“You seem to fit here somehow.” Ridge said, staring into my eyes.
“It’s that kind of place. When I’m wandering, lost and alone, I find something that takes my breath away. I’ve never had that before. I see why people get bitten by the travel bug.” I was easily swept away by the ancient beauty of the city. Was home still where my heart was? Even though I still missed the simplicity of my old life, here, it was like I was someone different, almost French. Or at least, trying my hardest to tread softly, and become one with the place and people.
When I returned home, I imagined Paris would be like an old best friend, full of sweet memories, there to reminisce through rose colored glasses. I could already see myself sitting down with the girls at home recounting a story that was a little shinier on the retelling, more vibrant, colorful, me exaggerating how brave I was, how I tried it all, but the real Paris would always be in my mind, the black and white, the gray days, the sepia of the past, and the fact that I loved the feeling I had wandering through the city, as if it welcomed me.
“Champagne?” Ridge asked.
“Please,” I said, knowing the bubbles would hit my bloodstream and make me more languid, almost liquid in Ridge’s arms. He poured two flutes, and I sipped, taking in the view ahead. As always, throngs of people walked on each side of the Seine. On the right bank known as La Rive Droite there was a market set up. Stalls of bric-a-brac, pieces of antique furniture, and clothing spanned along the one side.
Ridge nuzzled the soft skin on my neck, and my eyelids grew heavy. “How long does this boat ride take?” I said playfully, fighting the urge to tell them to turn around and deposit us back at the shop so we could race upstairs.
“An hour.” He laughed. “And then, there’s more…you, my little minx, are going to have to wait an entire day to rip my clothes off.”
I guffawed. “Rip your clothes off!”
“It’s obvious, that lusty look in your eyes, you can’t hide it, it’s written all over your face…”
I gave him a shove. “Is that so? Well, I’ve actually got to cover the night shift later.”
His face fell.
“Joke.”
He pulled me closer. “OK, I’m the one dreaming of a naked Sarah, but don’t tell anyone. I’m trying to keep my cool, and do the right thing, showing her how magnificent the city of love can be when you’re actually in love.”
“I won’t say a word.” We kissed, his body pressed hard against mine, all thoughts of the view vanished and I wished the moment would last forever. Lost emails, and missed calls didn’t matter so much with Ridge by my side.
Once off the boat we strolled around the uneven cobblestoned streets of Montmartre, coming to the square filled with artists, sitting in front of their easels. The rain had slowed to a fine mist, turning the black of Ridge’s hair silver under the gentle shards of sunlight that fought their way through the fog, casting a soft yellow hue above us, like an ambient glow.
Ridge stopped in front of a sketch, the lashings of smudged pencil brought out a deep sadness in the subject’s eyes. Who was it in the portrait and what had made them so forlorn in this place, yet they’d still sat long enough for their face to be recreated on parchment.
He spoke to the artist in quick-fire French – once again, I was surprised by how adept he was in any situation, from speaking fluently in French and managing not to butcher the silky rhythm of the language, to wandering around the avenues Paris like he’d lived here his whole life.
“OK,” he said turning to me, his eyes lit with wonder. “Sit down, Sarah, and Remy will sketch you.”
My cheeks flamed. It was all well and good wandering around, gawping at other people getting portraits painted or sketched but another thing for me to do it. I’d be under a spotlight and drawing the eyes of passersby, which made me cringe.
Ridge leaned close and whispered in my ear. “Please. I want a keepsake for when I’m not with you.”
I battled with saying no, it wasn’t my thing, and what if the girl on the page wasn’t who I thought I was? But Ridge nodded, and shuffled me around, onto the stool, cupping my face. “Just be you. That’s the girl I love.”
It was hard to argue with that, so I tried not to slouch, and instead wrung my hands together, darting a glance at the artist as he took a seat in front of me, surveying me like he was already imagining me in black and white.
When tourists moseyed by, gazing at me full in the face, I smiled tentatively, and held my breath, hoping each stroke of the pencil would bring me one step closer to springing off the stool, and into a bistro for a glass of wine.
