The Little Antique Shop Under the Eiffel Tower (13 page)

I had to walk to work, and try not to let the thefts darken the sunlit day. My thoughts kept drifting to Tristan and the letter he’d left. Lilou told me it had been propped against the front door, and I wondered how he knew where I lived. A man who cooked was a real man in my eyes. When I imagined my romantic life, whether it was fantasy or not, I always envisioned bumping and jostling with my partner in the kitchen, laughing and baking together. My diary was the only thing privy to those secret desires: the things I wanted in a man.

Outside, breathing in a deep lungful of rose-scented air, I couldn’t help but smile. Paris was glorious any time of year, but more so when the flowers blossomed and exposed their colorful buds, shimmying seductively like burlesque dancers in the breeze.

Visiting Paris was like falling in love. It swept you up, and transported you to another time; history was everywhere – and I could never tire of it. There was always something to admire. From the gothic architecture of the Notre Dame with its gargoyles perched atop, surveying the city, to the grand structure of Les Invalides with its golden dome – the final resting place for Napoléon Bonaparte inside. But if you spent enough time you’d find places so extraordinary, you’d never want to leave.

The Promenade Plantée was one such place, a five-kilometer verdant walk built on the tracks of the abandoned Vincennes railway line. People said they could still feel the vibration as they strolled along the tracks, as if a ghost train was still making its daily journey. If you took the long walk you’d be rewarded with the elevated vista hidden deep in a secret garden, where lovers kissed, and people proposed, surrounded by rose-trellised arbors, and murmurs of the past. It was a favorite haunt of mine. I’d take a book, and pretend I was waiting for my Mr. Right…

Not today though. Work beckoned. The wind blew gently, carrying with it the chatter of crowds, a world of accents. I stopped briefly and watched people mill at the foot of the Eiffel Tower, their heads craned backward as they took in the spectacle, wide smiles threatening to swallow them up. It never failed to make my heart swell that such a monument could produce an overawed reaction from people from all walks of life. It was gargantuan up close, and photos never did it justice.
La Tour Eiffel
was a feat.

As I turned the corner, I walked into a plume of smoke and perfume. Madame Dupont leaned against the limestone wall of her Time Emporium and waved. I smiled, and went to greet her. “Bonjour, Madame…are you OK?” She sucked hard on her cigarette and her hands shook. If I hadn’t known better, I’d say she looked guilty, like she’d done something she regretted.

Hadn’t Madame Dupont mentioned she was visiting the Avant museum yesterday? To discuss lending them a variety of antique timepieces for an exhibit of which if I recalled correctly she said they’d offered to pay her handsomely. Could she… No. Lack of caffeine was addling my brain. She would never… I’d already been through this in my mind and decided she was innocent. Right?

Her face was pinched and her pallor gray despite her usual heavy makeup, and she fluttered her hands like she was nervous. “Chérie, it’s not you is it?”

“Pardon?” I tried to pay attention and tamp down the worry Madame Dupont was somehow involved in the thefts. She was wealthy; she had no reasonable motive to steal. Unless she was in on it with a paramour…

After the inexorable draw on her cigarette, Madame Dupont repeated herself with more detail, whispering, “It’s not
you
, is it? The thief.” She darted a glance this way and that to make sure no one was close by to overhear. “I won’t tell anyone if it is!” she whispered frantically.

Clarity dawned and I couldn’t help but laugh, relieved. “Me?” My voice pitched incredulously. “For one very brief moment, I thought it might be
you
, Madame! You were the one who wanted to go to Sorrento after all! And I couldn’t find you for those few hours before we left, remember! And didn’t you go the Avant museum yesterday? I take it you’ve heard this morning’s news?”

She laughed too in that husky way of hers, relief flooding her eyes and bringing the color back to her face. “Yes, and it struck me that
you
collect postcards, and you were also in Sorrento…and well one thing led to another, and I thought it was better if we were honest with each other.” Madame Dupont was shrewd, but you’d never know it by her outward effervescence and the way she put people at ease, because underneath that façade she was still questioning every little thing – Madame Dupont was nobody’s fool. For her to suspect me though, well, if I hadn’t also suspected her, I’d probably be a touch hurt. Really, it was crazy, but I suppose we both held our antiques in such high esteem that the thought they were getting stolen from under our noses had us both on high alert.

