Christmas in Paris

by Anita Hughes

  “I love Helene.” He smiled. “And you have to get married, you’re a children’s book illustrator. You can’t miss out on having a family.”

  “I’ll be like Hans Christian Andersen and gather local children in the park,” Alec said. “We’ll read fairy tales and blow bubbles and then I’ll return them to their parents.”

  “What’s this?” Mathieu picked up a white silk glove from the love seat.

  “That’s Isabel’s. She left it in my coat pocket.” Alec looked up. “A fortune-teller said she is going to fall in love and marry a French aristocrat. She met some comte at the ball and thinks he’s perfect.” He put down his coffee cup. “These days, it’s hard to tell who are impostors. His ancestors might have been given the title by Napoleon.”

  “The girl in the red satin gown and diamond earrings?” Mathieu asked.

  “She did look lovely,” Alec sighed.

  “That’s it!” Mathieu exclaimed. “You should marry her. She’s quite beautiful and she’s dying to marry a French aristocrat. Claudia can stay in the house and you’ll get Bettina off your back.”

  “That’s the craziest thing I ever heard,” he spluttered. “We only met three days ago. So far she’s locked herself on the balcony and stepped into oncoming traffic. That’s hardly a recommendation for a life partner.”

  “She has eyes like a young Audrey Hepburn and a mouth like Kate Moss,” Mathieu said. “Americans are quick learners, you could teach her how to maneuver around Paris.”

  “I wouldn’t consider it, and you know our family never uses our title.” Alec paused. “My father wanted to chuck the whole thing after his first wife ran off with a serf.”

  “Feudalism was abolished under Louis XVI.” Mathieu grinned.

  “Well, he was a farmer.” Alec shrugged. “Isabel is charming, but I don’t know anything about her. And I told you, I’d rather paddle a rowboat in the Luxembourg Gardens during a downpour than get down on my knee in front of a woman ever again.”

  “I’m trying to help.” Mathieu pointed to the sketch of Gus and the witch in the forest. “That woman looks a lot like Bettina.”

  “I’m an artist.” Alec scooped it up. “I draw from personal experience.”

  “I hope you’re not thinking of poisoning Bettina.” He scowled. “I’m terrible at criminal law and you’re no help to your mother in prison.”

  “I’m not murderous!” Alec insisted. “It’s not illegal to wish she’d come down with adult measles.”

  Mathieu gathered his umbrella and walked to the door.

  “I have to go, Helene and I are attending a Lamaze class.” He turned around. “Think about what I said. Can you imagine Bettina’s face if you appeared on the steps of Notre Dame with Isabel?”

  * * *

  ALEC STIRRED HIS coffee and thought Isabel did have a lovely laugh, and when she smiled her brown eyes sparkled. But he couldn’t afford to date. His bank account was still recovering from the cuff links he bought for the rehearsal dinner and Celine’s wedding gift.

  He remembered walking into Chopard’s and handing over a month’s salary for a heart-shaped pendant and flinched. He was never again going to open himself up to heartache and penury.

  His sketch pad lay on the coffee table and he picked it up. He drew Gus standing on a yellow brick road under a rainbow. There was a witch in a black dress and glittering red shoes. He sketched a door falling on the witch and flattening her on the pavement.

  He selected a warm brioche and ate it in one bite.

  chapter eight

  Isabel stood on the stone balcony and inhaled the damp air and scent of expensive perfume. The Christmas tree sparkled in the Place de la Concorde and the lights twinkled on the Champs-Élysées and all of Paris looked like it was going to a party.

  She leaned over the railing and wanted to blow kisses to the doormen in their gold-and-blue uniforms. In an hour, the comte was picking her up and taking her to the most famous restaurant in Paris.

  A soft mist settled on her shoulders and she stepped inside. Her hair was pinned with a gold clip and she wore red lipstick. She glanced at the pink-and-blue glass bracelet on the dressing table and put it on. Antoine would never know it wasn’t made of diamonds and sapphires, and it might bring her luck.

  Now she had to decide between her silver stilettos and satin ballet slippers. She couldn’t remember how tall Antoine was, and she didn’t want to get anything wrong. She scooped up both pairs and hurried down the hallway.

