Isabel inhaled the scent of dark coffee and fresh croissants and thought the Hôtel de Crillon really was beautiful. Everything about her suite was wonderful: the satin slippers she discovered in the closet and the wooden hairbrush on the dressing table and the silver platter of pastries and fruit salad that arrived at the door.
But she had woken up feeling slightly odd. As if she’d had a dream she couldn’t remember. Now she picked up the phone and put it down. She was in Paris; there was no point in calling Neil to ask if he found his warm socks or took down the Christmas tree.
She opened her leather-bound journal and ran her fingers over a photo of an ivory satin wedding dress. The bodice had pink pearls and the veil was Venetian lace. She sat on the upholstered love seat and began to read.
Dear diary,
Today I wished we decided to run off and get married in a chalet in Switzerland. Just a minister and Neil and me wearing fur boots and saying, “I do!” Afterward we would drink schnapps by the fireplace and think we were so clever to skip the church with the huge urns of pink and white roses and the reception with five different entrées and a band that played long after you felt like dancing.
We’ve only been engaged for three months, but already I feel like we’re behind in choosing the caterer and cake and flowers. And the date is more than a year away: we finally settled on a Christmas wedding!
This afternoon I was supposed to meet my mother at the Bijou bridal salon in Ardmore. Models would show us the latest designs by Nicole Miller and Yves Saint Laurent and there would be French champagne and hazelnut truffles.
But my presentation ran late and I couldn’t break away to leave my mother a message. It would take weeks to get another appointment and I knew she’d be terribly disappointed.
I finally sent her a text and went home to the condo. Neil was working late, so I expected to heat up a bowl of pumpkin soup and flip through Martha Stewart Weddings.
But when I opened the front door, I smelled garlic and butter and roasted chicken. I entered the dining room and the glass table was set with a white linen tablecloth. There were flickering candles and a silver breadbasket.
“You’re home.” Neil appeared from the kitchen. His dark hair was brushed over his forehead, and he wore navy slacks and a white collared shirt. “I was afraid the spinach salad would wilt.”
“What’s this?” I waved at the crystal wineglasses and enamel soup tureens.
“Your mother called,” Neil explained, taking my briefcase and setting it on the sideboard.
“She did?” I gulped, hoping she’d gotten my texts and wasn’t still at the bridal salon. “What did she say?”
“She said it must be so stressful working and planning the wedding and she was sorry she suggested shopping on the Main Line. She’s going to find a salon in the city and come and meet you.”
“She said all that?” I whispered.
“She also said she hopes we are enjoying ourselves. The whole year shouldn’t be about dress fittings and tastings and trying to pare down our guest list.”
“Of course we’re enjoying ourselves,” I wavered, thinking about the dance lessons we needed to sign up for and honeymoon we should start planning and work files I hadn’t opened on my computer.
“I decided we should spend one night eating a rosemary chicken and autumn vegetables and talking about books and movies,” he continued, pouring two glasses of a Kenwood Chardonnay.
“Is that all we’re going to do?” I laughed, feeling like a child who had been let out of school early.
“We’re going to do a lot more than that.” He kissed me. “But first we have to eat my roasted chicken.”
Neil brought out plates of chicken and baked eggplant and scalloped potatoes. There were berries and whipped cream for dessert. My diamond ring glinted in the candlelight and I felt warm and happy.
Oh, diary, we’re not getting married so I can wear a couture gown or so we can eat raspberry fondant wedding cake. We’re in love and have so much fun together. It is a long time until next December, but I know we’re going to enjoy every minute of it!
Isabel closed the notebook and walked to the window. She and Neil had seemed so perfect. When had things started to go wrong? But she had made the right decision. She wouldn’t have canceled the wedding if she hadn’t been absolutely certain. Reading the journal was like rethinking a stock trade that had already happened. You had to trust you knew what you were doing, or you could never follow your instincts at all.
She pulled back the curtains and saw the wide boulevard and yellow taxis. She was in Paris and had the whole day ahead of her. She could walk across the Pont Alexandre III or take a tour of the gardens at the Royal Palace.
She ate a bite of a croissant and remembered receiving the glass bracelet and almost getting run over by the taxi. She pictured the fortune-teller saying she was going to fall in love and marry a French aristocrat. Of course, that’s why she had trouble sleeping! Suddenly everything was as clear as a winter sky after a snowfall.
