The Little Bookshop On the Seine (22 page)

“Fine,” she said, her eyes hard. “But tread lightly, please.”

We stared at each other on screen, and shared an awkward silence. “I will,” I eventually said, feeling a tad victorious.

“The sales, though. That keeps
me
up at night, Sarah. Please, fix it. This is usually the busiest time of year, leading into Christmas…”

“I’m trying,” I said wearily.

When I flopped back in my chair after ending the call with Sophie, I stared once again at my favorite view, knowing it would cheer me up. It was like falling in love. I curled up in the window seat and dialed Ridge’s cell – it rang out, and his voice message kicked in. The smooth, silkiness of his voice made my heart race, but where was he? It’d been almost a week since we’d talked that horrible night when he hoped he’d catch me sleeping. Sophie wasn’t right when she thought my issues with the shop were to do with Ridge, but I had to admit we were starting to have more bad days than good – or more days where I didn’t hear from him. Was the gap getting harder to bridge?

***

Covered with a thin layer of dust, I was still only halfway through unpacking boxes of books that had arrived in time for the Christmas rush. TJ appeared, giving me a lopsided grin.

“It’s never-ending, right?”

I patted a stack of books. “At least all this heaving and hefting burns the calories I’m consuming at the patisserie down the laneway.”

He grinned. “Between the sweets, and the cheeses, and the three course lunches, never mind all the wine, it’s a wonder we’re not huge.” He patted his belly which was more concave than convex. “It’s all the walking and, of course, the mad dash of the bookshop.”

He moved boxes and made a makeshift seat, doing zero to help – but TJ had this way about him, just sitting and talking was compelling and more important than any work we might need to do. “Take a break. You’ve been in here for hours. We could wander down the Boulevard Saint-Germain.”

“I shouldn’t,” I said, though the idea appealed. “I have a heap more to unpack.”

“I’ll help when we get back,” he offered.

“OK,” I ran a hand through my hair, hoping the black shock of it wasn’t beige with dust and feeling excited about stepping into fresh air.

Opening an umbrella, we walked along the promenade to the bank of the Seine.

I enjoyed TJ’s company at work. Nothing was ever too much trouble, and while he bickered with Beatrice, he wasn’t malicious. I’d been worrying all night about who could possibly be taking the money from the shop, but I doubted it was him stealing from the till. TJ always wore the same beat-up, wrinkled suit, and only ever ate at the cheaper
boulangeries
, but more than that I trusted him instinctively because of his genuine nature, and warmth in his eyes. He’d be more likely to tell me he needed money, than steal it.

“Are you happy here, Sarah?” TJ grinned, and looped his arm through mine as we skipped puddles in the street.

His question caught me off guard, but TJ just had an aura about him, something that made me feel I could trust him with a confidence, and unlike some of the others from the shop, he was more empathetic. “I made the decision to come here so quickly, I don’t know what I expected. I’m a small town girl, so it’s a sensory overload, sometimes. Though, stepping out into this,” I motioned to the vista, the river, the ever present Eiffel Tower, “makes up for it. I didn’t know you could fall in love with a city. It’ll be hard to leave, that’s for sure. But I won’t miss the politics of Once Upon a Time.”

“It’s a mammoth task running it.” He lifted a brow.

I nodded. “I don’t know how Sophie’s managed it so long to be honest. She needs more staff, especially when it comes to the accounts.” I said, as we dodged a couple swept up in the romance of Paris standing in the middle of the path and kissing.

“I hope this trip saves her from herself.” His voice was full of hope. “She has to see that things need to change.” While he hovered on the edge, like a silent spectator, I recognized that TJ saw it all, right to the heart of the matter, without being one of the people who added to the drama.

“Manu broke her heart. I can see why she’d flee. Following tradition is one thing, working yourself into an early grave is another.” I couldn’t hide the tightness in my voice and looked away from TJ, hoping he hadn’t noticed.

He cocked his head. “What is it? Is it Beatrice upsetting you?”

