by Anita Hughes
“And I have to fill this sketch pad or I’ll be eating frozen peas for dinner for a month.” He grimaced. “Children expect Gus to cross a rushing river with crocodiles snapping at his paws or dangle from the tail of an airplane above shark-infested waters. I can’t draw him sitting in his doghouse with a cup of tea and his remote.”
“It’s a warm afternoon, I’m going to walk in the Bois de Boulogne.” She stood up and peeled off a sweater.
Alec waited until she left and then moved around the living room. His cheek throbbed, but it felt good to stretch his legs. He picked up Celine’s sweater and chuckled. Her books were lined up in alphabetical order and her lipsticks were arranged by color, but she shed her clothes like a harem dancer.
He inhaled her scent on the fabric and sighed. They hadn’t made love since he returned from the dentist and he longed to kiss her. Suddenly he froze. That’s why he was blocked! Every time he tried to picture Gus ambushing a stagecoach, he saw Celine’s ripe breasts and luscious thighs. All his fantasies involved the woman standing in front of him.
He glanced in the mirror and thought he couldn’t navigate the metro or call a taxi looking like a squirrel. He gathered his notebook and pencils and opened the French doors to the garden. He would get in a couple of hours work away from her porcelain teacup and silver hairbrush and the photo of her waterskiing in Ibiza.
Celine’s garden was filled with rosebushes and bougainvillea and azaleas. He pictured his own fifth-floor flat with the shriveled tomato in the window box and thought it would be quite nice to live here when they were married.
He drew Gus on a tropical island reclining under a palm tree. Gus held a frothy drink in one paw and nibbled a slice of coconut. But then the natives appeared and announced they were going to sacrifice a maiden at sunset. Gus dropped the daiquiri and grabbed his spear and followed them to the base of the volcano.
How could Gus save the maiden without getting them both thrown into the molten lava? He felt a raindrop on the back of his neck and rain splattered his sketchbook. He gathered his pencil box and hurried into the living room.
He settled on the sofa and hunched over the notepad. He had to finish; he couldn’t be distracted by Celine’s hair ribbon on the love seat or her sandal wedged under the rug. The front door opened and Celine entered the foyer.
“I was in the middle of the Bois de Boulogne when it started raining,” she said, shaking water out of her hair.
“What are you doing?” he asked, watching her shrug off her jacket.
“I’m sopping wet,” she explained. “I’m going to take a hot shower.”
“You can’t get undressed here,” he protested, his forehead covered in sweat. “Go into the bedroom.”
“I can do whatever I want,” she replied. “It is my apartment.”
He tried to concentrate on his sketch, but it was no use. Her slacks outlined her thighs and her wet blouse clung to her breasts. God, he missed touching them! But his jaw ached if he made any sudden movements and he could as easily make love as climb into the mouth of the volcano.
She crossed the living room and opened the door to the bedroom. He watched her unzip her slacks and slip off her panties. She unsnapped her bra and he knew he was finished.
He looked down at his sketch pad, and all he could see was Celine’s full mouth and the birthmark on her thigh. The water ran in the shower and the desert island evaporated like a mirage.
He didn’t know what was worst: the pain in his jaw, Gus’s failure to save the sacrificial maiden, or the fact that the most beautiful woman in Paris was naked and soaking wet and he could do nothing about it.
He grabbed the bag of frozen peas and sank back onto the sofa.
* * *
ALEC GLANCED AT the fruit basket Isabel had left on the coffee table and his heart raced. He was blocked because he was falling in love with Isabel! She had never looked so lovely as last night. The diamond earrings made her dark eyes sparkle and her lips shimmered with red lipstick. When she talked about the opera and supper at Café de la Paix, he could listen to her forever.
How had this happened and what could he do about it? Isabel was hoping she’d be engaged by this evening. And if he didn’t finish this set of illustrations, he’d never pay off his charge cards.
There was a knock at the door and he answered it.
“Did you sleep in that suit?” Mathieu asked, entering the suite. “You look like one of the homeless people on the Pont Marie.”
