The Little Bookshop On the Seine

by Rebecca Raisin

  Was Ridge over that initial spark of love? Did other women catch his eye, when I was nowhere to be found? I held my head in my hands, as my mind spun with it all. For me, that first burst of new love hadn’t waned. How could it, when we hardly saw each other. And any other man paled in comparison to Ridge. But I’d begun to feel like an afterthought to him, an epilogue in his life.

  To save my poor heart the agony of overthinking, I took another love letter from my purse, opening it delicately. It would take me an age to translate the words but that’s what made it so special. I’d promised Luiz I’d read some of them and report back, while he went back to his own writing.

  My only love,

  Today there was a fuss over the violinist. Personally, I don’t think we need her. They say she’s like an introduction. A way to soften the crowd, calm them, before I walk on stage to my piano. Calm them? I’d screeched. What kind of audience did they think my concerts attracted? The people who flock to hear me play are subdued, studied, quiet people who respect music. A young, pretty violinist won’t change that. Perhaps it’s her beauty they’ve chosen her for, juxtaposed against my craggy, older face. I don’t know. I’ve largely ignored her, with her eager, wide eyes, and parted lips, it’s like she wants to speak to me but doesn’t know how. Like a puppy, she follows me around. If only you played the violin. Then it could be you here. And if I saw your mouth slightly open, your full lips shiny with your red lip gloss, I would cup your face, and kiss you until you were breathless. Music be damned, I’d carry you to my room, and never let you leave. Your body, naked, slick after our lovemaking, up against mine, is what I dream about. Three more months. And I will be home. Until then, I’ll play until my fingers are numb and hope it makes time go faster.

  Pierre

  I munched on pastry crust as I thought about the letter. Perhaps I read too many romances but I had a very bad feeling that his protestations about the young violinist were false. Why would he discuss her in so much detail? The way her lips parted? It was too intimate to write that about another woman who wasn’t your lover. I’d have to tell Luiz, who I’m sure would gloat, and say I told you so. Still, I wanted to believe these two fought hard to be with each other. And it all worked out in the end. It had to.

  Chapter Fourteen

  My plan to find joy in the hidden parts of Paris was off to a flying start. Ensuring I got out of the bookshop for some time to myself, other than racing to the bank and the post office, had taken some of the pressure off and inspired me to tackle one problem at a time upon my return. Space to think, and plot my next marketing move, or a new way to handle the surly casual staff.

  With a flourish, I pinned up the new roster. It had been worth the few days’ work, hunting out the staff, talking to them alone so it wasn’t mutiny, and asking which days they’d prefer in my effort to accommodate them all.

  “I can’t do nights. I told you that,” Beatrice folded her arms, the abruptness in her voice startled me.

  “It’s not every night,” I said. “But I need more help with the late shifts so I can go upstairs and do the paperwork. I can’t be here all day and most of the evening and get it finished. I’m falling behind.” I scratched the back of my neck. “Everyone is having to make a compromise or two, Beatrice. We need to work together for the benefit of the bookshop.” There, I sounded professional and courteous.

  She gave me a cool smile. “Your roster isn’t going to work. Carlos can’t do Saturday nights because he’s in a band. Oceane and Fridays don’t mix – you should know that by now. TJ won’t work Mondays because that’s when his poetry group meets. Half of these people don’t even live in Paris any more! Lois is in Thailand. Davey’s back in Australia. God, you’ve even got Sue-Betty here – she left last year! Where’d you get your info from?”

  I shriveled on the spot. What the hell? The staff had given me their details, or so I’d thought. “I was trying to make things easier…” I willed myself not to falter. “I can’t pick up every shift when people don’t turn up. I don’t know what kind of people would play a prank like that.” It was like being in school again. They sensed a weakness in me and used it for their own gain.

  “Sophie always works extra shifts, and doesn’t say boo about it. I don’t know, Sarah, maybe the management job isn’t for you. ” She shrugged and walked off, leaving me deflated once more. A part of me sagged, wondering if there was a kernel of truth in her words. Maybe things worked the way they were, all higgledy piggledy when Sophie ran the place. No wonder she’d had enough. I teetered between fight and flight. After a moment alone, jaw set, I’d made up my mind. People stepped all over me because I allowed it. It was time to be fierce.