She walked to the closet and selected a cream blouse and navy slacks. She pulled on a wool jacket and leather boots.
“Always better to bring a gift.” She grabbed a plate of croissants and closed the door behind her.
* * *
“DO YOU ALWAYS appear unannounced?” Alec asked when she knocked on the door. “You don’t look like the kind of woman who shows up at her neighbor’s door with fresh-baked cinnamon rolls.”
“I haven’t baked since I was a teenager.” Isabel entered his suite. A fire flickered in the marble fireplace and there was a silver coffeepot and enamel demitasses. “My mother said cooking was as easy as following a recipe, but I was too impatient to preheat the oven. My oatmeal cookies always ended up with soft centers.”
“I thought you dreamed of a big house in the suburbs with two children and a golden retriever.” Alec raised his eyebrow.
“Not all mothers fill lunch boxes with crustless sandwiches and homemade blueberry muffins.” She handed him a croissant. “I wanted to say thank you for carrying me back to the Crillon and buying me a drink.”
“You paid for lunch at Fouquet’s, we’re even.” He walked to the Regency desk. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m working on a new sketch.”
“Then why are the papers crumpled in the garbage?” she asked.
“I keep wanting to draw Gus doing something drastic,” Alec sighed. “My readers don’t mind if he slays dragons because they’re not real. But this morning I almost drew Gus chopping off someone’s head with a guillotine.”
“You said you were getting over Celine.” Isabel tried not to laugh. “You don’t want to be with someone who isn’t in love with you.”
“It’s a bit complicated.” Alec ate a bite of croissant. “This is delicious. I almost forgot there’s nothing better than Parisian pastries.”
“And there’s nowhere better than Paris.” Isabel’s eyes sparkled. “I slept wonderfully, and I woke up with an idea.”
“I hope it doesn’t involve tossing your shoe off the balcony or stepping in front of a taxi.”
“Do you ever wake up and realize you figured out something in your sleep?” she continued. “The end of the novel you’re reading, or a calculus problem you couldn’t solve.”
“I stopped doing math in sixth form,” Alec said. “That’s why they invented calculators and iPhones.”
“I’ve always been able to do it. I’d go to sleep figuring out an equation and in the morning it would be worked out in my head,” Isabel said.
“You should set up a booth in the Christmas market,” Alec murmured. “You could charge ten euros to decipher people’s dreams.”
“Last night I went to sleep worrying about the fortune-teller’s prediction.” Isabel perched on a velvet love seat. “I can’t spend my life walking around ladders or looking up to see if something is falling from the sky.”
“I’m sure you’re perfectly safe.” Alec grinned. “She said you’d narrowly miss being killed and you were. She didn’t say anything about a repeat performance.”
“That’s the thing.” Isabel jumped up. “She was right about the glass bracelet and about almost being run over; she was probably right about the other thing.”
“What other thing?” Alec felt suddenly nervous, as if there was a spider creeping up his leg.
“She said I’m going to fall in love with and marry a French aristocrat,” Isabel exclaimed. “That’s why I came to Paris, to fall in love! Now all I have to do is find a French aristocrat and everything will be perfect.”
“That’s the craziest thing I ever heard.” He whistled. “Maybe you bumped your head when you hit the pavement. You should go back to bed with a hot compress and a bowl of chicken soup.”
“Don’t you see? I study the markets in Asia and Europe and then decide where my clients should put their money,” Isabel continued. “JPMorgan Chase pays me a large salary to predict the future.”
“By using graphs and algorithms, not by getting your palm read by a gypsy.”
“Ever since I was a girl, I dreamed of a husband and children.” She fiddled with a cushion. “I adore my career, but I don’t want to wake up when I’m forty with a penthouse apartment and an empty guest room. But I’ve had the worst luck with men; I can’t seem to get it right. Maybe it’s time to listen to someone else.”
“Not to a woman wearing red slippers and a multicolored scarf,” Alec spluttered.
“Why not? She was right about me receiving a gift and almost being killed. The chances are she is right about me falling in love with a French aristocrat.”
“That sounds like it makes sense, but it doesn’t.” Alec rubbed his forehead. “Love is random, you can’t order it up like a soufflé.”
“I’m almost thirty, I spent the last two years eating rainbow trout and rib eye steak at wedding receptions at the Philadelphia Club and Rittenhouse Hotel,” she began. “Now my mailbox is full of announcements with yellow ducks and blue soccer balls and baby names written in cursive. If I don’t find a man and get married soon, I never will.”