“It’s an old trick I use to unblock my creativity.” Alec waved his hand. “I was awake all night trying to come up with an original story line, and all I have is Gus entering a cottage made of candy canes. If Gus was thinking clearly, he would realize you can’t devour gumdrops without paying a price.” He crumpled the paper. “Of course the cottage is owned by a wicked witch.”
“I don’t understand.” Mathieu folded his raincoat over a chair.
“The minute you let someone into your heart, they ruin your thought processes,” Alec groaned. “Love is more destructive than drinking a bottle of Absolut and eating a box of Henri Le Roux chocolates.”
“Has Celine come back?” Mathieu glanced around the living room.
“Of course not.” Alec shook his head. “Last night Isabel appeared in an emerald ball gown and diamond earrings. Her eyes were coated with mascara and she looked like an ingénue.” He paused. “She has a business degree, but she trusts her future to a fortune-teller. She’s like a child exploring Paris, but she knows more about French history than most Parisians.” His eyes flickered. “And when she laughs you try to remember what you said because you never want her to stop.”
“This is great news,” Mathieu said. “Your problems are solved.”
“How can it be good news? Tonight she’s taking a dinner cruise on the Seine and hoping Antoine will propose.” He ran his hands through his hair. “The next time I see her, she’ll practically be Comtesse de Villoy.”
“Tell her you’re a viscount and that you’re in love with her,” Mathieu insisted. “You’ll get your inheritance soon. Go to Van Cleef and Arpels and ask for Henri. He’ll let you buy a diamond ring on credit.”
“I can’t tell her I’m a viscount!” he spluttered. “She’d be furious I didn’t mention it sooner. And if I did, I’d never know if she was in love with me or thought she should marry a French aristocrat.”
“But you are a viscount and you are in love with her.” Mathieu poured a glass of sparkling water. “You’d be telling the truth.”
“Love is hard enough without knowing how the other person feels,” Alec argued. “What if I came down with a terrible disease and she had to take care of me? I couldn’t expect her to feed me consommé and change my bed linens unless she was in love with me.”
“You’re thirty-one and healthy as a horse,” Mathieu said. “You have decades to look forward to.”
“You don’t understand, I fell in love with Celine and thought she felt the same,” Alec said slowly. “We were going to live in her flat on the Rue Saint-Honoré and have a chubby baby. Eventually we’d want more children, so we’d move to a bigger apartment in the seventh arrondissement or buy a house near my mother,” he mused. “In the month of August, the children would stay at Celine’s parents’ and we’d make love in the kitchen and marvel how we can still be hungry for each other.
“But she ran off with the first guy who batted his blue eyes at her and left me with an arrow through my heart and a hole in my bank account.” He loosened his collar. “I’d rather walk the plank than fall in love again. But if I have no choice, it has to be with someone who is willing to take out my false teeth and push me in a wheelchair.”
“You have a curious view of marriage.” Mathieu grinned. “I’m happy if Helene makes crepes on Sundays.”
“But I would do the same,” he insisted. “Every morning I would bring her café au lait in bed and in the evening I’d stop at the market and pick up pork and haricots verts. We’d drink a bold
Syrah and talk about the bank and my illustrations. Later we’d move to the study and nibble chocolate profiteroles and discuss art and music.” He paused. “Our lips would touch and we wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”
“Getting married sounds like a bad idea,” Mathieu laughed. “You’ll both get fat.”
“The only people getting married are Isabel and Antoine,” Alec sighed.
“I have something to give you.” Mathieu reached into his pocket. “Bettina sent me, in my capacity as your attorney, a letter for your mother.”
“What does it say?” Alec felt like he had been punched in the stomach.
“Legally Claudia should vacate 40 Rue de Passy on January fourth. But since it is the holidays, Bettina will allow her to remain an additional two weeks.” He unfolded the paper. “She is welcome to take the desk in the den, but the furniture in the grand salon and dining room must stay in the house.”
“How kind,” Alec snapped. “I’m surprised she didn’t include a farewell bûche de Noël and bottle of Château Pétrus.”
