The Little Bookshop On the Seine

by Rebecca Raisin

  My heart, my love.

  Luiz put the letter down, and went for another. I double blinked at the realization of how similar these letters were to my predicament. Pierre was separated from his love because of his music, yet he yearned for her, almost wanted to give up his career for her. Ridge and I were apart because of work too. Did these lovers manage to find their way back to each other?

  Luiz held the next letter, the parchment shell-colored with age. “Don’t you think it’s selfish he never asks about her? He pines for her, but he never once asks how she is.”

  I cocked my head, having been so caught up in their distance that I hadn’t thought past that. The lyrical writing had swept me away. “I guess, but it’s like he’s only focused on the music because he wrote it for her, and that’s what catapulted him into success, and it’s the reason they’re not together. He says they’re both his great loves, but I think underneath it all, he resents the fact it worked out that way. I wonder if he’d have been happier if he was never famous? He’d still have her, and his piano, and wouldn’t that be enough?” I mused, leaning back in my chair and surveying Luiz to garner if he felt the same sense of loss as I did from the letters.

  Luiz chuckled. “We’re reading these differently. You think he’s a romantic at heart, whereas I think he’s self-absorbed. I understand he has to tour, you only get one shot at that kind of fame, if you’re lucky enough at all.” He waved his hand as if to sweep his statement away, before continuing. “He proclaims his love for her, but how does he show it? Shouldn’t he ask if she’s OK? If she needs anything? We don’t know one single thing about her because he only speaks of himself.”

  I pondered Luiz’s observations. He was right in a way and it only made me more intrigued because we were hearing the exact same story, but getting two very different ideas about it. “You just want it to end the way your books do. Admit it.”

  He shook his head and smiled. The haunting sadness I’d seen in his eyes when I first met him had slowly dissipated, and if I didn’t know better, I’d say he was in the early stages of love himself. His cheeks were flushed, and the blue of his eyes brighter. “Actually,” he said. “Perhaps a happy ever after is on the cards for my next book…”

  “And when are you going to spill the beans?” I asked.

  He frowned. “Beans?”

  “The good news,” I laughed, the term getting lost in translation. “About you. Don’t think I haven’t noticed the spring in your step, the sudden joie de vivre you’ve got.”

  This time the blush crept up his neck, turning him scarlet. “It’s nothing,” he said softly. “Not yet, anyway. She doesn’t see me even though I’m right there.”

  “Luiz. You’re Luiz Delacroix,” I used air quotes to emphasize to my friend how special he was. “I’m sure if you ask her on a date, you won’t have any troubles with her saying yes.”

  He shrugged. “She’s out of my league.”

  My eyebrows shot up. “I don’t think so, Luiz. I think any woman would be lucky to have you. What are you waiting for?”

  He smiled. “The reading. I wrote a story for her.”

  I almost did a happy dance right there, having an inkling I knew who he was in love with. And their future flashed in my mind – I could tell already, they were a match made in heaven.

  “Well that just made it even more amazing than it already is.”

  He threw his head back and laughed. “Then we will see. It will be she who decides which way the story ends.”

  I rubbed my hands together. “I’m one step away from chanting H.E.A.”

  “You’re more confident than me.”

  I smiled at the fluttering of his hands, the nervous way he kept blinking, and felt a pang of envy about that new love feeling.

  Chapter Twenty One

  At the morning food markets in the Upper Marais, old women dragged shopping bags on wheels, stopping to point to fresh herbs and vegetables, the sellers picking up each item as gently as if it were a newborn baby. Food, and the preparation of it, was treated differently here. No one haggled over prices, but they insisted on buying the freshest carrots, or garlic, pointing and gesticulating, until with a look to the heavens the seller would scramble to a secret box under the table and bring out their very best produce. Lucy had taken me here on one of our walks, and I’d been visiting ever since.

