Christmas in Paris (16 page)

 

chapter nine

Alec stuck the pencil behind his ear and studied the sketch of Gus standing before a firing squad. A handkerchief was tied around his floppy ears, and his paws were tied with an orange ribbon.

He tossed the paper in the garbage and sank onto the velvet sofa. These days you couldn't use guns in an illustration. But how dramatic would it be if Gus's enemies pelted him with fruits and vegetables?

He thought about the Red Cross charity ball and Mathieu's visit and sighed. He had no choice; he had to see Bettina and beg her not to evict Claudia.

He could invite Bettina to lunch in his suite and order bouillabaisse and baked cod and warm chocolate mousse. But then she'd see the antique furniture and Impressionist paintings and gold harpsichord. He pictured her saying Celine's father had been so generous to pay for the suite and it was a pity Celine had left. He would rather face a firing squad himself.

The morning sun filtered through the window and he grabbed his jacket. He stuffed his wallet into his slacks and opened the door.

*   *   *

“WHAT ARE YOU
doing up?” Isabel asked, standing next to the elevator. “I've never seen you in anything but a robe before lunchtime.”

“I've been an early riser my whole life,” Alec replied, fixing his collar. “But if Celine's father is paying a thousand euros a night for a suite, there's no point in rushing out.”

“Why are you going out now? It's freezing and looks like it might rain.” She paused. “It's a perfect day to sit by the fire and illustrate your books.”

“I needed to take a break,” he sighed. “I wanted Gus to be shot by the firing squad, but my editor would prefer he be pelted by tomatoes.”

“I'm sure Gus would agree with your editor.” Isabel grinned.

“Besides, I have an errand to run.” He stepped into the elevator. “I'm going to buy my sister a Christmas present.”

“Christmas is today!” She frowned. “And you don't get along with your sister. When you were a child, she asked your father to send you away.”

“This is different.” He rubbed his brow. “I need to talk to her about something.”

“You're trying to bribe her into doing what you want.” She smiled. “People do it all the time. My boss offers free tickets to the Phillies when he needs the associates to work on weekends. It softens the blow when you spend Saturday night eating pizza and preparing spreadsheets.”

“I do believe in the spirit of giving,” Alec said hotly. “Anyway, haven't you heard the expression ‘Keep your friends close and your enemies closer'?”

“She must have done something terrible,” she murmured.

“I don't have time to talk about it,” he said as they entered the lobby. “I'll see you later.”

“Wait,” Isabel ran after him. “I want to buy souvenirs for my parents. I'll come with you.”

“I can't afford the department stores, I'm going to visit the boutiques in the Marais.”

“Even better.” She beamed. “I haven't been there since I studied at the Sorbonne.”

“All right.” Alec shrugged and walked down the steps. “But look both ways before we cross the boulevard.” He smiled. “So I don't have to rescue you from being run over again.”

*   *   *

THE MARAIS STRETCHED
from the third to the fourth arrondissement and was filled with cobblestone streets and winding alleys. There were bright window boxes and elegant galleries and quaint cafés.

“What would Bettina like?” Isabel asked, entering a boutique on the Rue de Sévigné.

“I have no idea.” Alec sifted through cashmere sweaters and wool scarves. “All her clothes look like they belong in a military museum, and the only jewelry she wears is probably a chastity belt.”

Isabel laughed. “I met her at the ball and she was quite attractive.”

“If you admire Cruella de Vil.” He scowled. “If she saw a wet dog on the street, she'd poke it with her umbrella.”

“She can't be that bad,” she protested, examining a silk blouse.

“I told you she brings out the worst in me,” he sighed. “Celine said she made me act like a child and she was right.”

“Then why are you buying her a present?”

Alec thought it would be nice to tell Isabel about his mother and 40 Rue de Passy. But there was nothing she could do to help, and he didn't want to reveal his family's secrets.

“It is Christmas,” he said finally. “I'll buy this scarf, and we'll go to a café and have tartines and café au lait.”

