by Anita Hughes
“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.”
“I know what you mean, every couple I know is pregnant,” Alec grumbled. “It makes you wonder if anyone listened in health class. All that talk about safe sex and abstinence was useless.”
“Sometimes when I discover a new stock or see a dip in a foreign market, I know something big is going to happen,” she mused. “It’s like a sixth sense. I get a tingling in my fingers and it creeps through my whole body.”
“That’s carpal tunnel syndrome,” he said. “I get the same thing when I hold a pencil too long.”
“I have that feeling now,” she continued. “I’m sure the fortune-teller is right, I just need to find a French aristocrat.”
“That all sounds fine.” Alec shrugged. “Why are you telling me?”
Isabel stood up and walked to the window. She gazed at the gold-and-silver Christmas tree in the Place de la Concorde. She turned around and her brown eyes sparkled.
“Because you’re going to help me.”
“Me?” Alec laughed. “How would I do that?”
“When I was looking for things to do in Paris, I read about the Red Cross charity ball,” she explained. “It’s held every year at the Petit Palais and it’s the most important ball of the season. Tickets are two hundred euros and the attire is formal. It sounds glorious: men in white dinner jackets and women in glittering evening gowns and a sit-down dinner of veal sweetbreads and strawberry Chantilly for dessert.” She paused. “I checked with the concierge and tickets are still available. You’re going to take me.”
“That’s a month’s rent!” he exclaimed. “And I’m a terrible dancer, I always step on my own foot.”
“I can’t go by myself,” she insisted. “A single American tourist would be as welcome as a bad cold. I’ll pay for the tickets. You must own a tuxedo, you were getting married.”
“I did buy a white dinner jacket for the rehearsal dinner.” Alec hesitated. “But you’re not planning on spending four hundred euros on a few glasses of fizzy champagne and a plate of overcooked meat and buttery vegetables.”
“It’s an investment.” Isabel’s eyes were huge. “My whole future is riding on it.”
“You’re serious about this?”
“When I was in college, I took the Eurostar from Paris all the way to Vienna by myself. I’m perfectly capable of balancing a checkbook, and my father taught me how to change a tire.” She paused. “But I can’t make oatmeal for one person without burning the bottom of the pot, and whenever I throw only one pair of socks in the dryer, they never seem to dry. I might be old-fashioned, but everything is more fun when you share it with someone. I don’t want to miss out.”
“Everything does seem to come in pairs. The maid left two hazelnut truffles on the pillows even though Celine’s side of the bed is empty,” he sighed. “All right, I’ll do it. But I’m not staying past midnight. I have to catch up on sleep or I’ll never finish drawing Gus fighting a shark on the Great Barrier Reef.”
“I thought you weren’t going to have Gus swim in the ocean.” Isabel frowned.
He stuck a pencil behind his ear. “I changed my mind.”
* * *
ISABEL STROLLED DOWN the Boulevard Haussmann and stopped in front of a stone facade. She glanced at the striped awnings and thought of all the afternoons she’d spent browsing in Le Printemps during her semester in Paris. It was the most beautiful department store she had ever seen, with creamy turrets and a slate-gray roof.
Now she paused in front of a window with a mannequin perched on an elephant. The plastic figure wore an orange sweater and khaki slacks and carried a pair of binoculars. The mannequins in the next window were dressed in chiffon evening gowns. Silver balloons were scattered over the floor and a gold ball hung from the ceiling.
She entered the double glass doors and gazed at marble counters filled with bright lipsticks and expensive lotions. Salesgirls wore ribbed sweaters and pencil-thin skirts, and she remembered when she first came to Paris and wondered how the women all looked like racehorses when the croissants were so buttery and the café au laits were frothy.
She took the escalator to the fourth floor and entered the Givenchy boutique. There was a stack of pastel-colored pashminas, and suddenly she remembered the first time she met Rory, at the Saks in Bala Cynwyd. She had just graduated from Wharton and was staying with her parents until she started working at JPMorgan Chase.
She stroked the soft cashmere and thought it was easier to think about Rory; her engagement to Neil was too recent. It was like when you burned your hand on the stove and thought it was fine. It was only when you typed on your computer or tied your running shoes, you realized you were in pain.
But Rory! It was so long ago, like a romantic movie you loved but couldn’t remember the ending. They had been so young, and he looked like a film star with his blond curly hair and wide shoulders. She picked up the pashmina and remembered his green eyes an
d smile that could light up a room.
