Christmas in Paris

by Anita Hughes

  “Paris is filled with wide boulevards and elegant palaces,” she said. “Philadelphia is all docks and railway stations.”

  “In the summer, the Champs-Élysées is so congested, the taxi drivers have shouting matches,” Antoine mused. “If you try to leave the city on Friday evening, you can be stuck in traffic for hours. But if you stay you spend the weekend avoiding crowds at the Louvre.”

  “It sounds like people love Paris too much,” Isabel laughed. “Everyone wants to be here.”

  Antoine’s eyes were serious and he murmured, “There is always room for a lovely young American.”

  Isabel stumbled and tripped over an Oriental rug. Antoine steadied her and his arm brushed her chest.

  “It’s warm in here.” She flushed. “Why don’t we walk in the garden?”

  * * *

  “IT REMINDS ME of the dining room in a French farmhouse,” Isabel said, glancing around the restaurant. Square tables were set with starched white tablecloths and Baccarat china. Paintings of purple eggplant and orange squash lined the walls, and the floor was covered with a geometric carpet.

  “All the vegetables come from the restaurant’s garden,” she continued. “There is a twelve-course tasting menu paired with French wines. If we are lucky, the chef will visit our table.”

  “You did your homework,” Antoine laughed, nibbling vol-au-vent in a white onion sauce.

  “Neil and I were supposed to visit Paris on our honeymoon and I researched things to do,” she began. “I didn’t want to miss any of the tourist attractions. People say they want to see the ‘real Paris,’ but there’s a reason the Louvre and Eiffel Tower are so famous.

  “But I wanted to dine somewhere special. So on our twentieth anniversary I could say, ‘Remember that exquisite meal we had at L’Arpège? The baby turnips were delicious and the chocolate nougat was the best I ever tasted.’” She paused. “We’d realize we hadn’t done anything like that in years, and fly to Paris for the weekend.”

  “You were supposed to be in Paris on your honeymoon?” Antoine asked.

  “Neil thought the buttercream filling on the wedding cake was too dry, so we canceled the wedding.” She hesitated. “Of course, there were other reasons. We couldn’t agree about anything. I’m glad we called it off before the ceremony. It would have been awkward to announce things weren’t going to work out while the guests were blowing bubbles at the bride and groom.” She stopped and her eyes glistened. “I wanted to stay in bed for a week. But I’m happy I came to Paris, I’m having a lovely time.”

  “Neil made a mistake.” Antoine looked at Isabel.

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “He should have eaten the cake.”

  * * *

  THEY ATE GREEN garlic soup and vegetable ravioli. There were plates of Brussels sprouts and beetroot tartare in horseradish cream. Isabel drank a smooth Bandol and felt light and happy.

  Antoine knocked the saltshaker with his sleeve and salt spilled on the tablecloth. He picked up a pinch of salt and threw it over his shoulder.

  “What are you doing?” she wondered.

  “It’s an old superstition,” he explained. “It’s bad luck if you spill salt on the table unless you toss some of the salt over your shoulder.”

  “You don’t actually believe that?” she asked.

  “The French are very superstitious.” He nodded. “If a pregnant woman sees an owl, she is certain to have a girl. And if you want good fortune when you move into a new house, you must bring the table in first.”

  “Most Americans are too pragmatic to believe in superstitions,” she said. “They’ll step around a ladder or avoid a black cat, but only because they saw it in a movie. I think they’re wrong; the world is so mysterious. Everywhere I go in Paris, I meet someone new or something wonderful happens.”

  “Every year I go to Aix-en-Provence for the Christmas holidays. But this year, the hotel mixed up my reservation.” Antoine ran his fingers over his wineglass. “If they hadn’t made a mistake, I would be sitting in a château, staring at a damp vineyard, instead of being here with you.”

  Isabel remembered thinking the reason they had canceled the honeymoon and she had come to Paris by herself was so she would meet the fortune-teller. She looked at Antoine and her heart beat a little faster.

  “I’m glad they mixed up the reservation too.”

  * * *

  THEY STROLLED ALONG the Rue de la Varenne and Antoine took her hand. The street was lined with creamy stone mansions and iron latticework, and she felt like she was in a foreign movie.

