked, walking to the bar and filling two snifters with brandy.

“He had a prior commitment and I couldn't wait to tell you my good news.” She paused. “Antoine gave me silver snowflake earrings from Cartier, and I was disappointed they weren't an engagement ring. I realized if I want him to propose, I need to give him a hint.” She fiddled with her bracelet. “Tomorrow night we're taking a cruise on the Seine. It will be bitterly cold, so we'll sit in a dark corner and watch the lights on the Pont Alexandre III. I'll say I've never seen anything so beautiful, I wish I could pick up and move.” She sipped the brandy. “He'll laugh that I can't be serious, and I'll reply I've never been more serious about anything. Paris is like diamonds; a girl could never refuse either.

“He'll take that as his cue and get down on his knee and ask me to marry him. He'll say he wanted to give me his grandmother's emerald ring but it's in a safe-deposit box, so would I accept a token?” She paused. “Then he'll take off his pinkie ring and slip it on my finger.”

“He wears a pinkie ring?” Alec frowned.

“It's gold with a red coat of arms.” Isabel nodded. “We'll have a civil ceremony at the Hôtel de Ville. After the ceremony it will start raining and Antoine will murmur that's good luck. The wedding luncheon will be at the George Cinq and we'll take a short honeymoon to Venice.”

“Don't you want your family to be here?” Alec cut in. “Your parents just spent months planning your wedding to Neil. I don't think they'd appreciate receiving a postcard with your new name and address.”

“You're right, but I know they want me to be happy.” She bit her lip. “We'll have a reception at Antoine's château in August! My mother can help plan it and we'll have so much fun picking out the menu and choosing the flowers.”

Alec refilled her brandy snifter and she bumped his arm and brandy spilled down the front of her dress. He blotted it with a napkin and she felt his hand press against the chiffon.

“I'm terribly sorry, I've ruined your evening gown,” he gasped. “I'll pay to get it cleaned.”

“It's nothing. I'll send it to the hotel cleaners and they'll get it out.” She looked down at the gold stain. “But I should go take it off.”

She glanced at the coffee table and saw a sketch of Gus kneeling in front of a young woman in a red satin dress. Gus wore pantaloons and a gold cape and held a purple velvet cushion. The woman had dark hair and diamond earrings and was wearing a jeweled slipper.

“I like this one.” She picked it up. “Is it Gus and Cinderella after the ball?”

“
Cinderella
is one of Grimm's best fairy tales,” Alec grumbled, pointing to the drawing. “But my story is completely different. Cinderella is a blonde, and she's a brunette.”

*   *   *

ISABEL ENTERED HER
suite and unzipped her Balenciaga gown. It wasn't Alec's fault he'd spilled brandy on the dress and it was nice of him to offer to pay to remove the stain.

She folded it over a chair and thought she'd send it to the hotel cleaner in the morning. She had so many things to think about: she had to pick out the perfect outfit to wear tomorrow night and brush up on French history. And should she update her résumé if she was going to look for a job in Paris?