  The markets were like a kind of street theater and I enjoyed wandering down the uneven pavement and watching the locals perform. As Christmas was fast approaching, it was even busier than usual, as people rushed to stock up for their festive feasts. I did a lap, and then returned to select some cheeses. Wheels of brie, wedges of blackened, pungent Roquefort, jars of chevre marinated in garlic and lemon. Today I was here to scope out what I’d need for the orphans’ Christmas party. I wanted it to be perfect. And totally French. Lucy had taught me the art of making a jus, a delicate sauce to pour over turkey, and I wanted to get it right. The French used mounds of butter, lots of garlic, and bunches of fresh herbs in almost everything, so with that winning combination in mind I eyed the stalls greedily. I had to get supplies for the author reading too, and my mouth watered as I dreamed of all the possible combinations I could buy.

  “Oui?” the man from the fromagerie stall said.

  I pointed to a wheel of camembert that had already been cut, its creamy filling oozing out, just begging for a piece of torn baguette to scoop it up. “Petite,” I said, holding my thumb and index fingers apart to show the size. He nodded and cut into the semi-circle. Cheese was different here, better quality than what we shipped in at Ashford. That triangle of camembert was just to tide me over while I decided about what I’d choose for the reading.

  “Here,” he smiled, handing me a chunk of baguette. “You scoop,” he cut another generous portion and nodded for me to try it. A month ago I wouldn’t have had the same treatment, I was almost giddy with delight at becoming one of them, one of the locals here.

  “I need some cheeses for a party,” I said between mouthfuls. “And some terrine perhaps?” I pointed to the one I liked.

  I could easily live off the food from the markets. The terrine was beetroot and capsicum, with pork, and chives. For someone who ate frugally, the markets were paradise. Everything was fresh, and you only bought the size you wanted. And returned the next day to do it all again.

  He smiled, “You have the brie, it’s won many awards. We only sell to locals.”

  I grinned like a fool. Yes! Even though he knew I wasn’t a real Parisian, he’d recognized me from my jaunts. I was getting the goods from the secret box! “Merci beaucoup,” I said, nodding and trying my best to act cool.

  “I’ll choose you a selection of cheeses, and be very careful to match the right wine, OK? Otherwise, it will ruin their flavor.”

  I nodded solemnly, wondering who’d know enough about wines to pair them. Oceane! “I know someone,” I said. “Her family own vineyards.”

  “Très bien.” He wrapped my goods carefully, and gave me a half smile. The appreciation of produce here was something I’d take back home with me. Instead of going to Lil’s just to fill up my plate, I’d get my hands dirty in the kitchen with her. Learning here how seasonal produce was worshipped, I swore I would make my former life of microwave meals a thing of the past.

  With thanks, I paid and headed for the boulangerie to buy fresh bread.

  There was a queue for the bakery which was a sign it was one of the best. While I waited, I people-watched, this area wasn’t as fancy as the 5th or 6th arrondissements. Apartments were smaller, washing hung limply from balconies, rubbish littered the pavement. And people weren’t dressed as well, but that’s why I liked it. It was more authentic, as though the rest of Paris was on show, but here real families lived in a more cosmopolitan way, between the chugging of rubbish trucks and the noise and bustle of people going about everyday things. There were fewer tourists, more graffiti, and I liked it warts and all. The prices reflected it was more for locals, and it
suited my budget.

  Once I had my baguette safety stowed, I wandered slowly back to the Metro, the screaming trains didn’t scare me anymore, and I’d see a lot more of Paris by humping on the Metro, and being deposited further away than I could walk. Turning a corner, I realized in my daze, dreaming of a cheese-filled breakfast, I had wandered up the wrong avenue. The sight of a little boy with short red curls caught my attention. He was sprinting along enjoying his taste of freedom. I looked around, but couldn’t see a parent. Was he alone?

  I stopped in my tracks, as the little boy giggled and ran on. He was almost at the end of the laneway, too close to the road, where the traffic whizzed by without a care in the world. He was quick considering he was staggering but he was so close to the cars whooshing past my pulse sped up. When his little foot stepped off the curb, I dropped my shopping and dashed for him, my heart in my throat. Two great lunges forward, and I had the wiggling red-headed boy in my arms, the sound of blood pumping in my ears.