“I know what you mean, every couple I know is pregnant,” Alec grumbled. “It makes you wonder if anyone listened in health class. All that talk about safe sex and abstinence was useless.”
“Sometimes when I discover a new stock or see a dip in a foreign market, I know something big is going to happen,” she mused. “It’s like a sixth sense. I get a tingling in my fingers and it creeps through my whole body.”
“That’s carpal tunnel syndrome,” he said. “I get the same thing when I hold a pencil too long.”
“I have that feeling now,” she continued. “I’m sure the fortune-teller is right, I just need to find a French aristocrat.”
“That all sounds fine.” Alec shrugged. “Why are you telling me?”
Isabel stood up and walked to the window. She gazed at the gold-and-silver Christmas tree in the Place de la Concorde. She turned around and her brown eyes sparkled.
“Because you’re going to help me.”
“Me?” Alec laughed. “How would I do that?”
“When I was looking for things to do in Paris, I read about the Red Cross charity ball,” she explained. “It’s held every year at the Petit Palais and it’s the most important ball of the season. Tickets are two hundred euros and the attire is formal. It sounds glorious: men in white dinner jackets and women in glittering evening gowns and a sit-down dinner of veal sweetbreads and strawberry Chantilly for dessert.” She paused. “I checked with the concierge and tickets are still available. You’re going to take me.”
“That’s a month’s rent!” he exclaimed. “And I’m a terrible dancer, I always step on my own foot.”
“I can’t go by myself,” she insisted. “A single American tourist would be as welcome as a bad cold. I’ll pay for the tickets. You must own a tuxedo, you were getting married.”
“I did buy a white dinner jacket for the rehearsal dinner.” Alec hesitated. “But you’re not planning on spending four hundred euros on a few glasses of fizzy champagne and a plate of overcooked meat and buttery vegetables.”
“It’s an investment.” Isabel’s eyes were huge. “My whole future is riding on it.”
“You’re serious about this?”
“When I was in college, I took the Eurostar from Paris all the way to Vienna by myself. I’m perfectly capable of balancing a checkbook, and my father taught me how to change a tire.” She paused. “But I can’t make oatmeal for one person without burning the bottom of the pot, and whenever I throw only one pair of socks in the dryer, they never seem to dry. I might be old-fashioned, but everything is more fun when you share it with someone. I don’t want to miss out.”
“Everything does seem to come in pairs. The maid left two hazelnut truffles on the pillows even though Celine’s side of the bed is empty,” he sighed. “All right, I’ll do it. But I’m not staying past midnight. I have to catch up on sleep or I’ll never finish drawing Gus fighting a shark on the Great Barrier Reef.”
“I thought you weren’t going to have Gus swim in the ocean.” Isabel frowned.
He stuck a pencil behind his ear. “I changed my mind.”
* * *
ISABEL STROLLED DOWN the Boulevard Haussmann and stopped in front of a stone facade. She glanced at the striped awnings and thought of all the afternoons she’d spent browsing in Le Printemps during her semester in Paris. It was the most beautiful department store she had ever seen, with creamy turrets and a slate-gray roof.
Now she paused in front of a window with a mannequin perched on an elephant. The plastic figure wore an orange sweater and khaki slacks and carried a pair of binoculars. The mannequins in the next window were dressed in chiffon evening gowns. Silver balloons were scattered over the floor and a gold ball hung from the ceiling.
She entered the double glass doors and gazed at marble counters filled with bright lipsticks and expensive lotions. Salesgirls wore ribbed sweaters and pencil-thin skirts, and she remembered when she first came to Paris and wondered how the women all looked like racehorses when the croissants were so buttery and the café au laits were frothy.
She took the escalator to the fourth floor and entered the Givenchy boutique. There was a stack of pastel-colored pashminas, and suddenly she remembered the first time she met Rory, at the Saks in Bala Cynwyd. She had just graduated from Wharton and was staying with her parents until she started working at JPMorgan Chase.
She stroked the soft cashmere and thought it was easier to think about Rory; her engagement to Neil was too recent. It was like when you burned your hand on the stove and thought it was fine. It was only when you typed on your computer or tied your running shoes, you realized you were in pain.
