Christmas in Paris (3 page)

“Gus can do anything.” He studied the paper. “But you're right, I wouldn't want him getting stung by a stingray. I'll send him to Ayers Rock to play the didgeridoo.”

“Alec Braxton.” Isabel had noticed the scrawled signature at the bottom of the page. “I didn't know your last name. Are you famous?”

“I have my share of Twitter followers and Facebook fans.” He shrugged. “Gus pays for a fifth-floor walk-up in the fourth arrondissement and an annual pass to the Musée Picasso. But he will never get me a table at Le Meurice or a charge card at Le Bon Marché.” He drew back the silk drapes. “But I couldn't imagine doing anything else. Drawing is as necessary as breathing.”

“That's how I feel about being an analyst.” Isabel placed the sketch on the mahogany dining room table. “When I turned fourteen my friends gave me sweaters and lipsticks, but all I wanted was a calculator with more functions than an airplane cockpit. I've always found numbers so comforting.”

“Comforting!” Alec exclaimed. “That's the strangest thing I've ever heard.”

“It isn't when you think about it. You can always count on the square root of nine being three and the diameter of a circle being twice its radius.” She stopped and her brown eyes flickered. “It's other things that are complicated: when you think you know someone and all of a sudden they behave like a complete stranger. Or when you are so happy you are as light as a balloon and the next minute everything seems as dark as the Bastille.”

“I can't discuss philosophy on an empty stomach.” Alec unscrewed a jar of raspberry jam. He spread it on a water cracker and took a small bite. “Would you like some?”

“You're eating raspberry jam and crackers for lunch?'” Isabel asked.

“The suite doesn't come with meals,” he explained. “I could go out, but the Hôtel de Crillon occupies the most expensive real estate in Paris. The cafés on the Champs-Élysées charge ten euros for a soft-boiled egg.”

“I'll buy you lunch. My boss said I must try Fouquet's.” She paused. “If it wasn't for you, I'd still be trapped on the balcony.”

Alec gazed at her glossy dark hair and brown eyes and wide pink mouth. He saw her slender neck and small waist and long legs.

“I'm sure someone would have rescued you, but why not?” He shrugged. “A ham-and-cheese omelet and black coffee sounds delicious.”

*   *   *

THEY TOOK THE
elevator to the lobby, and Isabel thought she had never been anywhere so beautiful. The gold-flecked marble floor was scattered with ivory silk sofas and glass coffee tables holding Lalique crystal vases. A white Christmas tree almost reached the ceiling, and boxes wrapped in silver and gold tissue paper spilled onto the Persian rugs. Bellboys carried Louis Vuitton suitcases, and a woman in a mink jacket hugged a small dog in a cashmere sweater.

Isabel inhaled the scent of French perfume and hot cocoa and suddenly was so glad she was in Paris. She followed Alec down the marble steps, and they turned onto the Champs-Élysées. She gazed at the Arc de Triomphe on one end and the narrow Luxor Obelisk on the other and caught her breath. Everywhere she looked there were boutiques with green awnings and cafés with red umbrellas and window boxes filled with poinsettias.

They passed Chanel with its gold logo and Dior with its glittering evening gowns, and Isabel thought it was the most elegant street in the world. Women wore narrow knee-high boots and cashmere coats. Their hair was pulled into tight chignons, and they carried bright leather handbags.

“The last time I was in Paris it was so hot I spent all my time at the Louvre.” Isabel gazed at a patisserie window filled with trays of vanilla custards. “It was the only place you could stay cool all day for the price of a museum ticket.”

“Paris is like a fickle woman, she's either unbearably hot or intolerably cold,” Alec mused. “When I was a child, my mother took me to the Centre Pompidou during the winter holidays. I thought she was interested in modern art, but she didn't know what to do with a boy in the rain.”

“You grew up in Paris?” Isabel asked.

“My mother is British and married a Frenchman. I've lived in Paris most of my life.” He nodded. “I attended a few different lycées. I'd turn in my science test with doodles of Gus in the margin and the headmaster would call my mother to discuss my future.” He smiled. “My mother would knock on my door with a defeated expression and a list of schools that were a better fit.”

“You seem to have turned out fine,” Isabel laughed.

