The Little Bookshop On the Seine (14 page)

In the old, slightly mildew-y room, the smoke sailed out the crack of the window, mingling with the thousand other scents that made the perfume of Paris.

“So you write your masterpieces here?” I finally managed to bumble out some words and was overjoyed they were in order and made sense.

“Most of them, yes. I’ve been writing here since Sophie took over.”

Sophie knew he wrote here and didn’t tell me! There were probably a handful of famous poets, and painters as well, who used the upstairs rooms for their crafts. It was that kind of space, where everyone was the same, no matter who you were, and that was one of its drawcards.

“I better let you get back to it. I don’t want to interrupt the flow of your writing.” I hovered there like a fool, wanting to loll about in the room and watch the world go busily by from the comfort of the conservatory.

He blew out a puff of smoke, and grinned. “I’m finished for today. The end of the book is close. So I will leave something for tomorrow.”

I smiled, behind me the fire cracked and spat like it was in its death throes and fighting back once more. “Do you write at home too?” I said, not wanting an awkward silence to fall.

He nodded. “Sometimes. I’m too manic, and I forget to eat, forget to sleep. It’s like falling in love, everything else fades, and I am lost to it.” His eyes blazed with a kind of ardor. It was evident he loved his work, and put his soul in to it, and it translated on the page. When I read his novels the rest of the world ceased to exist, it was just me and the characters on those black and white pages.

“An intense way to live.”

He stubbed the cigarette in a half oyster shell that was littered with butts. “It’s the only way to live,” he said. “I cannot control it when it begins, so I must write or I can drown in those feelings.”

He was intense, the way he spoke, the things he said. “Why don’t they ever end in happy ever after?” I double blinked and instantly wished I could take the words back. I shouldn’t have asked. I knew from speculation about Luiz that he was a private person. He was almost reclusive, or so I’d been led to believe. He’d been hiding in plain sight, and no one was any the wiser.

“Why should they?” he asked, as his eyes shadowed. “Does life really work like that, Sarah?” His words were slightly sad, a touch morose, like he was talking about himself, not his books.

I weighed up how to answer. “Not always, but shouldn’t we hope it will?”

“I don’t write fairy tales. People expect a certain level of truth from me. I write what I know, and that is that love doesn’t always last.”

I raised my eyebrows. “In your books, there’s always a reason why they split up, and it’s usually something that’s come between them, not always another person. Doesn’t that leave room that one day they might find each other again, and find their happy ever after?” I wanted to pinch myself that he was discussing something so private with me, he was well known for being reserved and elusive. And I almost applauded myself for sounding knowledgeable, even though a part of my heart chipped away when I thought of Ridge and our love affair that was on ice, our happy ever after paused for now, or so it seemed.

“You’re a hopeless romantic,” he said.

“I guess you could say that, but I’ve never understood that term. Like what’s hopeless about believing in something so beautiful? Yours are the only books
sans
HEA that I read. But I do rewrite the ending in my mind, I pretend they sorted it out, otherwise, I kind of can’t cope…”

He crossed his arms and leaned against the desk, a small smile playing at his lips. “And where do you take them?”

My palms were beading with moisture at the thought of telling him – was I being rude implying they should finish differently? “OK, say for Emile and Isabelle, in your most recent book. You said she could never love him because of his past, and the fact he’d been damaged by it, so much so. He couldn’t leave his home, for fear that he’d have flashbacks of the war and do something crazy. But Isabelle
could
have lived with him. She trusted him. And she wanted to be with him, no matter what, and you took that from her.” I felt a passion roil through me as I expressed myself. I’d been heartbroken when the last sentence of that book was goodbye.

Luiz pulled his eyebrows together. “But Emile couldn’t control those flashbacks, or what he’d do when they happened. What if he hurt her by mistake? Don’t you see? Doesn’t he love her more if he walks away knowing he can never harm her? That she’s free of the violence that plagues his dreams.”

“His dreams were violent, and toxic from what he’d been through, but they had nothing to do with Isabelle. Real love would see past any character flaw, surely? They could have had a plan for those times when he wasn’t himself. He could have taken medication, or had a counselor come and visit. Could have locked himself in the bedroom…anything, so they could be together.”