“Well, I can assure you, Madame Dupont, it most certainly wasn’t me.”

“Nor me. Perhaps we better think on it, though, as it is a probability that we’ve seen the thief, and he’s masquerading as one of our own.”

I nodded, wondering if anyone we regularly saw at auctions and events could possibly be the Postcard Bandit. “Oui, Madame. You’re right. Perhaps we’ll need to pay closer attention to the guest lists, and see if anyone stands out.”

“Let’s discuss it at the gala next week – I’m going to Monaco tomorrow, a last minute thing… I have a date and must dash, so many things to organize.” Madame Dupont smiled a goodbye, before catching my eye, hesitating. She said quietly, “For the record, I wouldn’t have told the gendarmes if it
was
you.”

I gave a nervous little laugh. “I am sure I would have been torn too and…” My voice trailed off. I wasn’t sure I’d be as forgiving, much as I loved Madame, stealing was stealing, and without a clear motive that wasn’t greed I couldn’t imagine why a person would even think of such a thing. But if greed was a motivating factor, then no matter who the person was I’d have the most epic internal battle on my hands. Thank God, it didn’t seem that was the case.

“Enjoy your date, Madame… Who’s the lucky guy?”

She gave me a cat-who-got-the-cream smile. “Someone fabulous of course. A…Monsieur Neeson, and that’s all I’m saying.”

“The actor?”

She blanked her features. “Now that would be telling.”

With a shake of my head, I held my breath and leaned through the fug of cigarette smoke to kiss her goodbye.

***

After a particularly busy day, I locked the shop and headed out into the blue-black night much later than normal. Overhead stars twinkled, like they were showing me the way home. My mind was on dinner, what ingredients I had in the fridge if my new lodgers hadn’t eaten the kitchen bare. I had some paperwork to catch up on so a simple niçoise salad would suffice. Lost in reverie, I turned a corner, and found the avenue deserted. A cat’s plaintive meow echoed.

I was reaching into my memory, mentally scanning the shelves of my fridge when I had the oddest sensation. Goose bumps broke out over my skin though there was not a soul anywhere near me, which was very unusual for Paris in springtime even this late. I quickened my pace and hoped no one was following me. There were certain streets in Paris that should be avoided late at night, places where the shadows were too deep for a woman to wander alone. Fear clouded my vision as footsteps other than my own sounded close behind me.

I stepped up my pace, darting a glance both sides of the road, wondering which way to go. To the left I knew there was a bistro around the corner, to the right a few hundred meters further, there was a house lit up and music floating out. What if they didn’t hear my frantic knock at the door?

My breath came out ragged as I broke into a run, but was stopped when someone grabbed the strap of my handbag. “Give it to me!”

My heart raced. Damn it, why did I walk this way! “No!” I should have let it go, but I had the day’s takings inside, and my finances were critical still. Squaring myself for a tousle, I turned coming face to face with the mugger and gave an almighty tug on my handbag strap. His face was shrouded under the cover of darkness, and a cap that he wore pulled down low. The pungent stench of alcohol filled the air. “There’s no money in it; let it go!”

He let out an icy laugh that sent shivers up my spine and took a step closer, pressing his chest against mine. Suddenly the bag and the money seemed insignificant. I lunged backward and tripped, hitting my head on something cold. With two quick steps he was over me, his mouth like an open scar over mine. I let out a blood-curdling scream and hoped the person in the house with the music would hear.

“Well aren’t you pretty?” he said.

I could taste terror, bitter and acidic. “Don’t you dare touch me!” I screamed.

Within seconds the man was wrenched from me and I took great big gulps of fresh air, before scrambling to my feet to run, but not before I locked eyes with Tristan who held the mugger by the scruff of his dirty sweater. My legs went rubbery with relief.

“Go,” he said, indicating the lit part of the street. “I’ll catch up with you.” He had a murderous glint in his eyes, but I didn’t argue.

“Should we call the gendarmes?” My first thought was that the despicable excuse for a man would attack another girl in the darkness.

“I’ll do it,” Tristan said, eyes blazing. “Go now.”

