The Little Bookshop On the Seine (9 page)

We walked back into the main area and I was stunned seeing so many faces peering through the window.

I hurried to the door and pulled it open, the gray October day chilling me, as the sun hid behind clouds, not eager to show its face just yet.

Chapter Six

The phone trilled, and I raced to answer it.

“Once Upon A Time.”

“Sarah Smith, I thought I’d lost you to Paris already. That it swallowed you up whole.”

Butterflies fluttered as his velvety voice hummed down the line. “Not yet,” I said, laughing.

“I tried your cell so many times, and it rang out and then died, and I thought, that’s it – some suave Frenchman has swept the delectable Sarah off her feet already.” I fell back on a chair, and motioned for TJ to take my place behind the counter.

“You won’t believe it – my bags were stolen. I lost my passport. My purse.” I groaned. “Didn’t you get my emails? My cellphone was stolen too.” It’d been hidden away in one of the pockets of my backpack, ironic really.

“What a welcome,” Ridge said. “I haven’t seen any emails from you, or I would have called no matter what the time difference to make sure you were OK.”

“Weird. Maybe your email thinks I’m spam…” I explained the dramatic first day, including the fact I’d been dead on my feet and thrust into working as soon as I walked over the threshold.

“I hope it gets better for you,” he said. “I wish I was there.”

“Me too.” There was no point going down that path; he had to work, and so did I. “You should see the stunning display of roses in front of me…”

“Oh yeah?” his voice came out husky. “There’s one for each time I kissed you in my dreams the night you left.”

What can I say? The man knew how to tug at my heartstrings. “Twenty-four kisses? I’m a lucky girl.”

Hearing the steadiness of his voice calmed a part of me only he’d been able to reach. There were times I felt I could do anything, having him by my side, metaphorically or not. “So…how’s Indonesia?” It was a million miles from me, in every sense, and I hoped he wouldn’t stay too long.

“Hot. Balmy. It would be a damn sight better if you were here in a bikini beside me.”

I laughed at the huskiness in his voice. “One day, we’ll go there together. But first, Paris! I can’t wait for you…”

“One sec, sorry,” Ridge said as the soft voice of a woman purred down the line. I couldn’t make out what she was saying – something, something, I ordered room service...

She ordered room service?

My cheeks flushed crimson, and my stomach clenched. Surely, Ridge wouldn’t be sharing a room with another woman?

He muffled a reply and then said “Sorry. Where were we?” I waited a beat, hoping he’d explain who he’d been speaking to. He didn’t.

“Who was that?” I asked, hating myself for the twinge of doubt.

“That? Oh, the girl? That was Monique, she’s my photographer. We’re working together again.”

“Again?” I said, prickling. “And she’s ordered you room service?”

“Baby,” his voice was so smooth it was almost silky. “There’s a bunch of us, and we order club sandwiches, and go hang out together to eat, before we head back to our own rooms to write. Monique is the best in the business, and I’m lucky to have her. Why? Do I detect a touch of jealousy?”

I rolled my eyes at my stupidity. This was Ridge, he wasn’t that kind of guy. But still, lucky to have her? “Who would have thought long distance relationships were so hard? I’m picturing some blonde bombshell, dressed in a teeny tiny bikini, teetering on spiked heels…and then she all huskily says ‘I’ve ordered room service,
stud
’…”

He let out a roar of laughter. “She could be all that and more, and it wouldn’t matter a jot to me.
No one
compares to you, Sarah. You have my heart, no matter where I am or who I’m with, so look after it.”

***

A few of the casual staff scampered in before lunchtime, different faces to the day before. They were a scruffy gaggle of college students who worked for a few hours each day. Sophie allowed them to borrow books, and sleep upstairs. At closing time they’d snatch a lumpy sofa and quickly convert it to a bed for the night. It struck me as crazy they were happy to live like that. I couldn’t imagine pulling up at any old space to sleep each night, and then packing my belongings away each morning, escaping into the daylight when the shop opened.

They were exotic with their unruly bed hair, and quick smiles. Their glowing youth and adventurous spirits was enviable. They spoke fast, like machine gun fire, bumping and jostling each other as they discussed their latest reads, trudging past, backpacks slung over skinny shoulders. They gave me a wave, as if it wasn’t anything extraordinary to find a new person behind the counter.
I’m you’re new boss
, I wanted to chortle, but that may have come across too cheesy. They were all stylish in that
I’m-a-ragamuffin-hipster-traveler
kind of way.

