Falling in Paris (Encounters #3)

by Fifi Flowers

  Honeymoon Encounter

  The day of our escapade, Genevieve arrived early to accompany me with my aunt for a day of shopping and lunching. I knew she didn’t like to do so much; it was part of my plan. “I’m not young, Colette. Don’t you girls have better things to do?”

  “We didn’t want to abandon you,” Genevieve interjected.

  “Abandon me, please.” My Aunt Helena patted her hand.

  “Well, Genevieve did ask me over for dinner at a friend of hers across town, but we would stay over. Would you be okay overnight, alone?”

  “Honey, I stay alone every night.” She patted by hand. “You go have fun. I will see you the next day. Just take me back to your house, so you can get going before nightfall.”

  Getting ready to leave with Genevieve, I kissed my aunt for many reasons and rushed to get our plan in motion. From Genevieve’s apartment, with a story prepared for her aunt, she delivered me to Simon’s home, situated on the other side of the Seine. He lived far from anyone that knew me.

  Our plan worked out. Genevieve would be staying nearby for dinner with a friend and staying the night. The streets were not busy; no one saw that two women entered the apartment building and one left alone shortly after escorting the other one inside.

  Simon opened the door wearing only trousers and a white dress shirt opened at the top, a hint of his chest could be seen. It intrigued me and started my heart racing before I had even stepped through his doorway and I felt moisture between my legs, anticipating that I was going to be naked with him. “Come in, Mrs. Blakeley,” he said. I liked how it sounded.

  Sitting on a table, near a fireplace, were candles, two glasses and a bottle of champagne. “To celebrate?” I asked as he removed my traveling cape to reveal a burgundy dress. He didn’t answer, he just took me into his strong embrace.

  Dancing with me to music I hadn’t even realized was playing, my body began to heat. In the middle of our dance, he stopped and brought his lips to mine. His tongue licked my lips, pushing gently into my mouth. No one had ever kissed me like that. Unsure of what to do, I matched his strokes, his sucking, his nibbling. I assumed that I was doing it right as I heard groans and felt the corners of his mouth turn up in a smile when they escaped my lips briefly.

  His touch had me wishing I was naked in his arms. I wanted to, shamelessly, press my breasts into his bare chest, to feel his skin against mine. As if he could read my mind, he turned me in his arms and began to unlace the bodice of my dress. Loosened, he slipped my dress from each of my shoulders while kissing my neck. Pooled on the floor around my ankles, I stood devoid of any garments.

  His hands roamed my arms, my back, and then my hips, which he used to turn me. Standing before him, he told me how beautiful I was as he helped me step out of the material trapping me in place. Moving me back into his arms, he crushed my mouth. His kiss was more aggressive as he rubbed against me; I could feel his hardness. My lower parts started tingling like when I had pleasured myself. I was desperate for more.

  Walking to another room lit with more candles, he guided me to lie down on his bed. He removed his shirt, then his trousers. I gasped, I had never seen a penis in real life; I had only seen a rendering of one in a book once. Joining me, he began to caress my breasts, pinching my nipples occasionally while his tongue explored my mouth. I couldn’t help but moan, his large hands felt so different from my small ones. And, when his fingers slipped down through the wetness between my legs, my juices coated them, and he slid one inside of me. In and out of me he moved before he added another, his palm pushing up against me at the same time. I couldn’t control my thrusting and my panting, my whole body shuttered under his control. The pleasure was even better than I had experienced alone. I had no time to come down from my high as he began to plant his length inside of me, a little at a time. Though it was painful, at first, it quickly changed to a whole other sensation. My husband made me his all night long, each time better than the last, until we passed out, exhausted.

  The next morning, reluctantly, I had to leave our marriage bed and return to my home. Genevieve arrived too early. My happiness turned to sadness as I kissed Simon goodbye, uncertain when we would see each other again. I moped all the way home. No matter what my friend said to cheer me up, it didn’t work. I knew that I would eventually need to apologize and make it up to her. After all, she had done me a big favor.

