Christmas in Paris

by Anita Hughes

  “You have plenty of time,” Alec said. “We haven’t explored the Place du Trocadéro or visited the galleries on the Rue de Rivoli.”

  “I loved meeting your mother, but I have to take a bath and do my hair and makeup,” Isabel said and smiled. “You can’t prepare for an Imperial Ball by zipping up a dress and rubbing on lipstick.”

  Alec had intended on proposing on the balcony of his suite. But what if they arrived at the Crillon and Isabel insisted on going straight to her room? He pictured the room service bottle of Veuve Clicquot and platter of duck foie gras and sighed. Love was so expensive; he couldn’t wait until they were married and could stick to a budget.

  But if he dropped to his knees on the pavement, she probably wouldn’t hear him over the honking cars and chattering tourists. Instead of realizing he was asking her to marry him, she might think he’d lost his wallet.

  He took her hand and led her down a narrow passageway.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “We must visit the Marché de Passy,” he explained. “It has the best organic fruits and vegetables in the city.”

  Alec glanced at the baskets of tomatoes and trays of asparagus, and his shoulders sagged. Could he really ask Isabel to marry him surrounded by leeks and artichokes? But at least it was quiet and the smell of cooked sausage was quite pleasant.

  He bought a packet of olives and bag of chestnuts. He took Isabel’s hand and led her to a bench.

  “You have to try one.” He handed her the bag of chestnuts. “There’s nothing more Parisian than warm chestnuts wrapped in newspaper.”

  Isabel put her hand in the newspaper and gasped. She drew out a black velvet box and looked at Alec.

  “Ever since you tossed your Ferragamo on the balcony, my life has changed.” He took the box and held it in his palm. “You’ve made me see the world in a new light, and when I’m with you, I don’t want the day to end. I love you and want to spend the rest of our lives together.” He opened the jewelry box. “Isabel Lawson, will you marry me?”

  “You can’t propose!” Isabel exclaimed. “I’m going to marry Antoine.”

  “I know you’ve made mistakes and think you have to listen to the fortune-teller,” Alec implored. “But you’re beautiful and smart and this time you’re making the right decision. I will spend every day making you happy.” He paused. “You make me believe I can do anything and it’s the best feeling in the world.”

  “We don’t know anything about each other, we’ve only had one kiss.”

  Alec leaned forward and kissed her. Her lips were warm and she tasted like raspberry and cream.

  “Now we’ve had two,” he said, suddenly feeling cocky. “If you want, we can have more.”

  “The kisses are lovely, but I’ve put everything into choosing the right husband.” Isabel twisted her hands. “The fortune-teller said I was going to fall in love and marry a French aristocrat, and I met Antoine the next day. I can’t ignore the magical things that have happened since I arrived in Paris.” She paused. “If I listen to the fortune-teller, everything will be perfect.”

  “You’ll get a good job and with our combined incomes we’ll rent a garden flat in Saint-Germain-des-Prés. We’ll buy a little car and visit the cathedral in Rheims on the weekend.” He paused. “Then we’ll come home and eat chocolate soufflé in bed.” He took Isabel’s hand. “Everything is perfect. You just have to give us a chance.”

  “I do have feelings for you…” She hesitated. “I promised Antoine I would go to the Imperial Ball and I can’t go back on my word.” She looked at Alec. “Can I give you my answer tomorrow?”

  Alec rubbed his brow and wished he’d learned how to pray. Could he ask God for the most important thing in the world, the first time he needed help?

  “Yes,” he breathed. “You can give me your answer tomorrow.”

  * * *

  ALEC TOLD ISABEL he had to run some errands and would see her tomorrow. He sat at Café Carette and ordered café au lait and brioche. God, that kiss! It was like a movie where the couple kisses in the final frame and the screen erupts into fireworks.

  He pictured Isabel attending the Imperial Ball with Antoine and his chest tightened. It didn’t matter if Antoine presented her with the Hope diamond; he was certain she loved him. All he had to do was make it through tonight, and tomorrow she would say yes.

  He felt in his pocket and realized he still had the jewelry box. He forgot to give her the ring! He couldn’t run after her now—she was preparing for the Imperial Ball.