  Around the corner came a cry, “Marc, MARC!” I froze, as the toddler squirmed in my arms. That voice, I recognized it. There was such anguish in it goosebumps broke out over my skin.

  Chest heaving with adrenaline, Beatrice screamed around the building, her eyes wide with fright. As soon as she saw Marc was safe, her hand flew to her chest, and her eyes closed briefly. When she opened them they were shiny with tears, and then she noticed me.

  She stopped short, and composed herself before moving to take the child from my arms.

  “Maman,” Marc cried, his thin arms reaching for Beatrice.

  Maman? She took him and swung him expertly onto one hip, her face coloring.

  “This is your son?” I couldn’t manage to hide my surprise.

  “Yes,” she said, frowning.

  “Why didn’t you tell anyone?” I burst out, my mind whirling. What the actual hell? Why would she keep this to herself?

  Her lip wobbled, probably from fright, and the fact that someone had discovered the secret she had obviously wanted to keep concealed. I couldn’t help staring at her, my jaw practically on the floor. It was so alien, the idea that Beatrice – so cold and aloof – would have a child. My brain pinged so hard I was almost blinded. This explained a lot.

  “Can we discuss this at my apartment?” She inclined her head to Marc, who was doing his best to wiggle free from her embrace.

  “Sure.” I grabbed my shopping from where I’d dropped it and followed her around the corner.

  Once inside she said sarcasm heavy, “Home sweet home.”

  “It’s…cozy,” I looked around and tried to hide my shock at where they lived. The apartment was just one tiny room. There was a bed taking up most of the space, a kitchenette, and an armchair in the corner covered in a patchwork quilt that was well loved. Marc’s toys were piled up, their clothes hanging on a hook behind the front door. On the kitchen bench a few Christmas presents were wrapped and stacked neatly. You couldn’t hold your arms out and turn in the space, I was sure of it.

  “Yeah, super cozy,” she laughed, as she turned into the kitchenette and put the kettle on to boil.

  I sat on the edge of the bed, and clasped my hands. Marc went to his mom, pulling at her legs until he was rewarded with a biscuit and I marveled at how natural it all seemed.

  “Are you going to tell Sophie?” she said, shaking me from my scrutiny of them.

  “Why? Is it a secret?” I said and held a hand up to her protestations. “You’re a mother Beatrice, what do you think Sophie’s going to do? Send you away? You should know her better than that.”

  Beatrice busied herself grabbing mugs and making up a plate of biscuits. “Sarah, you don’t understand. She hired me under the pretense I was a single girl, ready to work my butt off for the shop. If she knew I had a child that would’ve changed everything. I wanted, needed, the management position to survive here. I don’t speak to my family back home – things blew up, and I vowed I wouldn’t have Marc around that kind of lifestyle. I have no backup plan if things don’t work out. And where will that leave me and Marc?”

  “So you left the UK to try your luck here with a baby in tow?” It seemed like such a huge risk.

  “I thought we’d have a better life here. Isn’t that what Paris is? The place where dreams come true?” She looked so wide-eyed and innocent. So unlike the woman who had challenged me at work and made me doubt myself.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you had a child? I wouldn’t have changed your shifts around if I’d known you had Marc to care for.” And now like a puzzle, all the pieces snapped into place. Why Beatrice hadn’t wanted to work nights, or weekends. She wasn’t out partying like the others, she needed to be home to care for little Marc.

  “How could I? I’d built a life of lies here, and painted myself into a corner – fear being the driving force. But here, where no one knows me – no one knows my past, my parents or the tumultuous time I had growing up – it’s the type of freedom I always wanted. It’s so hard money-wise, but I love it here. Books were my savior, the only thing I had growing up that couldn’t be taken from me, but now I have this place. A fresh start. A new life.”

  Beatrice had transformed herself and made a life here for her and her son. And how could I begrudge her that? Hadn’t I been looking to do something similar?