“No, no, it’s just me.” The other staff didn’t seem to have problems with her, and maybe I was being too sensitive. It was obvious that she loved the shop, and she had only been sharp when I’d made rookie boss mistakes. They must have thought I was some backwater hillbilly. “I guess being away from home,” I gave a nervous laugh. “I’ve always felt like something was missing from my life. That I had to stop hiding. And for some reason, I thought I’d find it here. I’m not exactly a social butterfly. It’s like my flaws are exacerbated here. Everyone is so charismatic, and bubbly, and I’m the girl with the silly ideas. When I do try something,” I blushed, thinking of the team building idea, “it’s considered bourgeois, or something.”

Leading me into a café down a hidden alleyway, TJ moved us to a cozy table for two before ordering coffees. It was like that in Paris. Food or good coffee was a priority, and any crisis of the heart could wait until comfort was organized. “Travelling has a way of peeling back the layers of a person, leaving you exposed.” TJ said, picking right back up where we left off, “When you’re alone, miles away from all you know and love, that’s when you find out who you really are.”

“How did you end up here?” I asked, curiosity getting the better of me.

He smiled. “I was lost. My parents’ had this idea I’d work in the car factory, like all my family. That was as big as their dreams were. To be an employee for some huge manufacturer. When I said I wanted to write, they almost fell over backwards with shock.”

“Sounds bleak,” I said. “Dreams are hard enough to reach for, without anyone stomping on them.”

The waiter arrived, depositing steaming cups into our waiting hands. “I knew if I stayed there, eventually I’d become a factory worker, and each day my poetry would be a step further away as monotony took over.”

“So you just left?”

“I’d always been drawn to Paris, the city that housed The Lost Generation, all those bohemians who found a home here, and I knew it was where I was meant to be. I contacted Sophie and she promised me a job, so as quick as that, I left. When I arrived here, it was like I could breathe, great big lungfuls of air. I found my tribe, people who understood me. Didn’t judge me. And I knew, I’d never leave. This city is my home, my heart, and I know I belong here. I might struggle to get published, might live on the brink of poverty, but it’ll be worth it. This is the city of lost souls, and you Sarah, are one of them. But that’s the beauty of this place. It’ll sweep you up, strip you bare, until
lost
becomes another word for
found
.”

“You’re such a romantic.” I smiled. TJ’s gentle chats always cheered me up. He was a sweet soul.

“Don’t tell anyone. It’ll ruin my reputation.” He winked before motioning me to try my coffee. “It’s the best coffee in Paris, but if you tell anyone I’ll be forced to unfriend you on Facebook.”

I laughed and sipped my coffee, the rich creamy brew was strong enough to make my eyes
boing
open. “It’s pretty spectacular, TJ,” I admitted. Paris really was broadening my experiences, whether it was a simple cup of coffee that heightened my senses, or gazing at art work, and hearing haunting music that I felt right down into my soul. “I’m glad you found your tribe here.” I said after a pause, “I have my own tribe back home, and I miss them.”

“What about your parents, what do they say about you leaving everything behind?” He flicked a lock of black hair from his eyes.

“Like almost everyone, they’re worried I won’t be able to handle the big bad world…it’s like people think because I bury myself in books, that I’m this fragile, delicate flower who can’t cope.” I explained about my twelve hour disappearance as a child. And that I’d developed might terrors and a stutter for most of my childhood. I’d always been the odd one out.

“So what happened? The kids bullied you?”

“They were merciless. And I just retreated, you know? It was easier to hide behind the cover of my books, and I found happiness there. Escapism at its best.”

“But what about high school? Surely by then they’d moved onto to bullying another kid? As horrible as that is.”

I nodded. “I’m sure they had. But by then, I was good at being invisible. I just floated into the background. Went to school, walked home and spent my life reading. It wasn’t all bad. On a whim I opened the bookshop when I was nineteen, and everything changed. I’ll always be an introvert, but I have the best friends a girl could want, and a business I love, so I’m not that same girl anymore. But my family are overprotective over me, like I’m still a little girl.”

“Kids can be cruel. I guess when they’re that young they don’t think their actions, and the repercussions of those can last a lifetime. When I announced I was gay, you can imagine how that went down. But luckily I had support from the school and they tamped down any bullying as quickly as they could.” His eyebrows pulled together. “Paris will work its magic on you, of that I’m sure. And when you go home, people will see you differently, because nothing is ever the same once you leave a place like this.”

“I hope so, TJ. You know I base almost everything on romance novels, like what would the heroine do? But the heroine wouldn’t be like me, she’d be this bright young girl, with a clear plan, and a sassy attitude…”

“But this isn’t a romance novel, Sarah. You’re better than that, and you know how much I love my ‘happy ever after’s.”