  When I returned, my aunt looked me over. I instantly felt guilty. She knew—I could tell. She told me to go bathe and meet her in the salon for tea. Cleaning up, I worked through what I would say to her questions. Tell her the truth? Tell her the story that Genevieve and I had concocted? Dressed, I straightened my shoulders and made my way downstairs to the possibility of facing a guillotine. Maybe I was being a little too dramatic.

  Joining her, she began to tell me a story about a certain young woman who fell in love. She was smart. She had figured out my scheming—probably knew it all along. I confessed. I told her about our history from day one when we met, thanks to a cobblestone disaster. Once I finished divulging my loss of virginity to my husband, she asked me to get word to my young man; she wished to meet him. She said she had a change of heart; she wanted to go to her house in the country. Have him meet us there the day after tomorrow—no excuses. Per her request, I wrote a short note, stuck it in an envelope addressed from my Aunt Helena to Simon Blakeley, and a stable-boy rode it to Simon.

  Installed at her château, he arrived as directed and before we ever saw each other, my aunt chatted with him behind closed doors. I never found out what they spoke about, neither would reveal nor relay their conversation. Helena must’ve approved of him being with me; she invited him to stay with us at her country home through the weekend. Accepting her invitation, she had him meet me out in the garden, so I could give him a tour of the property and house.

  She made it clear that, despite our Godly joining, she would not permit us to sleep in the same bed. She did place us in rooms, separated by a wall, in a different wing, far from her chambers. He visited me nightly, through a hidden panel between our rooms that was revealed to him on a handwritten note slipped under his door. Out of respect, he escaped my bed before the sun rose on the horizon.

  During the day, we took long, intimate walks on the expansive grounds. One day, my aunt orchestrated a picnic basket for us, filled with delicious morsels. As we settled a blanket in the middle of a field of tall wildflowers, secluded, we disrobed. Stretched out naked, Simon did things to my body that were incredible; his lips and tongue tasted every inch of me. Wanting to thank him for the delirious smiles he brought to my face, I mimicked his actions.

  After napping in each other’s arms, we dressed and walked back leisurely. As we strolled, he professed his love to me. He told me that he wanted to speak to my father about a proper short courtship. He wanted to renew our vows in front of everyone. He wanted his family and mine to know that we were in love. He wanted to have several babies with me. No more sneaking around for us, no rendez-vous—we would be outside—together—in the public forever, Mr. and Mrs. Simon Blakeley.

  Heartbreaking Encounter

  Returning to Montmartre, my parents returned a week later, and my world was turned upside down forever. The sweet caresses I had experienced from Simon were never to be felt again. My life, as I recently knew it, was over.

  My father owned a publishing company and one day he heard about a brilliant young writer. Always interested in discovering brand new talent, he agreed to read the gentleman’s book. A couple weeks later, he received a printed copy of a story about a young man who had found love while researching the history of cobblestones throughout Europe. Eager to meet the young man, he headed into the printer’s shop to inquire how he could contact the author.

  Things didn’t go smoothly. The author of Romancing the Cobblestone hadn’t actually authorized the printing of the manuscript. Only a single printed copy had been requested. The printer read it as he put it together; he said it was a wonderful s
tory and took it upon himself to print a few copies. He thought he was doing him a favor. He told the man when he returned that he should let him help him get it published. The writer said that it was to be a gift to his wife, not for the public. He was upset with the printer, even more so when the printer confessed what he had done, and that a publisher was very interested in meeting him. As a matter of fact, he had just been there and that he could meet him down the street.

  I didn’t know what Simon had written. I didn’t know that he had bound his story. The last time I saw his book—typed pages—was on our honeymoon night. He told me it was almost complete, just a couple more pages. He was putting together a special version about his love of cobblestones for me. I was excited to read it; he had shared some parts of it with me. He was a wonderful writer. One day, I would be married to a well-known author. I was proud of him. I couldn’t wait for my family to meet him.

