If the Shoe Fits

by Megan Mulry

  And when he arrived—fine clothes, perfectly tailored, a small, exquisite bouquet of spring flowers for Letitia—he had the doyenne’s full attention. Eliot certainly knew how to play it.

  Letitia’s husband Jacques also joined them, and the quartet went to Le Grand Véfour.

  The conversation, the food, the splendid wine, the centuries-old perfection of the sparkling jewel of a restaurant itself, the fading mirrored panels reflecting candlelight: everything bubbled and sang like the champagne they had with their first course.

  Sarah watched as Eliot charmed her grandmother (not very difficult, since Letitia responded quite readily to his mix of genuine flattery of her person and a potent love of French food and wine, though not necessarily French people). When Eliot turned his attention to Jacques, she thought her step-grandfather might not be so easily drawn in.

  She need not have worried on Eliot’s behalf.

  Of course, Eliot knew just the things to lure Jacques out of the crusty ill humor that he wore like an uncomfortable jacket whenever he was in Paris. On the Côte d’Azur or in Fiesole or the Caribbean, or really anywhere except Paris, Jacques Fournier was a cheerful, if preoccupied, artist. He sketched or painted each day, wherever they happened to be. But in Paris, he was explaining to Eliot, the weight of the blind, marching masses always depressed him.

  Eliot spoke in perfect French and Sarah could tell Jacques appreciated it. “I know what you mean. The city has become all business,” Eliot said. “When I am here, I am always thinking business. But then”—he turned to catch Sarah’s eye and gave her a brief, sweet smile, then resumed talking to the older man—“I try to remember everything that is magnifique about the city. I call a beautiful friend, we have a beautiful meal with interesting people all around us. I can leave all that business aside.”

  Jacques nodded and took another sip of the spectacular Chateau Léoville-Las-Cases 1986 Bordeaux that Eliot had selected from the wine list.

  “It is hard to disagree with someone who would choose such a wine,” the Frenchman mused as he lifted his glass in a small toast.

  Sarah had to hand it to Eliot. He had perfected the art of seduction. Not even romantic seduction. His entire life, professional and personal, was spent luring people to pleasure: taste this quintessential St. Julien; wear this perfectly cut suit; carry this hand-rubbed leather luggage. Everything he did was an invitation to…

  “Don’t you think, Sarah?” Her grandmother might as well have stomped on her foot under the immaculate white tablecloth for all the subtlety.

  “I’m sorry. It’s been a long week. I seem to be fading a bit. What were you three talking about?”

  “Oh, never mind, darling,” Letitia said as she patted her granddaughter’s smooth hand. “Why don’t we leave the men to deal with the crude matter of the bill while you and I stroll around the Palais Royal for a few moments?” Letitia leaned down and kissed Jacques on the cheek, a gesture he always enjoyed.

  Sarah smiled at Eliot, who gave her a quick wink. “I certainly didn’t invite Eliot to dinner and expect him to pay, Letitia.”

  “Of course he shall pay, dear. He’s obviously a gentleman.”

  Sarah gave Eliot an apologetic look, then shrugged her shoulders and accompanied her Napoleonic grandmother out into the cool, spring night air.

  While they were enjoying a few minutes in the splendid royal enclosure, Sarah heard her phone buzz with a text message.

  “Do you mind if I see to that? It’s the end of the workday in Chicago and I’d like to check in.”

  “Of course I mind! Here we are under a clear, dazzling night sky, the sound of the gravel crunching under our feet—it is Paris, you fool! But go ahead. I know there are important things happening in the world of young cobblers.”

  Sarah bent to kiss her grandmother’s cool, papery cheek, the faintest hint of Guerlain’s Shalimar wafting off her skin. “I love you.”

  “Oh, go check your Web notes or whatever you call it.”

  Any show of affection always made Letitia a bit awkward, and Sarah loved her even more for it.

