Christmas in Paris (2 page)

“At Christmas the barges are decorated with colored lights and it's like watching a thousand fireflies,” Isabel mused.

“You should use the plane ticket and stay in the suite at the Hôtel de Crillon,” Neil suggested. “It's too late to cancel and it would be a pity for an eight-hundred-foot suite with a private butler and view of the Champs-Élysées to go to waste.”

“You want me to go Paris by myself?” Isabel felt the room tilt as if she had drunk a glass of champagne too quickly.

“We have tickets to
Swan Lake
at Opéra de Paris, and you can see the Christmas displays at the Galeries Lafayette.” Neil paused. “When you come back it will be the new year and all this will be behind us.”

Isabel thought of her mother's suggestion to go to St. Bart's and wondered why everyone thought a change of scenery would make the last ten months disappear.

But Paris! Isabel had spent a semester studying at the Sorbonne and loved everything about the vintage boutiques on the Left Bank and Le Bon Marché with its windows filled with impossibly chic dresses and pumps.

At the end of the semester she came home and mooned around her parents' house, wishing she could run down to a patisserie and buy an almond croissant and a copy of
Le Monde
. But she got accepted to Wharton business school and then landed a job at JPMorgan Chase. She couldn't take more than a long Thanksgiving weekend or an extra day off at Christmas if she wanted to be a senior analyst by the age of thirty.

But now her boss didn't expect her back until January and she didn't want to drink crème de cassis and nibble canapés at the Ritz or watch the New Year's Eve fireworks over Sugarhouse Casino alone.

“That's a wonderful idea.” Isabel gripped the phone. “I'll go.”

“Your Coach suitcase is in the hall closet and the ballet tickets are with our passports.” Neil paused. “One more thing.”

“What is it?” Isabel closed her eyes and thought Neil would say of course he wasn't going to quit Bell and Logan and they wouldn't live on the farm; they both had too much invested in their careers. Peach sorbet sounded delicious, and they could ask the pastry chef to use more cream in the filling.

“Send me a postcard,” Neil said. “I've always wanted to see the Arc de Triomphe decorated for the holidays.”

*   *   *

ISABEL GAZED AT
the bright lights of the Champs-Élysées and thought it didn't matter how she had arrived in Paris; she was glad she was here. She was going to ice-skate at the Hôtel de Ville and sip vichyssoise in the dining room at the George V. She'd buy a crepe evening dress at Givenchy and a bottle of French perfume from one of those dazzling salesgirls at Le Printemps.

The fog settled on her shoulders and suddenly she longed to climb into bed. She pictured the master bedroom with its canopied bed and blue velvet wallpaper and original Degas above the fireplace. The bathroom had a pedestal tub and gold lacquered dressing table and pink-and-gray marble floors.

She turned the handle on the French doors and grimaced. She peered through the glass and saw her phone tossed on the cream damask love seat. She had locked herself out and there was no way to call for help.

“Well, that's a fine way to start the vacation,” she said aloud. “Freeze to death on the balcony of the Hôtel de Crillon.”

She considered shouting, but she was too high up and the valets in their gold uniforms and pointed red hats wouldn't hear her. She noticed the light on in the neighboring suite and wondered if anyone would come outside. But it was almost midnight and the guests were probably asleep under embroidered silk sheets.

Why hadn't she checked the door handle before she stepped outside? And why wasn't there a key in the lock? Surely other visitors rushed out to admire the sights of Paris.

She wrapped her arms around her chest and wished she had worn a cashmere sweater and a pair of boots. But she had deliberately chosen the outfit she purchased for their honeymoon: a red Nina Ricci dress and a pair of ivory pumps.

Suddenly she had an idea. She took off a pump and cradled it in her palm. She aimed at the adjoining suite and tossed it on the balcony. She waited, but there was no movement behind the silk drapes. She took off the other shoe and threw it squarely at the French doors.

The lights flickered and a man appeared on the balcony. He was in his early thirties with dark hair and narrow cheekbones. He wore a long blue robe and felt slippers.

“If you're having a party, please take it inside.” He rubbed his eyes. “I was fast asleep and dreaming about girls in grass skirts serving me frosty drinks on a desert island.”