  When my father arrived home one day, looking out of sorts; his eyes were wild, his hair wasn’t perfectly groomed. Maybe I shouldn’t talk to him, I thought, at first. But, I didn’t want to wait. Simon had sent me private messages the week before through Genevieve. I hadn’t heard from him over the last few days. I was concerned that he was upset with me for not making arrangements for him to meet my parents.

  Taking a deep breath, I uttered out words about having a man named Simon meet my father. “Simon? Simon who?” my father asked with his eyebrows arched angrily. Quietly, I stated his surname and his eyes grew even wilder as his face turned a deep, dark, beet red. “How do you know him?”

  Innocently I answered, “He helped me get the carriage repaired a couple months ago. He’s a good man. He wants to court me.”

  “What do you know about men?”

  “Well… Nothing really, but I know Simon. He’s a brilliant writer. You should read his work. He has done fascinating research about cobblestones.”

  “So, you are his whore? You do know he has a wife?”

  “What? No. He’s not… he’s not married.”

  “He wrote a romance book about him and his wife discovering different types of cobblestone in Paris. He married her just down the road. He’s a newlywed.”

  “No…”

  “Is he leading you on? He can’t court you. I guarantee the man is married. The book ends with details about his honeymoon in the countryside.”

  What could I say? How did I tell him about… that I was the bride he wrote about? That would entail me telling my father that I was a deflowered, single woman. What choice did I have? “Simon wants to marry me. He’s not really married. That is just a book… a story.”

  “He told the printer and me that he wrote it for his wife.”

  “You met him? You saw the book?”

  “Yes, it’s a good book. I offered to publish it. He refused to let me. He said he would give me a revised version. He said the printer had no right to make copies. The printer made several copies and sent them out to other writers and publishers. I wanted it, but he said no. That it was to be a gift to his wife.”

  “It’s for me,” I said in a whisper, terrified of my father’s reaction.

  “Did you sneak away and marry that man? Without my blessing? Are you with child?”

  “No, nothing like that. We…” I lowered my head ashamed.

  “If what you’re saying is correct, you’ve acted like a whore.” He slammed his hand to the wall. I shook my head. “If you wish to act like one, I will make sure you live as one,” he yelled. I began to weep in disbelief. “Men do not marry women that spread their legs for them.” After his last words, he left the house in a rush, slamming the front door behind him.

  Sinking down into a chair placed next to my father’s library desk, I sobbed. My mother found me and tried to console me. She rubbed my back while I told her my story. I could tell by the look on her face that she was disappointed, and that she would side with my father. Suddenly, I wished that her sister Helena was my mother; she would’ve backed me up.

  Hours later, I heard my father come through the door, then lock himself in his library. Defeated, I retired to my room. In the morning, I found a note addressed to me next to my breakfast in the dining room. My mother was nowhere to be found. As a matter of fact, the last time I saw my mother was the night she took her husband’s side after I wept my love story to her.

  Unable to eat, I went to see my father. The next words that I heard were devastating, unbelievable. “Sit down, Colette.” I sat with my hands folded in my lap, head down. “I’ve made arrangements for you. You will be leaving this house tomorrow night. You will no longer be my daughter.” I couldn’t believe my ears. How could he just toss me aside?

  I tried to tell him. I tried to explain to him. I told him again—Simon wanted to marry me. He laughed in my face. “When did you last talk to him? Ha! Simon is gone. He returned to London. He was appalled that everyone knew you were a whore. He was embarrassed by your confession of not being his wife. He said his family would never accept you now.”

  I tried again to plead with him to accept my apology, and begged him to let me stay. If I didn’t have Simon, I had no one. “No whore will live in my house. You have ruined our life here in Paris,” he said, then stormed out of his library, leaving me behind.

  Standing to go find my mother, I found Simon’s book sitting on his desk, I took it and packaged it up. I had him get the book to Genevieve. Someday I would get it back.

