Christmas in Paris (7 page)

“We wouldn't have lived there, I would never make my mother leave.” Alec shook his head. “Celine's father gave her the flat on the Rue Saint-Honoré. It has a sunny front room that would have made a perfect nursery.”

“Now Bettina has an equal claim.” Mathieu sipped his water. “Alain's will is ironclad, you couldn't tear it apart with a crowbar.”

“I can't imagine what Bettina will say when she discovers the wedding is canceled and she can evict my mother.” Alec shuddered. “She'll be so happy, it will be like Santa Claus coming twice.”

“You haven't told her the wedding is off?” Mathieu spluttered.

“I was waiting for the right moment.” Alec shrugged. “Hopefully after she spent a thousand euros on her couture gown and designer shoes.” He paused. “The only high point of Celine's defection would be to see my sister's face when she steps out of her mint-green Jaguar and realizes Cathédrale Notre-Dame is empty.”

“But you told Helene and me the wedding was canceled.” Mathieu frowned.

“How am I supposed to remember to call everyone?” Alec refilled his glass and sighed. “I suppose I couldn't stand Bettina gloating that Celine traded her ivory Oscar de la Renta wedding gown for a nylon swimsuit.”

“Bettina can't be that bad,” Mathieu insisted. “You are related and you're one of the most generous people I know.”

“When I was five years old, I snuck downstairs early and opened my Christmas stocking. I reached inside and all I found was rocks.” Alec downed his scotch. “The next day I discovered a packet of colored pencils and English toffees under Bettina's pillow. She had taken out my stocking stuffers and replaced them with rocks from the garden.”

“Her mother left when she was three years old,” Mathieu mused. “That couldn't have been easy.”

“My mother tried so hard, once a month she took Bettina to the Ritz for afternoon tea.” Alec paused. “I was quite jealous, I adored the petits fours and chocolate éclairs.”

“Unless you find another woman to marry in the next two weeks, you have to tell her.” Mathieu gathered his overcoat and walked to the door. “If you don't want to have dinner, I should go. I promised I'd bring Helene dill pickles and horseradish.”

“I'm never getting married,” Alec said. “I stuck my head in the mouth of the beast once and that was enough. I'll be the godfather who shows up with a football and lacrosse stick.”

“You hate organized sports.” Mathieu grinned. “You said at school you spent all your time doodling in your math book.”

Alec glanced at Celine's diamond teardrop earring on the sideboard and grimaced. “I won't let my godson make the same mistakes. If I'd learned to play cricket, everything might be different.”

*   *   *

ALEC SCOOPED UP
a handful of Brazil nuts and picked up his colored pencil. It had been nice of Mathieu to stop by, but he didn't want to think about Bettina and the house on Rue de Passy.

He washed the nuts down with soda water and decided he really should go for a walk. He could stop in a café and have a plate of ratatouille and a bowl of café au lait.

But he had bought Isabel the glass of cognac, and even an espresso was ten euros on the Champs-Élysées. He thought fleetingly of giving up the suite and returning to his flat. But then his feet touched the white carpet and he remembered the steaming hot shower and wondered why he would trade a four-poster bed and marble bath for a fifth-floor walk-up.

He sat at the desk and drew Gus standing next to a guillotine. He sketched the wood scaffolding and pale faces in the crowd.

“You're drawing for bloody six-year-olds.” He tossed it in the garbage. He selected a fresh sheet of paper and tried again.

 

chapter four

Isabel inhaled the scent of dark coffee and fresh croissants and thought the Hôtel de Crillon really was beautiful. Everything about her suite was wonderful: the satin slippers she discovered in the closet and the wooden hairbrush on the dressing table and the silver platter of pastries and fruit salad that arrived at the door.

But she had woken up feeling slightly odd. As if she'd had a dream she couldn't remember. Now she picked up the phone and put it down. She was in Paris; there was no point in calling Neil to ask if he found his warm socks or took down the Christmas tree.

She opened her leather-bound journal and ran her fingers over a photo of an ivory satin wedding dress. The bodice had pink pearls and the veil was Venetian lace. She sat on the upholstered love seat and began to read.

