Falling in Paris (Encounters #3)

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Falling in Paris (Encounters #3) Page 16

by Fifi Flowers


  Our trip turned out to be a big family reunion of sorts for the both of us. The biggest reconnect of family members had to be the bomb that Chloe blasted upon Avril. She had been sitting on the information for months, waiting for the right time to tell her. She had called her one night, but it happened to be the night Avril returned from our weekend at the vineyard. Tears and sobbing and soothing and raking me over the coals to her sister became top priority, so Chloe waited to see her in person to break the big news.

  Chloe had done some research, snooping around while she was in Boston after seeing a man with the same color eyes as Avril. In her investigation, she found out who the man was, then pulled up an internet search on Drake Blaxton. Finding out the name of his father, she located his place of business—an auction house. Under false pretenses, she made an appointment with Charles Blaxton. Seated before an elderly man with lavender eyes, exactly the shade of her sister’s, she began to ask him questions:

  How long had he had his business?

  What did he like most about it?

  Did he ever employ a woman named Claudette Paulson?

  When he answered, “Yes,” to her last question, Chloe pulled out a photo of Avril with Chloe standing next to her proudly. She told him that the woman next to her was her sister and Claudette’s daughter, and that she believed he was her father—same eyes, she pointed out. No denying the resemblance, he confessed to having an affair with Claudette; she was his assistant. When he broke it off with her, she fled. He never saw her again until years later at a function, alongside her husband. He had no idea that Avril existed.

  Since gaining knowledge about his daughter, he told Chloe he wanted to meet her, to tell her how sorry he was. That had he known about her, he would’ve wanted to be a part of her life; he would’ve never abandoned a child—his child. He was angry with Claudette for not telling him. Chloe told him that Avril didn’t know about him, either. She told him how she had been left with their grandmother. She told him that Claudette had recently passed away. He said he read that in the newspaper and that he was sorry for her loss. Chloe thanked him while he wrote down his contact information to give to Avril.

  Needless to say, Avril was completely shocked when they met up for a lunch date in Chicago and supersleuth, Chloe, sprung the announcement to her and their Gran. She cried and they both joined in. I was glad I missed that gathering; I had my hands full when she returned. Thankfully, Chloe had texted me ahead of their meeting to warn me that she had news that would hit her hard. She didn’t tell me what it was because she wanted Avril to be the first to know. Ready and waiting for her at our hotel, I took her into my arms the minute she walked through the door with red, puffy eyes. After relaying the whole story to me, she told me she wanted to meet him, but she wasn’t ready. I suggested that maybe they start with a phone call.

  A week after we were back in Paris, Avril picked up the phone and dialed her estranged father, Charles Blaxton, in Boston. He told Avril how sorry he was and that he would like to make it up to her however he could. They had lost so many years of getting to know each other, and he wanted to remedy that by establishing some sort of relationship with her going forward. She agreed. He informed her that she had a brother named Drake and he wanted to meet her, as well. Until she was ready, they talked and exchange photos. She eventually sent him pictures from our wedding, and he sent ones of himself and his son’s family. It’s amazing; they all share the same lavender eye color. And, Drake and Avril definitely look like brother and sister.

  Within six months of taking Avril to my bed…our bed, we were married at my father’s vineyard. Why do I make a point about my bed? Because my father made that part of his toasting speech to us. Our day was small and intimate. Avril’s grandmother and her husband, along with her sister, Chloe, attended, and some of my family, including Nique, mais oui. Avril did not invite her new-found-family. She was afraid to ask them; maybe they wouldn’t come. She wasn’t sure she wanted them there for such a personal event; she wanted the day to be all about us.

  Our wedding was more like a wedding feast. First, we exchanged vows out near a lavender field on the property. We both wore vintage apparel from Marionette’s shop. Seeing her walk down a petal adorned aisle by her Gran, wearing an ivory lace dress with a simple lace veil while Chloe sang, nearly ripped my heart out. There was not a dry eye in the crowd! Once we sealed the deal with a kiss, my chef cousins tantalized our tummies with incredible morsels. I swear they were each trying to outdo the other, I’d almost put money on it. After a couple days at the farmhouse, we took off for some alone time.

