Christmas in Paris

by Anita Hughes

  “You’re the one who said there’s nothing noble about working.” Isabel gazed at his broad shoulders and tan chest. “I don’t report to JPMorgan Chase for twenty-nine days and I haven’t finished the first of Elena Ferrante’s Neapolitan novels.”

  “I work every day,” Rory said, suddenly irritable. “I can’t help it if my job description involves nibbling mini quiches with congressmen and reporting what Buffy Stuyvesant wore to the Fireman’s Ball.”

  “I’m not complaining.” Isabel smiled, remembering his mouth on hers. “I’m quite enjoying myself.”

  “Well, I want something more.” He perched on the chaise.

  “You do?” Isabel’s heart hammered. They hadn’t talked about the end of the summer, but Isabel knew she’d be working too much to drive out to Ardmore. And she couldn’t imagine Rory drinking Singapore slings with earnest young analysts who tried to see who could rack up the most overtime hours.

  He untied her bikini top and ran his fingers over her breasts. His fingers moved farther down her body, and Isabel felt like she had been jolted by an electric current.

  “I want this.” He leaned forward and kissed her. One hand brushed her bikini bottom and she caught her breath.

  “Not here,” she murmured. “Someone might see us.”

  He picked her up and carried her into the pool house. Isabel stood with her legs apart and her hands pressed against the wall. He undid her bikini top and kissed his way from her neck down the middle of her back. She gasped and turned around and kissed him.

  “God, I’ve never wanted anything more in my life,” he moaned, drawing her onto the bed.

  She lay on the cotton sheets and watched him strip off his board shorts. His cheeks were chiseled and his chest was toned and he looked like Leonardo DiCaprio in Titanic.

  He kissed her hair and her neck and her breasts. She felt the waves build until her whole body trembled. She waited for him to carry her over the edge and suddenly he paused.

  “Wait for me,” he whispered into her ear. “Let’s do this together.”

  She clung to his back and he picked up speed. His chest pressed against her breasts and she felt his slick thighs on her legs and suddenly the warmth became a bright light and her body dissolved in an exquisite release.

  The sun streamed through the French doors and Isabel listened to his even breathing. Was it really so terrible that he didn’t aspire to carry a briefcase or work in an office? Weren’t you supposed to love someone because he made you laugh, not because of his job title?

  Her body pulsed and she knew she wasn’t thinking clearly. She closed her eyes and thought she’d worry about it in the morning.

  * * *

  ISABEL LOOKED UP and flushed, as if other shoppers could tell she’d been thinking about Rory. Maybe this whole idea was ridiculous; she should give up on falling in love and finding a husband. It hadn’t worked out with Neil, and she had been sure they were perfect for each other. She should be content with her career and trips to Europe or the Caribbean.

  She didn’t know anything about the French aristocracy besides what she had learned in her college French courses. What would she even talk about without getting names and dates wrong and admitting she had never felt much sympathy for Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette?

  But then she remembered the glass bracelet and screeching taxi and smell of burning rubber. The fortune-teller had been right about her receiving a gift and almost being killed, and she was right about her falling in love. Isabel was as certain as when she had discovered a correction in the price of artichokes and knew it would lead to big returns for her investors.

  “Oh, this is gorgeous,” Isabel said aloud, recognizing a dress she had seen in Vogue. It was a striped taffeta and had been featured in the runway shows in Milan.

  “Nobody buys a dress that was worn on the runway,” a woman said.

  Isabel looked up and saw a glamorous woman wearing yellow wool slacks and a cropped sweater. Ruby earrings dangled from her ears and she had a French accent.

  “They don’t?” Isabel asked.

  “The designers slap on price tags they couldn’t imagine in their wet dreams,” she explained. “And the clothes are outrageous—have you ever seen a woman walking down the street in a silver lamé dress held together by paper clips?”

  “Well, no…” Isabel hesitated.