I threw my head back and laughed. TJ might have written poetry but he read romance like it was banned – eyes wide, shoulders hunched, while he raced through the story, exclaiming over plot twists.

After we finished our drinks, we bundled back up; scarves, gloves, umbrellas at the ready, prepared for the harsh winds as we stepped back into the cold. We came out onto the Boulevard Saint-Germain, a busy place, famous for its bohemian nature in the roaring twenties, and later a place where the likes of Hemingway hung out. Now though, it was more upmarket.

“Near the Odeon, there’s a hidden little bistro who do the best croque monsieurs, and because they’re hard to find, there prices aren’t set high for tourists. Hungry?”

“Aren’t I always?” I said, loving that TJ was just like me, always thinking of the delicious food that was abundant here.

“Instead of ham, they use smoked salmon and Comté cheese, and I promise you, one bite and you’ll never want to leave Paris.”

My mouth watered just thinking of it. It was great having TJ as a tour guide, because his budget was more in line with mine than Oceane’s was.

“That’s Café De Flore,” TJ pointed to a café on the corner, as we crossed over. “Hemingway used to write there.” No one was immune to bringing up famous names of the past. It was a thrill to think of people whose books I’d read, or artwork I’d seen in print form, once strolled these very avenues, just like us. Hemingway sat somewhere in that café, nursing a vin rouge, as a reward after a long morning writing. I shivered a touch, wishing that the enigmatic man was still alive. We wandered down small arcades, rain making the cobblestones slippery. It was like a maze, TJ led me left then right, and through doorways, so I was completely lost. No wonder it was a secret place, it would be impossible to find alone.

We came to yet another doorway – plain and indistinct. TJ rapped on it, and told me to wait as he stepped over the threshold. It was all very mysterious, and provoked a giggle as I stood, trying to keep the umbrella from blowing away.

A few minutes later, TJ brandished the fancy sandwich in front of me. “We’re not eating in?” I asked.

He shook his head. “It costs more. Paris on a budget, that’s me.”

With buttery fingers, we chomped on our lunch and ambled through the streets, stopping each time we came to one of the
Bouquinistes
. They were booksellers, who sold antiquarian novels and vintage posters from little green boxes on the bank of the Seine. Awnings hung over head, protecting their wares. They’d been selling old books this way since the mid sixteen hundreds and it fascinated me.

How many thousands of books had been sold over the years, and who’d taken the sellers’ places once they left this world? Did they keep them in the family? It was a romantic idea to own a tiny lockable bookshop by the river. The keepers were bundled up with scarves and gloves against the cold. They were the only thing that didn’t change along the busy path – as hordes of tourists flashed by, they’d sit there some smoking pipes, others reading as they waited. What kind of special place was this that the River Seine was flanked by little bookshops? Perfection.

I rifled through the vintage posters, looking for gifts for the girls back home – conscious of the fact that Christmas wasn’t far away. There were sketched couples kissing with the Eiffel Tower in the background, one of black cats perched atop a pile of books, and one full of petit fours and macarons in pastel colors. I selected a bunch, and then went through the books. With their red leather hardcovers, and golden French text, they seemed as priceless as a first edition, with a distinct book scent, earthy, timeless, like the Seine had jumped into the pages. When I was back home, I knew I’d pull these books from the shelf and inhale, with my eyes closed, to be transported back to this gray Parisian day, and I’d pine for it. And I knew that Paris – with its intensity, brooding clouds, and beauty – would be in my heart forever.

I paid the man, who nodded, pipe smoke swirling around his head, and we continued on. Our stroll had put a much needed smile on my face and I felt that I had truly found another friend.

Chapter Sixteen

The shop had been madly busy for hours and the mid-morning rush was almost over as crowds dispersed. Gulping down some water I checked the heating was still working and rewound my scarf tighter. The old building was drafty, and not even the roaring fires in each room could take the chill completely away. Beatrice hadn’t turned up and I was relieved not to be faced with her, she always seemed to push me off balance. Instead of worrying about her I processed some online orders whilst keeping an eye on the door, only to find my humdrum day completely thrown off whack when a blur of familiar long blonde hair whirled into the shop.