“The contents of the wine cellar belong to the estate.” Mathieu looked up. “And your father’s cigar collection and Edith Piaf albums.”
“I hope Édouard smokes all the cigars and gets bloody lung cancer,” Alec grunted. “You’re an attorney, isn’t there something you can do?”
“Bettina is within her rights, you’re the only one who can stop her.”
“I’m not Gus who can stop a speeding bullet with his paw,” Alec sighed.
“You could marry Isabel by January third,” Mathieu suggested. “Then 40 Rue de Passy would be yours.”
“Even if I am in love with Isabel, I haven’t asked her on a date,” Alec spluttered. “I can hardly ask her to meet me in the judge’s chambers of the Hôtel de Ville.” He paused. “Oh, and please wear white, preferably with a veil.” His voice softened. “She would look lovely in a knee-length dress, she has slender calves.”
“You’re in Paris! Falling in love is as common as cheese soufflé,” Mathieu said, handing Alec the envelope. “I have to go, Helene and I are picking out a baby carriage. Please give Claudia the letter.”
“I’ll go see my mother today.” Alec nodded.
“You might want to change your suit.” Mathieu walked to the door. “You look like a street performer at the Christmas markets.”
Alec took off his tie and wished he and Isabel had never visited the Christmas markets. Then she wouldn’t have met the fortune-teller and believed she had to marry a French aristocrat.
Maybe Mathieu was right. All he needed was a few days to make her fall in love with him. Antoine might take her to Tour d’Argent and Rigoletto, but he could show her the cheese shops on the Rue Mouffetard and the wine bars along the Canal Saint-Martin and the view of the Boulevard Haussmann from Promenade Plantee.
“This isn’t over yet,” Alec murmured. He glanced at the sketch of Gus climbing to the top of a bean stalk and thought Isabel had to fall in love with him. His publisher wouldn’t be happy if he kept drawing fairy tales.
* * *
“DARLING, IT’S LOVELY to see you,” his mother said, opening the front door. “Join me in the kitchen, I’m having breakfast.”
Alec followed her into the wide kitchen and thought it was always his favorite room. French doors led to the garden and copper pots hung from the ceiling. A round table filled the breakfast nook and there was a ceramic vase of daisies.
“I’m surprised to see you,” Claudia said, pouring two cups of coffee. “I thought…”
“That because Celine left, I’d stick my head in the oven,” Alec replied.
“I didn’t mean that exactly.” She added cream and took a small sip. “You never think the pain will go away, but one day you’ll be sitting at Café Verlet across from a print of Renoir’s Luncheon of the Boating Party. You’ll comment to the waiter it’s your favorite painting and he’ll look at you strangely because you’ve been coming in for brioche with Échiré butter for six months and it’s been there the whole time.” She paused. “Then you’ll stroll along Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré and the store windows will be filled with paisley dresses and strapless sandals. You’ll laugh that fashion gets further ahead every year, until you see women in scarves and boots and realize it’s almost January and you missed a whole season.”
“It’s only been a year since he died,” Alec said softly. “It will get better.”
She wiped her eyes and looked at Alec. “I’m hosting a dinner party in a few weeks. One of your father’s oldest friends is retiring, and he and his wife are moving to Avignon. Would you like to come, maybe you could bring someone?”
Alec sipped his coffee and thought he couldn’t tell her about Isabel. If he hinted he’d met someone, she might get her hopes up she could stay in her home.
The whole way in the metro, he examined his feelings for Isabel. As much as he adored his mother, he couldn’t get married to save the house. But if he forgot about Bettina and his mother and 40 Rue de la Passy, he still couldn’t stop thinking about Isabel’s dark eyes and wide smile.
“I don’t think…,” Alec began.
How could he tell his mother that the Louis XIV chairs and Oriental rugs were no longer hers?
“Bettina,” Claudia gasped. “How could I forget? I just thought…”
“That she’d develop compassion and realize this house fits you like a second skin?” he snapped. “That you could as soon move as I could become an international soccer star?”
“You were a fast runner.” Claudia smiled. “You never gave yourself a chance.”