  “Valentino and Yves Saint Laurent and Tom Ford all do the same thing,” she continued. “They fill the runways with outfits they wouldn’t put on their standard poodles so when a woman discovers the designer’s other dresses—the green tulle that costs double her clothing allowance—she feels like she got a bargain.” She held up a teal dress with a pleated skirt. “She buys a diamond pin or a bottle of perfume because she saved so much money, and everyone is happy.”

  “I’m guessing her husband isn’t happy,” Isabel laughed.

  “No French husband is happy when his wife comes home with bags from Le Printemps.” She shrugged. “But that is the price of sending one’s wife out with a charge card.”

  “I need a gown for the Red Cross charity ball and I don’t know where to start. I bought the most gorgeous Vera Wang for my wedding and a Nina Ricci dress for our honeymoon, but this is different,” Isabelle explained. “There will be dozens of women at the ball, I need to stand out.”

  “When are you getting married?” the woman asked.

  “Oh, I’m not getting married. We called off the wedding because we couldn’t agree about anything,” Isabel said. “I gave the dress to a consignment store and came to Paris by myself. Now I’m going to the Red Cross charity ball to find a new husband.”

  “What did you say?” the woman raised her eyebrow.

  “I know it sounds silly, but I have it on good authority that I’m going to fall in love with a French aristocrat and I need to look the part.” She studied the woman’s elegant pumps and gold bracelet. “Will you help me?”

  “Help you buy a dress to find a husband…” The woman frowned. “You can’t really believe in love at first sight?”

  “I tried every other kind of love. The handsome dilettante you meet in your last semester of business school, only to discover that love and lust are two different things. The man you are so positive you are going to spend the rest of your life with, you start dreaming about a house with an enormous kitchen and a pantry filled with jars of Skippy peanut butter—” She stopped and her eyes glistened. “Until three days before the wedding you realize your goals are worlds apart and you tell the florist to donate the flowers to charity and end up in Paris at Christmastime by yourself.” She stroked a gauze dress. “This time I’m going to get it right, but I need help.”

  “I’m sure one of the salesgirls will assist you.” The woman glanced at her watch. “I have an appointment.”

  “In Philadelphia the only object of a winter coat is to keep you warm; in Paris every woman dresses like Marion Cotillard,” Isabel pleaded. “I want to find something sexy and sophisticated that only a Frenchwoman would wear.”

  “I suppose I have a few minutes,” she wavered, and a smile crossed her face. “You do have a wonderful neck, I think you’d look fabulous in Givenchy.”

  Moving from boutique to boutique, Isabel tried on Lanvin and Balenciaga and Dolce and Gabbana. She stepped out of the dressing room in a red Oscar de la Renta gown. One shoulder was bare and the fabric was the softest silk.

  “That’s the one,” the woman exclaimed. “You look like Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s.”

  “But she wore a black cocktail dress.” Isabel frowned, turning around.

  “A dress isn’t about the color or the fit. It’s about how it makes you feel,” she replied. “I see a beautiful woman who is about to discover her powers of attraction.”

  Isabel gazed in the mirror and thought her hair looked shiny and her skin was creamy and the light freckles on her nose almost disappeared.

  “I see her too, I’ll take it.” She hugged her chest and her ey
es sparkled. “Now, where will I find a pair of stilettos?”

  She paid for her purchases and waited while the salesgirl lined boxes with tissue paper. She turned around and noticed the woman walking to the escalator.

  “I didn’t thank you!” Isabel ran after her. “Can I buy you an espresso or pastry?”

  “Another time,” she called back. “I have a lunch date, I have to go.”

  Isabel clutched her packages and watched the woman run onto the boulevard.

  “People say the French are rude,” she said aloud, stepping onto the escalator. “But I think they are the nicest people in the world.”

  * * *

  ISABEL SAT IN a booth in the Brasserie Printemps and nibbled an almond-milk brioche with blueberry cream. She gazed up at the blue mosaic dome and the view of the Eiffel Tower and wondered why anyone would want to be anywhere else.

  Why couldn’t she marry a French aristocrat and live in Paris? JPMorgan Chase had branches all over Europe.

  They would fly to Philadelphia every Christmas and celebrate with her parents. In the summer she’d invite her mother and father to their château in Provence and they’d eat fondue and local cheeses.