Dear diary,

Today I wished we decided to run off and get married in a chalet in Switzerland. Just a minister and Neil and me wearing fur boots and saying, “I do!” Afterward we would drink schnapps by the fireplace and think we were so clever to skip the church with the huge urns of pink and white roses and the reception with five different entrées and a band that played long after you felt like dancing.

We've only been engaged for three months, but already I feel like we're behind in choosing the caterer and cake and flowers. And the date is more than a year away: we finally settled on a Christmas wedding!

This afternoon I was supposed to meet my mother at the Bijou bridal salon in Ardmore. Models would show us the latest designs by Nicole Miller and Yves Saint Laurent and there would be French champagne and hazelnut truffles.

But my presentation ran late and I couldn't break away to leave my mother a message. It would take weeks to get another appointment and I knew she'd be terribly disappointed.

I finally sent her a text and went home to the condo. Neil was working late, so I expected to heat up a bowl of pumpkin soup and flip through
Martha Stewart Weddings
.

But when I opened the front door, I smelled garlic and butter and roasted chicken. I entered the dining room and the glass table was set with a white linen tablecloth. There were flickering candles and a silver breadbasket.

“You're home.” Neil appeared from the kitchen. His dark hair was brushed over his forehead, and he wore navy slacks and a white collared shirt. “I was afraid the spinach salad would wilt.”

“What's this?” I waved at the crystal wineglasses and enamel soup tureens.

“Your mother called,” Neil explained, taking my briefcase and setting it on the sideboard.

“She did?” I gulped, hoping she'd gotten my texts and wasn't still at the bridal salon. “What did she say?”

“She said it must be so stressful working and planning the wedding and she was sorry she suggested shopping on the Main Line. She's going to find a salon in the city and come and meet you.”

“She said all that?” I whispered.

“She also said she hopes we are enjoying ourselves. The whole year shouldn't be about dress fittings and tastings and trying to pare down our guest list.”

“Of course we're enjoying ourselves,” I wavered, thinking about the dance lessons we needed to sign up for and honeymoon we should start planning and work files I hadn't opened on my computer.

“I decided we should spend one night eating a rosemary chicken and autumn vegetables and talking about books and movies,” he continued, pouring two glasses of a Kenwood Chardonnay.

“Is that all we're going to do?” I laughed, feeling like a child who had been let out of school early.

“We're going to do a lot more than that.” He kissed me. “But first we have to eat my roasted chicken.”

Neil brought out plates of chicken and baked eggplant and scalloped potatoes. There were berries and whipped cream for dessert. My diamond ring glinted in the candlelight and I felt warm and happy.

Oh, diary, we're not getting married so I can wear a couture gown or so we can eat raspberry fondant wedding cake. We're in love and have so much fun together. It is a long time until next December, but I know we're going to enjoy every minute of it!

Isabel closed the notebook and walked to the window. She and Neil had seemed so perfect. When had things started to go wrong? But she had made the right decision. She wouldn't have canceled the wedding if she hadn't been absolutely certain. Reading the journal was like rethinking a stock trade that had already happened. You had to trust you knew what you were doing, or you could never follow your instincts at all.

She pulled back the curtains and saw the wide boulevard and yellow taxis. She was in Paris and had the whole day ahead of her. She could walk across the Pont Alexandre III or take a tour of the gardens at the Royal Palace.

She ate a bite of a croissant and remembered receiving the glass bracelet and almost getting run over by the taxi. She pictured the fortune-teller saying she was going to fall in love and marry a French aristocrat. Of course, that's why she had trouble sleeping! Suddenly everything was as clear as a winter sky after a snowfall.

She walked to the closet and selected a cream blouse and navy slacks. She pulled on a wool jacket and leather boots.

“Always better to bring a gift.” She grabbed a plate of croissants and closed the door behind her.

*   *   *

“DO YOU ALWAYS
appear unannounced?” Alec asked when she knocked on the door. “You don't look like the kind of woman who shows up at her neighbor's door with fresh-baked cinnamon rolls.”