  ***

  Wind from the Seine blew open the front door, and made the books shiver their discontent. By seven, I’d straightened skewed piles of books, and unpacked the new stock. With a groan I picked up pieces of the usual trash that was littered throughout. The late shift staff would be in soon. Dusk had become my favorite time in Sophie’s shop. Most tourists headed out for dinner or to rest their weary feet. The crowds out front thinned, and I could lean on the door jamb and watch the river flow under the murky sky. It was time enough to catch my breath, and revel in the beauty of the place, empty of bodies, a peaceful hush, only punctuated by laughter every now and then from the bistro down the road.

  I’d stride through the shop, treading lightly on the once vibrant rugs, caressing covers, delighting in a rare find – a book tucked at the back of a disorderly pile, its pages browned with age, its scent a mixture of hope and anticipation, nutty and musky like a bouquet of old roses. Like a child misbehaving, I’d steal away with the forgotten novel, creep to one of the hidey holes and read. Only able to snatch thirty minutes if I was lucky, before the mechanical doorbell would ping, announcing the next flurry of customers. And that was the cue for me to leave, and entrust the store with the nighttime staff.

  When the casuals arrived that evening, I raced up the back stairs to Sophie’s apartment my mind drifting to Ridge. It had been days since I had heard from him. To be fair, he was working on a story in some Siberian wasteland and rarely had phone signal, but that didn’t stop me missing him, wondering where he was, what he was doing, if he was safe. On impulse I picked up the phone and dialed. I needed him, I just needed to hear his voice, hear him tell me that everything was going to be okay – not just at the shop, but also with us. Because for some reason I felt more uncertain than ever about our relationship. Maybe it was because I was so far from home, and my new normal was completely different.

  “Hello…” I said.

  “Hey, Sarah,” woman’s voice at the other end of the phone said breathlessly, like she’d been exercising – or something less innocent, which I purged from my mind. “He’s just stepped out. I’ll tell him you called?” It was the photographer, Monique, who worked on assignments with Ridge. His cell phone was usually glued to his palm though.

  Put out, and slightly miffed, I said “Yes please. And if he could call back as soon as possible?”

  “Sure thing, sweet.” She spoke with a Texan twang, and didn’t seem the least bit bothered she was answering his phone and speaking to his girlfriend. “I can’t say when he’ll be back. You know what that man’s like. But I’ll be sure and tell him you were chasing him.” She chortled away to herself, and I didn’t have the heart to join in.

  “Thanks,” I said. And then thought to hell with it, I had to ask. “Why did he leave his cell with you?”

  She laughed, a husky giggle that I thought only movie stars knew how to do. “He left it in my room last night. You know, we had a team meeting. Hoping like heck we can get this story done, so we can go home soon. I called his room this morning, but there was no answer. Probably at the gym staring at those muscles of his in the mirror!”

  Right. A team meeting in her room? “I hope you wrap it up soon too,” I said. “Just tell him I really need to talk.”

  “Sure thing, Sarah.” She clicked off, l
eaving me with only the warmth of the fire for company. Why didn’t he ever return my calls? We didn’t so much play phone tag these days as phone chase…and it was me doing the running.

  ***

  In the morning I went downstairs, headed to the kitchen and made a fresh pot of tea, delighting in the silence of the shop. It was just me and the books. Were they inching backwards on their shelves, steeling themselves for another busy day?

  Oceane arrived, her cropped hair sticking up at various angles, windblown and mussed. “Good morning,” she said, rushing a hand through her hair. “Ugh, it’s getting colder by the minute. It won’t be long until Santa graces us with his presence!”

  “What’s it like here at Christmas?” I asked, reminiscing about the jolly festivities Ashford residents organized every year.

  Back home we celebrated the season wholeheartedly. The town was decorated to the hilt, the best and brightest house competition so fierce that I bet you could see Ashford all the way from Mars.