I desperately wanted to chat to them and ask how they ended up here, their accents as varied as the books around us, but Oceane pulled me by the elbow and dragged me into brisk autumn day. “You’ll have plenty of time to talk to them later, though they’ll speak in riddles and pretend they’re literary snobs. I’ll show you where the bank is, and while we’re out we may as well stop for lunch.”

Oceane walked quickly, despite wearing high heeled boots. I struggled to keep up, my feet still aching from the day before. She looped her arm through my elbow. “I’m taking you to my favorite café, on the corner of Rue Jacques-Callot. It’s called Café La Palette. You know Picasso used to frequent it?”

“He did?” I wanted to pinch myself, to make sure it was all real – the thrilling view before me, the Eiffel Tower in the distance, the Seine with boats chugging along, and now a new adventure to explore a historic café. Yes, day one hadn’t been ideal, but day two was shaping up to be a heck of a lot better. Oceane was serious in that French studied way, but she was sweet, and seemed to like me. The people I’d met so far were three dimensional, vivacious, so sure of themselves; I felt like a cardboard cutout in comparison and hoped some of their confidence would rub off on me.

“It’s where the art crowd mingle,” she said. “But first we must cross to the other side where the bank is, and I’ll show you the post office too.”

“OK,” I tried to match my steps to Oceane’s, her hurried pace was enough to send my heart racing. “Are you engaged?” I puffed, pointing to the blinking diamond on her finger.

She tutted and shook her head, her blue eyes shadowing. In the distance the Notre Dame loomed, formidable with its heavy archways, and gothic façade.

“
Non
,” she said. “I bought it for myself. And why not? Why should I wait for a man to buy me a beautiful diamond?”

“I like your style,” I said, smiling.

She held her hand up, and gazed at the sparkly precious gem. “It was a present to myself. Unfortunately, I’m a magnet for the Mr Right Now’s. Mr Right, well he must be on vacation, because damned if I can find him.”

Oceane was stunning with her high cheekbones, and full lips. Her cropped hair only emphasized her startling features. I bet men fell at her feet, but I agreed with the idea of finding The One and waiting for the happy ever after.

When we got closer to the famous church I stopped and craned my neck, taking it all in. Stone gargoyles leaned from the structure, almost lifelike with their piercing eyes and open mouths, as if they were ready to pounce.

“Impressive,
non
?” she asked.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the beauty here.” Hard to imagine that those gargoyles perched above like watchmen had been gazing over the city for almost a thousand years. I was intoxicated by the scene before me. Goosebumps riddled my skin as excitement fluttered through me. I’d left my home, my routine, and I was here where ancient beauty was abundant. I’d made the right choice, I could feel it in my bones.

“I can take you inside later. We won’t have to line up.” She winked. “I used to date a guy who works there.”

Oceane grabbed my hand and we continued down the street, ambling through groups of people, dodging children who were running through the open space in front of the church, before crossing over. I shrugged deeper into my jacket as the wind whipped past.

“What about you? Is there a man who’s stolen your heart?” Oceane asked.

“There is.” My pulse quickened, as Ridge’s face flashed through my mind. Missing him was like being in a heavy fog sometimes. “He’s a freelance reporter, so he’s always off on some exciting adventure. Once his latest story is submitted, he’ll come to Paris.”

She tapped my hand. “So you don’t see him much?”

“Not as much as I’d like. At the beginning it was almost every weekend. And then he moved to my town, but the stories came thick and fast…” my voice faded. Was the thrill of new love waning for Ridge? These days, he hunted for stories zealously, almost like he was happy to escape the humdrum of Ashford. It had been different in the beginning, when he’d turn down work in favor of staying with me.

“Maybe you need a vacation romance while he’s away?” her eyes glittered with mischief.

I gasped, scandalized. “I would never…”

She shrugged. “So, my pretty American friend, you
have
found Mr Right I see.”

“Yes.” I smiled. He was my Mr Right, there was no question about that. It was just a shame he wasn’t Mr Right Here.

She flashed a grin. “That’s the bank,” Oceane pointed to a building that was far too pretty to be a bank – with wide columns and a balcony up above. “And the post office is down that laneway. And now I’ll take you for lunch. If we see a celebrity like Julia Roberts, please don’t do that gushy tourist thing where you rush up to them for a photo. We’re not fans of the ‘selfie’ here.”

