Isabel stood at the window and watched the rain fall on the Place de la Concorde. It was early evening and the lights on the Champs-Élysées glowed like embers in a fireplace. She walked to her closet and bit her lip. A soft drizzle was romantic when you were sipping hot chocolate in your suite at the Hôtel de Crillon, but Antoine was taking her to the Musée Rodin and she wanted to wear her new satin pumps.
She wondered why she wasn’t nervous; she was going on a second date with a handsome French comte! But all she had to do was listen to the fortune-teller and everything would be perfect. She suddenly pictured the strange woman at Le Printemps asking how she could believe in love at first sight. Of course she did—it was as common as chicken pox.
They were going to see the Matisse and Rodin exhibit and stroll through the museum’s lush gardens. Afterward, he was taking her to L’Arpège and they’d eat crepes and discuss books and movies. By the time they walked back to the Crillon, they’d be dying to go up to her suite. But she would kiss him and gently turn him away.
Could she really expect Antoine to ask her to marry him without sleeping together? The French thought Americans were terrible prudes; he probably wouldn’t expect anything different. And sex turned everything upside down, as if you saw the world from the top of a Ferris wheel.
She would give her boss notice right away and move to Paris. She imagined an apartment in the seventh arrondissement with lacquered window boxes and a small garden. Every morning she would stop at a patisserie for pain au chocolat, and after work she and Antoine would meet for aperitifs.
She slipped on diamond earrings and remembered when she visited Rory in San Francisco. It was early November and they had been apart for two months. Rory suggested she stay with him at his roommate’s apartment. But Isabel said she couldn’t possibly stay with someone she’d never met and booked a room at the St. Francis Hotel.
* * *
ISABEL STOOD AT the window of her room at the St. Francis Hotel and gazed at the palm trees in Union Square. It had been almost balmy when she walked off the plane and she tucked her cashmere jacket into her carry-on.
Now she looked down at women in knit dresses and men in light wool suits and wondered how you could celebrate Christmas without fierce blue skies and snowdrifts. What was Thanksgiving without piles of orange and yellow leaves and homemade apple cider?
Rory called and told her all the things he loved about San Francisco: jogging on the Marina Green and eating pot stickers in Chinatown. Visiting the Palace of the Legion of Honor and watching classic movies at the Roxie Theater.
Isabel replayed their phone conversations and tried to get excited. But getting married and moving to San Francisco seemed like a movie she’d watched on an airplane. She knew it had been gripping, but she had been distracted by the flight attendant offering peanuts and couldn’t remember the story line.
The first month they were apart, she existed in a state of anticipation. She loved sitting at her desk and conjuring up Rory’s white smile and getting that giddy feeling. Lately he was a vague outline and she couldn’t fill in the details.
Now she gazed at the crystal vase filled with tulips and thought she was being ridiculous. He would arrive any minute and they would fall into bed. After they made love, they would order room service Cobb salad and talk about her Vera Wang wedding dress and the Tiffany favors.
There was a knock at the door and she answered it.
“God, I’m sorry I missed your plane! I can’t believe I forgot what time it arrived.” Rory entered the room and kissed her. “I’ve been in Carmel and thought today was Sunday.” He stopped and smiled. “Don’t you remember during the summer when every day felt like a weekend?”
Isabel wanted to say it wasn’t summer; it was almost Thanksgiving. If you looked out the window at men and women carrying leather briefcases, you would know it wasn’t the weekend. But his blond hair flopped over his forehead and his cheeks glistened with aftershave and a tingle ran down her spine.
“What were you doing in Carmel?” she asked.
“Teaching golf at a charity event.” He walked to the minibar and opened a bag of M&M’s. “It was at an estate on Seventeen Mile Drive with its own helicopter pad and views of the Pacific.”
“That’s interesting,” Isabel said and stopped. What did it matter what Rory did as long as he did something?
