by Anita Hughes
“Not to the owner of the dog,” Alec mused. “He wanted his dachshund back.”
The magician reached into his sleeve and pulled out a brightly colored bracelet. He placed three cones on a table and searched the crowd.
“Mademoiselle will guess which cone the bracelet is under.” He pointed to Isabel. “If you are correct, the priceless bracelet is yours.”
“I don’t think so.” Isabel blushed. “Pick someone else.”
“You are a beautiful woman with special powers,” he said in accented English.
Isabel hesitated and her shoulders relaxed. It was Christmas and she was in Paris—why shouldn’t she do what the magician asked?
“All right.” She pointed to the red cone. “I choose that one.”
“I’m sorry, that’s not the one.” He revealed the empty cone. “For five euros you can choose again.”
“No, thank you.” Isabel laughed. “The bracelet is lovely, but I can’t afford it.”
“Here.” Alec reached into his pocket and handed the magician a five-euro note.
Isabel studied the two remaining cones and chose the blue one.
“The bracelet is yours.” The magician removed the cone and bowed. “Merry Christmas.”
“Why did you do that?” Isabel asked as they walked toward the curb. “If I picked the wrong cone, you would have paid five euros for nothing.”
“He wouldn’t let you choose the wrong one.” Alec ate a gumdrop. “Then the other tourists would leave. Now everyone wants a chance, they’re determined to win on the first try.”
“It is lovely, thank you.” Isabel glanced at the pink-and-blue bracelet and suddenly her cheeks were pale.
“I’m feeling a little light-headed,” she stammered. “Do you mind if we go back to the Crillon?”
“Did you sample a bad piece of cheese?” Alec studied her pale cheeks. “You look a little green.”
“I’ll be fine,” she wavered. “I’d like to lie down in my suite.”
“That doesn’t sound like the girl who threw her Ferragamo pumps at my balcony and insisted her first meal in Paris be at the most famous café on the Champs-Élysées.” Alec frowned. “Did your ex-fiancé text and ask where you keep the instant oatmeal? It’s hard to forget someone when his name keeps popping up on your phone.”
“It’s nothing like that.” Isabel blushed. “A fortune-teller insisted on reading my fortune. She said I would receive a sparkling gift that had little real value.”
“Surely you don’t believe that stuff,” he said. “Fortune-tellers in Paris will do anything to separate tourists from ten euros. You should have told me, she was probably in cahoots with the magician.”
“Of course I don’t believe it.” Isabel hesitated. “But I really am tired, I just need to take a hot bath.”
She shielded her eyes from the sun and stepped onto the boulevard. A car honked and the air rushed beside her. There was a grinding of metal and she fell onto the hard cement.
“Are you all right?” Alec crouched beside her. “That taxi almost ran you over.”
Isabel tried to stand, but her knees buckled. She heard a car door open and the taxi driver yelled in rapid French.
“Please tell him I’m fine.” She rubbed her elbow. “I just need to catch my breath.”
“He was lighting a cigarette and not paying attention.” He grimaced. “I should call the gendarmes and have him arrested.”
“It was my fault,” Isabel insisted. “I crossed the street without looking.”
He scooped her up, and she wrapped her arms around his neck. He climbed the marble steps, and they entered the lobby of the Crillon. Isabel gazed at the ornate tapestries and white Christmas tree, and her eyes filled with tears. What was she doing in the arms of a strange man when she was supposed to be on her honeymoon?
“You can put me down.” She bit her lip. “I’m perfectly capable of walking.”
Alec carried her across the lobby and entered a room with paneled walls and dark leather booths. It had a polished parquet floor and mosaic bar. A huge ornate mirror rested above a marble fireplace, and vases were filled with purple orchids.
“What are we doing?” Isabel demanded.
“I’m not leaving until we both have a tall drink.” He slid into a booth. “I don’t want you to lock yourself on the balcony or fall asleep in the bath.”
* * *
“I’VE NEVER BEEN much of a drinker.” Isabel sipped the gold liquid. “But I do feel better, this is superb.”
“It’s Hennessy cognac,” Alec explained. “The Crillon charges fifteen euros a shot.”