But Rory! It was so long ago, like a romantic movie you loved but couldn’t remember the ending. They had been so young, and he looked like a film star with his blond curly hair and wide shoulders. She picked up the pashmina and remembered his green eyes and smile that could light up a room.
* * *
ISABEL SIFTED THROUGH a rack of cotton dresses. It was early summer and she was staying with her parents in Ardmore. The weather was humid and she needed light dresses and sandals. She looked up and saw a man examining a pile of pashminas.
“Which do you prefer?” He looked up. “The turquoise is a little bright, but the pale pink looks like a packet of cotton candy.”
“It depends on your girlfriend’s coloring,” Isabel replied. “The turquoise is pretty on a blonde, but the pink could make her look washed out.”
“It’s for my mother. Her hair is that color that’s impossible to describe but is the result of a monthly appointment at John Frieda in New York.” He paused and looked at Isabel. “Perhaps you could model them and help me decide.”
“Do you really expect me to drape a pashmina around my shoulders and twirl around like a runway model?” Isabel laughed.
“I didn’t ask you to twirl. And I’m sure you’d make an excellent runway model.” He studied her long legs. “You’d be doing me a favor. My mother’s sixtieth birthday party is tonight and I haven’t got a present. I’ve been on assignment and I only got back in town this morning.”
“That sounds exciting. Do you work for the CIA like a character in Homeland?” Isabel asked.
“Society columnist for the Philadelphia Inquirer,” he corrected. “It ranks only slightly higher than the obituary page. But I grew up on the Main Line, so I don’t spell anyone’s name wrong.” He fiddled with his collar. “Spelling is important, no one wants to read their name with a missing y or an extra e.”
“Shouldn’t you buy her something more summery?” Isabel suggested. “These linen blazers are lovely and the floral dresses are beautiful.”
“I wouldn’t dare buy a woman actual clothing.” He shuddered. “If you buy it too small, you are implying there has been a recent weight gain. And if you buy a size too large, you didn’t notice the regime of vegetable smoothies paid off and now she’s a size six. I only buy wraps and purses.”
“It sounds like you have a lot of experience.” Isabel’s cheeks flushed. “Why didn’t you bring your girlfriend to help you decide?”
“I don’t have a girlfriend, I don’t even own a cat. I’m sort of the prodigal son.” He moved around the display table. “Youngest child of a prominent steel family. The oldest, Brian, has an office next to my father, and the middle child, Emmy, is married to a junior senator. Tabitha disappeared to Oregon after her Smith graduation and my parents worried she’d joined a commune. But she showed up at Thanksgiving engaged to a senior executive at Microsoft.” He grinned, and Isabel noticed his eyes were the color of emeralds.
“That leaves me, doted on as a child for my blond curls and ability to run. Attended Milton Academy and had a brush with fame when I was state cross-country champion. But I realized I couldn’t make running a career and turned down acceptance to Brown. I ended up at Marlboro College in Vermont.” He looked at Isabel. “I don’t know what was worse, the endless green fields or the white cheeses. The minute I got my diploma, I moved into my parents’ pool house.” He smiled mischievously. “Other young men have John Glenn or Babe Ruth as their heroes, mine is Benjamin Braddock in The Graduate. I’m waiting for someone to tell me what my future is.”
“It’s not writing the society column at the Philadelphia Inquirer?” Isabel tried not to laugh.
“I never thought I could get tired of liver pâté or buttercream filling,” he sighed. “But it seems I have a limit.”
“My mother adores Chanel silk scarves.” Isabel picked up a teal scarf. “You can wear them during the day with a two-piece suit or at night with an evening gown.”
“Done,” the man exclaimed. He studied Isabel’s diamond earrings and Tiffany locket and suddenly his eyes sparkled. “Would you come with me? The Radnor Hunt Club is the oldest foxhunting club in the country. The chef prepares a delicious grilled venison and they have a cellar of vintage French wines.”
“You want me to be your date?” Isabel exclaimed. “I don’t even know your name.”
“Rory Danford.” He held out his hand. “It really would help, an odd number at the dinner table can be awkward.”
“Did you say the party is at the Hunt Club?” she asked.
“Yes, my family has been members for almost a hundred years.”
“I’m Isabel Lawson and I’m already invited,” she replied, a smile flickering across her face. “Our mothers are co-chairwomen of the Ardmore garden committee.”
