Christmas in Paris (24 page)

“I'm sure you know what you're doing.” Alec nodded.

“I can't stop thinking that Antoine might propose.” She sighed and ate a vegetable tart. “It will be like a scene in one of those impossibly romantic French movies. We'll be sitting at a table on the barge, gliding past the Cathedral of Notre Dame. It will be so intimate with the stone spires lit up like the tallest Christmas tree. A violin will play and we'll nibble coq au vin.” She paused. “Antoine will sip his wine and I'll say many people don't believe in love at first sight, but it makes perfect sense because really love is impossible to explain. It's like a sudden rain shower from an almost blue sky. You don't expect it and there's nothing you can do about it.” She gazed at the rosebushes. “But look at all the wonderful things it brings, you wouldn't want it to go away.

“Then I'll say the best thing about love is the way it makes you feel about yourself.” She sprinkled salt on a hard-boiled egg. “You wake up every morning and you're exactly who you want to be. Because you're in love with the most wonderful man and he's in love with you.”

Alec tried to swallow a piece of cheese, but it got stuck in his throat. He opened a bottle of Coca-Cola and drank it quickly.

“What do you think?” She brushed crumbs from her slacks.

“What do I think about what?” he asked.

“Do you think Antoine will propose?”

He gulped the soft drink and wiped his mouth. He looked at Isabel and nodded. “Of course, he'll propose. He'd be a fool not to.”

*   *   *

THEY LEFT RENOIR'S
garden and visited Saint-Pierre de Montmartre and the Salvador Dalí museum. Finally they took the metro back to the Hôtel de Crillon and crossed the marble lobby to the elevator.

Alec was silent the whole way, trying to think of what to say. It had been a perfect afternoon; even the gray skies gave way to blue skies and high clouds. And he was sure there was a connection; they were two spark plugs waiting to ignite.

“Thank you for showing me Paris,” Isabel said when the elevator reached the fifth floor. “I had a wonderful time. I'm going to take a bath, I can't be late for the cruise.”

“Isabel…,” Alec began. All he had to do was say he was falling in love with her, and to give him a chance. But he couldn't do that without telling her the whole truth, and that would ruin everything.

“Yes?” She turned around.

“Make sure you dress warmly, it's cold on the Seine at night,” he said finally. “And good luck, it will all work out.”

“I don't need luck. I'm in Paris at Christmas and a handsome
comte
is going to propose,” she said and her eyes were bright. “What more could I want?”

*   *   *

ALEC WALKED TO
the bar in the suite and poured a glass of scotch. It was too early for a drink, but what did it matter. All he had to look forward to was imagining Isabel eating smoked salmon and drinking French champagne on a barge.

He couldn't give up now; he had to win her over. But then he thought about how she was going to get Antoine to propose. Isabel was like a guided missile; nothing would make her change direction.

He glanced at a sketch of Gus wearing an eye patch and holding a bow and arrow. He tried to remember what he was going to draw next, but his mind was blank. He crumpled the paper and drained his glass.

 

chapter fourteen

Isabel stood at her closet and gazed at the pink tulle gown. She found it at Le Bon Marché and it was perfect for the cruise on the Seine. It was early evening and she was meeting Antoine in two hours. She slipped on a cashmere sweater and wondered why she suddenly felt chilled.

Ever since she returned from Montmartre, she had felt slightly strange. She wanted to read a paperback book, but she had left it on the metro. All the magazines in the suite were in French and she didn't feel like battling pronouns. And when she went to pour a cup of hot cocoa, the silver pot was empty.

Now she glanced at the brochure on the Catacombs and pictured throwing her arms around Alec's neck. He took her hand and led her into Renoir's garden. They sat on the bench eating berries and whipped cream, and she never wanted to be anywhere else.

Suddenly she caught her breath. She couldn't be falling in love with Alec! But she remembered him finding her glass bracelet at Versailles and appeasing the artist in the Place des Abbesses. He always seemed to appear when she needed him, and there was something about him that made her feel secure. Like when you were sitting inside during a snowstorm and didn't have to worry about catching cold.