  Why didn’t she ask to see the ring? Maybe she wasn’t in love with him; she just wanted to let him down slowly. Being in love wasn’t like the Phantom Manor at Disneyland Paris; it was more like Space Mountain. One minute you were looking at the stars, the next you dropped so fast your stomach stayed in your mouth.

  He pushed aside the café au lait and signaled the waiter. What he needed was a large scotch.

  chapter sixteen

  Isabel sat at the dressing table and picked up her mahogany hairbrush. She admired the folds of the silver silk dress and wished she could concentrate on choosing a necklace and earrings.

  She tried pushing Alec out of her mind, but you couldn’t ignore a marriage proposal. It was like watching To Kill a Mockingbird on Netflix and trying to forget you knew how the trial ended.

  How could Alec expect her to say yes when they had just met? She wanted Antoine to propose, but that was different. The fortune-teller said she was going to marry a French aristocrat. Antoine was like a preapproved credit card you received in the mail.

  Usually she could solve a problem by analyzing the facts. But they kept rearranging themselves like objects in a Harry Potter movie. Alec was warm and good-looking, and when she was with him, she felt like she was watching a documentary where you see a flower bloom in slow motion.

  But she had been certain Rory was the love of her life and Neil would provide her with a stable future. She couldn’t ignore her track record; it was like betting on a horse that lost every Kentucky Derby.

  And Antoine was so thoughtful! Every woman wanted to receive a dozen roses and dine at Michelin-star restaurants.

  She remembered Alec kneeling on the cement in the covered market and had to smile. Of all the places he could have proposed in Paris, she couldn’t think of anything less romantic.

  But when he kissed her, she wanted it to last forever. Even if she was in love with him, was that enough? Could she ignore all the signs because of a flutter in her chest?

  Alec’s mother was lovely and the house on Rue de Passy was gorgeous. But it didn’t matter if Alec grew up with English rose gardens and a Renoir on the wall; he still wasn’t a French aristocrat. The fortune-teller’s prediction had been specific; it would be like ignoring the fine print on a contract.

  She fastened a gold necklace around her neck and gasped. How could she not have looked at the ring? And now it was back in his pocket. Not that it would have influenced her decision, but it would have been nice to know if he bought a one-carat diamond from Cartier or an antique ruby from an estate sale.

  She wasn’t even sure what kind of engagement ring she would like. That’s why she had to listen to the fortune-teller; love and marriage were so confusing. She couldn’t make the decision by herself.

  She must marry Antoine; she couldn’t take a chance. She pictured a stone house with a gabled roof. They would have a black Labrador, and on Sundays Antoine would make raspberry crepes.

  Tomorrow she would tell Alec it was a mistake. She shouldn’t have said she’d think about it—it was out of the question. He was very kind and she valued their friendship.

  She stood at the window and thought the Champs-Élysées was beautiful in every light, and she never tired of seeing the Petit Palais. And soon it would all be hers! She and Antoine would attend balls and give dinner parties. Maybe she’d meet a few expatriates and trade James Patterson books and Ralph Lauren catalogs.

  She fastened her hair with
a diamond clip and slipped on stilettos. She grabbed her purse and hurried to the elevator.

  Isabel stood in the Crillon’s lobby and gazed at crystal vases filled with orchids. A harpsichord stood in one corner, and silk sofas were scattered over Persian rugs.

  Antoine entered the glass revolving doors wearing a white dinner jacket and black bow tie. His blond hair was slicked back and his cheeks glistened with aftershave.

  “Isabel, you look beautiful.” He kissed her on the cheek. “I feel terrible about last night, I should never have taken a client to Provins during the holidays. The roads are so congested, the sheep move faster.”

  “It’s quite all right.” Isabel smiled. “I had a pleasant evening and went to bed early.”

  “We’ll make up for it tonight, the Imperial Ball is attended by all of Parisian society.” He reached into his pocket and drew out a flat velvet box. “I’m so glad you could come, I wanted to give you something special.”

  Isabel snapped it open and discovered a diamond-and-ruby tiara. She looked at Antoine and gasped.