  Oceane smiled. “It’s breathtaking. Imagine the town with a light dusting of snow, and a whole lot less people. It’s magical, and blissfully quieter.”

  Time then for the books to take a deep breath, to recharge, just be, until the crowds thickened once more when the weather warmed up.

  “What will you do for Christmas?” Did they all take vacations? Would I need to find more staff? My mind spun as I thought about my failure to lock down a new roster and remembered how lax everyone was when it came to turning up.

  Her eyes sparkled. “We have a big orphans’ party, don’t you know! Lots of wine, French food, and a day where we completely sloth out in Sophie’s apartment.”

  I couldn’t contain my relief and did a little happy dance. “That sounds like fun!” I said, feeling the tension that had built evaporate. “But what about your family? Won’t you miss them?”

  “Oh they’re in Eze. A hilltop town on the Cote d’Azur. I fly down after Christmas usually, and spend a week there.”

  “I bet it’s stunning.” I sighed, thinking about how far away I was going to be from my own parents for the first time. Christmas would be very different this year. I hoped they’d still celebrate – open presents by the hearth, sip on some eggnog and sing along to carols.

  Oceane continued, “The light is different there, gauzy somehow. It’s the sunlight reflecting off the Mediterranean Sea perhaps. Better to visit in summer when bright pink bougainvillea creeps up walls, and sun bleaches the streets. But some paramour always whisks me away and I only ever get there over winter. And that is a beauty all of its own, the eerie wind off the sea, and days darkening early. We sit in front of the fire and read, my father nipping to cellar whenever we need more wine. What’s not to love?”

  “What do you parents do?” I thought they must have subsidized Oceane’s lifestyle, because she certainly lived extravagantly.

  “They own vineyards,” she said breezily, shrugging and picking up a pile of books to shelve. “So, this year, you’ll be in charge of the Christmas party.”

  Oh sweet Jesus, that I could do. Christmas was my favorite time of year, and I went all out for those I loved. “Do you decorate the bookshop?” I asked. I could picture it all decked out in full Ashford style. At home it was hard to drive down the main street without being blinded by Christmas lights and walking into anyone’s shop you’d be pulled in for a swift peck, as mistletoe was abundant, over every doorway. By the time you went home, your cheeks would be a fetching shade of various lipsticks, and your face would be sore from smiling.

  “No, we don’t decorate, save a tiny tree on the counter. Sophie has this fear that the place will catch fire if we so much as light a candle.” Oceane shook her head as if the idea was preposterous. I poured two cups of tea and picked up a pile of books to shelve. “She’s a bit of a Grinch with the whole festive season to be honest.”

  It baffled me, people who didn’t adore Christmas. “Well surely we can still decorate a little? It wouldn’t be Christmas without glittery decorations and flashing fairy lights.”

  Oceane squinted at me. “I’ve seen how Americans decorate. We’re going to have blinking candy cane earrings and warbled Christmas carols on a loop, aren’t we?”

  I laughed. “That’s the spirit! I’m sure we can find some inflatable reindeers, and maybe hire someone to carve ice sculptures? It’ll all be very French minimalist of course.” Her face was a picture of shock, her mouth opened and closed while she tried to discern if I was joking.

  “You see the French way…” she said before I interrupted.

  “It’s OK, Oceane. You can show me how you do it, and then we’ll just step it up a teeny tiny notch.”

  “We could visit Anouk for decorations, though maybe I should go alone. I’m not sure you’re allowed to go out into the secret room yet.”

  The elusive other room where the real treasures were kept. I could hardly wait to step past those doors to see what Anouk kept back there. “Because I can’t just waltz in there, it makes it that much sweeter. Maybe we can try for some Christmas presents first and see how that goes?” I said, putting the last book into place and surveying the shop. It was neat enough and ready to open.

  “Good idea! She’s got some lovely unique pieces your American friends would adore, but never, ever say that. Tell her they’re for you,” she warned.

  “Why?”