  Sarah tapped her phone and saw the text was from Bronte. Probably more last-minute info about the christening next Sunday. Earlier in the week, Bronte had pleaded with Sarah to make a weekend of it, rather than getting a car or taking the train out to Dunlear for the day on that Sunday. Sarah had finally relented, but only after making Bronte promise to put her in a room as far away from Devon as possible.

  “Is it really as bad as all that, Sar?”

  “Bron, I do not want to make a big deal about it, but I doubt Devon has any interest in spending time with me either. Let’s just make it all about your little wolf cub and put the rest aside, okay?”

  “Okay, okay. But you and Devon just seemed so—” Her sentence was cut short by her husband’s obvious intervention on the other end of the phone. “Well, geez, all right. I’ll drop it. When did everybody get so touchy around here? Max told me I need to leave it alone, and since I am such an obedient wife, I shall cease in my matchmaking efforts. I’m so grateful you will come for the whole weekend, in any case. Why don’t you meet us in Fulham on Friday afternoon and we can all drive out together?” They had ironed out the rest of the plans and Sarah hadn’t given it much thought (the logistics at least) since.

  This text, on the other hand, which she was reading under the starry Parisian sky, was… well… upsetting.

  had 2 let u no dev bringing date nxt w/e. if u want 2 do same I totally understand. still his home so couldnt v well forbid it. what an ass. he must no that bringing bimbo 2 dunlear on Wolfs big w/e ill advised. sorry again but wanted you 2 no just in case. xx b

  “Great,” Sarah said under her breath.

  “What is it, dear?” The two women had circled back to the entrance of the restaurant, where the men were just inside the beveled glass doors talking contentedly with the sommelier and the maître d’.

  “Oh, nothing, I suppose. Seems the faux-earl has met another girl. And I will have the pleasure of making her acquaintance this weekend.”

  “What’s that about this weekend, Sarah?” It was Eliot now, looking sated after a splendid meal in splendid company. He snaked his arm through hers and they started walking out toward the Rue de Richelieu to get a taxi back to the Île Saint-Louis, Jacques and Letitia walking slowly a few paces behind them.

  “Nothing. I am going to be a godmother and the christening is next weekend in England… in Hertfordshire, actually.”

  They walked in a companionable silence.

  Sarah tried to strategize. Maybe she should come clean and just tell Bronte that she didn’t think she could bear an entire weekend watching Devon with another woman, that she simply had to come out Sunday morning. Bronte of all people would understand the devastating effect of a Heyworth male on a sex-starved female. Or maybe she just needed to bring her own buffer and fight fire with fire, as it were.

  She realized the perfect solution was wrapping his arm casually around her shoulder as they walked through the eighteenth-century arcade and out to the wide avenue. She had never asked Eliot to do anything. He had always invited her places or met up with her in Milan or initiated their meetings in Paris. She wondered idly if, in the past six months, she had ever even called him, except to return one of his calls. Would it open a whole other can of worms if he thought she was finally coming around to acknowledging a deeper attraction?

  “Where are you?” he whispered. The heat of his breath was unnerving so close to her hair.

  “Oh. Sorry.” She gave him a small smile and pulled a few inches away from him. “I’m just trying to sort out my plans for next weekend. Sorry to be so distracted.” She smiled again, but it felt like an effort at concealment.

  “Anything I can do? It’s a shame to see you… confounded.” He traced his finger along her forehead to erase the lines of concentration that must have formed there. It was a gentle, sweeping touch, and then it was gone.

  He was good. He knew she was
resisting him, and not in a coy or taunting way. He had been a very patient man for six months, without ever exerting the slightest pressure or even implying that she was taking way too long to acknowledge his subtle, yet palpable, attraction. Even though they had not met before that night in Chicago, he often introduced her as an “old friend of the family,” thus obviating the need to define their friendship any more than that.

  Not that he felt the need to elaborate his intentions, professionally or personally, to anyone at all. His parents had been in Paris a few months before, and when the four of them had gone out to dinner, it had almost been filial. She liked being part of, even peripherally, a traditional nuclear family.

  “Well. There might be something you can do. You have become such a good friend… I don’t even know where or how it actually happened, but—what?!”