“I'm not having a party and I can't go inside. I stepped out to admire the lights in the Place de la Concorde and locked myself out. I threw my shoe on your balcony to see if someone would help me.” Isabel rubbed her hands.

“You threw your Ferragamos on purpose?” He picked up one of the shoes.

“I would hate to ruin them, but I can't wear them if I have frostbite on my toes.” She tucked her hair behind her ears. “How did you know they are Ferragamos?”

“My fiancée has the same shoe in three colors.” He turned the shoe over. “She bought me a pair of Ferragamos for my birthday, but I refuse to wear loafers that cost more than a month's rent.”

“I hope I didn't wake her,” Isabel replied.

The man stuffed his hands in his pockets and his brow furrowed.

“That would be difficult. Two days ago she ran off to Melbourne with an Australian cricket player.”

“That sounds terrible, but could we discuss this inside?” Isabel shivered. “My eyelashes are frozen and I can't feel my fingertips.”

“I'm afraid I have a healthy fear of heights.” He peered down at the yellow taxis lining the boulevard. “But I'll call housekeeping and they'll let you in.”

*   *   *

ISABEL SAT ON
the brocade sofa and tried to stop her hands from shaking. Housekeeping had opened the door, and the man insisted on visiting her suite and heating up two brandy snifters.

“Thank you, I do feel better, I didn't realize how cold it was, I was so excited to finally be in Paris.” She sipped the gold liquor. “Do you always dream about girls in grass skirts?”

“I was drawing a picture before I went to bed,” the man explained. “I'm a children's book illustrator. I always dream about what I sketch right before I fall asleep. That's why I never draw trolls or witches except in broad daylight.”

“That sounds sensible.” Isabel nodded. “Sometimes I keep a journal, but I never write anything sad at night. It's like the old saying ‘Never go to bed angry.' Even if I'm sleeping alone, I want to feel warm and happy when I climb under the covers.”

He perched on a velvet love seat and gazed at the crystal chandeliers and blue silk drapes and Regency desk. The suite had gold inlaid double doors and thick white carpet and a dining room table set with silver candelabras. There was a marble sideboard with a silver coffeepot and porcelain demitasses.

“I thought all the suites on the fifth floor were honeymoon suites.” He glanced at Isabel's single Coach suitcase and the pile of paperback books on an end table.

“I was supposed to be here on my honeymoon,” Isabel explained. “But four days ago the wedding was canceled.”

“There seems to be an epidemic.” He scooped up a handful of pistachios. “Did your fiancé run off with a female soccer player?”

“Nothing like that…” Isabel hesitated. “Neil thought the vanilla buttercream filling was too dry.”

“A delicious wedding cake is the first thing guests remember about the reception,” he agreed. “But surely you could have compromised: serve each slice with a spoonful of chocolate ice cream?”

“There were other things.” Isabel fiddled with her gold necklace. “He wanted to take over his grandparents' farm, when we'd both spent years building our careers.”

“That's more like it.” He shrugged. “I would hate to think he passed up a suite at the Hôtel de Crillon because of the lack of whole cream.”

“It was my idea to call off the wedding, we seemed to fight about everything.” Isabel sighed. “My parents have lived at the same address for thirty years. I always thought I'd get married and have two curly-haired children and a golden retriever. We'd live in a big house on the Main Line with a vegetable garden and a swimming pool.

“I'd hire a nanny, because I love my career. But on the weekends, we'd attend Phillies games and visit the natural history museum and Independence Hall.”

“Have you already picked out your children's names and filled out their college applications?” He raised his eyebrows. “I've read Americans sign their children up for kindergarten while they're in the womb.”

“I'm a financial analyst, I'm paid to think ahead,” she said. “I'm very good at what I do, I just can't seem to get marriage right.”

“I thought Celine and I were perfect for each other. We both love skiing and eating dark chocolate.” He rubbed his forehead. “But she took one look at Patrick in his white cricket shirt and white slacks and couldn't help herself. She was like a cat with a pitcher of cream, she had to have him.”

“You must be terribly upset.” Isabel fiddled with her brandy snifter.