  “It’s the de Villoy tiara, it was given to an ancestor by Napoleon. It’s been worn by comtesses to Imperial Balls for decades.” Antoine picked it up. “My parents couldn’t attend this year, so I thought you could wear it.”

  “You want me to wear a priceless family heirloom?” Isabel stammered.

  “When I saw you at the Red Cross charity ball, I thought you were the most beautiful woman in the world.” He kissed her. “I hope we attend many balls together.”

  Isabel placed the tiara on her head and caught her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes sparkled and her lips shimmered and her skin was like peaches.

  “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” She turned to Antoine. There was a sudden twinge in her chest and she ignored it. “I can’t wait to dance and drink French champagne.”

  * * *

  ISABEL NIBBLED SALMON tartare and gazed around the ballroom. The walls were covered in rich tapestries, and glittering chandeliers dangled from the ceiling.

  Everything about the evening was wonderful: The twelve-tier raspberry fondant cake and sixteen-piece orchestra. The platters of guinea fowl and stuffed partridge.

  Antoine went to get a plate of mushroom crepes, and Isabel stood at the bar. She saw a woman with a blond chignon and emerald earrings.

  “Isabel, it’s lovely to see you.” Jacqueline approached her. “What a fabulous gown, did you buy it in Paris?”

  “I found it this afternoon at Galeries Lafayette.” Isabel nodded. “I didn’t know I would be attending so many balls or I would have packed more than one cocktail dress.” She paused. “Of course, one doesn’t need an excuse to visit Paris’s department stores. I could spend all day in the shoe department of Le Bon Marché.”

  Isabel bit her lip. Jacqueline probably had a personal shopper who delivered Lanvin dresses and Chanel purses to her apartment. She would never fit in with Antoine’s friends if she behaved like a tourist who exited the metro and discovered herself in the Place Vendôme.

  “The January sales are terrific,” Jacqueline confided. “Last year I scooped up Marc Jacob slacks and Courrèges sweaters.” She fiddled with her earrings. “We’ll go together, I have a friend who can get us into Le Printemps before the doors open.”

  “I’d love to, but I don’t know if I’ll be here in January.” Isabel hesitated. “I fly back to Philadelphia in two days.”

  “Antoine mentioned you might join us in Chamonix,” Jacqueline said. “I ran into him at the market, and you’re all he talked about.”

  “I am?” Isabel asked.

  “He’s quite taken with you,” Jacqueline continued. “I’m pleased. Our circle is very tight; we’ve known each other since nursery school. It will be nice to include an American who can teach us about F. Scott Fitzgerald and the Kardashians.”

  “I studied The Great Gatsby in high school, but I don’t get many popular magazines,” Isabel laughed. “Though when I attended the Sorbonne, I read Paris Match to practice my French.”

  “Paris Match is worse than Hello! Of course, the people who are worth mentioning aren’t in it at all,” she mused. “For that you have to attend the private salons on the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré.”

  “It’s the same in America,” Isabel agreed. “The Kelloggs and du Ponts may as well not exist, but that’s where the power is.”

  “Antoine said you would fit in,” Jacqueline said and smiled. “Give me your number. We’ll have tea at Le Meurice and you can tell me what happened on the last season of Homeland.”

  “Do you watch it?” Isabel asked curiously.

  “We wouldn’t miss it.” She nodded. “But French television is two seasons behind.”

  Jacqueline drifted away, and Isabel felt a shiver of excitement. Antoine had lent her the de Villoy tiara and wanted her to go to Chamonix!

  She remembered Alec asking her to marry him and flinched. Alec would understand—look what happened with Celine. They were madly in love and it ended badly. You couldn’t figure out love by yourself; it was like trying to win at blackjack. The only people who had a chance were the ones who controlled the cards.

  Alec would find someone and they’d all be friends. She felt something squeezing her chest. Perhaps her gown was too tight and she should adjust it.

  “There you are.” Antoine put his arm around her. “Come with me, I want to show you something.”

  They walked down a marble hallway and entered a paneled room with tall bookshelves. It had a large globe and a Louis XVI desk. There was a leather Bible and cabinet filled with Fabergé eggs.

