Cognac & Couture (The Passport Series Book 2)

by Celia Kennedy

  He squeezed my knee. “Then I will work harder, to make sure you have no doubts.”

  ***

  Generally, there was a line out front of the brasserie, as well as a strict decorum for gaining entrance and winning a seat in the correct room. I looked around the crowded room and was once again amazed by the power that Ted and Tiziana wielded. “You have pulled off the impossible!” I joked.

  “How so, darling?” Tiziana asked while wiggling in her chair and finding a comfortable position. Her breasts were dangerously close to toppling her neckline.

  “Walking in straight off the street is unheard of, and we are sitting in the first room, which is generally reserved for VIPs.”

  She looked at Ted. “Well done, darling.”

  He grinned lasciviously down at her and said, “Don’t thank me. Thank them.”

  Looking straight down at her jiggling mounds of flesh, Tiziana replied, “Well done, ladies! Charlotte, we must thank you, as well.”

  Charlotte was clearly not as used to her breasts providing opportunities for her, because she flushed and waved off the comment.

  “How are you feeling?” I asked her. I’d been feeling anxious for her all week.

  “Good. Not great, but good. I’m really enjoying myself, but honestly, I’m glad to be off my feet most of the time.”

  Liam squeezed her thigh and kissed her neck. “Sorry, luv.”

  She smiled at her husband. “None of that. That brings on labor.”

  Smiling at her admonishment, he said, “Well, not here.”

  Charlotte kissed his cheek. “Two weeks, in London, not before.”

  I felt the heat rise in my cheeks. I muttered something about their… openness. Charlotte and Liam overheard me and were about to defend their oversexed selves when Sébastien interrupted. “Chérie, isn’t it preferable to see couples in love rather than arguing or, worse yet, ignoring each other?”

  Hillary sidestepped the subject, happily remarking, “Quintessential French brasserie. Fabulous.” She glanced about, clearly fascinated by the walls covered in elaborate floral mosaics, belle-époque chandeliers, and ancient hand-lettered signs (including one that requested patrons Kindly smoke Cigarettes instead of Pipes). My favorites were the African scenes painted on the ceiling and the large decorated mirrors on the walls that allowed clientele to discreetly “people watch” every part of the room.

  I remarked to the group, “The last time any redecorating occurred was in 1925, I believe. I think this space is magnificent. Probably very similar to when Hemingway frequented here.”

  Hillary asked, “Getting inspiration for your apartment?”

  “No, just appreciating the genius of others.”

  “My darlings, what should we order? Kathleen, do you have any favorites?” Tiziana asked.

  “As cliché as it may be, as an appetizer, the escargots are fabulous. I think the foie gras is good, and the soupe à l’oignon is excellent.”

  As we discussed the menu, the waiter appeared and asked what we’d like to drink. I suggested the house Riesling, which received a nod from Sébastien and everyone else. Moments later, we had two elegant carafes filled with wine that was poured and presented to each of us.

  Toasting our time together in Paris, we clinked our glasses.

  I observed my friends, old and new, and felt overcome with happiness. It was one of those rare moments when everything seemed to be going well. I sighed happily then asked, “Who needs help with the menu?”

  With general acknowledgements for assistance, Sébastien and I set about helping them make their choices. I overheard Hillary ask Sébastien, “Are pieds de porc what I think?” in a horrified voice, which made me laugh.

  “Well, if you think they are pig trotters or pig feet, then yes,” I said, confirming her suspicions.

  Hillary groaned and wrinkled her nose. “I’ll pass.”

  Marian’s expression was filled with incredulity. “Have you ever tried pickled pig’s feet?”

  “Why would I have consumed those?” Hillary looked aghast.

  When the waiter returned, I took a quick survey and set about ordering. The waiter stared at Tiziana’s cleavage the entire time he madly scribbled on a piece of paper. What arrived at the table twenty minutes later more or less resembled what had been requested: foie gras, soupe à l’oignon, two grilled pig trotters, and duck confit. Once that disappeared, more Riesling, fresh oysters, and salade Niçoise were delivered. Without realizing it, three hours, hundreds of customers, and most of the menu had come and gone.