“My sister's boyfriend is a neurosurgeon.” He shrugged. “I suppose I could have achieved more.”

“What does your sister do?” she asked.

Alec's eyes were suddenly dark and he stuffed his hands in his pockets.

“Let's get something to eat.” He stopped in front of a café. “The smell of garlic and butter is making my stomach ache.”

*   *   *

LE FOUQUET'S HAD
red-and-gold awnings and double glass front doors and waiters wearing white dinner jackets. They sat on the patio, and Isabel glanced at the wide plates of veal flanks and silver baskets of fresh baguettes and realized she was starving.

“Fouquet's has been here for more than a hundred years,” Alec said. “Charlie Chaplin used to drink schnapps at the bar and Marlene Dietrich was a regular and Jackie Onassis adored the bourbon vanilla ice cream.” He put down the menu. “Are you sure you don't want to eat somewhere else? I'd be happy with a warm pretzel from a food stand.”

Isabel glanced at the prices and felt a bit dizzy. But then she pictured the Stuart Weitzman satin pumps she'd returned to Bloomingdale's and the Vera Wang dress that was at a designer consignment store and straightened her shoulders. She was a well-paid analyst at one of the biggest banks in America; she could afford an overpriced platter of escargots.

“Order whatever you like.” She looked at Alec and her eyes sparkled. “This afternoon we'll be like Marie Antoinette and just eat cake.”

*   *   *

“SO TELL ME
about you,” Alec said after they ordered lobster bisque and sides of roasted yams. “What should I know besides the fact you have very good aim and excellent taste in shoes?”

“My father loves baseball, so we attended a lot of Phillies games.” Isabel blushed. “I had the most wonderful childhood: skiing in the Adirondacks and horseback riding on my grandparents' farm. I attended an all-girls high school and went to Bryn Mawr—”

“You attended an all-girls school?” Alec interrupted, buttering a baguette.

“What's wrong with that?” Isabel bristled. “Agnes Irwin is a wonderful school and I had so many opportunities. I was president of the math club and a Future Business Leader of America.”

“I'm sure it taught you calculus and physics.” He looked at Isabel thoughtfully. “But you've had two failed engagements, so maybe it didn't teach you about men.”

“Why should you have to learn how to fall in love? It's the most natural thing in the world,” Isabel protested. “Babies need their mothers and schoolchildren form crushes on their teachers and old people have deep bonds with their pets.”

“For love to work, two people have to want the same thing at the same time.” Alec leaned back in his chair. “I've discovered that's as likely as a man landing on Jupiter.”

“I'm sure I'll get it right next time.” She nibbled a breadstick and her eyes were huge. “I love my career, but one can't live without love.”

*   *   *

THEY ATE RICOTTA
crepes with raspberry sauce for dessert and strolled along the Champs-Élysées. The sky was pale blue and the clouds were bright white and Isabel felt a tingle of excitement. The store windows were draped in red bows and filled with little black dresses and strands of pearls and quilted satin evening bags.

They entered the Place de la Concorde, and Isabel saw the giant Christmas tree and wooden chalets lining the square. There were stalls selling gingerbread houses and sausages and jars of fresh preserves. She saw booths with Chinese slippers and glass necklaces.

“Would you like your fortune read?” a woman asked. She had dark hair and wore a patterned scarf and a red felt coat.

“No, thank you.” Isabel shook her head. “I'm just admiring the pretty necklaces.”

“It only costs twenty euros,” the woman insisted.

“I'm sorry, I'm afraid I don't have time.” Isabel moved away, suddenly nervous.

She and Alec paused at the next booth, and she felt someone tugging her arm. She turned around and saw the fortune-teller rubbing her hands.

“Please, I have two children and can't afford to buy them Christmas presents,” she implored. “They see racing cars and dolls in shop windows and beg for something to unwrap.”

Isabel opened her purse and took out a twenty-euro note.

“Please take it.” She handed it to the woman. “And tell your children, Merry Christmas.”

“I cannot accept charity,” the woman protested. “I must read your fortune.”

Isabel searched for Alec, but he was standing at the next stall, studying a selection of colored pens.

“All right, I suppose I have a few minutes.” She held out her hand. “What do you see?”