  With my things packed up, my father said that it was time to go. He instructed one of the stablehands to help me into the carriage. When he finally joined me in the carriage, I could see he was angry by his tone, “Where is the book Colette?”

  “I don’t know what book you speak of, Father. Or, shall I call you Monsieur Bouchard?”

  He slapped me across the face. I had never been struck by my father. It was a shock to my system. “Don’t play games with me, you whore—you thief. I see that I’ve made the right arrangements for you.” He tapped on the front of the coach and we began to move away, under a dark sky, from the only home I had ever known. I was nervous. I could see the hatred in my father’s face. I sat quietly as he informed me that he had sold me off. Actually, pawned me off to a brothel in Pigalle. He told me not to bother reaching out to Simon. Trying to contact him would do me no good. He said that he had lied to me before about where he went, he hadn’t gone anywhere—he hung himself.

  No tears fell. I sat stoically across from the man I once called Father. I refused to let him see that I was heartbroken, and that he had been the cause of it. I refused to give him the satisfaction.

  Encountering A New Life

  My father left me at the back entrance to a brothel and walked off. He said the deal had already been done. I stood, with my bag, waiting for the door to open. The owner, Louis Capet, took one look at me and walked outside of the building. Closing the door behind him, he said I was no prostitute and never would be. I told him that I had nowhere to go. I begged him to let me stay as my tears finally broke loose. Placing an arm around my shoulder, he lifted my bag, and brought me to his private residence on the top floor of the building.

  Seated at a kitchen table, he introduced me to his wife. She was a charming woman. She made me tea and let me cry until I was ready to talk. Once I was calm, I told her my tragic story. She and her husband agreed to offer me a place to live, in their building, and a job, in their bookstore, but I would have to wait until my parents departed. My father had told a different story about me while telling the truth about what he had planned for him and his wife. My parents were selling our family home and moving to the South of France.

  Books saved me. I spent hours reading when I wasn’t helping Mrs. Capet with things around the house. I learned to do laundry, to clean, to make a bed, to iron, and how to cook. I was living a completely different life. They told me that I didn’t have to do those things. They had help, who did those things. But, I insisted that they let me help their staff until I started working in the bookshop.


  Eventually, I began my new job. It really didn’t feel like work. I was surrounded daily by books that I could escape into when I was feeling down. Along the way, my love of reading attracted the attention of a fellow employee. The Capet’s son, Henri, was smitten with me. He taught me about literature and the business of how everything ran in the shop. He was charming, I liked him a lot. I enjoyed spending time with him. After a year of working side by side daily, he asked for my hand in marriage.

  I married Madame Capet’s son and we had two boys, Bernard and Edouard. I wanted to name one Simon, but Henri knew my history, and I could not hurt him that way. He had been so good to me since the night that I arrived at his family’s apartment. Sharing a love of books, I grew to love him. I did not love him like I loved Simon, but as a very good friend, companion. We had a passion of our own. It was not a loveless marriage; we truly loved each other. It was just not the same all consuming, I-can’t-live-without-you feeling. Not that I hadn’t moved on after Simon—I had—but a part of me died with him. Besides, I don’t believe you can truly compare relationships; there is good and bad in all situations. I was fortunate with Henri and my boys.

  Years Later Encounter

  One day in the bookstore, years later, my friend Genevieve came to see me—she had heard from Simon. He was alive and living in Boston. He asked her if she knew what had happened to me. She had letters he had written to me. They were old letters that told of his feelings for me and how my father had threatened him. He fled home when my father told him that I was sold off, out of the country. I belonged to a whorehouse, as he had made me into one, and that it was his fault that I was a disgrace.

  Distraught, Simon took a job offer with his family and sailed across the ocean to America. He worked for his uncle, Maxwell Blaxton, handling rare book sales in his auction house in Boston. He continued to write his own books part time, and had finally been published.