“I was a championship golfer in high school. I’m still writing society pieces too.” He shrugged. “A lot of people in San Francisco have two jobs. They work at a start-up where no one takes a salary and everyone eats microwave popcorn for lunch. At night they park cars at Gary Danko’s and go home with a wad of hundred-dollar bills and leftover prime rib.”
“I just thought…”
“That I had been sowing my oats and I’d settle down and choose a career?”
She looked out the window at the silver stretch of Bay Bridge and decided she hadn’t flown across the country to argue about how Rory filled his days. She turned to him and smiled.
“That you would discover something you were passionate about.”
He tossed the wrapper in the garbage and kissed her. She kissed him back and wrapped her arms around his chest.
“God, I’ve missed you,” he whispered. “What were we thinking, being apart?”
He pulled her sweater over her shoulders and unsnapped her bra. She stood in her silk panties and thought she had been waiting for this moment for months.
He drew her onto the bed and buried his face in her breasts. She inhaled his citrus aftershave and thought everything was going to be all right. He would kiss her nipples and stroke her thighs and her body would dissolve in endless ripples.
But suddenly he opened her legs and plunged inside her. His breathing was ragged and his chest was slick with sweat. He called out her name and came in one long, frantic thrust.
Isabel stood up and walked to the window. The first time you made love after being apart was always rushed. It was like eating a chocolate-dipped ice cream cone on a hot day. The vanilla ice cream was delicious, but you had to eat it quickly so the chocolate coating didn’t melt, and you couldn’t enjoy it at all.
In the morning they’d wake up and have long, leisurely sex. The Fairmont would pack a picnic lunch of sourdough bread and local cheeses. They’d hike to Coit Tower and watch the sailboats on the bay.
She climbed into bed and pulled the sheets over her shoulders. Her skin was damp from the sex and central heating, but she still felt a slight chill.
* * *
ALL WEEK THINGS were slightly off. Rory purchased tickets to Kinky Boots at the American Conservatory, but she had already seen it. She bought him the latest John Irving novel, but he had just finished it. When they made love, Isabel felt like she had a cold she couldn’t get rid of. The sensations were there, but she couldn’t quite feel them.
On the last day, she sat at Enrico’s on Columbus Avenue in North Beach. She adored North Beach, with its Italian restaurants and gelato stands and City Lights bookstore. The weather had turned cold, and she huddled over a bowl of clam chowder and a sourdough baguette.
“I’m sorry I’m late.” Rory approached the table and kissed her. “My roommate wanted to discuss something and I lost track of time.”
Isabel wondered how she’d never before noticed Rory was so often late. But she pictured the glorious summer of lying by the pool and making love in the guesthouse and realized they never had to be anywhere then.
“Was it something important?” she asked.
“He offered me a job at the start-up, managing their blog.” He sat opposite her. “They received a second round of funding and created some new jobs. I’d have my own office and stock options and season tickets to the Giants.”
“That sounds wonderful,” Isabel replied, wondering why there was a pit in her stomach.
“I turned him down, I don’t want to stay in San Francisco. The buildings are all white and there are too many flowers.” He smiled. “Cities should be gritty and crowded and have plenty of history.”
Isabel felt the air leave her lungs. Once Rory returned to Philadelphia, they would regain their rhythm. They’d buy a small Christmas tree and celebrate Christmas by themselves. Then they would drive out to Ardmore and join their parents at the Hunt Club for venison and plum pudding.
“I want to travel for a while,” Rory said. “Spend the winter in Sardinia and the spring in Ibiza.”
“The JPMorgan Chase trainee program is very competitive.” Isabel frowned. “I wouldn’t have a job when I returned.”
“I was actually thinking of traveling for a year,” he said slowly. “I have enough money for a couple of generations. Why shouldn’t we have fun?”
“Fun,” Isabel repeated, something hard clamping her chest.
“It’s not a four-letter word,” he said and smiled.
Isabel wanted to say they weren’t children whose only task was to learn to spell and play with their dog Spot. Adults had to do something important, or there was no point in any of it.
“And you want me to come with you?” she asked.