  “Lord, I’m full,” Marian groaned while teetering in her heels on the sidewalk outside the brasserie. “What should we do now?”

  Hillary asked, “How far is it to Tiziana’s place from here?”

  I guessed, “Fifteen minutes by taxi or a twenty-minute walk.”

  Looking at the dark sky, Hillary suggested, “Anyone want to walk? Burn off a few calories, see a little more of Paris?”

  We put Charlotte and Liam into a taxi, then the rest of us walked.

  All around us, couples walked arm in arm while Hillary and Marian held onto each other, bemoaning the fact that they were single. I was thrilled to bits to have Sébastien beside me as a light evening breeze wafted past us, carrying Tiziana’s perfume. We wandered down Rue de Bac, across Pont Royal, alongside the Tuileries to the tree-lined Champs-Élysées. The Arc de Triomphe was ahead of us as we passed Dior, Chanel, Louis Vuitton, and Disney. Thousands of people crushed around us, gazing into the fashionable shops, dreaming aloud.

  10:00 AM, Sunday, October 4

  Bras and Other Revelations

  WE SAT AT the kitchen table, sipping coffee and reading the paper. Sébastien absentmindedly ran his fingers over the back of my hand. Everything about this felt perfect. My Sunday morning routine had revolved for so long around painting and hammering, not lolling about with a handsome man. When my phone rang, I saw Hillary’s number and debated whether I wanted her to interrupt my morning.

  I snuck a peek at Sébastien, and when he grinned at me, I gave in. “Hello?”

  “Good morning. It’s Hillary.”

  “I see and hear that.”

  “Lord, you’re turning into Marian. Anyway, Tiziana, by some miracle, has persuaded Poupie Cadolle to open the shop today. Does a handmade, custom-designed bra tantalize you?”

  “Wow! How did she manage that, especially on a Sunday? I’ve heard it takes forever to get an appointment.” I sat back in my chair, astounded.

  “She’s Mrs. Edward C. Blackwell. She could buy Cadolle, if she wanted.”

  True. “I’d love to.” I couldn’t keep the excitement out of my voice. “When and where?”

  “Tiziana is there already. Why don’t we meet at the Hotel Cambon, in the bar? It’s just across the street from the shop. When can you make it?”

  I was nowhere close to ready, so I asked for an hour. Sébastien completely understood when I explained and shooed me out. Back at my apartment, I quickly slipped into a skirt and sweater and my favorite Fendi square-toed flats. A perfect Sunday morning outfit.

  Two Métro stations later, I walked from Place de la Concorde to Rue Cambon, where I spotted the entrance. Its large wooden doors were framed by topiary trees in pots glazed a beautiful shade of celadon. I’d only been in the building once before and again appreciated the calming effect of the golden-stone floors and matching walls. Their warmth was intensified by the natural light that burst through massive windows. I paused for a moment and absorbed the feeling of the space. Maybe “this” was what I was looking for—uncluttered warmth. The torrents of color on large paintings hanging on the walls gave the room bold energy.

  Beyond the trompe-l'œil woodland that separated the lobby from the bar, I spotted Hillary sitting in a barrel chair at a small round table, dressed head to toe in plum, sipping her tea.

  “Hi there!” I greeted her, bussing her cheek with a kiss.

  After I settled in, the waiter sauntered over and took my order. Cha
momile tea.

  “Isn’t it charming that the bar is an art gallery?” Hillary asked.

  “Well, that explains the quantity of original pieces. I had no idea. Where are Charlotte and Marian?”

  “They’ll be along soon. We’re letting Charlotte rest for as long as possible. Anyway, haven’t you been here before?”

  “Yes, but only at a private party on the rooftop terrace. Someday we should book a dinner up there for all of us. It’s beautiful! The view of the city, the Tuileries Gardens, the Louvre—it’s amazing.”

  My tea and a small plate of tuile cookies arrived.

  “What do you think of the décor?”

  “Very ‘now.’ Which isn’t to say it’s a bad thing. I like it. It’s warm, minimalist, Zen but Parisian. Hard to pull off. I like the modern take on Art Nouveau furniture.”

