Falling in Paris (Encounters #3)

by Fifi Flowers

  I had envisioned stopping along our journey the morning we left the vineyard. The breakfast consumption was only a short detour to my real plan. There were many small narrow alleyways in the village. I had visualized her on her knees, her up against a stone wall, her skirt around her waist, no panties, and me buried deep inside of her slick pussy. Her moaning, thinking that she was being watched through the upper windowpanes that lined the buildings across from our bodies connected—fucking.

  The thought… the plans were scraped. Something was off with Avril since the night before, when I tried to get her to submit to me under the full moon. Even suggesting the natural spotlight on her lush body did not illicit any kind of interest. I had no idea what had gone wrong between us. I knew that she was not happy about our sleeping arrangement, but I had given her ample attention. I tried to think if I had said something that offended her, as I drove along in silence, while she slept until we stopped briefly for coffee. I came up with nothing.

  On the road again, she had perked up a little. She spoke to me, with me. Books being our common connection, we had plenty to talk about, but the conversation was forced. Her usual enthusiasm was not present. With one final attempt to make a detour and her refusal, I delivered her to her apartment. I had never seen her move so quickly to get away for me; she was out the door, grabbing her bags, pecking my cheek and running inside. I had wanted to deliver her to her door. I wanted to go in. I wouldn’t have, but that didn’t mean that I didn’t want to.

  I didn’t understand women—her. The only woman that was in my life that I, semi, understood was Nique. Sometimes, that was debatable. Back in the bookshop, I mentioned Avril, and that I didn’t know what happened with her. Time was running out with her. I wanted to spend more time with her and beyond, maybe. But, she didn’t seem as interested in me.

  “What do you think?” I asked Nique. Maybe that wasn’t the right question to ask her—I received an earful, more than I had expected.

  “That’s something you need to ask her, but I will say that you better tell her how you really feel about her. You better tell her everything about you. I told her that she needed to open up to you, too. I think there is a lot of miscommunication between the two of you.”

  “So, you spoke with my father.” It was evident that she knew far more than I did.

  “Yes…” she paused, pursing her lips as if she was deciding how much she should divulge to me, “…and Avril.”

  I watched her moving her pencil across our calendar and it reminded me. “I don’t see the book club meeting on next week’s schedule. I need a final count, so I can order the food.”

  “She cancelled.”

  “What?” I was baffled by her flat statement, like it wasn’t a big deal. I was starting to panic. I was right, something was very off. “Why? Did she reschedule?”

  “No.” I noticed a strange look on Nique’s face. “Have you spoken to her? Texted her since your weekend getaway?”

  “No, we don’t talk daily. And, I sensed something was up with her. I was giving her time. I was letting her contact me when she was ready, but seeing as she has not, I was going to text or call her today.”

  A booming voice quaked me, “It’s been almost a week!” Then, she began to rant, calling me not-so-nice names in French slang.

  I was almost afraid to continue our conversation. Quietly I responded. “Yes, I guess you’re right.”

  “You’re an idiot!” That was the nicest thing she called me.

  I was missing something obviously. “Why? What did I do?”

  “You took her to meet your father, then you ignored her like it was nothing.” Her hands were firmly planted on her red plaid wrapped hips, and one of her army boots was tapping the floor. Even her nose piercing twitched.

  “It was just a weekend break, nothing more.” Why was Nique so mad at me?

  “Well. I. Hope. You. Are. Happy.” As she was raising her hands and motioning them around, I missed part of what she was saying. “You are right about nothing more.” I was lost until her next words. “Avril is gone.”

  “Gone? What do you mean gone? She’s here for a couple more weeks.”

  “Here it is: She came in the other day when you were at a meeting. She had me ship the things you approved. She cancelled the book club meeting. She said she had had a few leads on rare books for her clients’ lists and was heading to Italy for the rest of her stay. She’s only coming back to pack up her things and fly out of Paris. And only because I couldn’t change her ticket location, only her flight, or she would’ve flown out of Milan,” she finished.

  I was staring at Nique bewildered, concerned that she was about to pass out; she hadn’t taken a breath and was beet red in the face. I was relieved when she let out a big breath.

  How did this all happen? How did I respond? She couldn’t just leave me. “I have her book Romancing the Cobblestone… I never read her the journal.”

  “You will also have the letters in a couple days. The journal is here. Someone read it to her.” What? I wanted to scream. Instead I just braced my hands on the counter, looking at her as she continued, “She arranged for them to be delivered. She said to tell you to keep everything; they belong to you and your family.”

  “They are hers.”

  “Your father was very interested in them. She didn’t want to say how, but she said they’re linked to our family. She said she was nothing to you, and had no right to them. She didn’t give more details other than, whoever had read them to her, they told her that you should speak to your father. And something about maybe you should continue the conversation you were having the other morning before your run.”

  “Oh, no,” I hung my head in my hands. I thought I was going to hyperventilate or vomit. Finally, it was all making sense—why she had changed.

  “You don’t look so well,” I heard Nique moving toward me. Pulling out a stool, she touched my arm, “Sit down,” she directed me to a seat. “What do you mean by oh no? What did you do?”