  Suddenly she looked up and a snowflake settled on her cheek.

  “It’s snowing.” She turned to Antoine. “My first snowfall in Paris.”

  He pulled her close and kissed her softly on the lips. She kissed him back and tasted cream and cognac.

  “There is a superstition that if you kiss a beautiful woman when you see the first snowflake, wonderful things will happen,” he said when he released her.

  “I’ve never heard that before,” she replied.

  Antoine touched her cheek and smiled. “I just made it up.”

  * * *

  ISABEL STOOD ON the balcony and wrapped her arms around her chest. She had told Antoine she had to stop in the hotel gift shop, and said good-bye in the lobby. They were both flushed from the wine and cognac, and she didn’t want to risk inviting him to her suite.

  It really had been a wonderful evening; they shared an interest in history and art and French movies. She loved the way he was so comfortable in his own skin, as if he wore a white dinner jacket and dined at candlelit restaurants every night.

  And she could tell he felt something toward her. When he kissed her, he didn’t let her go. She remembered the soft snow falling on their hair and shivered. Was it possible that they were developing feelings for each other?

  She couldn’t wait to tell Alec about the Garden of Orpheus at the Musée Rodin and the fig ice cream at L’Arpège. He would be so pleased things were going well.

  She stepped into the hallway and knocked on Alec’s door. His light was on but there was no answer. She would have to wait and tell him tomorrow.

  She walked back to her suite and unzipped her dress. She pulled on a silk robe and climbed onto the four-poster bed.

  “I’m in Paris, and I’m falling love,” she said aloud. “I’m the luckiest girl in the world.”

  chapter eleven

  Alec sat at the Regency desk and rubbed his neck. He had fallen asleep hunched over his notepad and had woken up in terrible pain. He flipped through the Crillon’s list of services but couldn’t justify spending two hundred euros on a masseuse who would probably make it worse. Celine had given him a massage for his birthday, and afterward he was in such agony, he crawled into bed with a hot water bottle and a packet of aspirin.

  His sketchbook was open, and he studied a drawing of Gus and a pert cocker spaniel standing on the Pont Alexandre III. Gus wore a black beret and clutched a bouquet of red roses.

  He closed the sketchbook and groaned. The last time he drew Gus romancing a dog, he was falling in love with Celine.

  He remembered visiting Victor Hugo’s house in the Place des Vosges with Isabel and eating goat cheese tartines at La Poilâne. It started to rain as they walked back to the Crillon and she took his arm.

  His forehead was damp and he felt slightly feverish. Maybe the cream in his café au lait was sour. He couldn’t have feelings for Isabel; that would be worse than getting walking pneumonia.

  How could he think about Isabel while he was getting over Celine? Whenever he discovered something Celine left behind—a pair of stockings in the closet, a hairpin in the bathroom—he wanted to stab himself with his toothbrush. And he was still paying off the Missoni sweater he bought her for Christmas. The salesgirl at Le Bon Marché insisted it was the must-have piece of the season, and he begrudgingly handed her his charge card.

  He pictured Isabel’s dark eyes and white smile and though
t she was the most peculiar woman he’d ever met. She was smart and beautiful, but she trusted a Parisian gypsy with her whole future.

  But it didn’t matter how he felt about Isabel; she was falling in love with Antoine. He remembered seeing her light on at midnight and wondered if Antoine had spent the night.

  He buttoned his shirt and thought he didn’t have time to think about himself. In nine days Bettina would evict Claudia and he had to figure out a way to stop her. Bettina’s gift rested on the coffee table and he knew he had to go see her.

  He splashed his face with water and grabbed his coat. First he would go to Chartier in Montmartre and have a bowl of vichyssoise and roasted chicken. He pictured the baba au rhum with Chantilly and almost felt better.

  * * *

  HE STEPPED OUT of the elevator and saw a woman wearing a black wool dress and beige pumps. Her smooth pageboy curled around her shoulders and she carried a Chanel bag.

  “Bettina!” he exclaimed, his cheeks turning pale “What are you doing at the Crillon?”

  The elevator doors closed, and he wished he could force them open. Why was Bettina here and what did she want? It couldn’t be anything good; she was like the grim reaper with a designer purse and stockings.