She thought about the first time she saw Rory at Saks. His blond hair curled around his ears and his eyes were the color of emeralds. And Neil was so handsome in his Ralph Lauren suits. He was well educated and confident and was going straight to the top.

She had been certain Rory was the love of her life, and their romance fizzled like an expired aspirin. And Neil gave up his stock options and 401(k) plan without asking her opinion. If she was wrong about Alec, she would be back where she started.

Everything that had happened since she arrived in Paris was magical. The woman at Le Printemps who picked out the satin ball gown and the man at Shakespeare and Company who found the book on French aristocracy and the store in the Marais where she discovered the Hermès bag for her mother. She would be breaking the spell if she ignored the fortune-teller's predictions.

Antoine was handsome and charming, and when she was with him she almost felt French. Tonight he would propose and her whole life would be like a sparkly Christmas ornament. There would be elegant dinner dances and summers on the French Riviera.

She knew the fortune-teller was right; it was like watching Google stock surge and knowing she had predicted it all along. But why did she keep thinking about Alec when she should be choosing a lipstick?

And Alec was still getting over Celine. Even if he developed feelings for her, he might not want to get married for years. How could she give up becoming Comtesse de Villoy with a château and two towheaded children for someone who was allergic to love? The fortune-teller said she was going to fall in love and marry a French aristocrat, and that's what she was going to do.

The fortune-teller! Maybe she had meant something else. She had to see her and make certain she was following her instructions. She wouldn't ask anything specific, like was she sure she was going to marry a French aristocrat and not a man whose mother was British and father was French and who drew illustrations of a cocker spaniel named Gus.

She would just ask her to repeat her prediction to be certain she had heard her correctly. It had been noisy, with taxis honking and bells ringing and children demanding nougat.

She wrapped her scarf around her neck and wondered why she hadn't thought of it sooner.

“I will do whatever the fortune-teller says,” she said, opening the door and hurrying to the elevator.

*   *   *

ISABEL STROLLED ALONG
the Champs-Élysées and admired the twinkling lights. There was the wooden chalet where Alec had bought a bag of gumdrops and the stall selling glass ornaments. She searched for the fortune-teller and her stomach rose to her throat.

Why did she think the fortune-teller would still be here? She was a gypsy; she could be at the Christmas markets at the Place du Trocadéro or have moved on to Vincennes.

A thick fog settled over the Place de la Concorde, and she wrapped her arms around her chest. She bought a cup of hot apple cider and bag of Pont Neuf fries and sat on a wooden bench.

She had a business degree from Wharton and was a respected financial analyst; she couldn't panic because a woman in a patterned scarf and felt coat had disappeared. But if she couldn't find her, how would she know whether she was supposed to marry Antoine?

The fries with béarnaise sauce looked delicious, but now she couldn't eat a bite. Tonight was the most important night of her life and she didn't want to get it wrong.

A little girl sat on the next bench clutching a doll. She had dark hair and wore a corduroy smock.

“
Voudriez-vous mes frites?
” Isabel asked.

“Yes, please,” the girl said in accented English. “You are a very pretty American.”

“How did you know I'm American?” Isabel asked, joining her on the bench.

The girl popped a French fry in her mouth and shrugged. “Because your accent is terrible.”

“When I studied in Paris, I was almost fluent, but now I am a little rusty,” Isabel laughed. “Where did you learn English?”

“My mother says it's important to be able to talk to tourists,” the girl explained. “Especially Americans, they always have extra chocolate drops.”

“We tend to buy more than we need,” Isabel said and smiled. “That's a pretty doll.”

“My mother said if my brother and I were good, Santa Claus would bring us presents,” she replied. “I didn't believe her—Santa Claus has never visited us before. But on Christmas night he left this doll and a racing car for my brother!”

“You are very lucky.” Isabel paused. “Is your mother here? You're too young to be alone.”