Rory looked up, and his eyes had never seemed so green, like the emeralds in Shreve’s on Post Street.
“Only if you want to.”
Isabel remembered when he proposed and she had to say yes. Her body was drawn to him like a magnet and she couldn’t imagine being apart. But now she felt strangely still, like damp firewood in a fireplace.
“I don’t think so.” She shook her head. “I should go back to Philadelphia.”
“We can postpone the wedding for a year,” Rory suggested.
“You don’t know where you’ll be next Christmas. Maybe you’ll be sailing in Portofino or snorkeling in the Maldives.” She paused and looked at Rory. “It’s all right, we’ll both be fine.”
“Are you sure?” Rory asked.
“Perfectly sure.” She nodded, blinking back sudden tears.
“I do love you.” He touched her hand. “You’re the only thing that ever held my interest.”
* * *
ISABEL SPRITZED HER wrists with Lancôme perfume and thought love wasn’t just physical attraction. And it wasn’t the steady feeling she had with Neil, as if they were interlocking pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.
Love was magical and elusive, like a number series that seemed random but couldn’t be arranged any other way. She had been approaching it all wrong, but now she was finally going to get it right.
It had stopped raining, and the lights on the Champs-Élysées glittered like a diamond bracelet. She slipped on her satin pumps and ran down to meet Antoine in the lobby.
* * *
“THIS BUILDING WAS built in 1727 for a wealthy financier,” Antoine said, standing at the bottom of a marble circular staircase. “The grounds are almost two acres, and there’s a chapel and English gardens.”
Isabel gazed at the black-and-white marble floors and thick ivory columns and thought she had never seen such a beautiful house. Gold chandeliers dangled from the ceiling, and wide arches led to a music conservatory.
“It must have been wonderful to live in Paris in the eighteenth century.” She looked out the French doors at manicured green lawns and thick hedges and gravel pathways. “All those horses and carriages and women wearing fabulous gowns.”
“The French aristocracy have always known how to enjoy themselves,” Antoine mused. “My ancestor the third Comte de Villoy had a house on the Rue de la Varenne. He employed forty manservants and gave elaborate costume balls. His robes were lined with rubies and emeralds and cost more than my entire wardrobe.”
“Paris really is the most romantic city,” she sighed. “I would move here in a minute.”
“I thought Americans love their country.” Antoine smiled. “They fought so hard for their independence.”
“Paris is filled with wide boulevards and elegant palaces,” she said. “Philadelphia is all docks and railway stations.”
“In the summer, the Champs-Élysées is so congested, the taxi drivers have shouting matches,” Antoine mused. “If you try to leave the city on Friday evening, you can be stuck in traffic for hours. But if you stay you spend the weekend avoiding crowds at the Louvre.”
“It sounds like people love Paris too much,” Isabel laughed. “Everyone wants to be here.”
Antoine’s eyes were serious and he murmured, “There is always room for a lovely young American.”
Isabel stumbled and tripped over an Oriental rug. Antoine steadied her and his arm brushed her chest.
“It’s warm in here.” She flushed. “Why don’t we walk in the garden?”
* * *
“IT REMINDS ME of the dining room in a French farmhouse,” Isabel said, glancing around the restaurant. Square tables were set with starched white tablecloths and Baccarat china. Paintings of purple eggplant and orange squash lined the walls, and the floor was covered with a geometric carpet.
“All the vegetables come from the restaurant’s garden,” she continued. “There is a twelve-course tasting menu paired with French wines. If we are lucky, the chef will visit our table.”
“You did your homework,” Antoine laughed, nibbling vol-au-vent in a white onion sauce.
“Neil and I were supposed to visit Paris on our honeymoon and I researched things to do,” she began. “I didn’t want to miss any of the tourist attractions. People say they want to see the ‘real Paris,’ but there’s a reason the Louvre and Eiffel Tower are so famous.