  Antoine poured two glasses of brandy and handed one to Isabel.

  “Is that a first edition copy of the Decameron?” Isabel gasped, gazing at a leather book in a glass case.

  “The Grand Hotel has one of the finest antiquarian book collections in Europe.” He pulled a book from the shelves. “This one is about witchcraft trials in France during the Middle Ages. Almost half the witches sent to trial were men.” He sipped his brandy. “In 1560 my ancestor François de Villoy was accused of putting a spell on a young woman and convincing her to marry him. The girl’s father pressed charges because nine months after they married, his daughter died in childbirth.”

  “What happened to François?” Isabel asked.

  “I’m afraid he was burned at the stake.” He paused. “Of course it wasn’t witchcraft at all, it was love at first sight.”

  Isabel gulped the brandy and felt a tightness in her chest.

  “I’ve waited thirty years for the right woman,” Antoine began. “The moment I saw you standing at the coat check in the Petit Palais, something stirred inside me.”

  Antoine reached into his pocket and the glass tipped and brandy spilled over his slacks.

  “If you will excuse me—” Antoine watched the gold stain spread over silk. “I’ll be right back.”

  Antoine strode out of the library and Isabel let out her breath. If Antoine hadn’t spilled brandy, he would have pulled out an engagement ring. Why was her heart racing like a hummingbird poised for flight?

  She had been waiting for this moment since she met Antoine at the Red Cross charity ball. She could already picture the emerald-cut diamond and lace wedding dress and Chanel suit she would wear on the train to Venice.

  But was it a sign that he bumped his glass for no reason? She suddenly remembered the old man at Shakespeare and Company saying if she found true love, she had to hold onto it. If she truly wanted to marry Antoine, she would have given him a handkerchief and begged him to finish his sentence.

  She remembered throwing her Ferragamo on Alec’s balcony. She saw his dark wavy hair and slender cheekbones. He had a habit of rubbing his brow, and when he held her hand she felt secure.

  It didn’t matter what the fortune-teller said; she was in love with Alec. It was as simple as the addition tables she learned in kindergarten.

  Why hadn’t she seen it before? It was like when y
ou had to try a banana split, even though you didn’t like nuts. It looked delicious until you ate a spoonful of pecans and whipped cream and couldn’t eat another bite.

  Antoine was handsome and charming, and his family had been in France for centuries, but she wasn’t in love with him. What was the point of any of it if her skin didn’t tingle and she couldn’t bear being apart?

  She was contradicting everything she had said, but that was the thing about love. It didn’t have any identifiable properties and you couldn’t study it under a microscope.

  She rushed down the hallway, feeling like Marie Antoinette escaping the rabble. She reached the lobby and collided with a woman wearing a silver evening gown.

  “I’m sorry. I was in a hurry and didn’t see you,” Isabel said, picking up the woman’s purse. “I hope I didn’t ruin your dress.”

  “I’m all in one piece.” The woman inspected her hem and glanced at Isabel. “You’re the American girl I met at the Red Cross charity ball.”

  “You’re Alec’s sister, what a lovely surprise.” Isabel beamed. “You must be on your way to the ball. The band plays a wonderful version of ‘La Vie en Rose’ and the spinach crepes are delicious. Make sure you try the pistachio macarons, they melt in your mouth.”

  “Why are you leaving and what are you wearing on your head?” Bettina asked.

  Isabel touched her hair and gasped. She was still wearing the de Villoy tiara! But she couldn’t return it to Antoine now; she would have to explain everything. She would send it by courier as soon as she reached the Crillon.

  “I came with Comte Antoine de Villoy,” Isabel began. “We were in the Grand Hotel’s library examining their antiquarian books. He spilled brandy on his slacks, and I suddenly remembered something terribly important.”

  “You’re at the Imperial Ball with a French comte,” Bettina mused. “Alec was right, I was sure he was lying.”

  “What are you talking about?” Isabel asked.

  “I had lunch with Alec at the Crillon a couple of days ago,” Bettina continued. “I thought he was going to ask you to marry him so I couldn’t evict Claudia. He assured me I was wrong, you were in love with a French comte.”