“I can’t let you pay for that,” Isabel protested. “Put it on my bill.”
“It’s the least I can do, I almost got you run over.” He paused. “You don’t look like the kind of girl who ever jaywalked in her life. Why did you jump into the street like a horse wearing blinders in the Bois de Boulogne?”
“That woman insisted on telling my fortune,” Isabel began. “She said I had an important job at a large company.”
“That hardly makes her clairvoyant,” Alec laughed. “You’re a beautiful young American shopping on the most expensive street in Paris, and you’re not wearing a wedding ring. You’re either a high-level executive or a call girl.” He gazed at her pink cashmere sweater and wool slacks. “Somehow I don’t think you’re dressed for the part.”
“Then she said I would receive a brightly colored gift that would come to have great value.”
“We went over that,” Alec replied. “She probably is in partnership with the magician. She tells your fortune, and then you win a prize. You are so pleased, you rush back and give her ten euros to tell you the names of your future children.”
“She said I was going to fall in love and marry a French aristocrat.” Isabel fiddled with her glass.
“That’s like saying to every Frenchwoman who arrives in New York she’s going to marry Tom Cruise or Derek Jeter.” Alec sipped his scotch. “We think Americans are all movie stars or athletes, and Americans believe the French are all direct descendants of Marie Antoinette and Louis XVI. I wouldn’t be surprised if American tourists assumed Paris was full of men wearing powdered wigs and pantaloons.”
“I thanked her for the lovely reading, and she said there was more.” Isabel felt something hard press against her chest. “I was going to narrowly miss being killed.”
“Is that right?” Alec asked, leaning back in his chair. “It’s a wonder more pedestrians aren’t run over. Parisian taxi drivers drive too fast and whistle at pretty girls when they should be watching the traffic light.”
“He didn’t do anything wrong, it was my fault.”
“You’re in a strange city and your wedding just got canceled.” He shrugged. “It could happen to anyone.”
“I double majored in economics and mathematics at Bryn Mawr and was in the top three percent of my class at Wharton. I planned a winter wedding for three hundred people while overseeing a multimillion-dollar merger.” She looked at Alec and her eyes were bright. “And you were right the first time, it isn’t like me at all. That’s why I’m certain the fortune-teller can predict the future. You see, I never jaywalked in my life before today, but something made me do it.”
* * *
ISABEL SAT ON the blue velvet sofa and sipped a cup of chamomile tea. After she and Alec finished their drinks, she returned to her suite, ran a hot bath, and soaked in jasmine bubbles. Now she nibbled a macaron and gazed at the night sky and silver lights twinkling in the Place de la Concorde.
She flipped through a travel guide and thought of all the things she and Neil had planned to do in Paris: climb to the viewing terrace of the Arc de Triomphe and look out over the Boulevard Haussmann, order Ritz Side Cars at Bar Hemingway and visit the fruit markets in Montmartre.
A leather-bound notebook lay on the coffee table and she picked it up. When Neil proposed, she started a journal to record the wonderful things that would happen during their engagement.<
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She knew she should have left the journal at home. She didn’t have to be reminded of picking out Wedgwood china and trying on chiffon wedding dresses while she was sitting alone in the honeymoon suite of the Hôtel de Crillon.
But somehow leaving it behind made it feel as if the whole engagement never happened. She wasn’t ready to put it away, like a pretty wool sweater you received as a Christmas present but couldn’t wear because the fabric was scratchy.
In the beginning everything about their engagement was exciting. She and Neil were so happy and she was certain their love would last forever.
She opened it and a photo fell out. Neil had his arm draped around her and she displayed the emerald-cut diamond ring on her finger.
Dear diary,
Goodness, I haven’t kept a diary since my freshman year in college! But all the wedding books say keeping an engagement journal is the best way to remember the start of your new life. And if every day is like today, I’m the luckiest girl in the world.
Neil said his boss gave him tickets to see Jersey Boys on Broadway and he booked two nights at the Carlyle. I almost didn’t go, I have a huge presentation and planned on preparing all weekend. But Neil promised we could both squeeze in time to work, and how could I resist Manhattan in the fall? The department store windows are filled with winter fashions and Central Park is a myriad of colors and the whole city buzzes with a new energy.