“Oh, look!” Isabel exclaimed, reaching into the window and picking out a pink ostrich purse. “It's a vintage Hermès clutch! My father gave the exact same purse to my mother for their tenth anniversary.

“The airlines lost it last year, and she was devastated. She'll be thrilled that I found a replacement.”

“I'm glad your shopping is a success.” Alec took the scarf to the counter.

“Don't you see, it's just like the woman at Le Printemps and the old man at Shakespeare and Company,” Isabel explained. “Everywhere I go in Paris, something wonderful happens.”

“You don't believe a genie made the purse appear just so you could buy it for your mother?”

“Ever since the fortune-teller made her predictions, magical things have occurred,” she insisted. “Antoine and I had a lovely date, and we're going to see each other again.”

“You almost got run over by the taxi,” Alec reminded her.

“But that was part of her prediction.” She handed the Hermès clutch to the cashier. “As long as I follow her advice, everything will fall into place.”

“You are in Paris, there are hundreds of Hermès purses,” he said. “Let's get some air. All this talk about genies and fortune-tellers gives me a headache.”

*   *   *

THEY SAT AT
a window table at La Poilâne and ate crusty French bread with melted goat cheese and sliced tomatoes. A soft rain fell and the cobblestones looked slick and wet.

“I live across the street and come here every morning for warm apple turnovers,” Alec said. “Often I have to wait in line, but it's the best pastry in Paris.”

“You live there?” She peered out the window at a narrow building with a florist and butcher.

“It's not the Crillon, but it's perfectly adequate.” He bristled. “Though sometimes the smell from the butcher can be overpowering. Then I just ask the florist if I can buy some day-old peonies. I put them next to the window and the smell goes away.”

“I think it's charming,” Isabel mused. “Everywhere in Paris is like a storybook.”

“Celine didn't think so,” Alec grumbled. “She thought the Marais was an embarrassing leftover from the pre-Napoleonic era.”

“Last night Antoine took me to the Pont Neuf and we watched barges glide down the Seine,” she sighed. “They were decorated with Christmas lights and it was so romantic.”

“How was the rest of the date with Antoine?” he asked, stirring sugar into his café au lait.

“He brought me red roses and we drank French wine and ate pressed duck at Tour d'Argent,” she replied. “When we walked back to the hotel, he kissed me.”

“I'm glad it went well.” He nodded.

“Tonight he's taking me to the opening of an exhibit at the Musée Rodin and then to dinner at L'Arpège,” she continued. “But I'm only here for four more days, so he has to propose soon. If I go back to Philadelphia, we might never see each other again. My mother said long-distance relationships are impossible and she's right. You can't keep a romance going when you live in different time zones.”

Alec almost choked and dropped his spoon. “You can't just move to Paris, you have a home and a career.”

“Paris is full of banks, and someone would hire an American-educated analyst. I'd have to refresh my French, but I've been watching French movies in my suite.” She paused. “Catherine Deneuve is glorious, I could watch her all night.

“To be honest, I don't want to live in Neil's and my condo.” She fiddled with her napkin. “It's like rereading a paperback book when you know the ending.”

“But you and Antoine just met.” He ran his hands through his hair. “You can't expect him to propose.”

“He has to,” she insisted. “I wouldn't move to Paris unless we were engaged, but long-distance romances don't work. Rory and I tried, and it was a disaster.”

“You keep mentioning Rory when you were supposed to marry Neil.” Alec frowned.

“Rory was like the bright red coat you see in a department store window: completely impractical for winter but you can't resist buying it. You wear it all November until you realize the wind whips through the fabric and it's not the slightest bit waterproof.”

“And Neil?” Alec asked curiously.

“Neil is the Burberry you find at Neiman Marcus,” she said. “It's navy or black so it will go with anything. You know it will last for decades and won't look a bit different from the day you bought it.” She stopped and her eyes were bright. “Until you see it in your closet and realize you never wanted to wear it at all.”

“Poor Neil.” Alec grinned. “I've never heard anyone being compared to a coat.”

“What kind of coat is Celine?” Isabel asked.

