The Little Bookshop On the Seine

by Rebecca Raisin

  “Let me help,” he offered as he knelt beside me and reached for some fallen novels.

  The books in the conservatory were older tomes about gardening and horticulture, it wasn’t a busy room. Customers didn’t really venture this high, as the spiral staircase thinned, and darkened, it looked as though there was nothing above – which is what I supposed made this the perfect room for a writer to hide away in. Those who did brave it were rewarded with the brightest, most vivid room because of the picture windows, glass ceiling and the view.

  “What’s this?” Luiz said, holding a small case, almost like an old fashioned beauty bag, with soft pink leather and a gold clasp.

  “A travel bag?”

  “By the layer of dust over it, I’d say it’s been hidden for a while,” he said.

  “Or lost.” I pictured someone wandering into this room and being spellbound by the sight of Paris from the window, high from this vantage point, where you could see Notre Dame’s gargoyles, and all the way to the Eiffel Tower and the sprawl of the city.

  I flicked open the clasp on the bag, and a stack of neatly folded letters spilled out.

  The air around us hummed. “Whispers from the past…” Luiz said, sitting back on his haunches.

  “We should reunite these with their rightful owner,” I said, a grin splitting my face. I loved a good mystery and something about the letters called to me. They were soft with age, faded, scented almost citrusy somehow.

  “I suppose we should,” Luiz said. “Then we’d have to read them, it’s the only way.” His eyes twinkled with mirth. Luiz was rumored to be reclusive and after our first chat, I wondered if he’d warm to me, or retreat but here we were sharing in a discovery, both eager to know more. I had to catch myself from getting star-struck again. He was just a person, after all, I had to stop thinking of him as a celebrity. Oceane had worried I’d fuss over Julia Roberts if we saw her, but give me an author any day, and I was more likely to act like a loony. If I ever met JoJo Moyes I would most likely scare the woman witless by babbling away wanting to know everything about her. She was my idol. And Luiz was a close second. So far I’d managed to keep my cool. Just. There were moments I wanted to say, go and write, I’ll just stand behind you and watch the words flow from your extraordinary mind, to the keyboard, don’t mind me. Luckily work was too busy for me to show my true writers-fascinate-me colors.

  Without any preamble we moved the desk by the window that was free from debris, and laid them out. They were written in French! Goddammit! It would take me far too long to decipher the language, especially with the loops and swirls of the cursive and I was impatient to know what they said. Luiz searched for dates, and found the oldest one. We’d have to start at the beginning to make any sense out of them.

  Luiz took the first letter. “Get comfortable,” he said, motioning to a high back chair. “I’ll translate.”

  I couldn’t hide my glee and did a silly jump clap thing. This old building, this beautiful city, I was certain we’d just uncovered something priceless, an epistolary story from long ago. Settling into the chair I curled my legs under me and pulled my cardigan together, ready to hear the story unfold.

  Mon Amour,

  I composed a piece for you today. I closed my eyes, and thought of you, that rapture, that fire. The memory of your love, it’s like I’ve absorbed it all for the times we’re apart, and it spilled from me to the ivory keys, my fingers a blur, as if the piece was already written, composed by the coupling of our souls. I had to force myself to stop playing, and write it down, but I knew I’d never forget that composition. It’s as alive as you are to me. I know they’ll say it’s too progressive, it doesn’t conform, but that’s because what we have is greater than what’s ever been before. Our love is an allegro, there’s no light and shade, no slow start, and gradual increase, so the music cannot follow the standard rules either. And why should it? Why do I have to live in the shadow of someone else’s ideals? They’ve never been in love like this before. Of that I’m sure. Until we meet again my love, I’ll play our song, and feel you with me, through the music.

  Je t’aime

  Pierre

  “Our love is an allegro…” With a hand to my chest, I smiled. “It’s a love story!”

  Luiz’s smile widened. “Want to bet it doesn’t end in happy ever after?”