When the picture was done, I eased off the stool afraid to look at it. Ridge’s face lit up, and his smile threatened to swallow him. “Now I’ll have you wherever I am,” he said.
I peeked at the portrait. The artist had captured the love in my eyes, and the difference in my face, from being in Paris. My cheeks were fuller – I blamed the macarons – and I didn’t look so day-dreamy any more. But still, I blushed, being the center of attention as people openly stopped to look from me and back to the portrait.
I thanked the artist profusely, amazed at his level of skill with a pencil, how he could turn a few lines into a reflection of me.
Hand in hand we strolled around Montmartre. We turned and headed for the Sacre Coeur. The old church stood regally on top of the hill, the platform below a perfect vantage point to see the sprawl of Paris. We went to the railing and gazed out, the city a big, bustling maze from here. The Eiffel Tower was monolithic, dwarfing everything around it. It seemed so vivid, with the gray horizon acting as a backdrop to the city, and the mist floating gently above. There was a whole world out there like this, views that took my breath away, and I hoped I’d get to travel more in the future. As hard as it was for me to leave the comfortable routine of my old life – the safety, the regularity of every day – I knew now, seeing this, I wanted more.
Clusters of people took photos, and babbled in accents I couldn’t ascertain. Ridge looped his arm around me and said, “Stunning, isn’t it?”
I nodded. “It’s like someone supersized the Eiffel Tower and plonked it down in the city. It’s huge when you’re standing under it, but from here, somehow it seems even bigger.”
“There’s one more thing I want to show you.” Ridge took my hand, and we turned our back to the view. We dashed away, as rain fell harder, and I don’t remember ever feeling so alive.
We wove our way through small laneways, and our breath came out fast as we tried to outrun the weather. Ten minutes later, and what seemed like a lot of exercise for a non-exerciser, we came to a little garden on the Place des Abbesses.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Come closer,” Ridge said, pulling my hand. “It’s Le mur des je t'aime.”
I swooned at the French words spilling from Ridge’s lips, a heady combination of want and need made me flush for him.
“It’s the wall of ‘I love you’s’,” he said.
I edged closer, once people moved away. Up close, it was spectacular. The sentiment written in so many different languages. Dark tiles, glittering like the night sky. Some cracked and spaced, others perfectly aligned. Splashes of color were dotted here and there.
“The artist used the smudges of red to symbolize a broken heart, but tiled together again, the wall can reunite even the most damaged. It’s about humanity, and generating peace in a busy world. A metaphor. But I prefer to think of it as all the ways I love you. In every language, Sarah.”
My emotions were heightened from his presence, his silky words, and the way he showed me how much he loved me, even if he was away a lot. It banished the doubt I felt, the worry that things would be different between us.
As the sun set behind moody skies we wandered hand in hand, shooting glances at each other as if we were making sure this was real, and laughing each time we were caught out.
“So,” I said. “When you’re away, what’s with the radio silence?”
He looked genuinely surprised, “I’m focused. That’s all. There’s so many things I want to do to set up our future and in order to make it happen, I have to work hard now, and hope it pays off. It’s hard to hear the sadness in your voice too. It makes me second guess my work, and all I want to do is be with you.”
“I don’t like it when we go so long without speaking. It feels like we’re drifting apart.”
He stopped, and pulled me close. “There’s no way in the world that will ever happen, Sarah. I’ve never felt like this before, and I plan on spending the rest of my life with you.” He smiled. “If that’s what you want too, of course. But first, I have to figure out how to make our two lives merge, so we both have the things we need.”
He bent to kiss me, a soft sweet lingering touch that made me almost dissolve into the ground. When we were together, nothing else mattered. Days like this would recharge our love and make the time apart easier to handle.
“Now,” he said. “I’ve booked a romantic dinner for two at Le Jules Verne, which is at the top of the Eiffel Tower.”