“My mother is working. She reads people's palms and they give her money.”

“What did you say?” Isabel gasped.

She remembered the fortune-teller saying she couldn't afford Christmas presents for her children.

“She reads people's palms,” the girl repeated. “She sent me to buy dinner. I had a bag of warm chestnuts and a candied apple.”

“I would love her to read my palm.” Isabel's face broke into a smile. “Could you show me where she is?”

They crossed the Place de la Concorde and Isabel saw a dark-haired woman wearing a felt coat and velvet slippers.

“I'm glad I found you, I thought you disappeared.” She approached her. “I met a little girl and we struck up a conversation.” She stopped and her eyes sparkled. “She said her mother was a fortune-teller and I knew it was you.”

“I'm sorry, I meet so many people.” The woman shrugged.

“You said I would receive a gift and almost get killed.” Isabel reached into her pocket and took out a twenty-euro note. “You made one more prediction and I have to make sure I heard you correctly. It's going to decide my whole future, it's the most important thing in the world.”

“Ah, yes, the pretty American.” She put the note in her pocket.

“I knew you wouldn't forget.” Isabel beamed. “You said I was going to fall in love with a French aristocrat and get married at an elegant château.”

“Let me see your hand,” the woman took her palm. “You have been busy. I see new clothes and dinners at intimate bistros.”

“Paris at Christmas is everything I dreamed of,” Isabel sighed. “The department stores are decorated like a six-tier wedding cake, and I could spend all day eating escargot at an outdoor café.”

“There is more,” the fortune-teller interrupted. “You met a man and you are falling in love.”

“Antoine is a
comte
and we met at the Red Cross charity ball. Tonight we're taking a dinner cruise on the Seine and I think he's going to propose.” She paused and her eyes were huge. “But what if I'm in love with the wrong man?”

The fortune-teller turned over her hand. “There will be obstacles in the path and a sudden change in direction.”

“There will?” Isabel asked.

“But in the end you will marry the French aristocrat.” She dropped Isabel's palm. “I see a mansion and three beautiful children.”

“You see, I met someone else, but he's not an aristocrat at all. He lives in a fifth-floor walk-up in the Marais and draws illustrations for children's books.” She bit her lip. “So it was very important I see you again. Everything else you predicted came true and I know you are right about the man I'm going to marry.”

“If you follow my instructions you will have a life filled with happiness,” the woman replied. “For another twenty euros I can tell you the sexes of your children.”

“I'd like it to be a surprise,” Isabel said and laughed. “Though I never imagined I'd have three!”

*   *   *

ISABEL SAT AT
her dressing table and had never been so excited. She imagined all the monuments they would see from the boat: Napoleon's tomb and the Île de la Cité and Pont Alexandre III lit up with gold and silver lights. She couldn't wait to eat lamb semolina and cooked cherries with pistachio ice cream for dessert.

Antoine had sent a bouquet of pink roses with a card saying he was eager to see her. She debated showing them to Alec and changed her mind. She'd tell him all about the cruise when she returned to the Hôtel de Crillon.

She was so glad she had visited the fortune-teller. Antoine might be part of the French aristocracy, but Isabel had grown up on the Main Line with some of America's oldest families. They both attended debutante balls and loved fine wines.

His boarding school friends seemed so sophisticated and spent their time flitting between ski resorts, but she had studied at the Sorbonne and skied in Vermont. She'd brush up on her French and buy a few chic sweaters and pairs of boots.

She remembered the picnic in Renoir's garden with Alec, and something caught in her throat. It had been nothing. She was nervous about Antoine, and Alec was there at the right time. Alec thought of her as a friend anyway; he had no interest in love.

She rubbed her lips with red lipstick and spritzed her wrists with floral perfume. She grabbed her satin clutch and closed the door behind her.

*   *   *

ISABEL STOOD AT
the base of the Eiffel Tower and gazed up at blue and gold lights. The postcards didn't do it justice. It really was spectacular, with its wide arches and iron latticework reaching up to the sky.