by Anita Hughes
“Could you direct me to the salon?” he asked. “My fiancée had an appointment hours ago, and hasn’t returned.”
“Are you in suite five-twenty?” The man looked up from his computer.
“Yes, how did you know?”
“The mademoiselle told me to expect a tall man wearing a red sweater.” He handed Alec an envelope. “She left you a letter.”
“My mother bought me this sweater,” Alec snapped, stuffing the envelope in his pocket. “It’s Shetland wool, hand-knit in Scotland.”
Alec took the letter up to the suite and ripped it open. He scanned it quickly and groaned. How could a woman with a degree from the Sorbonne write a Dear John letter like a bad romance author? And how could she decide eleven days before their wedding to fly to another continent?
“Who moves to Australia? It’s a bunch of scrub and marsupials.” He tossed the paper in the garbage. “There’s no decent culture and the weather is the same three hundred sixty-five days a year.”
He glanced out the window at the rain falling on the Champs-Élysées and felt a sharp pain in his chest. He knew why she had decided to spend twenty-four hours in a pressurized airline cabin when they could be sharing the marble bathtub in their suite: because she had met the only person he had ever seen who was more beautiful than Celine herself, and she couldn’t resist him.
* * *
HE OPENED THE bottle of scotch and sank onto the sofa. He really shouldn’t cry, Celine would think it was unmanly. Then he remembered Celine was on her way to an Australian beach and a sob escaped his throat.
He filled his glass and gazed at the silver platter of mangoes and kiwis. He picked up a slice of melon and wondered if he would ever be hungry again.
* * *
NOW ALEC MOVED to the Regency desk and studied a sketch of Gus throwing a boomerang. It had been three days since Celine left. If that had been love, he never wanted to experience it again.
For the first time since he and Celine met, he was surprised that he felt completely normal. He was like a ship passenger who has survived a transatlantic voyage and finally reached solid ground.
He thought of all the things about Celine he missed: the way she peeled an orange and read the Sunday comics out loud. How she would overhear a conversation at a café and invent a story about the couple talking.
And God, he loved the way she stepped out of the shower and lathered her body with lotion. As if she didn’t know that every move she made was like the most glorious ballet.
There was a knock at the door and he stood up to answer it.
“Here you are.” Mathieu entered the suite. His brown hair was slicked back and he wore a wool overcoat. “I thought you might be walking into the Seine with rocks in your coat pocket.” He glanced at Alec’s smooth cheeks and freshly washed hair. “You look pretty good for someone who was left at the altar. I guess sleeping under thousand-thread-count sheets and eating room service cracked lobster does wonders for a broken heart.”
“I wasn’t left at the altar, we never made it to the church,” Alec said irritably. “And I can’t afford room service, I’ve been eating crackers and jam.”
“I was afraid of that.” He examined the empty preserve jars. “Helene suggested you join us for dinner. She’s making Nicoise salad with hard-boiled eggs, and strawberry melba for dessert.”
“As much as I enjoy the company of my best friend and his Cordon Bleu–trained wife, I’m not ready for an evening of discussing the joys of marital sex and the pregnant woman’s libido.” Alec sank onto a velvet love seat.
“Helene thought you would say that.” He grinned. “She authorized me to take you to Le Reservoir in Montmartre. We’re going to get drunk on pomegranate martinis.”
“I’d as soon stand under strobe lights in a nightclub as lock myself into a prison cell in the Bastille.”
“You can’t stay here eating salted nuts, you have to get on with your life,” he replied. “It’s Celine’s loss. Helene says if she met you before we fell in love, she would have been smitten. You’re good-looking and charming and you’re the only man she knows who can hang a shower curtain.”
“You and Helene are childhood sweethearts, she would have had to meet me in kindergarten.” Alec’s face broke into a smile. “You are a good friend, Mathieu. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Mathieu took off his overcoat and folded it over a brocade armchair.
“I’m not just here as your friend, I also came as your attorney.”
“I see.” Alec felt something hard press against his chest.
“In two weeks it will be the first anniversary of your father’s death,” he began. “You will be quite a wealthy man.”
“Who goes parasailing at the age of sixty-five?” Alec’s eyes glistened. “He should have celebrated his birthday like a normal Frenchman by eating beef bourguignon made with too much butter and drinking too many glasses of port.”
“His doctor said his heart could have given out anywhere,” Mathieu replied.
“Have you ever gazed down at the Mediterranean from six hundred feet?” Alec asked. “My mother tried to dissuade him. She told him the Greek myth about Icarus and he insisted it was perfectly safe. He said a ninety-year-old man went up the day before.”
“Your father led a wonderful life. Two handsome children, a successful business, a beautiful house in Paris’s most exclusive arrondissement.”
“You forgot the two wives.” Alec bristled. “The first one who deserted him and the second one whose stepdaughter never let her forget she wasn’t the love of his life.” His eyes narrowed. “Stepmothers are vilified, but stepdaughters can be worse. Was it my mother’s fault that Bettina’s mother left my father for a farmer who lived in a thatched cottage like Mellors in Lady Chatterley’s Lover?”
“Family histories can be as convoluted as abstract paintings at the Centre Pompidou.” Mathieu shrugged. “But it doesn’t change the law.”
“Ah, yes, French inheritance laws.” Alec walked to the bar and poured a glass of scotch. “It’s no wonder the French are the most unfaithful race. What wife wants to devote thirty years of her life to a man, only to be kicked out into the street the moment he’s dead?”
“The laws were created to protect the children,” Mathieu explained. “And to dissuade mistresses of wealthy patrons from demanding a wedding ring.”
“My mother was the most caring wife and mother,” he sighed. “Bettina is behaving as if she was a stray dog that didn’t work out.”
“The law says you and Bettina inherit two-thirds of Alain’s estate and your mother receives a third. She is allowed to live in the family home for a year after his death and then she must relinquish it to his children…” Mathieu paused. “Unless she gives up her portion of the estate in exchange for living there for the rest of her life. But then she couldn’t afford to live in the house.”
“You know that’s all she wants. Forty Rue de Passy has been her home for thirty years.” Alec fiddled with his glass. “She has her vegetable garden and rooms filled with Alain’s favorite things. If she leaves, estate taxes will eat up her principal and she’ll end up in a walk-up in Pigalle.”
“Your father stipulated in his will that whichever child marries first could live in the house.” Mathieu poured a glass of soda water. “He wanted the gardens filled with children playing on swings and catching butterflies.”
“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.”
