The Little Bookshop On the Seine (20 page)

On the corner was a patisserie, the cakes like works of art, so carefully constructed, that taking a bite out of the exotic creations would make me feel almost guilty.

Almost. But not quite.

I stepped closer to the window, the maroon awning concertinaing above, protecting me from the elements as I gazed at the perfection inside. Fruity tarts with sugary glazes were colorful under the lights. Chocolate opera cakes cut into rectangles proudly showed off their thin ganache and sponge layers. Mille Feuille slices with crisp puff pastry and creamy custard centers practically begged to be tasted. There were chocolate éclairs, and crème brûlées with caramel tops that I knew would make the most delicious sound as I cracked into the toffee shard. Shell shaped Madeleines and flaky
pain au chocolat
spoke to me in such a way, I had to go into the warmth of the patisserie and somehow select just one of the treats on offer. I loved rolling their luscious names on my tongue.

Inside, in a display fridge, there were quiches with buttery brown crusts and baguettes as long as my arm, stuffed with a variety of fillings. How did French people stay so slim? It was like being transported to foodie paradise, and any reservations about saving money went out the window, as my mouth watered in anticipation. So what if I went home the size of a blimp? I laughed, picturing myself ballooning out, and returning home with chubby cheeks, thick legs, and a hankering for crusty baguettes and rich cheeses that I couldn’t break. From the
boulangeries
, to
patisseries
, and
fromageries
, my waist line was getting the most epic of work outs, emphasis on the
out
.

With the book clutched to my chest, I found a table at the back where I could read in the quiet. I unwound my scarf and snatched up the menu, though I knew exactly what I wanted.

“Bonjour,” A young waitress appeared wearing a tight fitted black skirt, and form-fitting shirt, from which a pink lacy bra peeked through. Her make-up was flawless, her eyes accentuated by smoky eyeshadow, and her lips painted nude. There must have been some kind of class in high school that taught French girls the art of style because I’d yet to see a Parisian in sweats, or dowdy in any way. Even the make-up free girls had an aura of sophistication about them. Perhaps it was their accents, and their reserved nature, as though they held themselves together, poised and refined in such a way it was obvious to me who was French and who wasn’t.

“Bonjour,” I replied, smiling at the thought that it was mere minutes until those delicacies sitting in the display were transported to my belly.

With pad in hand, she asked in French, “What can I get you today?”

“I’ll start with a slice of the roasted heirloom tomato quiche, and then I’ll have a
tartelette au citron
, and a slice of
Charlotte a la Framboise
.” The plump red berries were too tempting to resist. She scratched hastily on the order pad. I managed once again to speak fluently, and I wanted to fist pump. God it felt good to pretend I was one of them.

“Oh, and a café au lait, please.” I gazed longingly once more at the cabinet, and caught the waitress giving me a squinty stare.

“Is someone joining you?” she asked, indicating the empty chair opposite me.

“Umm, no…it’s just me today.”

“Just you?” her voice was incredulous.

“Yes, just me.” I said with false bravado. “I’m eating my feelings,” I said with a shrug.

“Ah,” she nodded. “Boy trouble?”

“Boy trouble,” I agreed.

She gave me a sad smile. “Men,
merde
!”

I twisted my face into a grimace to match hers. “
Oui
! Men, who needs them!”

“Won’t be long,” she spun on her heel, and left me to ponder my relationships with the people I spent my days with at the shop, and Ridge’s absence in my Parisian adventure.

At a table by the window, a couple kissed and canoodled. I looked away, but their happiness and downright togetherness made my heart ache. They were wrapped around each other in that new love kind of way, and I was envious of it.

Was Ridge over that initial spark of love? Did other women catch his eye, when I was nowhere to be found? I held my head in my hands, as my mind spun with it all. For me, that first burst of new love hadn’t waned. How could it, when we hardly saw each other. And any other man paled in comparison to Ridge. But I’d begun to feel like an afterthought to him, an epilogue in his life.

To save my poor heart the agony of overthinking, I took another love letter from my purse, opening it delicately. It would take me an age to translate the words but that’s what made it so special. I’d promised Luiz I’d read some of them and report back, while he went back to his own writing.