“I had lunch with her yesterday,” Alec continued. “I thought I could talk to her, but I never got a chance. She’s like Judas Iscariot picking out the menu for the Last Supper.”
“She never got over her mother leaving,” Claudia mused. “Who could blame her? I had a husband and beautiful home and baby boy with round cheeks and fists.”
“Where will you go?” Alec asked.
“I’ll rent a studio apartment near the Jardin des Plantes.” She fiddled with her cup. “Your father wasn’t the easiest man. I made him a soft-boiled egg every morning, and the yolk was always too runny or too firm. He spent hours in his study with the door closed and he could smoke a whole cigar after dinner without saying a word.
“But he was always here: his briefcase rested in the foyer and his overcoat hung in the closet and his magazines collected in the library.” Her eyes glistened. “Where will he be if I move?
“Enough about me,” she said suddenly. “Have you heard from Celine?”
“Of course not. I’m sure she’s lying on the beach in the swimsuit we bought in Cannes. She wanted to buy the maillot and I convinced her to get the bikini,” he sighed. “I didn’t realize I was buying Patrick an early Christmas present.”
“You are good-looking and talented, even if you are my own son,” Claudia said and smiled. “You’ll fall in love again and this time it will be right.”
“Love is worse than the Paris metro system,” Alec grumbled, finishing his coffee. “It’s nothing but bumps and jolts and you always exit with a stomachache.”
“It’s all we have.” Claudia shrugged. “We’d be lost without it.”
* * *
ALEC CLIMBED THE steps of the metro into the Place des Abbesses and sighed. Usually he loved the square in the middle of Montmartre with its carousel and outdoor cafés. All of Montmartre was like an antidote to Paris’s wide boulevards and grand department stores. The alleys were paved with cobblestones and laundry hung from windows and the air smelled of butter and garlic.
But the Christmas chalets were still set up and Alec was tired of the stalls filled with bright ornaments and oversweet candies. Hadn’t people drunk enough cups of mulled wine and eaten plenty of cheeses and sausages? And when would the vendors stop wishing everyone a joyeux Noël and happy new year?
In January his mother would be practically homeless and Isabel would go back to America, or eve
n worse, she would marry Antoine. He pictured her inviting him to elegant dinner parties at Antoine’s flat off the Rue de Rivoli and his stomach turned.
He glanced at the famous wall covered with “I love yous” and remembered when he and Celine had scribbled their names in the cement. If only someone had told him you could never be happy and in love at the same time—it was like an ostrich expecting to fly.
Hadn’t these young people read enough Stendhal to know love ended in despair? His mother loved his father for thirty years, but instead of being allowed to drink café au lait in her own kitchen, she had to move to a studio apartment.
And what hope did he have? Celine trampled his heart, and now he met Isabel and was perched at the edge of the same dizzying rabbit hole. He would give anything to stop himself from sliding inside.
He saw a street vendor arguing with a young woman in a beige sweater and navy slacks. He walked closer and realized it was Isabel.
“What are you doing here?” he said as he approached her.
“Alec! What a wonderful surprise.” She beamed. “I was trying to buy a painting and somehow I offended him.”
Alec spoke to the vendor in rapid French and the vendor waved his hands. Alec reached into his pocket and handed him a wad of euros. He grabbed the painting and took Isabel’s elbow.
“One minute we were having a pleasant conversation,” she explained. “The next he acted like I committed a crime.”
“You called him by the familiar ‘tu’ instead of the formal ‘vous.’ His girlfriend heard you and thought you had a relationship.”
“That’s ridiculous!” Isabel protested. “I never saw him before in my life.”
“Then you should have addressed him correctly,” Alec replied.
“Or the French language shouldn’t have so many pronouns,” she retorted. “What did you tell him?”
“I gave him an extra ten euros and told him to buy his girlfriend a bottle of perfume.” Alec grinned.
“It is a lovely painting,” she said and smiled. “It’s the entrance to the Place des Abbesses metro station. It’s the most famous metro station in Paris and was in the movie Amélie.”
