Christmas in Paris (17 page)

He loosened his collar and wondered why he felt like he was in a steam room. All he had to do was smile and shake hands, and then he could go home and have a very large scotch.

“You could look like you are enjoying yourself,” Celine said as she approached him. “Mathilde hired the best caterer in Paris.”

“I didn't know your father was friends with the French mafia,” Alec hissed. “I'm afraid someone is going to try to sell me a gold watch.”

“Have a drink.” She handed him a gin and tonic. “My father asked you to give a toast.”

“A toast!” he exclaimed.

“He's going to give a speech and it would be nice if you said something too.” She pursed her lips. “You are marrying his daughter.”

“I've only met him twice.” He wiped his forehead. “I hope he gets my name right.”

They sat at a glass table in the Art Deco dining room and ate smoked salmon with
fromage blanc.
There was a warm chestnut-and-apple salad and leeks vinaigrette. Alec skewered an oyster with his fork, but it slipped onto the plate.

“Mathilde and I want to thank everyone for coming,” Leon began. His dark hair was slicked back and he wore a pinstriped suit. “You can imagine my surprise when I returned from Brazil to find my little girl was engaged. But Celine was always headstrong, I remember when she rode a pony out of the Tuileries Gardens because she wanted her own horse.” He paused. “Luckily the gendarme was a friend or we may have ended up at the police station.

“Alec seems like a fine young man and I'm sure he will make Celine happy.” He paused. “The caterer prepared peach Melba for dessert, but first Alec would like to say something.”

Alec stood up and wished he'd had either much less or much more to drink.

“The last speech I gave was in lower school when I had to talk about my weekend with Henri, the class guinea pig.” He cleared his throat. “First I want to thank Celine for agreeing to be my wife. I never gave much thought to God, but now I pray every night. When you are bestowed with an amazing gift, you want to thank the person responsible.

“I also want to thank Leon and Mathilde for raising a wonderful daughter.” His eyes flickered. “I hope we do half as good a job with our children.

“Lastly, I want to thank Gus. If my publisher hadn't sent me to the gallery in Saint-Germain-des-Prés, Celine and I wouldn't have met.

“Ever since I drew Gus in the margins of my high school science book, he's been part of my life. At times I've been jealous of him sailing down the Euphrates or discovering the gardens of Babylon. But today I can say I wouldn't trade places with him.” He gazed at Celine. “Marrying Celine is going to be the greatest adventure I could imagine.”

There was a polite round of applause and Alec took his seat. Celine was staring at him as if he was the family dog and had just chewed her father's slippers.

“Excuse me.” He stood up and the room tipped. “I have an appointment with the lavatory.”

*   *   *

“YOU THANKED AN
imaginary dog!” Celine exclaimed, opening her front door.

She hadn't said a word since they left her father's apartment. Alec was tempted to drop her off and go home, but he was still woozy from the wine.

“Gus isn't imaginary.” He followed her into the living room. “If you open the first page of
Gus and the Mummy,
you'll see he exists.”

“Are you telling me he has thoughts and feelings?” she demanded.

“Is Anna Karenina or Madame Bovary imaginary?” he snapped. “And what about when we go to the cinema? You cried at the end of
Doctor Zhivago.
”

“Those are people.” She removed her earrings. “You're talking about a dog.”

“Have you heard of Lassie?” he said and suddenly felt bad. Maybe he shouldn't have mentioned an imaginary cocker spaniel to her father's closest friends.

“I'm not some crackpot who argues with Gus in the shower,” he fumed. “But he has to be real to me, or he wouldn't come alive on the page. Leonardo da Vinci's
Mona Lisa
has the most famous smile in the world, and she exists behind a gold frame at the Louvre.”

Celine looked up and suddenly he was reminded of her beauty. Her blond hair tumbled over her shoulders and her violet eyes were coated with thick mascara.

“I'm going to bed,” she said. “We'll discuss it in the morning.”

She closed the bedroom door, and Alec slipped his hands in his pockets. He could follow her into the bedroom and kiss her. He imagined unzipping her dress and cupping her ripe breasts. A small moan would escape her lips and she would rub against his chest.