“I haven't baked since I was a teenager.” Isabel entered his suite. A fire flickered in the marble fireplace and there was a silver coffeepot and enamel demitasses. “My mother said cooking was as easy as following a recipe, but I was too impatient to preheat the oven. My oatmeal cookies always ended up with soft centers.”

“I thought you dreamed of a big house in the suburbs with two children and a golden retriever.” Alec raised his eyebrow.

“Not all mothers fill lunch boxes with crustless sandwiches and homemade blueberry muffins.” She handed him a croissant. “I wanted to say thank you for carrying me back to the Crillon and buying me a drink.”

“You paid for lunch at Fouquet's, we're even.” He walked to the Regency desk. “If you'll excuse me, I'm working on a new sketch.”

“Then why are the papers crumpled in the garbage?” she asked.

“I keep wanting to draw Gus doing something drastic,” Alec sighed. “My readers don't mind if he slays dragons because they're not real. But this morning I almost drew Gus chopping off someone's head with a guillotine.”

“You said you were getting over Celine.” Isabel tried not to laugh. “You don't want to be with someone who isn't in love with you.”

“It's a bit complicated.” Alec ate a bite of croissant. “This is delicious. I almost forgot there's nothing better than Parisian pastries.”

“And there's nowhere better than Paris.” Isabel's eyes sparkled. “I slept wonderfully, and I woke up with an idea.”

“I hope it doesn't involve tossing your shoe off the balcony or stepping in front of a taxi.”

“Do you ever wake up and realize you figured out something in your sleep?” she continued. “The end of the novel you're reading, or a calculus problem you couldn't solve.”

“I stopped doing math in sixth form,” Alec said. “That's why they invented calculators and iPhones.”

“I've always been able to do it. I'd go to sleep figuring out an equation and in the morning it would be worked out in my head,” Isabel said.

“You should set up a booth in the Christmas market,” Alec murmured. “You could charge ten euros to decipher people's dreams.”

“Last night I went to sleep worrying about the fortune-teller's prediction.” Isabel perched on a velvet love seat. “I can't spend my life walking around ladders or looking up to see if something is falling from the sky.”

“I'm sure you're perfectly safe.” Alec grinned. “She said you'd narrowly miss being killed and you were. She didn't say anything about a repeat performance.”

“That's the thing.” Isabel jumped up. “She was right about the glass bracelet and about almost being run over; she was probably right about the other thing.”

“What other thing?” Alec felt suddenly nervous, as if there was a spider creeping up his leg.

“She said I'm going to fall in love with and marry a French aristocrat,” Isabel exclaimed. “That's why I came to Paris, to fall in love! Now all I have to do is find a French aristocrat and everything will be perfect.”

“That's the craziest thing I ever heard.” He whistled. “Maybe you bumped your head when you hit the pavement. You should go back to bed with a hot compress and a bowl of chicken soup.”

“Don't you see? I study the markets in Asia and Europe and then decide where my clients should put their money,” Isabel continued. “JPMorgan Chase pays me a large salary to predict the future.”

“By using graphs and algorithms, not by getting your palm read by a gypsy.”

“Ever since I was a girl, I dreamed of a husband and children.” She fiddled with a cushion. “I adore my career, but I don't want to wake up when I'm forty with a penthouse apartment and an empty guest room. But I've had the worst luck with men; I can't seem to get it right. Maybe it's time to listen to someone else.”

“Not to a woman wearing red slippers and a multicolored scarf,” Alec spluttered.

“Why not? She was right about me receiving a gift and almost being killed. The chances are she is right about me falling in love with a French aristocrat.”

“That sounds like it makes sense, but it doesn't.” Alec rubbed his forehead. “Love is random, you can't order it up like a soufflé.”

“I'm almost thirty, I spent the last two years eating rainbow trout and rib eye steak at wedding receptions at the Philadelphia Club and Rittenhouse Hotel,” she began. “Now my mailbox is full of announcements with yellow ducks and blue soccer balls and baby names written in cursive. If I don't find a man and get married soon, I never will.”