Alec pictured her blond hair and violet eyes and slender cheekbones. He remembered her light laugh and the way her lips always looked wet.

“She was a mink.”

*   *   *

AFTER THEY LEFT
La Poilâne, they visited Victor Hugo's house in the Place des Vosges and bought warm croissants at a patisserie on the Rue Saint-Antoine. The rain fell harder as they approached the Hôtel de Crillon and Alec opened his umbrella. Isabel took his arm and he inhaled her scent of floral perfume.

“God, I look like a wet cat. I have to take a bath and get ready for Antoine,” she said when the elevator stopped at the fifth floor. “I had a lovely time, thank you for showing me Paris.”

Alec wanted to say she didn't look like a wet cat at all; she was very pretty. She shouldn't chase after love; if she waited, it would find her. But his track record was worse than hers and he didn't know a thing about love.

“It was my pleasure.” He shrugged. “I hope you have a lovely evening.”

*   *   *

ALEC ENTERED HIS
suite and poured a glass of scotch. He drank it quickly and sank onto the silk love seat. The pleasant buzz of eating tartines and walking in the rain with Isabel had worn off, and suddenly he was angry.

How dare Celine run off and leave him eleven days before their wedding? And how could his own sister take 40 Rue de Passy from his mother? He placed the glass on the coffee table and thought it was no wonder the world was full of alcoholics; once you hit puberty you were doomed. There was always some woman to make you miserable.

Suddenly he remembered the only real fight he and Celine ever had. It was in early September and her father hosted an engagement party. He had a top-floor apartment in the Faubourg Saint-Germain. The elevator doors were brass plated, and there was a marble bust in the entry.

*   *   *

ALEC GLANCED AROUND
Celine's father's grand salon, with its Louis XVI chairs and priceless Ming vases. An Oriental rug covered the marble floor and a gold candelabra rested on the sideboard. He almost knocked over a Baccarat vase and flashed on a sketch he had drawn of Gus bounding down a circular staircase on Christmas morning.

Everything in the illustration looked perfect: the giant Christmas tree littered with sparkling ornaments, the plate of cookies on the fireplace mantel, the stack of presents wrapped in shiny paper. But Gus was only a puppy and couldn't help himself. He tore open the presents and nibbled the cookies and tugged at an angel until the tree tipped over. On the last page, Alec drew Gus outside with his wet nose pressed against the window, looking forlornly at a boy and girl opening their stockings.

“The women all look like models or actresses,” Alec said to Celine, pulling his mind away from Gus. “I've never seen so many miniskirts and beehive hairdos. And the men resemble South American gangsters, they're all wearing gold chains and suede loafers.”

“The women are actresses and models. Everyone wants to wear Leon's sapphires and emeralds.” She paused. “And my father would never associate with gangsters, they are international businessmen involved in export and import.”

“That fellow has a bulge in his slacks”—Alec pointed to a man with dark hair and tan skin—“and he isn't happy to see me.”

“Just relax.” Celine kissed him. “I have to help Mathilde with the vichyssoise.”

Alec walked to the sideboard and filled his plate with chicken liver pâté and olives. An older woman stood beside him, wearing a Courrèges dress.

“You must be the fiancé,” she said, eating cheese gougères. “How did you and Celine meet?”

“At a gallery opening,” he replied. “Celine was much more interesting than the paintings.”

“Are you an artist?” she inquired.

“I'm a children's book illustrator.” Alec spread pâté on toast. “Have you heard of Gus the Cocker Spaniel?”

“Of course! I gave my nephew
Gus and the Sphinx
for his sixth birthday.”

“That's one of my favorites.” He beamed. “Gus should never have gone back to the pyramid alone after the guided tour.”

“I always buy books as presents,” she continued. “It must be hard to keep children's attention with iPads and smartphones. My niece hadn't even heard of Harry Potter until it was in the cinema.” She looked at Alec. “Will Gus become a movie or television show?”

Alec put the pâté on his plate and winced. “I'm afraid not. There was a company in London that produced a line of Gus mugs, but they weren't microwave-safe.”