  “Anouk doesn’t like her wares to leave the country.” Oceane shrugged. “It’s a quirk of hers. Thinks our antiques will be mass shipped out by consumerists. I don’t know, it’s just her way.”

  I frowned. “OK, but lying to her?”

  “Saves her the heartache of worrying.”

  I would never get used to these idiosyncrasies, but still, they made me giggle.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The phone rang in the middle of the night, and my heart seized. “Hello?” I answered, my voice short, sharp.

  “What’s wrong?” Ridge’s husky voice traveled down the line.

  I sat upright. “It’s two a.m. …I thought, maybe…” A call at that time of the morning had the ability to make me freeze with worry that something had happened to him. He went to remote areas where there were wars, places riddled with conflict. “It’s nothing. I’m glad you’re OK.”

  He said, “I’m sorry I woke you. My body clock, and the time difference, and yet another country, it’s addled me. I didn’t realize it was so late for you.”

  “It’s fine.” I settled back on the fluffy pillows. “Is everything all right?”

  There was a pause, and I frowned into the darkness. What was he calling for? It wasn’t like him to mess up the times, he had every piece of technology known to mankind, when he was in range, and it worked. “I can call later,” he said.

  “No, let’s talk now.”

  “Then you’ll be tired tomorrow. Sleep, princess.”

  I almost huffed. “Ridge, the calls are few and far between. I’m awake now. We have time.”

  “Actually, I only have a minute. I’m supposed to be outside, the car’s on its way.”

  “Did you call hoping to get my voicemail?” I couldn’t hide the anger in my voice, because I knew, I could feel it. And what kind of relationship was that?

  For the first time ever, Ridge was lost for words. My wordsmith, the one who spoke like poetry to me, was stumped.

  “Well?” I demanded.

  “Not exactly, it’s just…I hate hearing the disappointment in your voice. I feel like a mug. I had a minute so I…”

  I didn’t wait for him to continue, just slammed down the phone. What was up with him? I get his life was busy, but so was mine. Calling to chat to my voice mail was just plain rude. And a bad omen of things to come.

  Sleep was elusive, as I waited impatiently for the sun to rise.

  ***

  The days were as routine now as they were in my shop back home, although a heck of a lot more frantic. I knew what I had to do each day, and managed my time well in order to get
it all done. The promise of an hour or two to wander around Paris inspired me to work efficiently. Today, Beatrice and I worked well together, with no cross words. The aborted call from Ridge the night before was still swirling round my head – what kind of game was he playing at? Pushing it from my mind I turned to the task at hand. Beatrice handed me a cup of tea before heading over to help a young couple at the till.

  It was another dark day, where the skies refused to lighten. I was all set to head out for lunch when I spotted him. He was well dressed in loose fitting chinos and a white knit sweater with an all-too obvious designer logo that even I recognized. He didn’t seem like the type who was struggling for cash. It was the way he darted glances over his shoulder that caught my attention. Leaving Beatrice behind the counter I inched my way closer to him, stealth-like.

  After the drama of my bags being stolen, I felt capable of nipping this in the bud. I was done with thieves. Pretending to be a customer, I whistled to myself in an I’m-on-holiday-in-Paris relaxed kind of way. I pulled a book from the shelf in front of me, and flicked through it, watching him from the corner of my eye. With nimble fingers, he shoved a book up his shirt – so fast, I wondered if I’d imagined it. My chest tightened. I’d never confronted a shoplifter before! With a deep you-can-do-this breath, I squared my shoulders, and stormed towards him, holding out my hand. “Give me the book back.” I surveyed his sweater, was there more than one book secreted up there?

  He gazed at me with a smile in his eyes. “Excuse me?” his face was a mask of innocence. Honestly, what was it with people stealing here?

  Willing my voice not to shake, I said, “Give. Me. The. Book. Back.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “Which book?”

  I folded my arms. “If you don’t give me the book back, I’m going to holler the place down!”

  He chuckled, he actually chuckled. What the hell was I doing wrong? I rearranged my expression and did my best steely glare. Just because I was short and unassuming didn’t mean I couldn’t be fierce.