  She tore apart the brioche and thought Paris really was a magical city. First Alec rescued her from the balcony and then the fortune-teller predicted her future and now a strange woman appeared in the department store and chose the perfect ball gown. She tasted blueberry and almonds and thought all you had to do was believe in love: everything else would follow.

  chapter five

  Alec fiddled with his bow tie and sank onto the blue velvet love seat. It had been the most disastrous day, and now he had to dress for the Red Cross charity ball.

  Why on earth had he said yes? He’d as soon visit the dentist. But Isabel had been determined and he felt somehow responsible for her. Isabel wouldn’t have met the fortune-teller if they hadn’t explored the Christmas markets.

  He thought briefly of calling the front desk and asking for a suite on the sixth floor. There would be no answer when Isabel knocked on his door. But what if she searched the whole hotel until she found him? He couldn’t explain why he’d switched suites without lying or hurting her feelings.

  He scooped up a handful of pistachios and thought about Mathieu’s visit. He knew he should tell Bettina the wedding was canceled, but every time he pictured her smug smile a pit formed in his stomach.

  He picked up a sketch of Gus wearing scuba gear and thought if only it was as easy to solve his own problems as it was for Gus to discover a treasure chest. He could beg Bettina to let Claudia stay in their father’s house. But she was as likely to do as he asked as Santa Claus was to land in the Place de la Concorde.

  Mathieu said he should find someone else to marry, but that was impossible. Celine had broken his heart and wounded his pride and depleted his bank account. He would as soon go down that road again as lie under a guillotine.

  The first time Celine and Bettina met was at the house on the Rue de Passy. Celine insisted she meet his whole family and he grudgingly set up a luncheon. It was early summer and he wore a blue blazer and tan slacks. He drove through the iron gates and saw Bettina’s Jaguar in the driveway and shuddered.

  * * *

  “DARLING,” HIS MOTHER called, standing on the stone steps. She wore a floral dress and held two bottles of wine. “I was just down in the wine cellar. I can’t decide whether to serve a Pétrus Merlot or Château Latour Bordeaux.”

  “I’ll drink them both,” Alec grumbled, opening Celine’s car door.

  Celine and his mother had met over afternoon tea at the Ritz and hit it off. Celine admired Claudia’s vintage Hermès clutch, and Claudia gushed over Celine’s taste in shoes.

  “Don’t be silly, it’s going to be a lovely afternoon.” Claudia kissed Alec and Celine on both cheeks. “I made boeuf bourguignon and summer squash and apple flan for dessert.”

  “I’m not concerned about the food, I’m worried about the company.” Alec followed his mother into the foyer. “Did Bettina bring Schatzi, her miniature schnauzer, or does she plan on doing the biting and snapping herself?”

  “Your sister is excited to meet Celine.” Claudia straightened a vase of calla lilies. “She and Édouard are waiting in the grand salon.”

  Alec ran his hands through his hair and thought Édouard was part of the problem. He and Bettina had been dating for four years, but he was no closer to proposing than he had ever been. Bettina always had an excuse: he’d just completed his residency; he worked twenty-four-hour rotations at the hospital.

  But now Édouard was an established neurosurgeon with a practice in the eighth arrondissement and an apartment near the Palais Bourbon. He took six weeks’ annual vacation and bought Bettina sapphire earrings for her birthday.

  Alec walked to the bar and poured a glass of scotch. He downed it quickly and thought he would go to church every Sunday if they made it through the entrée without Bettina offending Celine. He pictured Celine tossing the diamond ring on her salad plate and wished he were home eating a bowl of cereal.

  The grand salon was scattered with paisley sofas and Louis XIV chairs. Oriental rugs were stretched over wood floors and a crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling.

  Claudia kept the bar stocked with the finest liqueurs and the cigar box filled with cigars, as if Alain would appear any minute and hand her his briefcase and demand a glass of sherry.

  His father had been loud and sometimes rude, but he loved his family. Alec remembered admitting he wanted to go to art school instead of following his father into the business and his father examining his sketches and saying who was he to judge what would make his son happy. He was halfway down the hall when his father called out to him.

