J'adore Paris (23 page)

C
hristian Dior believed that pink was the sweetest of colours, symbolizing joy and femininity. So it’s fitting that my mother has chosen pink, along with other pastels, for Lisa’s wedding.

It’s a gorgeous day, without a cloud in the sky. Thanks to Yulia, flowered pillows dot the grounds so guests can lounge in style, and umbrellas of pink-and-white-striped canvas cater to those who prefer to sit in the shade. Some of my mother’s beautiful antique furniture has been brought out onto the lawn. It’s gracious and elegant, but not over the top.

My mother gazes at Lisa and Charles from across the garden, looking as though she just might believe in happily ever after. She’s orchestrated the event with panache, and is now mingling and making sure that everyone is content. French women don’t have a shelf life, it occurs to me. We admire the maturity and wisdom gained through experience. Here, femininity
is something that endures. I look forward to happily growing older here.

Christophe, my stepfather, is a chef, and the hors d’oeuvres he has prepared have a pink and coral theme: salmon, trout, prawns, grapefruit, and watermelon. And, of course, there’s pink Champagne by the caseload. A jazz quintet is having a blast playing standards from the Great American Songbook.

I’m wearing a vintage confection of cream lace and pink silk with a calf-length bouffant skirt. It’s from a local shop: no designer frocks today. I did splurge a bit on an Olympia Le-Tan minaudière I’m using as a clutch, whimsically embroidered with a vintage cover of
The Great Gatsby
. For Antoine, I ordered a custom shirt from Charvet and a pink silk Dior pocket square.

My mother is beautiful in a pale yellow dress and matching hat, her happy face lighting up the garden. Yulia, who offered her assistance, is gorgeous in a blush-coloured dress to which she’s added a handmade silk flower pin.

Rikash looks dashing in his seersucker jacket, Bermuda shorts, and pink gingham bow tie. He’s decided to channel his inner prepster, and the look suits him to a T. He’s also sporting a happy grin; knowing that we’re soon to be flying to his native land has put a new spring in his step.

Lisa, unsurprisingly, looks divine in her white knee-length Pucci dress and long baby pink veil. Her Giuseppe Zanotti stilettos are embellished with crystals that shimmer in the sunlight.

After the tear-jerking ceremony, we’re all enjoying cocktails on the lawn overlooking my mother’s flower beds, while
Cole Porter’s “Let’s Do It, Let’s Fall in Love” plays in the background.

“What’s this I hear about India?” My mother asks, replenishing my Champagne.

Seeing Rikash’s face, I have an idea how she might have gotten wind of this. “Rikash and I may have an opportunity there,” I say, sipping my drink. “It’s only a possibility; nothing is confirmed yet.”

I’m not sure how she’ll react, so I look over at the newlyweds.

“That’s great!” she says. This is a relief—it’s not the time for a cross-examination. “I’d love to visit you there. I hear there are some fantastic yoga retreats. And now that I have Yulia, I can travel a bit.”

“Things are working out with her, then?”

“Absolument
. She’s
une petite merveille
. My clients love her. They’re all buying the silk flowers she makes. Aren’t they lovely? I’m very grateful for her,
ma chérie.”

Lisa’s beside us now, offering hugs all around. “Thank you for everything! This is hands-down the best day of my life.”

“It’s our pleasure,” my mother answers. “Friends are like family around here.”

Rikash barges in on the group hug. “So happy to hear that,
maman
!” He kisses my mother on the cheek, and she chuckles.

“Okay,
mes enfants
, it’s time to move on to the tent for dinner.” She leads us to another area of the property.

The four-course dinner, with matching wines from a local vineyard, is divine. At one point, I clink my glass to indicate
that I’ll be saying a few words. I stand up and offer a heartfelt toast.

Afterward, Antoine leans over to embrace me softly. I run my fingers through his windblown hair, and we gaze into each other’s eyes, taking in this special moment. “That was great, Catou.” He kisses me again before we dig into our terrine. “I need to enjoy every second with you before you run off on your next crazy adventure.” Antoine and I have discussed my job offer, and he’s supportive of it, so long as Paris remains our home base. He’s actually looking forward to discovering India and its treasures.