  “Avril must’ve heard a conversation I was having with my father about her… about us.” I shook my head in disbelief. I didn’t mean anything against her. She heard the word nothing. That I was certain as Nique made a point a few times to repeat it.

  It was because of my father badgering me about destiny, love. I couldn’t blame him, though. Regardless, I should’ve never ever called Avril nothing. She was so much more. There wasn’t anything that I didn’t like… love about her.

  She is smart.

  She is beautiful.

  She smells amazing.

  She tastes…

  Her lavender eyes—they really looked at me.

  She understood me like no one ever had. I had no right to put her down or make disparaging remarks about her. Even if I was trying to convince my father that she meant little to me, she wasn’t a toy. Fuck! I made a mess of things. I had no one to be mad at but myself.

  My father was right, a hundred and ten percent—not about the destiny part, that I still didn’t believe in. But she was the perfect woman for me. The problem was, I waited too long—she was gone. She was coming back, but leaving. Time was ticking away. Should I call her? Go to her? Beg her to come back early? Spend the rest of her days with me?

  Nique said she changed her flight, but not the City. I needed more details, like was she departing sooner?

  I needed to know where she was going.

  I needed to know when she was going to return to Paris.

  I needed to know what she was doing for the rest of her life.

  I needed to know if she felt about me like I felt about her.

  I needed to know that I wasn’t too late.

  I needed her. Only her.

  “Nique, help me out, where is she exactly? When her plane leaves, where’s she going? Please help me. I have to make this right.”

  “Finally! EmZ is back!” I laughed at the name she called me.

  “I need to read that journal. Where is it?”

  �
�I know it’s none of my business, but maybe you should wait to read the journal.”

  “Do you know what’s in it? Did you read it?”

  “No, and Avril doesn’t.”

  “Avril doesn’t what?”

  “They didn’t finish reading it. They stopped and told her to take it to you. That you should be the one to read it to her. I think you should read it together.”

  “Okay,” I said baffled.

  Who the hell had read the diary entries to her? I anticipated the story being romantic. I had envisioned reading it to her nude somewhere. I hadn’t gotten beyond that detail, but I wanted to be the one. I hoped that it wasn’t a man that read it to her, but Nique did mention that the person knew the book had something to do with our family. What man did I know that Avril knew? No one. Relief slipped over me. Yet, I was still jealous of whoever had taken my place. I wanted that opportunity back.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Avril

  Back in Paris, I nearly jumped out of the car as Émile pulled up to the curb in front of my building, double parking. As he unlocked the trunk, I grabbed my bag. “I’ve got it, thank you for a lovely weekend,” I said so fast that my words ran together. If you could see them visibly, they wouldn’t have made sense. Up on my tip-toes, I placed an even quicker peck on to his lightly stubbled cheek, and moved away. “You better get going, no parking; bye.”

  I turned and hurried to the door before he could say more than, “Talk to you soon.” We were finished, done!

  I had things to take care of, things to pack. I had three days left in Paris before my train to Florence. First up, I was going to see if Jade or Marionette had time to read the journal entries to me. I had to know why Émile’s father was so interested in that book, the letters, and the diary. If there was someone who was looking for the diary and letters more than the book? The letters turned out to be a problem: the sleeves had arrived while I was gone, but as I tried to open the letters, they sounded as if they would fall apart. Giving up, I contacted someone locally through one of the museums. A restoration expert told me to bring them, along with the sleeves, and they would handle them properly.

  As luck would have it, Jade said although she was learning the language, she had only mastered tourist French. It wasn’t good enough to translate the journal. But she was willing to help, so she had me come to the shop at the end of the day and said that Marionette would help us with unknown words. So excited, I arrived before closing time and ran into Francesca there shopping. It was nice to see her. She asked me what I was doing. How Émile was. I said, “Fine, I believe.” Of course, I really didn’t know for sure as he had not contacted me since dropping me off—not unlike him. Changing the subject, I told her why I was at the shop and she asked if she could stay and listen. “Sure, why not?” I said, although, it sounded more like, “Mais oui.”

  After closing up, Marionette led us to the back of the shop and up a set of steps to her apartment. “I believe we need wine for this reading, non? I mean if we are going to read a woman’s diary about a romance, booze is needed.”

  “Oh shit! I hadn’t thought about that,” Jade chimed in, between humming a song I had heard her singing before about wanting to be a cowgirl.

  I laughed, and Francesca told Marionette, “I’ll grab a box of tissues while you get the wine glasses.” I apologized for not bringing the wine. They all excused me because I had brought the entertainment. However, I reminded Francesca that the cobblestone bundle had come from her.

  Seated comfortably on two facing sofas, we toasted, clinked glasses, and the reading commenced. The book started with the mention of finding true love. Then with a first entry that told of the young lover’s initial meeting—a mishap with cobblestones. That part sounded familiar. I remembered Pinard saying something about destiny; that the cobblestone sidewalk brought Émile and I together. Francesca nudged me, “Like you and my handsome boy.” She was very fond of him, obviously.