  * * *

  “I HOPE I’M not disturbing you,” Isabel said when Alec answered the door. “Isn’t it a little early for bed?”

  “I was taking a nap,” Alec explained, knotting the silk robe around his waist. The plush drapes were closed and the Tiffany lamps were turned on low. “Central heating always makes me sleepy.”

  “You should open the curtains.” She entered the suite. “The rain stopped and the Champs-Élysées looks like a Monet painting.”

  “Where are your shoes?” Alec asked, glancing down at her stockings. “Don’t tell me you locked them on the balcony.”

  “They are right here.” She smiled and held up the stilettos and ballet slippers. “I thought you could help me.”

  “Help you do what?”

  “Choose which to wear.” She perched on a brocade armchair. “Antoine invited me to dinner at Tour d’Argent, and I don’t know whether to wear the slippers or stilettos. I must have drunk too much champagne, I can’t remember how tall he is.”

  “Aren’t you about five foot four?” Alec asked. “I’m sure he’s taller than Napoleon.”

  “You’re right, I’m just so nervous.” She smoothed her skirt. “How do I look?”

  Alec glanced at her black velvet cocktail dress and glossy hair and thick mascara.

  “You look lovely.” He smiled.

  “Black is a safe color, and I don’t want to take any chances,” she explained. “What if an old girlfriend dumped him wearing a green dress or a pink miniskirt?”

  “You need a shot of this.” He walked to the bar and poured two glasses of scotch. He handed one to Isabel and sat opposite her. “So, the comte asked you out?”

  “I waited all day for him to call, I’d finally given up,” she said, sipping her drink. “An hour ago I stepped in the bath when the hotel phone rang. Antoine said his maid took his tuxedo to the dry cleaner’s with my number in the pocket. He tried to get it back, but they had tossed it in the garbage.” She paused. “He was terribly angry, he said he’d take his business elsewhere.”

  “How did he find you?”

  “It’s so romantic,” she sighed. “He called the Ritz and the George Cinq and Hôtel de Crillon.”

  “But you could have been staying anywhere.” Alec rubbed his brow. “There are hundreds of hotels in Paris.”

  “He said a beautiful girl could only stay in a five-star hotel and there weren’t many to choose from.”

  “He got lucky,” Alec mumbled.

  “Ever since I met the fortune-teller, wonderful things have happened.” Her brown eyes sparkled. “Today I went to Shakespeare and Company to buy a book on the French aristocracy, but there weren’t any.” She fiddled with her glass. “As I was leaving, an old man appeared and handed me the perfect book.”

  “You can’t think that has anything to do with the fortune-teller?”

  “I know it does, and I’m sure Antoine and I are going to fall in love.” She touched her chest. “I can feel it here.”

  “Probably heartburn, I get it from eating too many salted nuts,” he murmured. “They shouldn’t allow minibars in hotel rooms. They’re all fat and calories without any nutrition.”

  “We’re going to have a candlelit dinner at Tour d’Argent,” she began. “I’ve read about it for years, it’s one of the most renowned restaurants in Paris. I looked up the menu and it has roasted fillet of duckling and multicolored beetroots and vanilla clementine for dessert.”

  “It sounds wonderful.” Alec smiled. “
I’m happy for you.”

  “Look at the time, I have to go!” She jumped up. “He’s meeting me in the lobby.”

  “Isabel, wait,” Alec called.

  “What is it?” She turned around.

  He pointed to her stocking feet and grinned. “You forgot your shoes.”

  * * *

  ISABEL GAZED AT the gold-and-white marble floor and blue velvet wallpaper and thick marble columns. Rich tapestries lined the walls and crystal chandeliers dangled from the domed ceiling. She pictured the building when it first opened in 1758 and welcomed kings and queens and courtiers. Now she was standing in the lobby, waiting to go to dinner with a comte!

  What if they had nothing to talk about or she wasn’t attracted to him? The glass bracelet glittered on her wrist and she remembered the fortune-teller. This was the moment she had been waiting for and everything was going to be perfect.