  “I love listening to you speak ‘designer.’ You need to throw in some rubbish words. Feng Shui, harmonious, illuminated, juxtaposition. That kind of thing.”

  “Speaking of rubbish, what is going on with you and Michael?”

  Dabbing at the corners of her mouth, Hillary took a moment to compose her thoughts. Before returning her napkin to her lap, she checked to see if any lipstick had stained it. Certain her clothes were safe, she returned her attention to me.

  “At Tiziana’s wedding, Michael and Marian disappeared together for quite a while.”

  “What?” I was in absolute shock and spoke a little too loudly, drawing glances.

  “First, you have to promise not to say anything. I wouldn’t ruin the baptism for anything in the world. To hear Charlotte tell it, Liam would kill Michael if he found out he’d been messing with both of us.”

  “Was he?”

  “She says no. When I asked him about it, he said that they only talked but admitted he was attracted to her. He said something about being attracted to us both—good-girl, bad-girl thing. At least, I think so.”

  “Oh! I’m so sorry. You have to believe her! Marian would never hurt you like that.”

  “I know. Obviously, I care about him. I wanted things to work, but even if he hadn’t been attracted to Marian, he and I live in different worlds. We both tried, which seems pointless now. It doesn’t matter. It’s been over since he and I returned from France in August.” She wilted briefly, then, with a look of exasperation, she quietly wailed, “Kathleen, look at me! Really, honestly look at me! I’m not saying that Marian isn’t beautiful or without positive qualities, but how is one man attracted to both of us?”

  “A truly excellent question. I’m trying to wrap my brain around this.”

  “You and me and, well, Marian!”

  “What would you do if they dated?”

  “Sell my house and move to the opposite end of the earth.”

  “So, nothing drastic.”

  “No.”

  “You two need to talk, be civilized. This needs to be resolved before the christening. Michael will be there. Pumped full of new mother hormones, Charlotte may not forgive you if the two of you are at odds!”

  “I know. Now, let’s change the subject!” Hillary directed.

  We were in the middle of discussing Alexander McQueen’s showing that evening when I spotted Aksel Pedersen at the entrance. “Did you invite him here?” I discreetly tilted my head in his direction. Seeing him reminded me of the blog I had completely forgotten about, but more importantly, I still hadn’t found the courage to ask Sébastien about their “issue.”

  She looked at her watch, observing, “Perfect. You’re next in line at Cadolle, then it’s my turn. All I need is an hour. Stay for a few minutes and help break the ice.”

  “You’re a machine, you know.” In another life, she must have been a politician or a general, because no one worked a room like her.

  Aksel arrived at our table by way of a slow saunter. Calm, deliberate, in control. Smooth. He greeted her first. “Enchanté, Mademoiselle Cavendish. It is a pleasure to meet you again. I must say, I am delighted to find you here, Mademoiselle Ehlers. You both travel in quite auspicious circles.” Hillary inclined her head modestly. “And you, Ms. Ehlers, I hope you have recuperated from the challenges of the fashion show.”

  I shrugged. “Of course. It really was a pleasure.”

  Hillary immediately launched into wondering who the anonymous person behind the event was. Mr. Pedersen didn’t wriggle a bit, so, if he knew, he wasn’t remotely uncomfortable keeping a secret. While conversation flowed easily between them, I found myself becoming more and more curious about what had happened between Sébastien and this man.

  It became abundantly clear that I was in the way. Making a show of glancing at my watch, I said, “Hillary, Mr. Pedersen, lovely to see you again. I have an appointment.”

  When I stood up, they both did as well. Hillary gave me a hug and took the opportunity to whisper, “Have fun,” in my ear.

  I offered him my hand. “Enjoy Paris. It’s a perfect day.” I looked up at the skylight, the blue sky and sunlight thoroughly entrancing. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw them looking upwards, as well.

  “I’d better go.” Not waiting, I picked up my bag and heard them call goodbye as I left.

  I’m Walking on Sunshine

  Once we had finished at Cadolle, the girls were anxious to do some shopping, but something else called to me. I bailed out and dialed Sébastien’s phone number. “Hello?” I spoke in a rushed voice.