“But I wanted to dine somewhere special. So on our twentieth anniversary I could say, ‘Remember that exquisite meal we had at L’Arpège? The baby turnips were delicious and the chocolate nougat was the best I ever tasted.’” She paused. “We’d realize we hadn’t done anything like that in years, and fly to Paris for the weekend.”
“You were supposed to be in Paris on your honeymoon?” Antoine asked.
“Neil thought the buttercream filling on the wedding cake was too dry, so we canceled the wedding.” She hesitated. “Of course, there were other reasons. We couldn’t agree about anything. I’m glad we called it off before the ceremony. It would have been awkward to announce things weren’t going to work out while the guests were blowing bubbles at the bride and groom.” She stopped and her eyes glistened. “I wanted to stay in bed for a week. But I’m happy I came to Paris, I’m having a lovely time.”
“Neil made a mistake.” Antoine looked at Isabel.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“He should have eaten the cake.”
* * *
THEY ATE GREEN garlic soup and vegetable ravioli. There were plates of Brussels sprouts and beetroot tartare in horseradish cream. Isabel drank a smooth Bandol and felt light and happy.
Antoine knocked the saltshaker with his sleeve and salt spilled on the tablecloth. He picked up a pinch of salt and threw it over his shoulder.
“What are you doing?” she wondered.
“It’s an old superstition,” he explained. “It’s bad luck if you spill salt on the table unless you toss some of the salt over your shoulder.”
“You don’t actually believe that?” she asked.
“The French are very superstitious.” He nodded. “If a pregnant woman sees an owl, she is certain to have a girl. And if you want good fortune when you move into a new house, you must bring the table in first.”
“Most Americans are too pragmatic to believe in superstitions,” she said. “They’ll step around a ladder or avoid a black cat, but only because they saw it in a movie. I think they’re wrong; the world is so mysterious. Everywhere I go in Paris, I meet someone new or something wonderful happens.”
“Every year I go to Aix-en-Provence for the Christmas holidays. But this year, the hotel mixed up my reservation.” Antoine ran his fingers over his wineglass. “If they hadn’t made a mistake, I would be sitting in a château, staring at a damp vineyard, instead of being here with you.”
Isabel remembered thinking the reason they had canceled the honeymoon and she had come to Paris by herself was so she would meet the fortune-teller. She looked at Antoine and her heart beat a little faster.
“I’m glad they mixed up the reservation too.”
* * *
THEY STROLLED ALONG the Rue de la Varenne and Antoine took her hand. The street was lined with creamy stone mansions and iron latticework, and she felt like she was in a foreign movie.
Suddenly she looked up and a snowflake settled on her cheek.
“It’s snowing.” She turned to Antoine. “My first snowfall in Paris.”
He pulled her close and kissed her softly on the lips. She kissed him back and tasted cream and cognac.
“There is a superstition that if you kiss a beautiful woman when you see the first snowflake, wonderful things will happen,” he said when he released her.
“I’ve never heard that before,” she replied.
Antoine touched her cheek and smiled. “I just made it up.”
* * *
ISABEL STOOD ON the balcony and wrapped her arms around her chest. She had told Antoine she had to stop in the hotel gift shop, and said good-bye in the lobby. They were both flushed from the wine and cognac, and she didn’t want to risk inviting him to her suite.
It really had been a wonderful evening; they shared an interest in history and art and French movies. She loved the way he was so comfortable in his own skin, as if he wore a white dinner jacket and dined at candlelit restaurants every night.
And she could tell he felt something toward her. When he kissed her, he didn’t let her go. She remembered the soft snow falling on their hair and shivered. Was it possible that they were developing feelings for each other?
She couldn’t wait to tell Alec about the Garden of Orpheus at the Musée Rodin and the fig ice cream at L’Arpège. He would be so pleased things were going well.
She stepped into the hallway and knocked on Alec’s door. His light was on but there was no answer. She would have to wait and tell him tomorrow.
She walked back to her suite and unzipped her dress. She pulled on a silk robe and climbed onto the four-poster bed.
“I’m in Paris, and I’m falling love,” she said aloud. “I’m the luckiest girl in the world.”