The musical was wonderful and I was ready to go back to our suite and order room service. But Neil had made reservations at Jean-Georges! It has three Michelin stars and it’s right on Central Park.
From the moment the maître d’ meets you at the door, you feel like you’ve been transported to Paris. The floors are polished wood and the booths are scattered with silk cushions and the waiters have French accents and wear white dinner jackets.
We ordered the tasting menu and every course was accompanied by a Zinfandel or Chenin Blanc. The butter-poached turnips were delicious and the garlic soup with sautéed frog legs was superb.
Then the waiter brought out a plate with a mille-feuille drizzled with chocolate sauce. It was my favorite dessert when I studied at the Sorbonne. I loved the creamy custard and powdered sugar and flaky pastry.
I looked closer and realized, instead of a strawberry on top, there was a sparkling diamond ring! I gasped and Neil’s face broke into a smile.
“I wanted to propose in Paris, but we’re both too busy to get away,” he said, taking my hand. “I love you and want to do everything with you: travel to Europe and ride horses on the farm and sail on the Delaware River. You are bright and beautiful and I can’t imagine life without you. Isabel Marie Lawson, will you marry me?”
“Yes,” I breathed, feeling the warmth of his palm. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”
The waiters clapped and the maître d’ presented us with a bottle of Dom Pérignon. Neil slipped the ring on my finger and we shared the mille-feuille and I’ve never been so happy. Neil is caring and handsome and it was the most romantic moment of my life.
I bought this notebook at the Carlyle gift shop and promise to fill it with all the excitement of the coming year. We haven’t talked about the ceremony location or number of guests, but I know two things: I want a winter wedding, and our honeymoon will be in Paris. I can’t wait to arrive in the City of Light as Mr. and Mrs. Neil Harmon!
Good night, dear diary. Or I should say, bon nuit.
Isabel closed the notebook and gazed out the window. It was beginning to snow and Place de la Concorde was bathed in a golden light. It had been wonderful to be in love and certain about their future. Would she ever feel that way again?
She had read the whole passage without crying; surely she had made the right decision. If she were in love with Neil, she would be longing for him to be here in the hotel suite.
She jumped up and walked to the closet. She didn’t need Neil to see Monet’s water lilies at L’Orangerie or buy first edition books at Shakespeare and Company. And she wasn’t afraid to sit at Le Fumoir and eat herring marinated in sherry by herself.
She noticed her beige pumps and remembered being locked out on the balcony.
“This vacation isn’t going as planned,” she said aloud. “First I almost freeze to death, then I come close to getting run over.”
She walked to the living room and sank into a damask armchair. She gazed at the silver tray set with two porcelain demitasses and a selection of hazelnut truffles and nougats.
“I think I’ll stay inside tonight.” She picked up another macaron. “Paris will be here tomorrow.”
chapter three
Alec glanced at the sketch of a cocker spaniel dressed in board shorts and balancing on a surfboard and grimaced. Lately drawing everything Gus did—jumping out of an airplane, sailing a catamaran, wrestling a ten-pound trout on his fishing line—seemed exhausting. Sometimes he wished he could draw Gus curled up on a dog bed in front of the fire or watching cartoons on a large-screen television.
He paced around the suite and thought he just needed a good night’s sleep. He couldn’t keep waking up at two AM and working until midmorning. And he couldn’t exist on a diet of wheat crackers and raspberry jam from the minibar.
He could usually make a check from his publisher last for months, and still enjoy a bowl of café au lait at La Poilâne and a chunk of Roquefort cheese from Pascal Beillevaire. But he had paid for the engraved wedding bands and two nights at Auberge de Cassagne in Avignon and the white angora sweater Celine adored in Le Printemps’s window.
He ate a handful of cashews and wished he hadn’t splurged on two glasses of Hennessey. But Isabel was so distraught. And it really was his fault; a gentleman always took a woman’s arm when they crossed the street.