  I faux glared at him. “How can it not? He composed music for her! Progressive, dramatic pieces. We have to find out who she is! Maybe he’ll say her name in one of them?”

  “We better keep reading,” Luiz said, his expression fervent as he reached for the next letter.

  We only had Pierre’s correspondence and I would have given anything to read the woman’s reply to such a beautiful love letter. I pulled a rug over my legs and settled in to listen.

  Chapter Twelve

  As weeks continued to pass the sales weren’t improving as much as I had hoped. The new feature wall of books set in Paris and memoirs about the city had done nicely, pulling in the tourist crowd, but it wasn’t enough. I had to come up with something unique if I was going to make this year as profitable as Sophie’s last. The disappearing money was still a mystery too, even though it had dropped off some, we were still missing ten to fifty euros every couple of days and I had no idea how else to deal with it, short of doing a Mission Impossible stunt and hanging from the ceiling to spy.

  I’d come to dread Sophie’s phone calls. Nervously, I ran a hand through my hair, and got my paperwork in order so we could chat. The phone rang and I snapped it up, dread tightening my chest.

  “Ma cherie,” she said, her voice short. “What on earth is going on there?”

  I grimaced, so she’d had time to read the reports I’d emailed. I almost laughed at myself – of course she had time, she was in the quiet, quaint town of Ashford, and in my cute little bookshop where nothing much happened unless you counted the adventures you read on the page. “I’m sorry, Sophie. It’s not like we haven’t tried. We’ve implemented a buy one, get –”

  She cut me off. “Sarah, these figures are abysmal. November should be double what you’ve done. Are you not unpacking the new stock quickly enough? What is it? What are you doing so wrong?”

  The frustration in her voice and the tart way she emphasized the fact I was single handedly ruining her business was like being scolded by a parent. “Well, that has been an issue, actually. I can’t serve and be out the back at the same time, unloading stock–”

  “Well get someone else to do it!”

  “Yes, as I was saying…”

  “You need to take charge. I rely on these sales to last us through the winter when the tourist trade drops off.”

  “The staff…”

  “Please, you must fix this, before it bankrupts me.”

  Frustration coursed through me, as she abruptly interrupted each time I tried to explain. I gave in, and let her say her piece, all the while feeling a fresh wave of anxiety creep over me. She hung up, without her usual sweet goodbyes, and I fell back, glad the call was over. I was working damn hard, and wondered if it was all worth it. I’d agreed to come here as a favor to Sophie, and then she heaped enough work on me to wear out the most savvy businessperson. And she was yet another person who wouldn’t listen to me when I tried to speak up. If she’d have given me two minutes we could have discussed marketing strategies.

  I wanted to throw my hands up and jump on a plane back to Ashford, or to call Missy, CeeCee and Lil, but how could I? CeeCee and Missy were so focused on gorgeous baby Willow, and Lil was exhausted from nights of broken sleep. I’d spoken to her a few times, she’d snatched moments between feedings and time zones and even though I knew my friends would be there for me, I couldn’t burden them when they had far more important things on their own plates. So I turned to the only person I could and as soon as I heard his voice my worries tumbled out.

  “Money keeps disappearing.” I was rigid with anxiety. “Sophie is angry with me. Her complicated data entry is like some
thing an accountant would do. There’s someone here who’s stealing because they think they can get away with it.” I let out a half sob. “The sales are shrinking. I don’t know what to do.”

  “You have to call them together and threaten them. They think you’re a soft touch.” Ridge’s rough voice was exactly what I needed to hear, “Be fierce, baby. I know you have it in you. Don’t let Sophie down by letting them play you.”

  I stared out the window watching the bare trees face off against the wind and felt the chill coming through the panes. I was too embarrassed to tell him I’d tried that and it hadn’t worked – if anything it had been disastrous. “I wish you were here,” I choked out.

  “Baby, I do too. But you’ve got some friends there, why don’t you call Lucy and Clay? I know this is tough right now, but you’re enjoying Paris. Don’t let this work problem get you down.”