  For our honeymoon, Avril asked that I take her back to Florence. She wanted to see it again, but this time as one of the romantic couples she saw on her trip alone. She said I had to kiss her walking down the street, sitting on a bench, lying down on the grass at the palace, and while I rode with her on the handlebars of a bicycle—all scenes she had witnessed. I was happy to oblige her desires, both in public and behind closed doors. We did visit a certain darkened alleyway, my surprise to her. She was completely satisfied by my gesture, and our time spent together.

  Back to the grind, Avril and I began working alongside each other every day. She has improved our website; we merged it with hers. She and Nique talked me into having more events in the store. They now host book club meetings once a month, not to mention, they have scheduled other groups to use our back room for their book gatherings—some have included Sienna’s toy expertise. We also have special author events: signings, readings, meet ups, and more. Nique does most of the management while we travel together searching for books, predominately in Europe. On our travels, we make sure to document cobblestone patterns with a few photos, which can be seen on a special board in the shop. All of our rare book sales are now handled exclusively by Blaxton Auction House in Boston. Avril’s father finally came to Paris to meet his daughter and granddaughter.

  Oui, a little over two years ago we had a baby girl with jet black hair and lavender eyes like her beautiful mother. Finding out she was pregnant, Avril quickly had a remodeling project under way for a new Children’s Section. The small area where I sat in as a child to read books was not good enough. She expanded the back right corner of the store, away from windows that looked out to neighboring adult shops. I have to admit, what she came up with was outstanding.

  Low bookcases occupied one wall—the longest one. Above well-stocked shelves, she had a mural painted by a female art student, staying in one of our apartments. Starting at the far left was an open book with fancy writing on one page and a scene on the other. Just beyond the edge of the book, it appeared as though the characters were coming out of the book. Various scenes with the characters continued across the wall to another open book. On the edge of that, the characters were stepping into the one page and on the other side, two swirly words were written on that page: The End.

  To complete the area, we had the wood planks painted to look like cobblestones. Then, we had some area rugs placed in a reading area and a couple little tables and chairs were set up for little readers, like our princess. She will be the first female owner of the bookshop, but only if she wants to run it—I would never force it on her. But, if she decides to join the family business, we may have to edit the shop name: Librairie Capet et Famille (Capet and Family Bookstore).

  So far, our girl loves books already. Before she was even two, she had learned the word “again” in English and French, and since then, we have found ourselves reading the same stories over and over. One of her favorites is actually not a book, yet. It is one I made up one night when I had a captive audience, both of my girls. Colette was a bit fussy, so we double teamed to get her to bed. Holding a familiar book in front of me, I began to tell a tale we have titled Princess Book or Pincess Boo, if you were a certain two year old. It proved to be a good thing that Avril was present to be able to help me remember the story, to add to it, and be able to recite it in the future. Finally, we wrote it down in a small journal. Luckily
, Colette hasn’t asked to see the non-existing pictures. Noted, ask Jade about illustrating said story.

  If you’re wondering what the made-up book is about, it is about an enchanted bookshop where the books in the children’s section come to life. In this tale, the princess is stolen by the evil prince. The court jester saves her, and they live happily ever after on one of the store shelves. Of course, there is more to the story: dragons, spells, no curses, kings, queens, parties, jousting. That’s the basic idea, and our little Colette adores listening to it being read to her more often than we want to read it. She often reminds me of Nique, “Read again!”

  She’s not the only one that likes to be read to. I finally read the entire journal connected to the Romancing the Cobblestone book to Avril while lying in bed one rainy day. The book, letters, and journal permanently sit together on a table in a dark lavender velvet-lined wooden box with a glass top in our apartment foyer. We welcome people to read the words of them, wearing special gloves of course. The letters are in special sleeves, no mittens necessary to enjoy them. Besides learning briefly of their romance in the actual book written by Mr. Blakeley in the late 1880s, the journal penned by Ms. Bouchard revealed more about their story. And surprisingly enough, how both of us were tied to them in ways we never imagined. Avril even insisted that we name our daughter Colette Simone. If not for their romance, we would not exist together. Destiny?