* * *
ISABEL STOOD IN the paneled ballroom and gazed at the ivory tablecloths set with bone-white china and yellow calla lilies. A sixteen-piece band stood in the corner and silver lights twinkled above the dance floor. She fiddled with her ruby necklace and wondered why she’d agreed to attend Peggy Danford’s party.
Her parents received dozens of invitations and she rarely accompanied them. And she’d promised herself she wasn’t going to think about dating until she finished her trainee session at Chase. There would be plenty of time to meet men after she secured a position as junior analyst.
“Here you are,” Rory said as he approached her. He wore a white dinner jacket and his blond hair touched his collar. “It’s so crowded, I couldn’t find you.”
“What a wonderful party, all the women look beautiful.” Isabel gazed at women wearing satin evening gowns and Jackie O–style dresses.
“I hadn’t noticed.” Rory studied her red cocktail dress and silver sandals, and his eyes were suddenly serious. “I’ve been standing at the bar, asking Oscar to refresh my martini and waiting for you to walk through the door.”
“What would happen then?” Isabel asked, feeling as if she’d forgotten to button a button.
He put his martini glass on the bar and took her hand. He led her onto the dance floor and put his arm around her waist.
“I’d wait for the band to play ‘What a Wonderful World,’” he murmured. “And then I’d never let you go.”
* * *
THEY STOOD ON the porch and gazed at the green fields and thick hedges. It was early evening and a dew was forming on the grass. Isabel sipped chilled champagne and inhaled Rory’s cologne and felt almost giddy.
“It is one of the most beautiful spots in Chester County.” Rory rested his elbows on the deck. “It’s too bad most of the members enjoy it holding a shotgun. I don’t think my father has ever forgiven me for not enjoying hunting. I love a juicy burger and have a weakness for rib eye steak, but I try not to picture my dinner racing through the fields, being followed by men on horseback.”
“I know what you mean,” Isabel sighed. “I guess our forefathers didn’t have the luxury of spending their leisure time playing video games or watching movies.”
“I think it’s more that men love competition.” Rory frowned. “From the moment we enter preschool, we are trying to get ahead. My mother was furious when my teacher promoted Johnny Pearce to be a penguin, while I was left being a zebra.” His face broke into a smile. “Personally, I’m quite content to sit by the pool with a thick book and a bottle of Coke.”
“Don’t you think about a career?” Isabel asked.
“Should I?” Rory turned to her.
“Everyone does.” Isabel was suddenly flustered. “You have to build something, that’s what’s important.”
“My contribution isn’t going to make a dent in the family coffers.” Rory shrugged. “We have the thirty-room estate in Ardmore and ski cabin in the Poconos. I couldn’t use up my trust if I bought a Jaguar once a month and spread caviar on my morning toast.”
“My parents provided me with everything I needed, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to achieve things of my own,” Isabel insisted.
“What sort of things?” Rory asked.
“The important things,” Isabel said hotly. “A career and a happy home and a family.”
“Are you saying it’s more noble to sit in an office than read Thackeray by the pool?”
“Well, yes.” Isabel nodded. “You have to have a reason to get up in the morning.”
“I have plenty of reasons. To eat my mother’s Belgian waffles and stand under a hot shower and watch Jimmy Fallon on late-night television.” He put his hand under her chin. “And right now I have the best reason of all. I’m standing next to the most beautiful woman at the party and have an irresistible urge to kiss her.”
Isabel knew she shouldn’t let him kiss her—he was completely opposite from everything she looked for in a man—but his cheeks were golden brown and his hair was soft and when his lips touched hers she shivered.
She kissed him back and tasted coq au vin and champagne. He put his hand on the small of her back, and suddenly she forgot about getting her final grades from Wharton and finding an apartment to rent in the city. She wanted to stand on the stone porch with the band playing “At Last” and kiss him again.
“We should go inside.” He pulled away finally. “I can’t run off with my date and miss my mother’s party.”
“I’m not your date,” Isabel said stiffly, afraid to read too much into the kiss. “I came with my parents.”
“We’ll have to fix that. I’ll introduce you to my mother.” He kissed her again. “She’ll be thrilled to meet the girl I’m going to marry.”
* * *
ISABEL GAZED AT the rack of Givenchy dresses and thought about the Red Cross charity ball. It was nice of Alec to take her—he hardly knew her at all. But she was paying for the tickets, and he couldn’t mope around his suite forever.