My stomach growled at that very moment, and I blushed. Oceane had been to Le Jules Verne and said it was a super swanky restaurant with striking views of Paris. Imagine being in the heart of the Eiffel Tower!
“Shall we?” he said, and wrapped an arm around my waist.
A kind of dizziness hit me. We’d have two weeks of this! Wandering around under the filmy moonlight. Kissing in the rain. Leaning against each other beneath an umbrella while we went sightseeing. My Paris dreams were coming true: Ridge, me and time in which to get lost in the most beautiful city in the world.
Chapter Eleven
We were tangled together in a deep sleep when the phone shrilled, not the usual trill of Sophie’s cordless. Ridge’s cell.
I pulled the quilt up and glanced at the alarm clock, two a.m. shrieked in neon green.
Ridge groaned, stumbling from the bed, taking the top sheet with him and retreating to the bathroom.
When he returned ten minutes later, I was waiting, unable to fall back asleep, knowing instinctively what was coming.
“Where to this time?” I asked, groggily.
“Russia,” he said, his eyes bright despite being woken in the early hours of the morning.
One lousy night. That’s all he’d stay for? “Do you have to go? I thought…”
“I’m sorry,” he cut me off. “I know I promised to stay longer. But I need to take the work when it’s offered. If I refuse, those stories will be handed to someone else on a platter. I want to stay, Sarah, really I do. But I can’t risk losing out.”
I frowned in the semi darkness. “So, how long will this go on for?” I understood his motivations, but where did it leave us?
“Not long. You know there are quiet times. Weeks in a row where nothing is going on. I’ll be back soon.”
“I’d prefer you stay now, though. Surely, you can tell whoever it is that you will miss this one puny story? And that you’ll be there for the very next call?”
“I can’t. I haven’t done it long enough to pay my dues yet. I’m still the rookie freelancer.” He ran a hand along my back, sending shivers down my spine.
“Ridge, don’t think that’s going to distract me. In the light of the morning when there’s an empty space next to me, I’ll remember you stayed even less this time. One day?” It was hard not to feel insubstantial when Ridge practically bounded from bed to leave, as eager as a puppy, without a backward glance at me.
He laughed at the scowl on my face. “I love it when you’re angry.”
I took a pillow and lobbed it at him.
“One year of this, Sarah, and then I’m all yours.”
“And whose are you now?” I said, annoyed despite his sexy smile that as easily as that he was leaving.
“I’m yours, Sarah. You’ll see. I’m doing this for us.”
I sighed. “Get back into bed. We can argue over the phone once you’ve gone.” The fight left me; no matter what, I loved the godforsaken man, and I wanted to wrap my arms around him before he was gone again. It had to last me however many weeks he’d be absent for.
There’d be no visits to the Louvre, no wandering around Pere Lachaise to see the graves of the famous long since buried. Wintry picnics on the Champs de Mars would be spent alone, wrapped in a blanket, with my book – my most loyal and trusted friend. We’d had the most romantic of days together. The way Ridge expressed his love for me was the stuff of fairy tales, but was one day enough? The thought of four or five weeks alone, again, made me curl into a ball. Was I enough for him? Or more seriously, was he enough for me?
***
The day after Ridge left it was bucketing down. Rain drummed on the roof, and the scent of mildew was heavy in the air at the bookshop. I’d woken to find a pile of novels soaked when water seeped from above. Buckets were swiftly set down to catch the drips, while I pondered how water managed to wend its way through three levels. I hoped there wasn’t a flood upstairs. Frowning, I raced up to assess any damage and curiously found the rooms dry.
Back downstairs, I reached for the phone and called the plumber, thinking it could only be another burst water pipe. The amount of money the building sucked up was horrendous. But I was also upset about the books being damaged. There they sat, patiently waiting for the next day, for the person who’d smile at the sight of their rosy red covers and pick them up to read them on the train to Palace of Versailles, or in some dim corner of a bistro over a nip of whiskey. And now they’d be tossed into the bin, water logged, and dead.