  She sighed, and rubbed her face. “When Sophie had the trouble with Manu, I knew she’d leave Paris. For months, she’d been toying with the idea of taking a break from the shop. I thought I’d get my chance to take over, run it for her, show her I could manage the place. But then she breezed in and said you were coming…just like that I’d been usurped by some stranger. And any hope of extra money – so we can find a better apartment, live a bit easier – was gone.” She handed me a chipped mug of tea.

  “I bet my arrival wasn’t a happy day for you then.”

  She gave me a rueful smile. “No. I wasn’t looking forward to meeting you. Sophie said you were a small town girl, and the pace here might be too much, because you had a dreamy little shop and a quiet life. I thought a few rough weeks, and you’d leave.” She sighed and I felt some sort of kinship with her, despite her doubts about me in the beginning. Beatrice wasn’t a bad person, she just had dreams – like I did – and she wanted to make a better life for her son. “Sophie has dangled the management position in front of me since I started and the extra money would’ve really helped. I’m barely managing to feed and clothe us, with the money I pay for sitters, and rent.”

  “And I suppose you made it that much harder for yourself because Sophie thinks you’re a rich kid from London.”

  “Bingo.”

  “So is that why you don’t mingle with everyone? And why you’re outright hostile to TJ?”

  She flopped on the bed and held her head in her hands. “It had to be that way. I loved it there, and enjoyed chatting about books and bookshop life but then came the let’s grab a drink, or I’ll walk you home, and I couldn’t risk it. I couldn’t lose my job. They’d have seen Marc, my secret would’ve been out.” There was a sadness in her eyes I hadn’t seen before. “I would have loved to tag along, and share some wine by the Seine and chat about books, and whatever else you all talk about – but I couldn’t.”

  I took a deep breath, and asked the one question I knew I needed to. “Have you been stealing the money?”

  Her skin paled, and she gave me such a beseeching look my heart went out to her. “I tried to talk to you, but you were just about to dash out to see your boyfriend. I was going to tell you, and ask to borrow the money instead of taking more. The guilt has almost killed me. But with having to work those night shifts, and the weekends, I had to pay for a babysitter, and I couldn’t afford it. I’ve been slowly getting further behind, and the only thing I could think to do was take the money. I was desperate.”

  It didn’t take long for me to assume some of the guilt was mine for ignoring her pleas – no matter how distracted I’d been. I should have made more time to get to know her,
and offer friendship, giving her a person she trusted to confide in when things got tough. “And the first edition I allegedly sold?”

  She shook her head. “I sold it. I unpacked the estate sale books. I’m so sorry, Sarah. It’s unforgiveable.”

  I let out a long sigh. “You know I’ll have to tell Sophie, right?” I dreaded the thought, but I would reason with her, and ask her to give Beatrice a second chance. We’d all made mistakes and even though Beatrice had gone about it the wrong way I knew she deserved another chance. It was Christmas time after all…

  “I know. I can’t even begin to imagine what she’ll think of me, and that hurts more than anything.”

  I’d been so lucky in my adult life, having great parents and amazing friends. By the sound of it, Beatrice didn’t have that, and also had a child to care for. It must have been a worrying time for her, with no one to call for backup if things went awry.

  “If we’re completely honest with Sophie, I’m sure she’ll see reason. You might even get that management job, after all. It’s true, Sophie wants some time away, and I’m not staying forever.”

  A groan escaped her. “I don’t know. I’ve broken her trust badly.”

  “Leave it to me,” I said. “I’ll be straight with her, and convince her you’re worth it.”

  “Why though?” Beatrice pulled her eyebrows together. “Why would you help me after all I’ve done?”

  “That’s what friends do, Beatrice. They forgive and forget.”

  Her eyes were glassy with tears, and it was all I could do not to follow suit. I stood up and hugged her tight. She was a mom who’d been pushed into a corner. I would be there for her, and she’d always have someone on her side, who was prepared to help out.

  Chapter Twenty Two

  The next day, Beatrice arrived early. “What did Sophie say?” she asked, the quaver in her voice evident.