  “The sketches are very good, you must get your talent from your mother.”

  * * *

  NOW ALAIN WAS dead and had left his family in a mess. His mother would have to leave the ornate dining room with its mahogany table and faded tapestries. The kitchen had never been remodeled, but Claudia loved drinking creamy coffee in the breakfast nook and filling the enamel vases with cut flowers.

  If only he had accepted his father’s offer of an allowance when he turned twenty-one. He didn’t want to be like Bettina, living in a chic apartment he couldn’t pay for himself. But he could have saved that money and offered it to his mother now. How was he to know that Alain would write in his will that 40 Rue de Passy went to his children and Claudia would have nowhere to live?

  “There you are,” Bettina said. Her brown hair was cut in a pageboy, and she had long red fingernails. “You’ve grown your hair, I thought you were the pool boy.”

  “Celine likes it.” Alec touched his hair. “And it saves money at the barber.”

  “I’ve always thought long hair was for boys.” Bettina nibbled a mushroom quiche. “Like in that book your mother read when we were children. It was so silly, but you adored it.” She paused and looked at Alec. “No wonder you grew up to be an illustrator.”

  “Peter Pan is one of the most beloved children’s books,” Alec spluttered. “I’d give anything for Gus to affect children the way I was influenced by Tinker Bell and Captain Hook.” He took Celine’s hand. “Celine, this is my sister Bettina and her boyfriend, Édouard.”

  Bettina studied Celine’s blond chignon and high cheekbones. She wore a yellow crepe dress and silver sandals.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Alec never mentioned you and now he’s engaged.” Bettina looked pointedly at Celine’s small waist. “Unless there’s a reason for a hasty wedding.”

  “I didn’t mention Celine because we rarely see each other besides Christmas and birthdays.” Alec refreshed his drink. “And the wedding won’t be until Christmas. At which time Celine will wear a wedding dress with a twenty-six-inch waist.” He downed the scotch. “If you’ll excuse us, I promised I’d show her the rose garden before lunch.”

  * * *

  “YOU DON’T HAVE to speak for me as if
I’m a department store dummy,” Celine said as they strolled through the garden. “And I’ve seen your mother’s roses.”

  “We’ll go back inside, I just needed to cool off.” Alec loosened his collar. “Bettina makes me feel like a schoolboy.”

  “You’re acting like one,” Celine retorted. “It’s not very sexy.”

  “I was afraid…” Alec glanced at Celine’s violet eyes and full lips, and his voice trailed off. How could he tell her he was terrified Bettina would say something to threaten their engagement?

  He ran his hands through his hair and thought he was acting like a frightened puppy. The most spectacular woman in Paris had agreed to be his wife and nothing was going to stop them.

  “I was afraid she’d ask to be your maid of honor and you wouldn’t know how to refuse,” he said weakly. “I’m sure you have your own idea for attendants.”

  “Your sister would be as likely to stand behind the bride as the prime minister would be to attend our wedding.” Celine’s face softened and she kissed him. “Now let’s relieve your mother of that bottle of Pétrus Merlot.”

  * * *

  THEY SAT AT the long table and ate leek soup and Nicoise salad. There was a Limoges platter of potato salad and creamed cauliflower.

  “You hardly need a full set of china,” Bettina mused, cradling her wineglass. “You should sell some pieces at Sotheby’s. They would fetch a good price.”

  “Your father loved giving dinner parties.” Claudia buttered a baguette. “I would never part with the china.”

  “It will be hard to find an apartment big enough to fit twelve soup tureens,” Bettina continued. “And the style is so old-fashioned, the whole house needs to be updated. One of Édouard’s patients is an interior decorator. I’ll ask him about replacing the carpets, they’re quite dusty and I’m prone to hay fever.”

  “It’s only June,” Alec interrupted. “Claudia can live here until January and then…”

  “We can discuss this later.” Claudia stood up and turned to Celine. “I made ratatouille with tomatoes from the garden. Perhaps you can help me bring out the plates.”