  “Salut!” The timber of his voice was solid, warm, desirable.

  “Feel like company?”

  His laughter rumbled the distance between us and bounced into my ear. “Whose company?”

  I couldn’t blame him for asking. The last week had been ridiculously unpredictable. “Just mine.”

  “Ah, chérie, just yours is perfect.”

  Great answer. I searched for somewhere to meet him. When I asked him if he wanted to meet me for a field trip, he sounded intrigued.

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “I thought perhaps an afternoon stroll and some sunshine. I’m not really dressed for the Galliano show at 5:00, but that gives us a few hours.”

  “Perfect. Have you been to Parc André Citroën?”

  “I have, but quite some time ago.”

  “I could meet you at the entrance at 2:00.” The enthusiasm in his voice made me happy.

  “I can’t wait to see you,” I admitted. It had barely been three hours since I’d seen him.

  ***

  A large helium balloon, emblazoned with Air De Paris, floated high above the trees from somewhere within the park, giving its passengers a tremendous view of the city.

  At the entrance, while I waited for Sébastien, I studied a map that explained the layout and history of the park. Some American students were trying to translate the text, so I interpreted the highlights for them. “Originally the site of the Citroën car factory from 1915 to 1970. In 1992, landscape designers Gilles Clément and Alain Provost, along with architects Patrick Berger, Jean-François Jodry, and Jean-Paul Viguier, turned the fifty-nine-acre site into six serial gardens, each associated with a metal, a planet, a day of the week, a state of water, and one of the senses.” Pointing to a larger sign not too far away, I added, “I’m guessing that map is multilingual and has more information about the park.”

  A voice behind me startled me when he said, “That was very nice of you.”

  “Sébastien! I didn’t see you arrive. Thanks.” There was something different about him; he looked changed somehow. He spoke while I tried to figure it out.

  “I arrived while you were talking to them. You know, of course, that true Parisians have a tendency to let Americans struggle.”

  “Well, I’m not a true Parisian.”

  He wore a fitted, pale blue shirt with white piping tucked into a pair of dark gray jeans that accentuated his lean, toned physique. I’d never seen him dressed casually. Suit. Naked. PJ pants and T-shirt. Now, jeans.

  “Suit jackets,” I said aloud. I’d never
seen him dressed casually. Still elegant, his clothes suited him. They made him look younger, more carefree.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Uh, sorry. Just something I need to remember.” Covering up my outburst, I proceeded to tell him how my French friends Yvette and Anaïs often went to tourist traps just for that purpose. “I think there is something genuinely wrong with them.”

  “In this case, I must agree. Who would submit themselves to crêpe carts and tourist traps just to observe that?”

  “God, you’re just as bad.”

  “Maybe you will be a good influence on me.”

  “I doubt it.”

  He regarded me with such intensity that I had to look away. “Are you interested in seeing all six gardens?”

  He handed me a brochure with descriptions of each.

  The blue garden: copper, Venus, Friday, rain, and the sense of smell

  The green garden: tin, Jupiter, Thursday, spring water, and the sense of hearing.

  The orange garden: mercury (the metal), Mercury (the planet), Wednesday, creeks, and the sense of touch.

  The red garden: iron, Mars, Tuesday, waterfalls, and the sense of taste.

  The silver garden: silver, the moon, Monday, rivers, and the sense of sight.

  The golden garden: gold, the sun, Sunday, evaporation, and the sixth sense.

  The white garden and black garden (of one and two hectares, respectively) are detached from the main eleven-hectare section of the park.

  “Are you a wandering kind of guy or the type who needs a plan?”

  “Well, that depends. For now, shall we wander?”

  “Yes, but before we leave, I really want to see the orange, red, and silver gardens.”

  “Oh! So you’re the kind of girl who needs a plan!”

  His banter was softened by a warm smile filled with genuine happiness. It felt wonderful to be the cause. I kissed him before admitting, “No, I’m the kind of girl who tells you what I want and then I wander.”

  “After you, chère.” The grin on his lips broadened as he extended his arm in the direction of the main path while gazing at me.