She remembered him saying love was impossible and knew he was wrong. Being in love was like diving into a pool on a hot summer’s day. There was nothing better than the sudden rush and cool water.
The summer with Rory, they couldn’t get enough of each other. It was the beginning of August and they had spent the last three weeks lying in the garden and eating corn on the cob and slices of fresh watermelon.
“We can’t go on like this,” Rory said, blocking out the sun. It was late afternoon and Isabel was stretched out on a chaise longue with a damp paperback book and glass of iced tea.
“You’re the one who said there’s nothing noble about working.” Isabel gazed at his broad shoulders and tan chest. “I don’t report to JPMorgan Chase for twenty-nine days and I haven’t finished the first of Elena Ferrante’s Neapolitan novels.”
“I work every day,” Rory said, suddenly irritable. “I can’t help it if my job description involves nibbling mini quiches with congressmen and reporting what Buffy Stuyvesant wore to the Fireman’s Ball.”
“I’m not complaining.” Isabel smiled, remembering his mouth on hers. “I’m quite enjoying myself.”
“Well, I want something more.” He perched on the chaise.
“You do?” Isabel’s heart hammered. They hadn’t talked about the end of the summer, but Isabel knew she’d be working too much to drive out to Ardmore. And she couldn’t imagine Rory drinking Singapore slings with earnest young analysts who tried to see who could rack up the most overtime hours.
He untied her bikini top and ran his fingers over her breasts. His fingers moved farther down her body, and Isabel felt like she had been jolted by an electric current.
“I want this.” He leaned forward and kissed her. One hand brushed her bikini bottom and she caught her breath.
“Not here,” she murmured. “Someone might see us.”
He picked her up and carried her into the pool house. Isabel stood with her legs apart and her hands pressed against the wall. He undid her bikini top and kissed his way from her neck down the middle of her back. She gasped and turned around and kissed him.
“God, I’ve never wanted anything more in my life,” he moaned, drawing her onto the bed.
She lay on the cotton sheets and watched him strip off his board shorts. His cheeks were chiseled and his chest was toned and he looked like Leonardo DiCaprio in Titanic.
He kissed her hair and her neck and her breasts. She felt the waves build until her whole body trembled. She waited for him to carry her over the edge and suddenly he paused.
“Wait for me,” he whispered into her ear. “Let’s do this together.”
She clung to his back and he picked up speed. His chest pressed against her breasts and she felt his slick thighs on her legs and suddenly the warmth became a bright light and her body dissolved in an exquisite release.
The sun streamed through the French doors and Isabel listened to his even breathing. Was it really so terrible that he didn’t aspire to carry a briefcase or work in an office? Weren’t you supposed to love someone because he made you laugh, not because of his job title?
Her body pulsed and she knew she wasn’t thinking clearly. She closed her eyes and thought she’d worry about it in the morning.
* * *
ISABEL LOOKED UP and flushed, as if other shoppers could tell she’d been thinking about Rory. Maybe this whole idea was ridiculous; she should give up on falling in love and finding a husband. It hadn’t worked out with Neil, and she had been sure they were perfect for each other. She should be content with her career and trips to Europe or the Caribbean.
She didn’t know anything about the French aristocracy besides what she had learned in her college French courses. What would she even talk about without getting names and dates wrong and admitting she had never felt much sympathy for Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette?
But then she remembered the glass bracelet and screeching taxi and smell of burning rubber. The fortune-teller had been right about her receiving a gift and almost being killed, and she was right about her falling in love. Isabel was as certain as when she had discovered a correction in the price of artichokes and knew it would lead to big returns for her investors.
“Oh, this is gorgeous,” Isabel said aloud, recognizing a dress she had seen in Vogue. It was a striped taffeta and had been featured in the runway shows in Milan.
“Nobody buys a dress that was worn on the runway,” a woman said.
Isabel looked up and saw a glamorous woman wearing yellow wool slacks and a cropped sweater. Ruby earrings dangled from her ears and she had a French accent.
“They don’t?” Isabel asked.
“The designers slap on price tags they couldn’t imagine in their wet dreams,” she explained. “And the clothes are outrageous—have you ever seen a woman walking down the street in a silver lamé dress held together by paper clips?”
“Well, no…” Isabel hesitated.