I hurried away, into the warmth of the streetlights, where everything seemed safer. My heartbeat eventually returned to normal, but my hands wouldn’t stop shaking. I touched the spot on my head where I’d hit something, and my fingers came away red with blood. What would’ve happened if Tristan hadn’t arrived? It didn’t bear thinking about. I’d never sleep again if I let those kinds of thoughts swirl around my head. I should have carried my pepper spray in my hand so late at night. I should have stuck to brightly illuminated avenues. I should have…

I heard footsteps behind me and for a moment my heart stopped in terror, but it was Tristan, his face dark with anger. “Are you OK?” he said, looking me over. He took my hands, which were scratched from the tarmac; a few nails were broken. “You’re shaking. It’s the shock. Let’s get you home.”

Tristan wrapped an arm around me and I burst into tears, scaring myself with the intensity of my sobbing, as if it was another girl, not me who stood there. He wrapped his arms around me tight, murmuring to me. In the warmth of his embrace I felt safe. As if nothing could hurt me there.

“I’ve got you,” he said. “I’ve got you now, Anouk.”

***

Tristan escorted me home, the night air cold against my cheeks.

Inside, he took a rug from my bed and bundled me in it, motioning for me to sit on the chaise. Minutes later, he returned from the kitchen with a half glass of red wine.

“Drink it all,” he said. “It’ll warm you up. It’s the shock; it’s making you shiver like that.” Robotically, I did as told, feeling a calm descend over me. I was at home; the door was locked. Tristan was here.

“Will you be all right?” he said.

I deflated a little, enjoying his proximity, not only because of the attempted mugging, but because he really cared. Or so it seemed.

I pasted on a smile. “Totally fine, thanks for your help.”

“You’re not getting rid of me that easily,” he said. “I’m going to get some things. I’ll be back as quickly as possible.”

He returned thirty minutes later with two paper bags in hand, but shooed me away from peering in. He’d topped up my wineglass, ran me a bubble bath, and led me into the steamy room, indicating that I should spend as long as I wanted in the scented water. I wasn’t used to someone thinking of my needs above theirs. Door closed I plunged into the bath water, the heat stealing the breath from my lungs, in that deliciously comforting way.

I soaped myself down, wanting to get any trace of the mugger and the street grime off of my body. My head throbbed, but the cut must’ve been minor, as it had stopped bleeding. I was thankful I wouldn’t need to ring for a doctor.

It was easier to pretend this was any other night, lest the fear collect me again. I smiled when I heard Tristan singing, his sultry voice accompanied by the sounds of drawers opening and closing, cupboards clicking shut, as he tried to familiarize himself in my apartment. What was he doing? Cooking?

I made a pact to be gentle with myself tonight, to ease my way into conversation with Tristan without following my usual rules of etiquette. I wouldn’t second-guess everything. I’d just be grateful for his company. The safety of him.

With the bath water draining noisily, I dressed for comfort – a pair of cotton pajamas that I’d never ever wear in front of a guest usually, but felt like a warm hug tonight.

Wandering from the cocoon of my bedroom, I went to find Tristan and assure him I was OK and he didn’t need to babysit me in fear the shock would send me into some catatonic state or something.

As I leaned on the doorjamb I studied the scene before me. There was a man cooking in my kitchen, tea towel slung over one shoulder. He looked for all the world like he’d been here a million times before.

“Feel better?” he asked.

I nodded, suddenly shy. “Much. Thanks for everything; I really appreciate it. You don’t have to…” I waved a hand at the bench.

“I want to,” he said. “Sit down, and talk to me while I cook. A full belly is essential for a great night’s sleep, and that’s what you need most of all tonight. And the wine will take the edge off.”

I moved to the small dining room table and watched him work. He had big strong hands. I’d never noticed that before. With the dim overhead light shining on his blond hair, and the ease with which he moved around he was almost ethereal. Like I was lost in a dream. Maybe I’d bumped my head harder than I first thought.

The knots in my shoulders eased with each sip of the burgundy he’d uncorked. “You look at home in the kitchen,” I said. I wouldn’t have pegged him for a homebody, but that’s what he seemed like, humming while he caramelized onions, diced garlic, stirred pots.

He flashed me a grin. “Let me guess, you thought I had a private chef aboard my yacht catering to my every whim?”

So maybe he wasn’t the playboy he resembled? That could only be a good thing. “Something like that,” I said, a touch contrite. “I guessed you’d have talents, but wouldn’t have thought they’d be so domestic.” I could tell by the smells, and the way he controlled various pots and pans that he knew what he was doing.