My only love,

Today there was a fuss over the violinist. Personally, I don’t think we need her. They say she’s like an introduction. A way to soften the crowd, calm them, before I walk on stage to my piano. Calm them? I’d screeched. What kind of audience did they think my concerts attracted? The people who flock to hear me play are subdued, studied, quiet people who respect music. A young, pretty violinist won’t change that. Perhaps it’s her beauty they’ve chosen her for, juxtaposed against my craggy, older face. I don’t know. I’ve largely ignored her, with her eager, wide eyes, and parted lips, it’s like she wants to speak to me but doesn’t know how. Like a puppy, she follows me around. If only you played the violin. Then it could be you here. And if I saw your mouth slightly open, your full lips shiny with your red lip gloss, I would cup your face, and kiss you until you were breathless. Music be damned, I’d carry you to my room, and never let you leave. Your body, naked, slick after our lovemaking, up against mine, is what I dream about. Three more months. And I will be home. Until then, I’ll play until my fingers are numb and hope it makes time go faster.

Pierre

I munched on pastry crust as I thought about the letter. Perhaps I read too many romances but I had a very bad feeling that his protestations about the young violinist were false. Why would he discuss her in so much detail? The way her lips parted? It was too intimate to write that about another woman who wasn’t your lover. I’d have to tell Luiz, who I’m sure would gloat, and say I told you so. Still, I wanted to believe these two fought hard to be with each other. And it all worked out in the end. It had to.

Chapter Fourteen

My plan to find joy in the hidden parts of Paris was off to a flying start. Ensuring I got out of the bookshop for some time to myself, other than racing to the bank and the post office, had taken some of the pressure off and inspired me to tackle one problem at a time upon my return. Space to think, and plot my next marketing move, or a new way to handle the surly casual staff.

With a flourish, I pinned up the new roster. It had been worth the few days’ work, hunting out the staff, talking to them alone so it wasn’t mutiny, and asking which days they’d prefer in my effort to accommodate them all.

“I can’t do nights. I told you that,” Beatrice folded her arms, the abruptness in her voice startled me.

“It’s not every night,” I said. “But I need more help with the late shifts so I can go upstairs and do the paperwork. I can’t be here all day and most of the evening and get it finished. I’m falling behind.” I scratched the back of my neck. “Everyone is having to make a compromise or two, Beatrice. We need to work together for the benefit of the bookshop.” There, I sounded professional and courteous.

She gave me a cool smile. “Your roster isn’t going to work. Carlos can’t do Saturday nights because he’s in a band. Oceane and Fridays don’t mix – you should know that by now. TJ won’t work Mondays because that’s when his poetry group meets. Half of these people don’t even live in Paris any more! Lois is in Thailand. Davey’s back in Australia. God, you’ve even got Sue-Betty here – she left last year! Where’d you get your info from?”

I shriveled on the spot. What the hell? The staff had given me their details, or so I’d thought. “I was trying to make things easier…” I willed myself not to falter. “I can’t pick up every shift when people don’t turn up. I don’t know what kind of people would play a prank like that.” It was like being in school again. They sensed a weakness in me and used it for their own gain.

“Sophie always works extra shifts, and doesn’t say boo about it. I don’t know, Sarah, maybe the management job isn’t for you. ” She shrugged and walked off, leaving me deflated once more. A part of me sagged, wondering if there was a kernel of truth in her words. Maybe things worked the way they were, all higgledy piggledy when Sophie ran the place. No wonder she’d had enough. I teetered between fight and flight. After a moment alone, jaw set, I’d made up my mind. People stepped all over me because I allowed it. It was time to be fierce.

***

Wind from the Seine blew open the front door, and made the books shiver their discontent. By seven, I’d straightened skewed piles of books, and unpacked the new stock. With a groan I picked up pieces of the usual trash that was littered throughout. The late shift staff would be in soon. Dusk had become my favorite time in Sophie’s shop. Most tourists headed out for dinner or to rest their weary feet. The crowds out front thinned, and I could lean on the door jamb and watch the river flow under the murky sky. It was time enough to catch my breath, and revel in the beauty of the place, empty of bodies, a peaceful hush, only punctuated by laughter every now and then from the bistro down the road.