  “I called your phone, but it was off,” Bettina said. “I thought I would come and see you.”

  “I was going to get some lunch,” he explained, wiping the sweat from his forehead.

  He couldn’t face Bettina without first having a glass of Pinot Noir or a tall scotch.

  “I’ll join you.” She walked beside him. “There’s something I want to talk about.”

  “I’m going to Chartier in Montmartre,” he replied. “I know you hate sharing your table with other diners, and the waitstaff has been known to recycle the breadbasket.”

  Bettina hesitated and her eyes flickered. “We’ll have lunch here. I haven’t eaten in the dining room since the Hôtel de Crillon reopened.”

  “At the Crillon?” Alec asked. “I couldn’t afford a buttered radish.”

  “It will be my treat,” Bettina said and smiled. “I never gave you a Christmas present.”

  * * *

  THEY SAT AT a round table in the main dining room, and Alec gazed at the crystal wineglasses and pewter breadbaskets. The domed ceiling was made of blue mosaic tile, and red velvet drapes were tied with silver sashes. A grand piano stood in the corner and there was a signed Degas above the marble fireplace.

  He tore open a baguette and wondered why anyone needed a gold-plated butter knife and how could they charge forty euros for a poached egg with hollandaise sauce. Maybe he should move to the countryside and keep a cow and a few chickens. Restaurant prices in Paris were outrageous.

  “You said you were hungry,” Bettina said when Alec ordered a bowl of pumpkin soup and frisée salad.

  “I can never eat when the thermostat is too high. Hotel dining rooms are too stuffy.” He wiped his brow. “It gives me indigestion.”

  “You should be grateful that you are staying in a suite at the Crillon.” Bettina raised her eyebrow. “After all, you’re not paying for it.”

  “The hazelnut truffles and lavender bubble bath have been delightful.” He nodded. “But I’m ready to go home.”

  “What does Isabel think?” she asked. “Is she prepared to live in a fifth-floor walk-up in the Marais, or does she have her sights set on 40 Rue de Passy?”

  “Isabel?” he spluttered. “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “The young American I met at the Red Cross charity ball,” she continued. “Celine was the love of your life, but you moved on so quickly. When we were children, you took hours to pick out a library book, and I couldn’t stand going with you to the patisserie because you couldn’t decide between a chocolate éclair and vanilla custard.” She pursed her lips. “Are you planning on marrying Isabel on New Year’s Eve and moving into 40 Rue de Passy?”

  “I rescued Isabel from the balcony when she locked herself out,” he snorted. “All that talk about romantic dinners and walks along the Seine was just an American admiring Paris. And I would never move into 40 Rue de Passy; it belongs to my mother.”

  Alec gasped and wished he could take back his words. He should never have said Claudia deserved to stay in his father’s house; it would only infuriate Bettina. He wiped his forehead and thought he really had to ask the maître d’ to turn down the thermostat.

  “I know you asked Celine to marry you so Claudia wouldn’t have to leave.” Bettina sipped her wine. “Though I still don’t understand why she agreed. Her father could buy her any mansion in Paris. And an intelligent, beautiful woman should marry someone important. It looks bad if all French politicians date actresses and models.”

  “I proposed to Celine because I was madly in love with her, and she said yes because she felt the same,” he retorted. “Édouard is like a tortoise. Most of us aren’t willing to be in a relationship that moves slower than rush hour traffic on the Boulevard Saint-Germain.”

  “Édouard and I want to get it right, rather than calling off the ceremony two days before the wedding,” Bettina replied, skewering a lamb cutlet.

  “I’ve given up on women and marriage.” He tore apart a baguette. “I’m going to be a doting godfather who spoils his godchildren with gold coins on Christmas morning. When I’m old, I’ll get a dog and people will comment we have the same facial expressions.”

  Alec had considered getting a dog, but it seemed disloyal to Gus. But maybe when he had arthritis and couldn’t draw anymore, he would get a Saint Bernard that slept on a rug in front of the fireplace.

  “I don’t believe you,” Bettina insisted. “I saw the way you and Isabel looked at each other at the ball.”

  “Then you need glasses,” Alec snapped. He drizzled a sherry vinaigrette on endive leaves and sighed. “Isabel is seeing a French comte.”