  The double doors opened and a man entered the lobby. He had dark blond hair and brown eyes and narrow cheekbones. He wore a navy suit and clutched a bouquet of flowers.

  “Isabel?” He approached her.

  “Yes?” Her heart hammered in her chest.

  “I’m glad I picked the red roses.” He handed her the bouquet. “Nothing else could match your beauty.”

  * * *

  THEY SAT AT a window table at Tour d’Argent and ate lobster bisque and goose foie gras with brioche. Isabel gazed at the moon glinting on the Seine and tall spires of Notre Dame Cathedral and shivered. It really was beautiful, like an impossibly elegant coffee table book.

  “I’ve wanted to eat here since high school,” she said, cradling her wineglass. “It’s the oldest continuous Parisian restaurant and was listed in Baedeker’s guide to Paris in 1860.

  “They have a wine cellar of four hundred fifty thousand bottles, and after you finish your meal, they give you a postcard with a picture and the serial number of your duck,” she finished. “I can’t wait to send the card to my parents.”

  “You know a lot about French restaurants.” Antoine smiled.

  “I’ve always loved everything about Paris: the food and fashion and art—” She stopped and blushed. She sounded like a schoolgirl instead of a sophisticated Parisian.

  “It’s the greatest city in the world.” Antoine nodded. “The museums are breathtaking and the public parks are spectacular. Where else can you leave your office at midday and pop into the Louvre to see the Mona Lisa?”

  Isabel glanced up from her soup and noticed his blond hair flopped over his forehead and the dimple on his chin.

  “I agree completely,” she said, her eyes sparkling. “Everything is perfect when you’re looking at the Mona Lisa.”

  * * *

  “HOW DID YOUR family receive their title?” Isabel asked, eating potatoes with caviar seeds.

  They ate pressed duck cooked in its own blood and multicolored carrots. There were platters of rice pilaf and small ravioli. Isabel sipped a Louis Jadot Pinot Noir and felt happy. Antoine was handsome and charming, and when he brushed her sleeve, a tingle ran down her spine.

  “My ancestor fought for Henry IV in the Wars of Religion,” Antoine explained. “When he returned from battle, Henry rewarded him by making him a comte.”

  “So it was a noblesse militaire,” she said.

  “Do you know much about French nobility?” he asked.

  “Just a little.” She fiddled with her napkin. “It’s wonderful that men with families devoted their lives to the king. France might not be here today if they weren’t willing to go into battle.” She paused. “Can you imagine going off to work and not seeing your family for years?”

  “I hadn’t thought about it like that,” Antoine laughed.

  “But it really was a good system. When they returned, they received land and animals and were invited to court.” She paused. “These days you work for a company for thirty years and only receive a gold watch.”

  “You are very refreshing,” he said, finishing his wine.

  “I am?” Isabel asked, the color rising to her cheeks.

  “In France, the old families are so bored, they fall asleep in their soufflé,” he mused. “And other people pretend they don’t care there’s a ‘de’ in your name, but they treat you differently.”

  “It’s the same in America with the Kennedys and Kardashians. People say terrible things about them, but often they’re jealous.”

  “I don’t want to be a Kennedy,” he said.

  “Why not?” she asked.

  He touched her hand and his eyes were serious.

  “Because then I wouldn’t have had the good fortune of attending the Red Cross ball and meeting you.”

  “I’m glad I went to the Red Cross charity ball too.” Isabel felt the warmth of his palm and a tingle ran down her spine. “I can’t think of anywhere I’d rather be than sitting here with you.”

  * * *

  “TELL ME ABOUT you,” Antoine said, sipping a glass of cognac.

  After the waiter cleared the duck, he brought gold plates of crepes with powdered sugar and an orange sauce. The crepes “Belle Époque” were a Tour d’Argent specialty, made with Cointreau and flaming Grand Marnier.

  “I grew up on the Main Line in Philadelphia,” Isabel began. “It’s very different from Paris. When you stand on my parents’ porch, you see trees and fields.”

  “I know the Main Line well,” Antoine replied. “My roommate at Le Rosey was from a town called Haverford.”

  “That’s next to Ardmore!” Isabel exclaimed. “They have a wonderful library and in winter there is ice-skating on the pond.”