I laughed at Oceane’s frown. There would be no chance I’d run to a celebrity, in case I made a fool of myself. “Julia Roberts?” I asked.

“She loves it here,” Oceane said. “But it’s better to act like she’s a regular girl. She likes that anonymity. And we don’t go gushy over celebrities, they’re just regular people who happen to earn a lot of money, you see?”

She was deadly serious, so I held in my smile. “I do see.”

We arrived at Café La Palette, trellised roses rich out front. Oceane strode briskly inside, zigzagging through tables and finding us a spot in the front salon. There was a bevy of waiters standing to attention behind a bar which shone like burnished gold, and above it hung an oversized artist’s palette. “It’s made from zinc,” she said, following my gaze to the bar.

She motioned for me to sit. Even the floor was a mosaic of tiles, so many touches and textures made the space almost art gallery worthy. Kaleidoscopic colors and materials had my gaze bouncing here and there, trying to take it all in. A waiter appeared and kissed both Oceane’s cheeks before saying, “
Bonjour, ma cherie
.” He took her hand, and brushed his lips across her skin in an intimate way. My eyes widened in surprise, but Oceane paid zero attention to him.

“The usual,” she said, finally giving him a half smile. His face lit up under her attention, and as quick as that she turned back to me, snatching her hand back.

“
Bien sur
,” he said, and spun away.

“He’s smitten,” I said, fidgeting with the cutlery on the table.

Oceane pouted. “We dated once. But he was not for me.”

I smiled. Oceane had no shortage of suitors, yet claimed they had all been Mr Right Now’s. “Why?”

“I want someone who makes my heart sing. Someone that lights me up from inside. Laurent,” she motioned into the space the waiter had gone, “was sweet, but after a few weeks that fire fizzled out. I don’t want to settle for ordinary, I want fireworks, enough to last me my whole life.”

“Spoken like a true romance reader,” I said. I’d been the very same before I met Ridge. I wanted the book boyfriend to come to life, to make a gray day blue. Otherwise what was the point? Why shouldn’t we strive for what our fictional friends had? Why did they get the grand love affairs and we settled for second rate? That’s why my love life had been virtually nonexistent before Ridge had wandered into town. My expectations were high, I wanted a once in a lifetime love.

“Exactly,” she laughed in that quiet gathered way of hers. “I want a love affair like the books. And until then, guys like Laurent are just good practice.”

Laurent returned, expertly balancing two glasses of wine and two plates of food.

When he placed the plate in front of me, my hand flew to my mouth. Were we supposed to cook this ourselves? I surreptitiously glanced around for some kind of grill, or a hot plate, but found nothing.

“
Bon appetit
,” he said, giving Oceane one last hungry look.

I snatched up the glass of wine, and sipped to delay the inevitable.

“Enjoy,” she said. “Steak Tartare, my most favorite dish.”

I eyed her dubiously when she picked up a fork, broke the raw egg yolk and mixed it through the raw meat. All I could think was, raw, raw, RAW!

“Eat,” she said between mouthfuls. “Don’t you like it?”

I sucked in a breath before responding. “Well, I’ve got the makings of a very fine burger here, raw mincemeat, raw egg, spices, capers…”

She giggled, and waved her napkin at me. “Trust me. You’ll love it. You’re not vegetarian are you?”

“No.” Though I suddenly wished I was. But in the arty café it seemed absurd not to give something new a try. Had Picasso come here for this dish? Once again I was opening up to life as it opened up to me. I gave myself a silent pat on the back for embracing a wholly new culinary experience, and only hoped my stomach didn’t revolt against it.

I made a show of grinning, like I’d always wanted to eat Steak Tartare, and picked up my cutlery. Maybe it would be mind-blowingly brilliant and I’d wonder why I’d ever wasted time actually barbequing meat back home.
It could happen
. I took the fork and broke the yolk, trying not to inhale the pungent smell.

Clenching my jaw, I mixed the ingredients together, wondering what Lil and CeeCee would make of this meal. I could almost hear Cee, “I didn’t fall off a watermelon truck yesterday, what you mean, you eat it raw?” She’d have one of her conniptions if she saw what was in front of me.