  “A comte?” She raised her eyebrow. “I thought she was here on vacation.”

  “She said they’re falling in love.” He fiddled with his collar. “Last night they went to the Musée Rodin and L’Arpège.”

  “Maybe I was wrong.” She ate pureed squash. “I’m sure they are a lovely pair.”

  “You’ve never even met him—how do you know he’s right for Isabel?” he demanded. “Just because he’s a comte doesn’t mean he wears Armani suits and Gucci loafers like Louis Jourdan in Gigi.”

  “You need to look after yourself, you’re over thirty.” Bettina studied his frayed sweater and corduroy slacks. “You’ll never find someone to marry if you get a soft belly and lose your hair.”

  “My stomach is like a board!” he fumed. “And I didn’t come to lunch to get dating tips. If you’ll excuse me, I have to go.”

  “You can’t leave yet.” She patted her mouth with a napkin. “I asked the chef to make chocolate bûche de Noël, it is Christmas.”

  Alec grudgingly stayed and shared their childhood dessert. He waited for Bettina to return from the powder room and stabbed a sugar cube with his dessertspoon. Having lunch with his sister was like attending a dinner party with Attila the Hun. He pictured Gus wearing a fur coat and earmuffs and eating venison with a Norwegian holding a spear.

  Now wasn’t the time to ask Bettina to let his mother stay in the house. She was like the croupier at the casino in Monte Carlo. She couldn’t wait to sweep his chips off the roulette wheel and leave him penniless.

  Bettina returned from the powder room, and he ate a large bite of chocolate and nougat. If he kept his mouth full, he couldn’t say anything wrong.

  “Next week 40 Rue de Passy will be ours,” she said, pulling out her chair. “We’ll update the kitchen of course, it’s a fire hazard. And I plan on breaking the wall between the conservatory and library. Wouldn’t it be lovely to have one large room with views of the garden?”

  “The house is perfect the way it is,” he grumbled. “I don’t want anything to do with renovations.”

  “You don’t have to.” Bettina smiled and p
oured cream into her demitasse. “I’ll just send you half the bill.”

  * * *

  THEY STOOD AT the hotel entrance while the valet called a taxi. Alec glanced at bellboys in gold uniforms and guests wearing cashmere jackets and thought everyone looked so happy.

  It was Christmas at the Crillon; he should be enjoying the free hot cocoa and gingerbread. Instead he felt like he had been to the principal’s office and narrowly missed getting detention.

  “Thank you for lunch,” he said and reached into his jacket pocket. “I bought you a Christmas present.”

  “It’s the least I could do now that you don’t have someone to cook for you.” Bettina put the package in her purse and stepped off the curb. “You didn’t have to get me anything. Celine gave me the best gift I could imagine.”

  “If I hear from her, I’ll let her know,” he muttered.

  “I am your big sister and I do care about you.” She turned around. “Next time you fall in love, try harder to hold on to her.”

  * * *

  ALEC SAT ON a leather stool in the Crillon bar and fiddled with his scotch glass. He shouldn’t drink hard liquor when he felt feverish, but this was an exception. Bettina was like the female villain in a James Bond movie. She looked innocent until she opened her mouth and started spewing threats in Russian.

  He ate a handful of cashew nuts and suddenly choked. What if Bettina didn’t believe him and asked Isabel? He pictured her slinking through the lobby like Mata Hari.

  There might not be anything going on between him and Isabel, but he still didn’t want her to know about his family. And what if he was falling in love with her? Bettina would ruin his chances.

  He threw a ten-euro note on the table and hurried to the elevator. The only way to stop Bettina was to get to Isabel first. He pressed the button and hoped he wasn’t too late.

  * * *

  “ALEC!” ISABEL SAID when he knocked on the door. She wore a ribbed sweater and tan slacks. She held a leather-bound book and had a yellow highlighter stuck behind her ear.

  “Come in. I’m studying the plot of Rigoletto.” She paused. “Antoine asked me to the opera at the Palais Garnier, so I’m learning the story line. It can be so embarrassing to cry when the female lead is actually happy her husband drank a vial of poison.” Her brown eyes sparkled. “We are going to Café de la Paix after the performance to have oysters and French champagne.”