But you couldn't solve everything with sex; sometimes you had to take a stand. He picked up a cashmere blanket and lay down on the floral sofa. His eyes closed and he fell asleep.

*   *   *

ALEC GAZED OUT
the window at the rain falling on the Place de la Concorde. When would he stop missing Celine? She was like a sliver of glass that got stuck under his skin.

He remembered telling Isabel that Celine was a mink coat and knew he was wrong. She was an impossibly luxurious angora sweater. It was only after you wore it for a week that you developed a small rash.

What would it be like to fall in love with someone who didn't make him feel like he needed to be better?

Suddenly he remembered the way Isabel's face lit up when he rescued her from the balcony. He pictured carrying her into the Crillon after she missed being hit by the taxi. Her brown eyes were huge, and she always looked like she had a wonderful secret.

He picked up the crystal decanter and placed it on the coffee table.

“Oh God, no,” he murmured. He sank onto the ivory love seat and refilled his glass.

 

chapter ten

Isabel stood at the window and watched the rain fall on the Place de la Concorde. It was early evening and the lights on the Champs-Élysées glowed like embers in a fireplace. She walked to her closet and bit her lip. A soft drizzle was romantic when you were sipping hot chocolate in your suite at the Hôtel de Crillon, but Antoine was taking her to the Musée Rodin and she wanted to wear her new satin pumps.

She wondered why she wasn't nervous; she was going on a second date with a handsome French
comte
! But all she had to do was listen to the fortune-teller and everything would be perfect. She suddenly pictured the strange woman at Le Printemps asking how she could believe in love at first sight. Of course she did—it was as common as chicken pox.

They were going to see the Matisse and Rodin exhibit and stroll through the museum's lush gardens. Afterward, he was taking her to L'Arpège and they'd eat crepes and discuss books and movies. By the time they walked back to the Crillon, they'd be dying to go up to her suite. But she would kiss him and gently turn him away.

Could she really expect Antoine to ask her to marry him without sleeping together? The French thought Americans were terrible prudes; he probably wouldn't expect anything different. And sex turned everything upside down, as if you saw the world from the top of a Ferris wheel.

She would give her boss notice right away and move to Paris. She imagined an apartment in the seventh arrondissement with lacquered window boxes and a small garden. Every morning she would stop at a patisserie for
pain au chocolat,
and after work she and Antoine would meet for aperitifs.

She slipped on diamond earrings and remembered when she visited Rory in San Francisco. It was early November and they had been apart for two months. Rory suggested she stay with him at his roommate's apartment. But Isabel said she couldn't possibly stay with someone she'd never met and booked a room at the St. Francis Hotel.

*   *   *

ISABEL STOOD AT
the window of her room at the St. Francis Hotel and gazed at the palm trees in Union Square. It had been almost balmy when she walked off the plane and she tucked her cashmere jacket into her carry-on.

Now she looked down at women in knit dresses and men in light wool suits and wondered how you could celebrate Christmas without fierce blue skies and snowdrifts. What was Thanksgiving without piles of orange and yellow leaves and homemade apple cider?

Rory called and told her all the things he loved about San Francisco: jogging on the Marina Green and eating pot stickers in Chinatown. Visiting the Palace of the Legion of Honor and watching classic movies at the Roxie Theater.

Isabel replayed their phone conversations and tried to get excited. But getting married and moving to San Francisco seemed like a movie she'd watched on an airplane. She knew it had been gripping, but she had been distracted by the flight attendant offering peanuts and couldn't remember the story line.

The first month they were apart, she existed in a state of anticipation. She loved sitting at her desk and conjuring up Rory's white smile and getting that giddy feeling. Lately he was a vague outline and she couldn't fill in the details.

Now she gazed at the crystal vase filled with tulips and thought she was being ridiculous. He would arrive any minute and they would fall into bed. After they made love, they would order room service Cobb salad and talk about her Vera Wang wedding dress and the Tiffany favors.