  Lucy and Clay were friends from back home who were here for a six-month stint while she took an art course at the prestigious Van Gogh Institute. I’d wanted to catch up with them, but hadn’t managed to seize any time. Lucy studied long hours too, often into the night. Our Parisian lives had a tendency to swallow us up, it was a world away from the sleepiness of Ashford.

  “I want you here. Is that such a bad character flaw? I can’t help wanting to be with the guy I love.”

  He laughed, the usual Ridge response when he deemed me too girly, or too something he didn’t quite know how to answer. It irked me that day, because I was reaching out to him – which I never really did, because I always had the girls at home and I knew he was running his own race. I’d read enough romance books to know I didn’t want to be the girl who clung on and was needy, but I couldn’t help be frustrated by his efforts to placate me.

  Surely I was allowed to lean on him sometimes, especially when we had barely seen each other in the last few months. Can any relationship survive on more than one day? I didn’t think I was asking too much.

  “Sarah,” he composed himself. I closed my eyes, hoping he wouldn’t say something banal. I felt a frisson of worry things would change between us if he shrugged me off when I wanted more from him. “Let this be the adventure of your life. You don’t need me there to have that. I hate being away from you just as much, believe me. But for now, that’s the way it has to be. I love you with every ounce of me. You suit Paris, it suits you. And once the exchange is over, things might settle down for both of us.”

  “So if I said please get on a plane, I need to see you, you’d say no?” I hated asking, but wasn’t love being there if you needed them? Just this once I wanted him to choose me.

  “You’ve had a crappy few days at the shop. Rise above it, baby. Me being there won’t help. It’ll take you away from the bookshop, when what you really need to do is fix the problems there before they escalate.”

  “Well, I guess, that’s that,” I said, deflated.

  His voice came back soft, “You knew what my life was like, Sarah.”

  Had I expected him to drop everything for me? “And I remember saying big shot reporters were a no for me.”

  There was a brief pause where we both registered what had been said, but neither of us took it back. Until he said, “I love you, and you know that. This is temporary.”

  After I hung up the phone, I sat at Sophie’s window, watching the Eiffel Tower fairy lights flash in the distance on the hour. Moonlight shone down over the city, and rain drummed on the roof. Perhaps I could escape for an hour to wander along the Champs de Mars, to Les Invalides, around to the pyramid of the Louvre. Night time strolls through the city always lifted my spirits. It was the rest of the tangled web inside the shop that got me down…and Ridge. But I brushed him from my mind. Something had to change at the shop, and I had a feeling it was me.

  ***

  “Luiz,” I said. “No work today?” It was late, he hadn’t arrived early this morning, which was unusual for him.

  Luiz brushed a hand through his unruly waves, he looked every ounce the writer – messy too-long hair, a half-dazed expression as though he was only partly here, the rest of him lost in his mind with the characters he’d left back on his laptop.

  Did those fictional people miss him? When his front door clicked closed, did they hold hands and jump from the screen? Perching on the keyboard, reading about their own lives, through Luiz’s words? Crazy, kooky Sarah, my friends teased whenever one of these notions spilled from my mouth before I caught myself. But to me, books were alive, the words throbbed and pulsed, as important as a heartbeat, and I bet his books were just as real when they were half written too.

  “What are you thinking, Sarah?” Luiz cocked his head, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “I lost you there…”

  I blinked, pulling myself back to the moment. “Oh,” I said, nervous laughter escaping. “I was thinking about…” What could I say, I had a penchant for day dreaming? “Your writing, actually. Did you get the novel finished?”

  Stepping forward, he folded his arms, and propped them on the counter. His eyes were dark and unfathomable against the slight tan of skin. “I did the first draft, at least. Now to leave it a while before I edit.”

  “A welcome break then?” It struck me, how little I spoke to writers despite being intrigued by them. There were a few I’d contacted through my blog, romance writers whose books I’d fallen in love with, but I hadn’t met many face to face. Ashford was too small a place for them to venture, though I did have some visit for the Chocolate Festival aeons ago, but they’d raced in and out, and I hadn’t had time to chat properly. When the book club met back home, they would clutch their hearts and pretend to faint when I told them I’d met Luiz and become good friends. They wouldn’t believe me, I was sure of it.