  Eliot had stopped short on the sidewalk, turned to face her, and held his fist over his heart as if he had stabbed himself. “Such is my fate? Good friend? Kill me now. My mother warned me… never become the good friend.” But he was smiling, and Sarah was so grateful, she turned and hugged him with a fierce devotion.

  He was her friend.

  “Believe me, it would have been far more convenient for me to fall in love with you,” Sarah continued in a rush, holding his upper arm tightly in her grasp, so relieved to be unburdening herself, as they resumed walking down the romantic street, the moist cobblestones glistening under the street lamps. “That night I met you in Chicago, actually, was when it all started… or ended… or I don’t know. It’s probably easier if I just tell you the whole thing so you can see me for the flighty widgeon I am.”

  They took Letitia and Jacques back to their flat, then Eliot suggested they get a drink and hatch their Machiavellian plans. The two of them went to a quiet bar in Le Marais and talked and drank until four in the morning. Sarah told Eliot about her short-lived, but seemingly unforgettable, time with Devon.

  “I keep telling myself that it must just be because he was the first…” she said, then backpedaled quickly at his raised eyebrows, “you know, that I really felt strongly about.”

  But Eliot could tell she probably meant he was the first. Period. Lucky jerk.

  “About that,” Eliot tried, picking up his glass of scotch and holding it midway between the shiny black cocktail table and his lips, “does this guy know he was the first… that you felt, you know… that you loved?”

  “No!” She practically sprayed the water out of her mouth. When they’d first arrived at the bar and Eliot ordered his drink, Sarah had thought a glass of scotch sounded good theoretically—now that she was baring her soul to her solid friend Eliot and all—but after one burning sip, she had coughed with embarrassing intensity and humbly switched to ice water. “Are you crazy? I had only known the guy for a week! You think I… I don’t even know what love is! See?! I sound like a bad song from the 1970s. It’s just all wrong.”

  He looked at her and wondered what kind of fool would let her slip away. “All right, moving on from declarations of undying affection, then, how have things progressed since Chicago? Where does he live? When do you see him? How does he treat you?”

  “See? I told you it would solidify my reputation as a total flake if I told you this sordid history. I haven’t seen him or talked to him since that night in Chicago. He lives in London. He’s going to be at the christening next weekend. He’s the godfather. I’m the godmother.” She shook her head with a self-deprecating toss. “It’s totally not a big deal.”

  Eliot smiled at Sarah, but his eyes wandered for a split second to take in a sophisticated woman with black, straight hair who had eyed him on her way into the bar.

  “Aaah. I have freed you to check out other women in my presence. This is going to be fun! By the way, I hope you know I would never allow any of this silly relationship nonsense to affect my work. I love talking to you about work and my goals for the business and—”

  “Sarah. You are a gem. I would never judge you. Especially not for being honest with me. And yes, you caught me. That woman is quite something. But, even if we are just good friends, I won’t be drooling over other women when I’m with you. You’re the whole package, Sar. And if your feelings for this British seducer are still unresolved then, well, I will assist. I’m happy to run interference…or reconnaissance?” He winked and Sarah smiled.

  “At this point I don’t know if rekindling our feelings would be the best or the worst outcome.”

  “Either way, I’ll be there.” Eliot always made everything seem so manageable. “I’ll schedule meetings in London for Thursday and Friday so we can head out of the city Friday night with your friend Bronte. Sound good?”

  Sarah smiled her gratitude. “Yes. Thank you, Eliot.”

  “How deep do you want to play it? Are we dating? Are we sharing a bed? Is there a hotel nearby where we’ll be staying?”

  Sarah hadn’t considered that. “Well, no. We’ll stay at their place. There’s plenty of room.”

  “Sarah, I’m a grown man. And a particular one at that. I don’t really want to sleep on a pull-out at your friend’s house. I’ll pretend to be your lover—hell, I’ll happily be your lover with no pretense whatsoever—but I will not sleep in an uncomfortable bed. With all of these people descending upon them for the weekend, they probably don’t have a room to spare anyway.”