There was a knock at the door and she answered it.

“God, I'm sorry I missed your plane! I can't believe I forgot what time it arrived.” Rory entered the room and kissed her. “I've been in Carmel and thought today was Sunday.” He stopped and smiled. “Don't you remember during the summer when every day felt like a weekend?”

Isabel wanted to say it wasn't summer; it was almost Thanksgiving. If you looked out the window at men and women carrying leather briefcases, you would know it wasn't the weekend. But his blond hair flopped over his forehead and his cheeks glistened with aftershave and a tingle ran down her spine.

“What were you doing in Carmel?” she asked.

“Teaching golf at a charity event.” He walked to the minibar and opened a bag of M&M's. “It was at an estate on Seventeen Mile Drive with its own helicopter pad and views of the Pacific.”

“That's interesting,” Isabel said and stopped. What did it matter what Rory did as long as he did something?

“I was a championship golfer in high school. I'm still writing society pieces too.” He shrugged. “A lot of people in San Francisco have two jobs. They work at a start-up where no one takes a salary and everyone eats microwave popcorn for lunch. At night they park cars at Gary Danko's and go home with a wad of hundred-dollar bills and leftover prime rib.”

“I just thought…”

“That I had been sowing my oats and I'd settle down and choose a career?”

She looked out the window at the silver stretch of Bay Bridge and decided she hadn't flown across the country to argue about how Rory filled his days. She turned to him and smiled.

“That you would discover something you were passionate about.”

He tossed the wrapper in the garbage and kissed her. She kissed him back and wrapped her arms around his chest.

“God, I've missed you,” he whispered. “What were we thinking, being apart?”

He pulled her sweater over her shoulders and unsnapped her bra. She stood in her silk panties and thought she had been waiting for this moment for months.

He drew her onto the bed and buried his face in her breasts. She inhaled his citrus aftershave and thought everything was going to be all right. He would kiss her nipples and stroke her thighs and her body would dissolve in endless ripples.

But suddenly he opened her legs and plunged inside her. His breathing was ragged and his chest was slick with sweat. He called out her name and came in one long, frantic thrust.

Isabel stood up and walked to the window. The first time you made love after being apart was always rushed. It was like eating a chocolate-dipped ice cream cone on a hot day. The vanilla ice cream was delicious, but you had to eat it quickly so the chocolate coating didn't melt, and you couldn't enjoy it at all.

In the morning they'd wake up and have long, leisurely sex. The Fairmont would pack a picnic lunch of sourdough bread and local cheeses. They'd hike to Coit Tower and watch the sailboats on the bay.

She climbed into bed and pulled the sheets over her shoulders. Her skin was damp from the sex and central heating, but she still felt a slight chill.

*   *   *

ALL WEEK THINGS
were slightly off. Rory purchased tickets to
Kinky Boots
at the American Conservatory, but she had already seen it. She bought him the latest John Irving novel, but he had just finished it. When they made love, Isabel felt like she had a cold she couldn't get rid of. The sensations were there, but she couldn't quite feel them.

On the last day, she sat at Enrico's on Columbus Avenue in North Beach. She adored North Beach, with its Italian restaurants and gelato stands and City Lights bookstore. The weather had turned cold, and she huddled over a bowl of clam chowder and a sourdough baguette.

“I'm sorry I'm late.” Rory approached the table and kissed her. “My roommate wanted to discuss something and I lost track of time.”

Isabel wondered how she'd never before noticed Rory was so often late. But she pictured the glorious summer of lying by the pool and making love in the guesthouse and realized they never had to be anywhere then.

“Was it something important?” she asked.

“He offered me a job at the start-up, managing their blog.” He sat opposite her. “They received a second round of funding and created some new jobs. I'd have my own office and stock options and season tickets to the Giants.”

“That sounds wonderful,” Isabel replied, wondering why there was a pit in her stomach.

“I turned him down, I don't want to stay in San Francisco. The buildings are all white and there are too many flowers.” He smiled. “Cities should be gritty and crowded and have plenty of history.”