“In a perfect world, they could have done all that and more. But it’s not a perfect world, is it?”

I smiled. I wasn’t convincing him. His popularity around the world proved that people loved the shocking endings, the twists, the various plot devices used so you never knew what was coming. “Being a heart-on-sleeve type, and a romance fan to boot, maybe it’s just me, but I want them to end up together, no matter what they have to do in order for it to happen.”

Outside the day had come to an end, as night slipped firmly across the sky. “I hope you’ll continue to read them, even if the love never works out.”

“I’ll happily read them, and hope one day, when I’m all the way back in America, I’ll pick one up and find you’ve surprised us all with a love affair that lasts a lifetime.”

“Never say never, but in this case… never.”

I couldn’t help wondering if there was more behind his opinion than just notoriety and success. Was he haunted by love gone awry? I narrowed my eyes as he shuffled his papers on desk. “Does life imitate art as they say?” I broached, gently.

He spun to face me, a truly tortured expression darkening his features. “Art imitates life…”

Did it though? Or did we usually try and recreate what we read in a good book, like making the book boyfriend come to life? Or wishing those circle of friends we read about were ours?

We said our goodbyes, and I stood in the blue room for an age, wondering what had happened to Luiz to make him write the way he did. I was certain he’d lost someone. He said,
art imitates life
and not the other way around. Art imitates life…so he writes what he knows, and that is that love doesn’t last. I hoped we’d get to chat again soon. I wanted to pinch myself; I’d just conversed with
the
Luiz Delacroix, and found out more about him in twenty minutes than I would have ever guessed possible. Ridge would get such a kick out of it, he too loved Luiz’s fiction. We’d spent many a night bickering good naturedly about how his books should have ended. I sat at the table by the window, and flipped open the laptop. And emailed Ridge.

Roving Reporter,

Should I send out a search party? I’m worried you’re dead, injured, or in love with someone else.

Please reply at your earliest convenience, or I will take a French lover.

P.S I met Luiz Delacroix! And I’m going to convince him to write a HEA!

Love,

Your Parisian bookseller

***

A few days later not only did my mail have the usual bills and invoices for the shop but it had my travelers’ checks. I let out a squeal and before I could say anything, Oceane’s eyes lit upon them. She did her usual arm grab thing, ready to pull me outside to go shopping. “Wait,” I cried out. “Sophie’s about to email me back. I just sent her a load of reports, and she’s not impressed with the figures.” I slumped. “Which are, you guessed it, down some more. If I can’t turn things around, she’ll come back, I know she will.” And it struck me I didn’t want to leave. Paris and its charms had wooed me and I hadn’t seen enough yet, or found what I was searching for. Did that sound like a cheesy song lyric from the nineties? At any rate, I wasn’t done yet.

“Sarah, you need some new clothes. You’ve been waiting forever. Sophie’s email can wait an hour, I’m sure. I’ll get TJ to watch the counter, and supervise the staff.”

She had a way of galvanizing me, and the thought of finally having new clothes to wear, something other than Sophie’s, did excite me. I dashed to the computer to email her, and explained that I’d call later. I was only buying time, and eventually I’d have to face the same disappointed tone in her voice. But I was determined to turn things around. TJ had been a godsend with ideas, and we were slowly implementing them – I was sure we’d see results soon. I hit send on the email, and gave TJ a wave as he took my place.

Oceane chatted incessantly as we made our way to the Champs-Elysees.

“Cold today,
non
?” she asked, wrapping her mink coat tighter against the bluster.

“
Oui
.” I was dressed in one of Sophie’s outfits, another flowy, layered ensemble, and I could barely wait to find some jeans, and simple sweaters. We headed deeper into the 8
^th
arrondissement.

“Avenue des Champs-Élysées,” Oceane said.

“Wow.” Sculpted chestnut trees lined the edge of the long avenue, and at the end, the Arc de Triomphe stood proudly, the arch colossal in comparison to everything around it. Even the detail carved into it stood out from our vantage point halfway down the avenue. Cars raced around it in a speedy procession on what must be the world’s biggest, zaniest roundabout.

“Look at those fools.” She pointed to a bunch of teens trying to make their way across the busy circle, dodging cars whose horns beeped incessantly. “There’s an underpass. You go underneath and come out right below the Arc De Triomphe.”