* * *
ISABEL SIFTED THROUGH a rack of cotton dresses. It was early summer and she was staying with her parents in Ardmore. The weather was humid and she needed light dresses and sandals. She looked up and saw a man examining a pile of pashminas.
“Which do you prefer?” He looked up. “The turquoise is a little bright, but the pale pink looks like a packet of cotton candy.”
“It depends on your girlfriend’s coloring,” Isabel replied. “The turquoise is pretty on a blonde, but the pink could make her look washed out.”
“It’s for my mother. Her hair is that color that’s impossible to describe but is the result of a monthly appointment at John Frieda in New York.” He paused and looked at Isabel. “Perhaps you could model them and help me decide.”
“Do you really expect me to drape a pashmina around my shoulders and twirl around like a runway model?” Isabel laughed.
“I didn’t ask you to twirl. And I’m sure you’d make an excellent runway model.” He studied her long legs. “You’d be doing me a favor. My mother’s sixtieth birthday party is tonight and I haven’t got a present. I’ve been on assignment and I only got back in town this morning.”
“That sounds exciting. Do you work for the CIA like a character in Homeland?” Isabel asked.
“Society columnist for the Philadelphia Inquirer,” he corrected. “It ranks only slightly higher than the obituary page. But I grew up on the Main Line, so I don’t spell anyone’s name wrong.” He fiddled with his collar. “Spelling is important, no one wants to read their name with a missing y or an extra e.”
“Shouldn’t you buy her something more summery?” Isabel suggested. “These linen blazers are lovely and the floral dresses are beautiful.”
“I wouldn’t dare buy a woman actual clothing.” He shuddered. “If you buy it too small, you are implying there has been a recent weight gain. And if you buy a size too large, you didn’t notice the regime of vegetable smoothies paid off and now she’s a size six. I only buy wraps and purses.”
“It sounds like you have a lot of experience.” Isabel’s cheeks flushed. “Why didn’t you bring your girlfriend to help you decide?”
“I don’t have a girlfriend, I don’t even own a cat. I’m sort of the prodigal son.” He moved around the display table. “Youngest child of a prominent steel family. The oldest, Brian, has an office next to my father, and the middle child, Emmy, is married to a junior senator. Tabitha disappeared to Oregon after her Smith graduation and my parents worried she’d joined a commune. But she showed up at Thanksgiving engaged to a senior executive at Microsoft.” He grinned, and Isabel noticed his eyes were the color of emeralds.
“That leaves me, doted on as a child for my blond curls and ability to run. Attended Milton Academy and had a brush with fame when I was state cross-country champion. But I realized I couldn’t make running a career and turned down acceptance to Brown. I ended up at Marlboro College in Vermont.” He looked at Isabel. “I don’t know what was worse, the endless green fields or the white cheeses. The minute I got my diploma, I moved into my parents’ pool house.” He smiled mischievously. “Other young men have John Glenn or Babe Ruth as their heroes, mine is Benjamin Braddock in The Graduate. I’m waiting for someone to tell me what my future is.”
“It’s not writing the society column at the Philadelphia Inquirer?” Isabel tried not to laugh.
“I never thought I could get tired of liver pâté or buttercream filling,” he sighed. “But it seems I have a limit.”
“My mother adores Chanel silk scarves.” Isabel picked up a teal scarf. “You can wear them during the day with a two-piece suit or at night with an evening gown.”
“Done,” the man exclaimed. He studied Isabel’s diamond earrings and Tiffany locket and suddenly his eyes sparkled. “Would you come with me? The Radnor Hunt Club is the oldest foxhunting club in the country. The chef prepares a delicious grilled venison and they have a cellar of vintage French wines.”
“You want me to be your date?” Isabel exclaimed. “I don’t even know your name.”
“Rory Danford.” He held out his hand. “It really would help, an odd number at the dinner table can be awkward.”
“Did you say the party is at the Hunt Club?” she asked.
“Yes, my family has been members for almost a hundred years.”
“I’m Isabel Lawson and I’m already invited,” she replied, a smile flickering across her face. “Our mothers are co-chairwomen of the Ardmore garden committee.”
* * *
ISABEL STOOD IN the paneled ballroom and gazed at the ivory tablecloths set with bone-white china and yellow calla lilies. A sixteen-piece band stood in the corner and silver lights twinkled above the dance floor. She fiddled with her ruby necklace and wondered why she’d agreed to attend Peggy Danford’s party.