He gazed down at the boulevard jammed with cars and thought it would be lovely to move to the country. He pictured a gabled cottage with an attic room for his colored pens and sketch pads. He imagined playing bowls in the village square and smoking Gauloises with old men wearing straw hats and fisherman sweaters.
But he had been raised in Paris and he thrived on museums and galleries. He hated mosquitoes, and the sound of silence was worse than the symphony of taxis and buses. And where would he get inspiration for Gus if he didn’t read the headlines in Le Monde or watch the parade of people on the Rue de Seine?
He noticed a diamond teardrop earring on the marble sideboard and smiled. Only Celine would lose a two-carat diamond and not bother to call and ask if he found it. He pictured her honey-blond hair and long legs and groaned. God, she was beautiful, like a championship racehorse at Ascot.
He remembered when they met, at a gallery opening in Saint-Germain-des-Prés. Alec hated art openings with waiters passing around crystal champagne flutes and trays of canapés. It was impossible get close to the paintings, and if he stood in one place too long, someone was bound to step on his foot.
But his publisher believed the best way to make fashionable Parisian mothers buy his books was to compliment them on their taste in avant-garde art. Alec was young and good-looking, and it wouldn’t hurt for women to imagine his dark hair and green eyes when they were purchasing a selection of bedtime stories.
* * *
“YOU AREN’T LOOKING at the paintings,” a woman said, approaching him. She had violet eyes and a full red mouth. She wore a neon minidress and silver stilettos.
“It’s impossible to get near the artwork without being elbowed in the ribs or hit in the thigh by a ten-kilo Hermès bag.” Alec nibbled salmon and bell peppers.
“Then why are you here?” the woman asked. She had red fingernails and wore a diamond-and-ruby bracelet.
“I’m a children’s book illustrator and my publisher thinks I should mingle with mothers who can afford to pay ten thousand euros for a splash of orange.” Alec waved at a gold frame. “But this crowd is too young to have children. The men look like they just returned from heli-skiing in St. Moritz and the women seem like they stepped off the runway at Chanel.” He
studied her high cheekbones and slender neck. “Not that there’s anything wrong with being a model. One of my sister’s friends models for Lanvin and makes a fortune. I’m sure women see you on the runway and line up to buy a new swimsuit.”
“You think I’m a model because I have thick hair and good legs?” she demanded.
“Well, yes.” Alec suddenly felt sick. “Aren’t you a model?”
“I’m a translator at UNESCO at the United Nations and fluent in four languages.” Her eyes flashed.
“I see.” Alec drained his champagne glass. He ran his hands through his hair and said feebly, “I tried learning Chinese, but studying the characters gave me vertigo.”
* * *
IT WAS CELINE’S idea to drink Bombay sapphire gin at Le Bar in the George V. Waiters carried platters of foie gras and caviar, and Alec was afraid he’d have to max out his credit card. But when the bill arrived, Celine murmured to the bartender in French and he smiled and crumpled up the paper.
Alec offered to walk her home and they strolled along the Rue Saint-Honoré. She stopped in front of a stone mansion divided into four flats.
“I didn’t know a translator’s salary paid for a garden apartment on one of the most elegant streets in Paris.” Alec gazed at the slate roof and double front doors.
“My father is a jeweler, he owns diamond mines in South Africa and Brazil.” Celine fiddled with her key. “Would you mind coming inside? I hate turning on the lights by myself.”
Alec glanced at her lips, which were like plump cherries, and had the sudden urge to kiss her. He followed her into the hallway and flicked the light on in the living room. The floor was polished wood and there was a floral sofa and an Andy Warhol Marilyn Monroe on the wall.
“Would you like an aperitif?” She slipped off her stilettos.
“I have to go,” he mumbled. “I’m working on a deadline, I left Gus hanging off a cliff in Algeria.”
The next morning Celine called and said she needed a date to Aida at the Palais Garnier. When he picked her up, she stood in her narrow entry in a turquoise gown and gold sandals. Her blond hair fell to her shoulders and she wore a diamond pendant around her neck. He gazed at her creamy skin and high breasts and sucked in his breath.