I’d stride through the shop, treading lightly on the once vibrant rugs, caressing covers, delighting in a rare find – a book tucked at the back of a disorderly pile, its pages browned with age, its scent a mixture of hope and anticipation, nutty and musky like a bouquet of old roses. Like a child misbehaving, I’d steal away with the forgotten novel, creep to one of the hidey holes and read. Only able to snatch thirty minutes if I was lucky, before the mechanical doorbell would ping, announcing the next flurry of customers. And that was the cue for me to leave, and entrust the store with the nighttime staff.

When the casuals arrived that evening, I raced up the back stairs to Sophie’s apartment my mind drifting to Ridge. It had been days since I had heard from him. To be fair, he was working on a story in some Siberian wasteland and rarely had phone signal, but that didn’t stop me missing him, wondering where he was, what he was doing, if he was safe. On impulse I picked up the phone and dialed. I needed him, I just needed to hear his voice, hear him tell me that everything was going to be okay – not just at the shop, but also with us. Because for some reason I felt more uncertain than ever about our relationship. Maybe it was because I was so far from home, and my new normal was completely different.

“Hello…” I said.

“Hey, Sarah,” woman’s voice at the other end of the phone said breathlessly, like she’d been exercising – or something less innocent, which I purged from my mind. “He’s just stepped out. I’ll tell him you called?” It was the photographer, Monique, who worked on assignments with Ridge. His cell phone was usually glued to his palm though.

Put out, and slightly miffed, I said “Yes please. And if he could call back as soon as possible?”

“Sure thing, sweet.” She spoke with a Texan twang, and didn’t seem the least bit bothered she was answering
his
phone and speaking to
his
girlfriend. “I can’t say when he’ll be back. You know what that man’s like. But I’ll be sure and tell him you were chasing him.” She chortled away to herself, and I didn’t have the heart to join in.

“Thanks,” I said. And then thought to hell with it, I had to ask. “Why did he leave his cell with you?”

She laughed, a husky giggle that I thought only movie stars knew how to do. “He left it in my room last night. You know, we had a team meeting. Hoping like heck we can get this story done, so we can go home soon. I called his room this morning, but there was no answer. Probably at the gym staring at those muscles of his in the mirror!”

Right. A team meeting in her
room
? “I hope you wrap it up soon too,” I said. “Just tell him I really need to talk.”

“Sure thing, Sarah.” She clicked off, leaving me with only the warmth of the fire for company. Why didn’t he ever return my calls? We didn’t so much play phone tag these days as phone chase…and it was me doing the running.

***

In the morning I went downstairs, headed to the kitchen and made a fresh pot of tea, delighting in the silence of the shop. It was just me and the books. Were they inching backwards on their shelves, steeling themselves for another busy day?

Oceane arrived, her cropped hair sticking up at various angles, windblown and mussed. “Good morning,” she said, rushing a hand through her hair. “Ugh, it’s getting colder by the minute. It won’t be long until Santa graces us with his presence!”

“What’s it like here at Christmas?” I asked, reminiscing about the jolly festivities Ashford residents organized every year.

Back home we celebrated the season wholeheartedly. The town was decorated to the hilt, the best and brightest house competition so fierce that I bet you could see Ashford all the way from Mars.

Oceane smiled. “It’s breathtaking. Imagine the town with a light dusting of snow, and a whole lot less people. It’s magical, and blissfully quieter.”

Time then for the books to take a deep breath, to recharge, just be, until the crowds thickened once more when the weather warmed up.

“What will you do for Christmas?” Did they all take vacations? Would I need to find more staff? My mind spun as I thought about my failure to lock down a new roster and remembered how lax everyone was when it came to turning up.

Her eyes sparkled. “We have a big orphans’ party, don’t you know! Lots of wine, French food, and a day where we completely sloth out in Sophie’s apartment.”

I couldn’t contain my relief and did a little happy dance. “That sounds like fun!” I said, feeling the tension that had built evaporate. “But what about your family? Won’t you miss them?”

“Oh they’re in Eze. A hilltop town on the Cote d’Azur. I fly down after Christmas usually, and spend a week there.”