Her parents received dozens of invitations and she rarely accompanied them. And she’d promised herself she wasn’t going to think about dating until she finished her trainee session at Chase. There would be plenty of time to meet men after she secured a position as junior analyst.
“Here you are,” Rory said as he approached her. He wore a white dinner jacket and his blond hair touched his collar. “It’s so crowded, I couldn’t find you.”
“What a wonderful party, all the women look beautiful.” Isabel gazed at women wearing satin evening gowns and Jackie O–style dresses.
“I hadn’t noticed.” Rory studied her red cocktail dress and silver sandals, and his eyes were suddenly serious. “I’ve been standing at the bar, asking Oscar to refresh my martini and waiting for you to walk through the door.”
“What would happen then?” Isabel asked, feeling as if she’d forgotten to button a button.
He put his martini glass on the bar and took her hand. He led her onto the dance floor and put his arm around her waist.
“I’d wait for the band to play ‘What a Wonderful World,’” he murmured. “And then I’d never let you go.”
* * *
THEY STOOD ON the porch and gazed at the green fields and thick hedges. It was early evening and a dew was forming on the grass. Isabel sipped chilled champagne and inhaled Rory’s cologne and felt almost giddy.
“It is one of the most beautiful spots in Chester County.” Rory rested his elbows on the deck. “It’s too bad most of the members enjoy it holding a shotgun. I don’t think my father has ever forgiven me for not enjoying hunting. I love a juicy burger and have a weakness for rib eye steak, but I try not to picture my dinner racing through the fields, being followed by men on horseback.”
“I know what you mean,” Isabel sighed. “I guess our forefathers didn’t have the luxury of spending their leisure time playing video games or watching movies.”
“I think it’s more that men love competition.” Rory frowned. “From the moment we enter preschool, we are trying to get ahead. My mother was furious when my teacher promoted Johnny Pearce to be a penguin, while I was left being a zebra.” His face broke into a smile. “Personally, I’m quite content to sit by the pool with a thick book and a bottle of Coke.”
“Don’t you think about a career?” Isabel asked.
“Should I?” Rory turned to her.
“Everyone does.” Isabel was suddenly flustered. “You have to build something, that’s what’s important.”
“My contribution isn’t going to make a dent in the family coffers.” Rory shrugged. “We have the thirty-room estate in Ardmore and ski cabin in the Poconos. I couldn’t use up my trust if I bought a Jaguar once a month and spread caviar on my morning toast.”
“My parents provided me with everything I needed, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to achieve things of my own,” Isabel insisted.
“What sort of things?” Rory asked.
“The important things,” Isabel said hotly. “A career and a happy home and a family.”
“Are you saying it’s more noble to sit in an office than read Thac
keray by the pool?”
“Well, yes.” Isabel nodded. “You have to have a reason to get up in the morning.”
“I have plenty of reasons. To eat my mother’s Belgian waffles and stand under a hot shower and watch Jimmy Fallon on late-night television.” He put his hand under her chin. “And right now I have the best reason of all. I’m standing next to the most beautiful woman at the party and have an irresistible urge to kiss her.”
Isabel knew she shouldn’t let him kiss her—he was completely opposite from everything she looked for in a man—but his cheeks were golden brown and his hair was soft and when his lips touched hers she shivered.
She kissed him back and tasted coq au vin and champagne. He put his hand on the small of her back, and suddenly she forgot about getting her final grades from Wharton and finding an apartment to rent in the city. She wanted to stand on the stone porch with the band playing “At Last” and kiss him again.
“We should go inside.” He pulled away finally. “I can’t run off with my date and miss my mother’s party.”
“I’m not your date,” Isabel said stiffly, afraid to read too much into the kiss. “I came with my parents.”
“We’ll have to fix that. I’ll introduce you to my mother.” He kissed her again. “She’ll be thrilled to meet the girl I’m going to marry.”
* * *
ISABEL GAZED AT the rack of Givenchy dresses and thought about the Red Cross charity ball. It was nice of Alec to take her—he hardly knew her at all. But she was paying for the tickets, and he couldn’t mope around his suite forever.
She remembered him saying love was impossible and knew he was wrong. Being in love was like diving into a pool on a hot summer’s day. There was nothing better than the sudden rush and cool water.
The summer with Rory, they couldn’t get enough of each other. It was the beginning of August and they had spent the last three weeks lying in the garden and eating corn on the cob and slices of fresh watermelon.
“We can’t go on like this,” Rory said, blocking out the sun. It was late afternoon and Isabel was stretched out on a chaise longue with a damp paperback book and glass of iced tea.