  Luiz rubbed the back of his neck. “This novel, I will try and forget for a few months, and then read it again later, fresh. But I can’t not write. My life is too lonely without fictional people crowding my mind.”

  “I would have thought you’d need a break, some time to catch up on sleep, and trashy TV…” If writing for him was what reading was for me, then I bet he wasn’t a TV-watching type. Time spent in front of the box was time wasted in my opinion, there was always another story to fall into. My to-be-read pile sadly would most likely outlive me – though I tried valiantly to catch up with it, I’d never get there. The allure of new books, new writers, characters who beckoned to me would never wane.

  Luiz laughed, his white teeth flashing under the lights. Ridge’s teeth were also pearly white. How did they manage movie star teeth? I couldn’t help comparing the two men, Ridge’s tall, dark, and handsome romance cover good looks, and then Luiz’s blonde, blue-eyed movie star features. While Ridge was forthright and dynamic, Luiz was quieter, more reserved, and only spoke when he had something important to say. Ridge was the one to take the lead of any conversation, directing it usually back to his work, the stories that drove him, giving people a voice who so desperately needed it.

  “Non, non,” he said. “Now, I wait for inspiration to find me…and it always does. Paris is the place for love. I walk around arrondissements, and see it everywhere. I wait for the flutter of the idea to turn into a heart stopping bang, and I begin. And then desole, I’m lost once more.”

  “Do you wish they were real?” I propped my elbows on the counter.

  “My characters?”

  I nodded.

  “But they are real, don’t you see?”

  My stomach flip-flopped at the thought. Was there a place where characters hovered, brought to life each time someone cracked open the cover and read about them? Did they watch us, from some faraway place, as we caught up with their lives?

  I smiled at the idea.

  “They’re part of you, a product of your imagination. You, the reader, make them four dimensional, bring them to life in your mind, your heart, and your vision of them is unique, no two people read them the same way. So they’re exclusively yours.” Luiz’s voice was soft, as if he was at that sam
e place, the realm of half here, half there, in the gauzy shadow where characters came to life.

  I raised my eyebrows. “I want to meet them for a glass of wine, and quiz them about the choices they made. And grab some of them by the scruff of the neck, and say WHY! Where’s your happy ever after?” I couldn’t help tease him.

  He threw his head back and laughed, a deep baritone. “There’s quite a few I’d like to toss into the Seine for not doing the right thing.”

  I smiled, imagining him doing just that with a character who was misbehaving on the page.

  “Would you care to join me for an aperitif? There’s a little bar on the Rue de la Colombe called La Reserve De Quasimodo. It’s a secret though, only locals know about it, so you have to promise me you won’t tell a soul or you’ll end up in my next book as the one who cannot keep her word.” His eyes shone with the joke. Everywhere I went with my new friends was a place no one else knew, a hidden door leading to a wonderland of mystery I loved exploring. It made me wonder if Parisians ever grew tired of their town being overrun by tourists, and hence kept so many places a secret.

  “Will we run into the Hunchback of Notre Dame? I said, fluttering with excitement at spending more time with an author I so admired. It was almost surreal to think that this man – who was so famous for hiding behind his book jacket, turning down interviews and shunning the press and adoring crowds – would want to spend time with me. I’d asked him so many questions and he had answered every one of them, but I couldn’t help wondering about the sadness I still saw lurking in his eyes. There was a story, a secret, that in all of our conversations Luiz would side-step, so I backed away from outright asking, wanting to preserve this new friendship. It hit me, that instead of Ridge being the one to fly to my side, I had Luiz, and it had certainly brightened up my time here. A platonic friend who liked me just for me.

  “The hunchback may or may not be there. Just keep your cool.” he joked. “Shall I steal you away?”