“Maybe we should tell them.” My heart was in my throat watching them try and escape the mad traffic.

She waved me away. “First we need to eat. Laduree.” She pointed to a patisserie, its name glinting in ornate gold. There was a long queue of people, a motley bunch with a range of accents, as Oceane led me straight past them, and up to the front where a man stood holding the door as if it was an assembly line.

“Oceane,” he said, kissing both cheeks. “Your table is at the back.” I followed her meekly, hearing the cries from the front of the queue that we’d pushed in.

“Seriously,” I said to Oceane. “How do you get in everywhere?” I was beginning to think the ‘I’ve dated a guy here’ thing was a ruse. Everyone seemed to know her, and be semi star-struck when she waltzed by, leaving them gasping after the scent of her perfume.

She motioned to a table, before sitting and throwing me a playful look. “You think I’ve slept with the whole town?”

I laughed. “Well, at first I thought they were old boyfriends but now I’m not so sure…”

A waiter came over and Oceane ordered a selection of macarons, and two cafe au laits. “My family is well known. That’s all. Now,” she said, resting her chin on her palm. “Tell me about this man of yours. How do you cope being alone all of the time? If he’s ‘The One’ where is he?” she said, arching a brow.

I toyed with the buttons on my jacket. “It’s not easy, that’s for sure. I wasn’t looking for love, but it found me, and here I am. While it’s not perfect…” I thought of the abruptly ended phone calls, and how it had made me feel second-best to some indistinct thing he was chasing, “… it’s real. And he chooses to work, which takes him away from me.” Girl talk, this I could do. Without my friends, it was the poor bookshop cats who had to hear my laments.

She frowned. “But why doesn’t he choose you?”

I didn’t want to own up to the fact that on the love lock bridge I had been wondering the same thing. My instant reaction was to defend Ridge, and explain it was pure circumstance. But sitting in the bustling little patisserie, it hit me anew – once again
I
was waiting for him. I’d been in Paris for over a month, and his trip here was delayed time and time again. Our phone calls had been becoming shorter and shorter. If I really admitted it to myself I’d almost given up hope he’d get here at all.

“I don’t know, Oceane.” My heart constricted confessing it out loud. “I guess he’s addicted to the chase of a new story, the competitive nature of it. His work is important for other people too.” Ridge had given countless people a voice, a way to get their stories out there for the world to read. His work wasn’t selfish, I had to admit, it truly did help people.

“Are you sure that’s all it is? Some men, they have a girl in each port.” It was a quirk of Oceane’s to be direct, like she didn’t have a filter for how that would make me feel, but she wasn’t malicious, just curious, and upfront about whatever popped into her mind.

Still, my stomach flipped at the thought. “He’s not that kind of guy. It’s purely his work that drives him. And I guess that I knew from day one he was ambitious.” Visions of the photographer, Monique, Mona, or whatever her name was flashed in my mind, which I blinked rapidly away.

“So, you wait?” she said whilst sipping her coffee.

“I wait.” It struck me how ridiculous I sounded. What kind of relationship was this? Short of flying all over the world with him, what was the solution?

“I hope he’s worth it. Paris is beautiful when you’re in love. Better though, when your lover is actually
in
Paris.”

“In a perfect world, he’d be here.”

“Here are the macarons,” she said, squeezing my hand in support before thanking the waiter, giving me time to consider her take on it.

I bit into a hot pink macaron, the biscuit pillow-y, like air, until I tasted the tart raspberry center. Between mouthfuls I said, “I always wondered how on earth they get so much flavor into such a small biscuit.”

Oceane waved a finger. “
Non, non
. They’re petit cakes, not biscuits. Laduree has been famous for their macarons for over one hundred and fifty years. They’re the experts.”

“You can taste it,” I said smiling. Lil and Cee from the Gingerbread Café would get such a kick from seeing the vivid little cakes in front of me. The greens were almost teal, the yellows saffron bright; fuchsia pinks mottled with another flavor. I hadn’t tasted anything like it before. I would have to buy boxes to take home when the time came, and I was sure it’d send Lil and CeeCee straight into the kitchen trying to recreate the flavor combinations.