Looking around, a feeling of deep contentment comes over me. I’m surrounded by the people I love, and right now, life seems as perfect as it can be. During a quick phone conversation, Chris let me know that he’d be spending most of his time in the near future shuttling between L.A. and various cities in China, the major current counterfeiting hubs. It means that I will see very little of him for a while; I suspect it’s for the best.

“Is there anything on this menu I should be worried about?” Rikash whispers into my ear.

I shake my head. “No, you’re fine. There are no strange animal parts.”

“Phew.” He reaches for his glass of Champagne, then spends the evening entertaining Lisa’s family and flirting with one of her California relatives. We eat and drink for hours before the dessert arrives: a divine
croquembouche
—a huge tower of profiteroles—in a rainbow of pastel colours with a tiny birdcage at its side. The guests take pictures of Lisa and
Charles next to it, then my mother opens the cage’s door and two lovebirds fly off into the night.

Later on, music plays as a disco ball throws flashes of light throughout the tent. Rikash jumps up from his seat and gets the party started by hopping around the dance floor to “Sexy and I Know It.” Antoine follows suit, wrapping his tie around his forehead and grooving with my mother in the middle of the crowd.

When Grace Jones’ upbeat rendition of “La Vie en rose” begins to play, Rikash grabs my arm and shakes his thing while the crowd merrily looks on. After a few minutes of showing off his moves à la
So You Think You Can Dance
, he twirls me around, then whispers, “Just wait until we get to India. Then I’ll show you how to really dance.”

“Now you’re talking,” I laugh between pirouettes.

We finish our routine with a dramatic dip, and Rikash giggles at me. “You, my dah-ling, are a star.”

F
irst, a major
merci beaucoup
to my lovely editor, Lorissa Sengara, for her invaluable wisdom, dedication and impressive élan, which are as authentic as can be. Also, a sincere and heartfelt thank-you to the entire HarperCollins Canada team for their continued support and enthusiasm.

A special thank you to my agent, Peter Bernstein, and his lovely wife, Amy, for their wise counsel and love of everything French.

Thank you to all my dear friends for their ongoing support. A special mention goes to Isabelle Rayle-Doiron and Marie-Claude Germain for their precious feedback. It means the world to me.

A major thank-you to all who provided me with a glimpse into the coveted world of international glamour and haute couture, as well as Parisian chic: Heather McDonald, Corinne Champagner Katz, Jacques Lee Pelletier, Virginie Vincens,
Christine Maestracci, Caroline Lemoine, Gerard Vannoote, Denis Boulianne, Pascale Bourbeau, Serge Jean Laviolette, Marie Geneviève Cyr, Carole Villoresi, Valerie Salembier, Jean-Pierre Lee, Frédéric Loury, Marc and Sophie Le Guillou, Haleigh Walsworth, Frankie Springer, Dana Thomas, and Emilie Higle.

Continuing love and gratitude to the Laflèche and Commune families. I am so blessed to me surrounded by your encouragement and panache.

Finally, I am beyond grateful to Patrice Commune for his immense generosity, patience, and unwavering support. You are the
éclair
to my
chocolat
.

ISABELLE LAFLÈCHE
worked for more than ten years as a corporate attorney in New York City, Montreal, and Toronto. She now writes on culture, books, and fashion for the Quebec fashion magazine
Clin d’oeil. J’adore Paris
is the sequel to her bestselling debut novel,
J’adore New York
. She is also the author of a travel guide to Paris. Isabelle Laflèche lives in Montreal. Visit her online at
isabellelafleche.com
.

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J’adore Paris
Copyright © 2013 by Isabelle Laflèche.
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EPub Edition © APRIL 2013 ISBN: 978-1-443-41334-3

Published by HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

FIRST EDITION

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This novel is entirely a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events is entirely coincidental. This book is not associated with Christian Dior or any Dior trademark or copyright.

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