  After finishing the journal, we understood why my father wanted me to translate it to Avril. Why he insisted that we were destined to meet the way we did. If not for the slick cobblestones… if not for Avril falling in Montmartre after obtaining the packaged bundle of Romancing the Cobblestone along with its extra reading material, we may have never met. Finally, I believe that cobblestones are romantic—very romantic.

  The End

  Now that you have finished reading our story, turn the page and begin reading Romancing the Cobblestone…

  Words translated from Colette’s journal.

  The words I read to my beloved Avril, my destiny.

  Romancing the Cobblestone (Translation of Colette’s Journal)

  (Bonus Reading, Book 2.5, Encounters Series)

  by Fifi Flowers

  Romancing the Cobblestone with Simon

  How can you fall completely in love with someone you’ve only encountered a few times in your life? Quite simply, it was love at first sight, he is the love of my life—my first love.

  Cobblestone Encounter

  Stretching out along my deep, feather comforter atop my high, four-poster bed, I looked out the French doors of my balcony to see a sunny day presenting itself. My mind was filled with thoughts of being outside, delighting in the warm light that shimmered all over Paris. I couldn’t wait another moment. I jumped from my bed, splashed water on my face from a basin on my dresser, and spritzed a little parfum on the side of my neck. Quickly dressing, I adjusted the tight bodice of my chartreuse, floor-length frock, tied a matching satin ribbon around my neck, and grabbed my gloves and bonnet as I exited my chamber.

  Rushing down the curved wooden staircase in the foyer, I caught a glimpse of my mother sitting in the dining room, sipping tea, and went to join her. She greeted me, “Good morning” as I placed a kiss on her warm cheek, inhaling her familiar cinnamon and vanilla scent. Reaching to her right, she rang a little bell, and Josephine appeared in the doorway with an extra cup and a plate of my favorite flakey pastry. Picking off little bite size pieces of the delicious sweet treat, popping them in my mouth and sipping tea, I hummed to myself between nibbles.

  “What has you so giddy this morning, Colette? You are acting like a little school girl,” my mother said, suspending my humming. “A mischievous school girl, at that.”

  I laughed. I was hardly a young school girl—unwed at twenty-five—many called me a spinster. “I think it is the sun’s fault,” I stated simply. But it wasn’t just the sunshine that elevated my mood, I had a feeling that something was going to happen that day.

  Something was waiting for me.

  Something was going to change my life.

  “Let’s go shopping, Maman, walk the boulevard, have lunch. You could get a new hat from the milliner. Please, Maman,” I begged.

  My enthusiasm could not sway her from her plans. She declined, stating that she had another engagement with her lady friends. Seeing the momentary disappointment on my face, she suggested I get out and walk about the gardens. No, that would not fulfill my needs. I had to get out in the street. I needed to explore the city. A stroll around our meager gardens did not sound enjoyable. I thanked my mother for her suggestion and breakfast, assured her that I would find something to do, and excused myself.

  In the foyer, I fetched my small handbag from the coat closet, then turned back, and exited through the kitchen out to the stables. Inside of the barn, I said hello to the stablehands and asked one of them to hitch up a horse to one of our small buggies that I could manage. Happily, Gaston readied a petite carriage for me. Set to go, I climbed up on the seat and commanded the horse to get a move on.

  Moving along the boulevard below, where a new church was being erected, I slowly maneuvered the horse over the cobblestones as I watched people strolling by with smiles on their faces. Everyone seemed to be thrilled with the sun-filled day. I felt so happy until I was, suddenly, jostled abruptly when my carriage wheel hit a rut in the street. I let out a scream as I nearly flew out over the horse. Luckily, I had a firm grip on the reins and the front rail of the buggy. Somewhat embarrassed by my outburst, and while trying to regain composure, I heard a manly voice inquire if I was all right. Turning to his broken French words, I saw the face of an extremely handsome man dressed in a tan morning coat, black trousers, along with a black waistcoat over a white shirt adorned with a light purple cravat, and a black top hat.