“Valentino and Yves Saint Laurent and Tom Ford all do the same thing,” she continued. “They fill the runways with outfits they wouldn’t put on their standard poodles so when a woman discovers the designer’s other dresses—the green tulle that costs double her clothing allowance—she feels like she got a bargain.” She held up a teal dress with a pleated skirt. “She buys a diamond pin or a bottle of perfume because she saved so much money, and everyone is happy.”
“I’m guessing her husband isn’t happy,” Isabel laughed.
“No French husband is happy when his wife comes home with bags from Le Printemps.” She shrugged. “But that is the price of sending one’s wife out with a charge card.”
“I need a gown for the Red Cross charity ball and I don’t know where to start. I bought the most gorgeous Vera Wang for my wedding and a Nina Ricci dress for our honeymoon, but this is different,” Isabelle explained. “There will be dozens of women at the ball, I need to stand out.”
“When are you getting married?” the woman asked.
“Oh, I’m not getting married. We called off the wedding because we couldn’t agree about anything,” Isabel said. “I gave the dress to a consignment store and came to Paris by myself. Now I’m going to the Red Cross charity ball to find a new husband.”
“What did you say?” the woman raised her eyebrow.
“I know it sounds silly, but I have it on good authority that I’m going to fall in love with a French aristocrat and I need to look the part.” She studied the woman’s elegant pumps and gold bracelet. “Will you help me?”
“Help you buy a dress to find a husband…” The woman frowned. “You can’t really believe in love at first sight?”
“I tried every other kind of love. The handsome dilettante you meet in your last semester of business school, only to discover that love and lust are two different things. The man you are so positive you are going to spend the rest of your life with, you start dreaming about a house with an enormous kitchen and a pantry filled with jars of Skippy peanut butter—” She stopped and her eyes glistened. “Until three days before the wedding you realize your goals are worlds apart and you tell the florist to donate the flowers to charity and end up in Paris at Christmastime by yourself.” She stroked a gauze dress. “This time I’m going to get it right, but I need help.”
“I’m sure one of the salesgirls will assist you.” The woman glanced at her watch. “I have an appointment.”
“In Philadelphia the only object of a winter coat is to keep you warm; in Paris every woman dresses like Marion Cotillard,” Isabel pleaded. “I want to find something sexy and sophisticated that only a Frenchwoman would wear.”
“I suppose I have a few minutes,” she wavered, and a smile crossed her face. “You do have a wonderful neck, I think you’d look fabulous in Givenchy.”
Moving from boutique to boutique, Isabel tried on Lanvin and Balenciaga and Dolce and Gabbana. She stepped out of the dressing room in a red Oscar de la Renta gown. One shoulder was bare and the fabric was the softest silk.
“That’s the one,” the woman exclaimed. “You look like Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s.”
“But she wore a black cocktail dress.” Isabel frowned, turning around.
“A dress isn’t about the color or the fit. It’s about how it makes you feel,” she replied. “I see a beautiful woman who is about to discover her powers of attraction.”
Isabel gazed in the mirror and thought her hair looked shiny and her skin was creamy and the light freckles on her nose almost disappeared.
“I see her too, I’ll take it.” She hugged her chest and her eyes sparkled. “Now, where will I find a pair of stilettos?”
She paid for her purchases and waited while the salesgirl lined boxes with tissue paper. She turned around and noticed the woman walking to the escalator.
“I didn’t thank you!” Isabel ran after her. “Can I buy you an espresso or pastry?”
“Another time,” she called back. “I have a lunch date, I have to go.”
Isabel clutched her packages and watched the woman run onto the boulevard.
“People say the French are rude,” she said aloud, stepping onto the escalator. “But I think they are the nicest people in the world.”
* * *
ISABEL SAT IN a booth in the Brasserie Printemps and nibbled an almond-milk brioche with blueberry cream. She gazed up at the blue mosaic dome and the view of the Eiffel Tower and wondered why anyone would want to be anywhere else.
Why couldn’t she marry a French aristocrat and live in Paris? JPMorgan Chase had branches all over Europe.
They would fly to Philadelphia every Christmas and celebrate with her parents. In the summer she’d invite her mother and father to their château in Provence and they’d eat fondue and local cheeses.
She tore apart the brioche and thought Paris really was a magical city. First Alec rescued her from the balcony and then the fortune-teller predicted her future and now a strange woman appeared in the department store and chose the perfect ball gown. She tasted blueberry and almonds and thought all you had to do was believe in love: everything else would follow.