“The first night I drank a bottle of scotch and watched classic romantic movies on cable,” he replied. “But then I started drawing. Have you ever heard of Gus the Cocker Spaniel?”

“The only children's books I know are the Madeline books and Harry Potter.” Isabel shook her head.

“When I was a child I wanted a cocker spaniel, but my sister was allergic to dogs,” he began. “I drew a cocker spaniel with fluffy ears and fur as soft as a mink coat. Then I sent him off on adventures: to the Nile to discover the pyramids, or the Amazon to hack through rainforests. Whenever I did poorly on a test or my sister threatened to tell our mother I ate the whole basket of cherries, I ran to my room and drew Gus.” His face broke into a small smile. “Today I drew Gus hurling a ball at a man wearing cricket whites.”

“Why are you at the Crillon alone?” Isabel asked.

“My would-be father-in-law gave us the suite as a wedding present, and we decided to use it before the wedding.” He paused. “I feel terrible for Leon, he paid for the reception at the George Cinq and a classic Aston Martin. I told Celine I was perfectly happy having a luncheon of cream of potato soup and fresh baguettes, and then renting a Mini Cooper to drive to Avignon.” He ran his hands over a crystal ashtray. “Celine has very expensive taste. She brushes her teeth with Evian water and wears a diamond pendant to bed.”

“It doesn't sound like you had a lot in common.” Isabel studied his worn slippers and plaid pajama bottoms.

“She has eyes like sapphires and is excellent at backgammon,” he mused. “And she has a wicked sense of humor. You can fall in love for all sorts of reasons, but it's wonderful to be with someone who makes you laugh.”

“Rory and I used to laugh about everything,” Isabel agreed. “But eventually you have to get serious. Life isn't a
Saturday Night Live
skit.”

“I thought you said your fiancé's name was Neil.”

“I was engaged before, I told you I'm hopeless at love.” She walked to the bedroom door. “Thank you for rescuing me, but I'm very tired. Do you mind if I go to bed.”

“Of course, but you might want to wait until I leave?” He grinned. “We don't want the maids whispering.”

Isabel selected a hazelnut truffle from the silver tray and popped it in her mouth. She gazed at the porcelain vases filled with pink roses and the eighteenth-century tapestry lining the walls and felt her heart lift.

“That's a very good idea.” Her face lit up in a smile. “I'm Isabel, it's a pleasure to meet you.”

“I'm Alec,” he replied. “And the pleasure is mine.”

 

chapter two

Isabel sat at the Regency desk and studied the embossed menu. Everything sounded delicious: the egg-white omelet with tomato and basil, the muesli with fresh fruit compote, the semi-skimmed milk and warm brioche.

But it was already late morning and she didn't want to wait for the maids to bring the room service table with its white linen tablecloth and selection of pastries and teas. She didn't want to stand at the window sipping café au lait when she could be strolling along the Champs-Élysées and inhaling the scent of French perfume and buttery croissants.

She glanced at her red Nina Ricci dress hanging in the closet and her ivory pumps resting on the Oriental rug and shuddered. If it wasn't for her neighbor, she might still be stranded on the balcony. She pulled a sheet of writing paper out of the desk and thought she'd scribble a thank-you. She found a pen and suddenly realized she didn't know his last name.

She folded the paper and put the lid back on the pen. She slipped on a pair of wool slacks and a cashmere sweater. She grabbed her purse and then thought she had a better idea.

*   *   *

“ISN'T IT A
little early to make social calls?” the man asked when she knocked on the door.

“It's almost noon.” Isabel entered the suite. It had wide columns and a gold inlaid ceiling. A harpsichord stood in one corner and crystal vases were filled with yellow tulips.

“Is it really? I couldn't sleep, so I started drawing,” he groaned. “Then I couldn't stop drawing and didn't get any sleep.”

“This is very good.” Isabel picked up a sketch of a cocker spaniel wearing boxing gloves and fighting a kangaroo.

“Do you like it?” He rubbed his chin. “I thought if Gus went to Australia he should have other adventures: rappelling off the Sydney Harbour Bridge and scuba diving in the Great Barrier Reef.”

“I didn't know cocker spaniels could swim.” Isabel frowned.