  I was stunned silent as I gazed upon his wavy chestnut hair curled up toward the brim of his hat and piercing lavender eyes with dark blue flecks. I was not able to form words as he removed the reins from my hands, wrapping them around the dash rail as he asked another man to take my carriage and have the wheel fixed immediately. As he turned his attention back to me, his strong hands grasped the sides of my waist and he easily lifted me out of the buggy. His touch made me shiver as if a cold Arctic breeze had run across my body. At the same time, I felt incredible warmth between my legs. Oh my! I felt as though a fainting spell was about to hit me, but then his awkward invitation managed to right me. “Will you join me for tea?”

  Nodding my head, I managed a quiet, “Yes,” and he extended his arm to me and I, gingerly, placed my hand around his rather large bicep.

  Reaching the café, he asked for a table using words that were close to the words I believed that he meant to use, which made me grin. It was obvious, by his misuse of French, that he was not a native, but he was making an attempt to fit in, and I did not correct him, nor did I help him. He was a gentleman, he deserved to be treated as one—not humiliated for his incorrect words. His minor flaws were charming, they made me relax. Once we were seated at a small bistro table, I asked him in English where he was from and I saw a sense of relief fall over his beautiful face. Then, in a very distinct British accent, he apologized for not properly introducing himself before dragging me off for a cup of tea. “I’m sorry. I should’ve given you my name. I’m Simon Blakeley.”

  I giggled, shaking my head and introduced myself, as well, “Colette Bouchard.”

  “Ahh, a true French woman. You must think my French deplorable. You can’t tell that I studied it all through university. I try my best, but…”

  “Please don’t—it’s nice that you try. I’ve heard much worse,” I said with a smile and patted the top of his hand, sitting on the table, and a jolt hit me square in the chest. Reaching with my other hand, I covered my heart, looking upon him with my wide green eyes. I was staring at him, stunned.

  “Are you okay?” His face showed signs of deep concern as though he was afraid or shocked.

 
I could barely speak, I could barely breathe. And yet, in a hushed whisper, I managed, “My heart is beating so fast, it feels like it’s going to burst out of my chest.”

  Sliding his hand out from under mine, his thumb rubbed over my knuckles, causing me to literally gasp for air. Smiling at me, he let go of my hand and while reaching up toward my cheek, the side of his hand skimmed the top of my breast as my body jerked forward. Involuntarily, I let out a low, breathless moan. I felt my cheeks heat and my nipples harden. A throbbing sensation spread and consumed my body, and I lowered my eyes.

  He raised my chin so that I met his intensely, darkened gaze. With his other hand, he raised my hand off of the table and placed it on his firm chest. “My heart is beating the same,” he proclaimed in a low, husky voice.

  We sat like that for a few moments. We may have sat like that longer had the waiter not arrived with tea and biscuits. The rest of our time together was spent chatting like two old friends. When we finished with our tea, Simon escorted me to my waiting carriage, and helped me into my seat. “Can you meet me again?”

  “Yes, I would love to.”

  “Good,” he said while reaching inside of his jacket and pulling out a tan, leather bound journal. Quickly tearing out a page, he scribbled a date, time, and location on the piece of parchment, folded it in half, and handed it to me. “I will be waiting for you.”

  “I’ll do my best,” I said before rushing home.

  Back home, as I got ready to bathe, I looked at my naked figure in my full-length mirror. I skimmed the top of my breast like Simon had and watched my nipple harden like pebbles as I thought of him. My body seemed to come alive at his touch; I felt tingly and moist between my thighs. Reaching down my body to feel it, a sudden ache enveloped me, and my fingers followed the path to the source of the wetness. I moaned as I grazed little curls. The feeling was amazing—I closed my eyes to see his face, continuing to stroke. I imagined Simon’s hands caressing the heat between my legs. The visual encouraged me to move my other hand to my breast and I began strumming one of my nipples.

 

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