  “My roommate told me the oldest families in America live on the Main Line,” he continued. “Their ancestors built railroads and banks and factories.”

  “My school was filled with McDowells and Sinnotts,” she mused. “But I never thought about it. They were just labels on lunch boxes.”

  “I knew when I saw you in the red satin gown and long white gloves that we had a lot in common.” He covered her hand with his.

  “I supposed you’re right,” she said and smiled. “We do.”

  “There’s one thing Paris doesn’t have.” He leaned forward. “It doesn’t have any women as breathtaking as you.”

  * * *

  AFTER DINNER THEY strolled along the Pont Neuf and gazed at the Île de la Cité. Isabel saw the barges gliding down the Seine and twinkling lights of the Eiffel Tower and felt light and happy.

  “Pont Neuf means ‘new bridge,’ but it is actually the oldest standing bridge in Paris,” Antoine explained, leaning against the stone railing. “Henry IV ordered its completion to celebrate the victory of the Wars of Religion. It was the first bridge with a pavement, and citizens used it as a gathering place.”

  “It’s beautiful,” she murmured.

  “Now I am boring you.” Antoine shrugged. “I’m being a typical Parisian boasting about his city.”

  “Of course not, I want to hear more.”

  “You must be cold.” He glanced at her black velvet dress and bare shoulders. “Would you like to wear my jacket?”

  She nodded and her eyes were bright. “Yes, thank you. That would be lovely.”

  “I had a wonderful time.” He draped it over her shoulders. “It’s not often you meet someone you feel close to so quickly. But there’s something about you that I can’t stop thinking about.”

  Isabel pulled the jacket around her and tried to stop her heart from racing. “I know exactly what you mean.”

  * * *

  ISABEL ATE A macaron and gazed at the giant Christmas tree in the Place de la Concorde. It was after midnight, but she was so excited, she couldn’t fall asleep.

  The whole night had been wonderful: the bouquet of roses and the pressed duck at Tour d’Argent and the stroll along the Pont Neuf. Stopping at the bar at the Crillon for a late-night drink.

  There was the moment when Antoine waited with her at the elevator and she was afraid she might not see him again. But then he aske
d if he could call her tomorrow and kissed her.

  She took her hair out of its clip and had an uneasy feeling. Was it wrong that they hadn’t talked about their careers? Then she glanced out the window at the stone obelisk and Petit Palais and thought she was being silly. Of course they talked about Paris! There would be plenty of time to discuss their goals and dreams.

  She noticed her leather-bound journal on the coffee table and picked it up. She had been so certain she and Neil were in love—what if she was wrong this time too?

  She sat on the ivory love seat and began to read:

  Dear diary,

  Can you believe it’s only nine months until the wedding? Today the apple blossoms were in bloom and the slush disappeared and it felt like the first blush of spring. I pictured everything we have to look forward to: attending engagement parties and registering for gifts and sending out invitations, and wanted to skip through Rittenhouse Square! Love is the greatest drug, Neil and I are so happy.

  We did have a little hiccup yesterday, but we straightened it out. We decided to go to Tiffany’s to pick out our wedding rings. I know we have plenty of time, but everything else seemed so daunting: deciding whether to serve cream of asparagus soup or lobster salad as an appetizer, debating whether to take formal photos before the ceremony or during the cocktail hour. I thought it would be fun to go to Tiffany’s and admire the gold and platinum wedding bands.

  And it was fun! We met after work and the salesman served us French champagne and petits fours. He admired my diamond engagement ring and I couldn’t help but smile. Neil chose the most beautiful ring! When you hold it up to the light, it leaves you breathless.

  I picked out a platinum band with a row of tiny diamonds. I tried it on and Neil and I both thought it was gorgeous. Then the salesman brought out a tray of men’s rings. To be honest, I didn’t know there was such a selection. There were plain gold bands and platinum rings set with diamonds. There was even a band made of rubies! Finally the salesman suggested a thin platinum band and Neil tried it on.

  “It’s a little tight,” he said, wiggling it on his finger.

  “All the fiancés say that at first,” the salesman laughed. “It’s supposed to be tight, you don’t want it to slip off.”