Well, not on my watch.
Sophie didn’t keep books whose spines were broken, or whose covers were missing. But I did. If the words were still legible they had value. I scooped up the soggy books, to find a warm place to dry them out. Perhaps I could have a table out front, of damaged novels who could be adopted. And all they had to do was promise to love them, raggedy pages and all.
“Has anyone seen the James Joyce Exiles first edition?” Beatrice asked, as she came rushing down the stairs.
James Joyce. My legs wobbled. “I sold one today,” I said, my voice just above a whisper. “But I didn’t know it was a first edition.” Goddammit.
Her mouth fell open. “You didn’t know?” she said, incredulous.
I blushed to the roots of my hair. I specialized in seeking out rare first editions for my online customers back home. How could I have made such a terrible mistake? I’d sold the book for a few Euros! “I was rushing to serve. I guess it didn’t occur to me to check. It wasn’t wrapped or anything…” my feeble explanation sounded empty, even to me.
The first editions were locked away in a room with adequate ventilation so they wouldn’t get warped by heat, or moldy from cold air. They were wrapped in a special type of plastic to preserve them. Customers had to make an appointment if they wanted to peruse those books. Gloves were worn, it was taken very seriously because of their worth. Thank god it wasn’t a Ulysses I’d sold by mistake. That book was worth more than I could ever repay. Still, Exiles was worth a few thousand Euro too.
But wait. “No one has been in the first edition room today. There’s no way I could have sold it.” There was only one key to that room, and it was looped on a chain around my neck.
Beatrice crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes, it was like she was weighing up her words before talking. It stuck me again, how tightly she held in her emotions around me.
“A selection of books arrived a few days ago,” she said. “From an estate sale. You were supposed to go through them, and wrap the first editions. I did tell you, twice, that it was urgent.”
I wondered, not for the first time, what I was doing here and if I’d be able to keep up without going insane or ruining Sophie’s trust in me with her beloved shop. “Did you?” I asked, having no recollection of that conversation. “I can’t believe I sold it without checking.” Had I unpacked a box of estate sale books? I was more scatterbrained than usual, after the shock
of Ridge leaving as well as trying to fit everything in each day at the shop I couldn’t be sure…
I bit down on my lip. What a foolish thing to do. I should know better than that. I’d sold hundreds of first editions. Their scent was different to other books, earthier, ripe with the past. The cinnamon colored pages curled slightly, fattening them. I’d have to tell Sophie I’d cost her more money, and hoped she’d forgive me. Still, something niggled. I didn’t remember Beatrice talking to me at all about an estate sale order. She’d just stared at me out the corner of her eye like I was an exotic animal that she didn’t know how to behave around.
“Sarah,” TJ’s said, interrupting my train of thought. “There’s been an accident in the conservatory, you might want to go check.”
I sighed. “OK.” I was glad for the distraction, giving me a moment of pause to ponder my mistakes. And how on earth I was going to break the next lot of bad news to Sophie.
Upstairs books lay sprawled, covers open wide like arms flayed out, as if they’d had a party with too many cocktails and fallen asleep as the sun lit the sky. A shelf had collapsed, leaving books piled atop each other in a disagreeable jumble. It was just after nine a.m. and Paris was quiet. Torrential rain kept people indoors later, and the bookshop didn’t get busy until after lunch. The calm was like a gift. I surveyed the back wall of the conservatory wondering if I could fix the shelf myself, or if I’d have to call yet another handyman in.
Dust motes swirled around as I stacked the fallen books into neat piles. Some pages were crinkled, and ripped, so I made another pile for novels that would need repair.
While I scrambled on the floor picking up as much as I could, Luiz walked in, his face pinched. “All that bashing at the keyboard has brought the shelf down,” he said.
I laughed. The desk he usually sat at to write was covered in brick dust and rubble. Luckily the shelf hadn’t come down when he was sitting under it. “Looks like it.”
The Little Bookshop On the Seine Page 13