  Moving on, we learned that they had made plans to meet secretly. She was an adult, but not allowed to see men without a chaperone. She was twenty-five years old, hardly a teenager. Funny how times had changed. Many of us would be proclaimed sluts… Hmm… I was already feeling that way. I wondered if there was some reason that she didn’t have him come to her house. Although, she did mention finding herself sexually attracted to him. Maybe she was a rebellious young woman, going against her family. Sounded like my mother and almost the same age. Interesting. That was an understatement.

  The two had made plans that involved additional people, accomplices. No, there was no murder involved, but a friend was needed—a woman named Genevieve, and eventually, another woman called Madame Tea. Their meet up for tea—to assist in the couple’s rendezvous—was a real eye opener. Let’s just say that we are lucky to have gynecologists (though, we hate to see them) and pharmacies. When we got to that part of their story, we all had to laugh and shake our heads. Apparently, our journal writer, ready to lose her virginity, was in need of protection.

  The passage she wrote about their first time together was nothing like mine or the other women in the room. It was touching, romantic—it involved more than just desires and passion. It was more about love. There were no step by steps; no first base, second base, third, and home. It was a lovely evening where a young woman gifted her body to a young man that was so head over heels in love with her. We all dabbed our eyes as we lost our virginities, all over again, with the young woman.

  Beyond that point, we knew tragedy was coming because we all had heard the rumors that surrounded the book. The father finding out, shipping her off, and the young man killing himself. What did actually unfold in the story was unimaginable and had us all sobbing. Getting toward the end of the journal, an envelope I hadn’t seen before fell out of the small book. When Francesca picked it up and saw to whom the envelope was addressed, she said, “Arrête… stop, I know this story! I will tell you the rest. The Genevieve in the journal is my grandmother.”

  Francesca read the card that was inside, then took the book from Jade. Returning the card inside the envelope, she tucked it back in the journal. The note was a simple thank you, asking that she keep it for her; she couldn’t bear it getting into the wrong hands. Most importantly, she couldn’t imagine it being lost. Francesca said it was from the author of the journal, Colette, to her good friend Genevieve. Somehow it ended up in her shop when it should’ve been in her home, she concluded. But, her next word changed everything.

  “Strange that it would wind up in my shop. It had to have been in my mother’s apartment. She passed long ago, but my niece had been living there until recently. She must’ve brought it to the shop in boxes.” Francesca stopped to think with her finger to her red painted lips. “That isn’t the strange part. It’s that I felt so compelled to give them to you, Avril.”

  “Me? I don’t understand.”

  “I can’t tell you anymore. This is not my story to tell. Other people need to hear it. You have to give this to Émile… or better yet, his father.”

  “Oh. Well, his father read it last weekend. He noticed the cobblestone book. I told him I had the journal and he asked to read it, too. I gave them both to him, but he returned them to me, after reading them, before I left.” I was confused.

  “Smart man. I always liked him; his father was too old for me and he was too young. Take this journal to his son. He needs to read it. It will be good for him. I don’t believe he knows the story. I believe destiny brought it to you and you to Émile.”

  I shook my head, “I don’t think so.” Tears spilled from my eyes. “But, I will give it to him. Thank you.” I tucked the journal away in my bag, to remain a mystery.

  We spent the rest of the evening talking about men while drinking much needed wine along with a variety of cheeses that Marionette served up with a baguette. It was an enjoyable time spent with the girls, but I was back at square one with the mysterious book. However, I knew where it belonged. Somehow, it was tied to Pinard and Ém
ile. But, why did his father not ask to keep it? Why give it back to me? He did know that his son was going to read it to me. Could that be what he wanted? I would never know. The following day, before heading to the train station, knowing Émile would not be around, I dropped the books at the bookshop, wrapped things up with Nique, and said goodbye.

  Aboard the train, in need of a pep talk, I called home to Gran and then Chloe. Only a couple more weeks and I would see them in person—it couldn’t get here soon enough. I needed another girl night like with my Paris girls. That was such a teaser, it just fueled the fire. “Hey, Chloe.”

  “I know that tone, what’s he dangling in front of you now, and taking away?”

  “He took me to meet his family…”

  “Ooh… serious. You knocked up?”

  “No, we stayed in separate rooms, his choice.”

  “Ohh,” that expression was in a different range, flat.

  Filling her in on the whole weekend actually made it sound like a good time was had by all. I guess it was. He didn’t know I heard his conversation. He never called me on a daily basis. Never wanted in my bed, let alone my apartment. I was betting he might be shocked that I was even upset. Of course, he had no clue. Well, I didn’t need to explain myself to him. Chloe agreed. But she did say that if I had actual feelings for him, it might be me that had to get the ball rolling. The thought of that made me a little sick; I had never had to worry about confessing. Good thing I had a little over a week to think things through in Italy.

  Florence proved to be a perfect distraction, except for all of the kissing couples all over the city. I wandered through piazzas filled with as many pigeons as people, visited a few chapels, a museum, crossed the Arno and strolled the palace grounds, and looked down over the city. Spectacular!

  Amid my sightseeing, my book exploration proved to be a great success. Completing my lists each day, I arranged for shipments to be made. Free of my daily job, delicious food and wine filled my belly.