  Sarah smiled and took another sip of her water, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

  “Why are you looking at me like that? Do they have a big house?”

  Sarah nodded and continued smiling.

  “Like, how big?”

  “Big.”

  “Like how many bedrooms?”

  “Like, sixty-four, give or take.” She let her hair swing behind her back and looked at him. “What do you think?”

  “Well. I suppose I won’t be imposing anyway. Is he a jealous guy? I don’t want to have a leather glove tossed in my face and be forced to walk twenty paces at dawn. My fencing is also a bit rusty.”

  “He is rather jealous, come to think of it. He saw you getting out of the limo that night in Chicago.”

  “He was at your apartment that night?!”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “You are a cruel beast, Sarah. I might even buy the poor man a drink.”

  “I don’t understand men at all. He is the one bringing a date to his nephew’s christening, for goodness’ sake. I was just getting out of a car.”

  “Now, in the midst of all this refreshing honesty, let’s not slip into deceit. You know very well that I would have come up to your bed that very night if you’d asked me. I know all that is behind us, but I’m still a man, and you are still a beautiful woman. And even from several stories above, I’m sure that fool of a man was, well, aware of my intentions. What did he do?”

  “He was annoyed,” she replied without elaboration.

  “How annoyed?”

  “Very.”

  “Sarah?”

  “He was… well, he was in a sort of fury. And then, well, and then we talked things over and we both agreed that it was all for the best if we didn’t see each other anymore. Or rather, I suggested that part, and I guess he sort of reluctantly agreed…”

  “Am I going to have a leather glove thrown in my face or not?”

  “Very funny. Like I said, the fact that he’s bringing another woman to the baptism this weekend proves that he’s way over me.”

  “Kind of like your inviting me proves that you are over him? Don’t answer that. I’ll bring my dueling pistols.”

  Chapter 12

  It had been almost seven months to the day (the night, really) that Devon had last seen Sarah. That is not technically accurate, he chided himself, since he had seen her every minute since then, just not in reality. He checked her website, he dreamed about her, he tried to act disinterested when he asked Max about her. He knew she had been in London and had to force himself to stay away. Her website had occasional updates about the new store scheduled for
a September opening, and it was all he could do not to sneak into the building to make sure the construction work was being done properly. When he’d read an article about the owners of the old building on Bruton Place resisting her offer, he didn’t think it went beyond the pale to make a few phone calls to convince them she would be an admirable buyer. He was just trying to be helpful. He didn’t want to impose.

  He was overcome with equal parts dread and desire at the prospect of finally seeing her in the flesh at Dunlear in three days. He had told Max last Friday at dinner that he was bringing a girl with him, hoping that would lend the whole weekend a friendly, careless tenor. Little did he know that he’d set in motion a string of events that would create a situation that was anything but friendly or careless. Unbeknownst to Devon, after he’d left Max and Bronte the previous weekend, Bronte had sworn Max to secrecy about Sarah bringing a buffer date.

  “If Devon’s going to try to be all what-me-worry? at the expense of my best friend, then he can squirm a bit,” Bronte barked at her husband in the taxi home. “How dare he bring some strumpet to our first family event for Wolf?”

  Max smiled softly and rubbed Bronte’s forearm. “Narinda is not a strumpet. And if nothing had ever transpired between Dev and Sarah, then none of that would matter. Obviously, something happened, and maybe this is a good way for them to just move on.”

  “Move on? Are you blind? Neither of them can even have a conversation about the other, much less be in the same room. And all these months in London with both of them trying to be all casual every time we invite them over for supper, like, ‘Uh, by the way, will fill-in-the-blank be there?’ And then always happening to be busy when one or the other is already coming over? Come on. Those two have ‘Unresolved Issues’ written across their foreheads.”

  “Okay,” Max replied in typical marital mode, “what should I do?”

  Bronte’s phone beeped with a text reply from Sarah before she could answer him.

  bringing backup in form of eliot cranbrook next w/e, ok? pls don’t tell you-no-who. Dont want 2 seem tit-4-tat xos