The woman turned over her hand and studied her palm. She glanced up at Isabel and then traced the tips of her fingers.

“You have an important job at a large company,” she began. “You'll get a promotion and have an office with floor-to-ceiling windows and a glass desk. I see a shiny gift in your near future.” She looked up. “Something bright and sparkly. It will not be expensive, but it will come to have great value.”

“That sounds delightful,” Isabel laughed. “Thank you, you've made me happy.”

“Wait, there's more,” the fortune-teller interrupted. “You will fall in love with a French aristocrat and get married in an elegant château.” She leaned forward and grabbed Isabel's wrist. “But there is one short line in the middle of your hand. You must be careful. You will narrowly miss being killed.”

Isabel jumped as if she had been stung by a bee. She turned and saw Alec standing in front of a wooden chalet filled with gumdrops and candy canes. “I really have to go, I'll lose my friend.”

“Now I have earned the money.” The fortune-teller tucked the twenty-euro note in her pocket. “Be careful and listen to what I said.”

*   *   *

“IT'S A WONDER
Parisians have decent teeth,” Alec said when she approached the booth. “There's enough sugar here to solve the national deficit in a third world country.”

“The ricotta crepes with raspberry sauce were delicious.” Isabel smiled. “But I couldn't eat another bite.”

She turned and caught sight of the fortune-teller and felt a slight chill. But that was ridiculous; nothing she said could possibly come true. She was an ordinary woman wearing a patterned scarf and felt coat.

“I've always loved magicians,” Isabel exclaimed, walking to the next booth, where a magician was putting on a show. “My mother hired a magician for my fifth birthday party and he made me levitate on a magic carpet.”

“I once saw a magician in the Marais turn a dog into a monkey,” Alec said, joining her.

“That sounds impressive,” Isabel said.

“Not to the owner of the dog,” Alec mused. “He wanted his dachshund back.”

The magician reached into his sleeve and pulled out a brightly colored bracelet. He placed three cones on a table and searched the crowd.

“Mademoiselle will guess which cone the bracelet is under.” He pointed to Isabel. “If you are correct, the priceless bracelet is yours.”

“I don't think so.” Isabel blushed. “Pick someone else.”

“You are a beautiful woman with special powers,” he said in accented English.

Isabel hesitated and her shoulders relaxed. It was Christmas and she was in Paris—why shouldn't she do what the magician asked?

“All right.” She pointed to the red cone. “I choose that one.”

“I'm sorry, that's not the one.” He revealed the empty cone. “For five euros you can choose again.”

“No, thank you.” Isabel laughed. “The bracelet is lovely, but I can't afford it.”

“Here.” Alec reached into his pocket and handed the magician a five-euro note.

Isabel studied the two remaining cones and chose the blue one.

“The bracelet is yours.” The magician removed the cone and bowed. “Merry Christmas.”

“Why did you do that?” Isabel asked as they walked toward the curb. “If I picked the wrong cone, you would have paid five euros for nothing.”

“He wouldn't let you choose the wrong one.” Alec ate a gumdrop. “Then the other tourists would leave. Now everyone wants a chance, they're determined to win on the first try.”

“It is lovely, thank you.” Isabel glanced at the pink-and-blue bracelet and suddenly her cheeks were pale.

“I'm feeling a little light-headed,” she stammered. “Do you mind if we go back to the Crillon?”

“Did you sample a bad piece of cheese?” Alec studied her pale cheeks. “You look a little green.”

“I'll be fine,” she wavered. “I'd like to lie down in my suite.”

“That doesn't sound like the girl who threw her Ferragamo pumps at my balcony and insisted her first meal in Paris be at the most famous café on the Champs-Élysées.” Alec frowned. “Did your ex-fiancé text and ask where you keep the instant oatmeal? It's hard to forget someone when his name keeps popping up on your phone.”

“It's nothing like that.” Isabel blushed. “A fortune-teller insisted on reading my fortune. She said I would receive a sparkling gift that had little real value.”

“Surely you don't believe that stuff,” he said. “Fortune-tellers in Paris will do anything to separate tourists from ten euros. You should have told me, she was probably in cahoots with the magician.”