Isabel strolled along the Boulevard Saint-Michel and glanced at the distant spires of Notre Dame Cathedral. She had loved exploring the fifth arrondissement when she studied at the Sorbonne. The outdoor cafés were crowded with girls in floral skirts and young men carrying leather backpacks. They all drank endless espressos and pored over copies of Flaubert and Sartre.
The Place Saint-André-des-Arts was littered with colorful sketches and she spent hours in the Cluny Museum gazing at the tapestry of the Lady and the Unicorn. But mostly she loved sitting under the cherry blossoms and watching all of Paris walk by.
Even now, with the tables pushed inside and a soft rain falling on the pavement, she adored the Latin Quarter. The boulevards were lined with galleries, and the alleys were filled with wine bars and old men playing backgammon.
She turned on the Rue de la Bûcherie and remembered the Red Cross ball at the Petit Palais. The whole evening had been glorious: the sixteen-piece orchestra and ice sculptures and platters of lamb cutlets. The crème brûlée that melted in her mouth and the selection of chocolate tortes.
Antoine had been handsome and charming, like a character in a French novel. He explained he never carried his phone in his tuxedo and wrote her number on a napkin. He tucked it in his pocket, and Isabel suddenly felt the champagne sink to her toes. She had met a French aristocrat and he’d asked for her phone number!
The rain fell on her umbrella, and she wanted to dance like Fred Astaire and Audrey Hepburn in Funny Face. All she had to do was listen to the fortune-teller and her dreams would come true.
She pictured Alec in his white dinner jacket and frowned. He might think believing in the fortune-teller was silly, but he knew nothing about her. She had tried to fall in love with the right man and failed.
Isabel didn’t want to come home at night longing to talk about the surge in Facebook’s stock price. Or wishing someone would greet her with a chilled Chardonnay and baked chicken because she had been sitting at her desk all day and hadn’t eaten anything except a tuna sandwich.
Isabel wanted to be part of a couple—that’s what made working so hard worth it. Even if she could afford her own house, what was the point of having a sitting room and a formal dining room if she curled up every evening with a bowl of instant oatmeal and The Economist?
She reached 37 Rue de la Bûcherie and caught her breath. She had spent hours at Shakespeare and Company when she lived in Paris, and just seeing the three-story bookstore with its narrow shelves and piles of books made her happy.
The first time she entered the double brass doors when she was studying at the Sorbonne, a young Frenchman gave her a tour of the seventeenth-century former monastery. In 1951 an American named George Whitman opened the bookstore and invited authors and playwrights to spend the night. Beds were scattered among the shelves so they could sleep.
He reeled off the names of writers who had been regulars—Anaïs Nin and William Styron and Henry Miller—and Isabel wanted to stay there forever.
Now a young couple held hands, and she remembered when she and Rory spent a week in San Francisco. Every evening they visited City Lights bookstore in North Beach. Isabel tried to read the latest Armistead Maupin, but Rory pulled her close and kissed her.
Why was she thinking about Rory again? Neil was the fiancé she had left in Philadelphia. But it was still painful to think about Neil, like a recent sunburn that left a blister.
Rory was so long ago, and their romance was the first time she had given her heart away. They had been like the young couple with their hands tucked in each other’s pockets. When you were twenty-four and in love, you had the wisdom of Socrates and the energy of Michelangelo.
She remembered when Rory announced he was leaving. It was early September and she was sorting boxes in her parents’ attic. The leaves were turning orange, and she felt their relationship changing, like the new chill in the air.
* * *
“THERE YOU ARE.” She looked up. “I’m finally going to bring my books with me. I haven’t seen my collection of Edith Wharton and Tom Wolfe since I was in high school. The new apartment has built-in bookshelves in the bedroom.”
In a week she started working at JPMorgan Chase and had rented a one-bedroom apartment on Rittenhouse Square. Rory made excuses not to see it: he had to finish a piece about the Bryn Mawr hound show; he was asked to cover the Concours d’Elegance. But Isabel felt a distance between them, like the width of the Delaware River.
“I’m moving too.” Rory perched on a box. He looked handsome in blue jeans and a white button-up shirt.
“Moving?” Isabel repeated.
“An old roommate from Milton founded a start-up in San Francisco,” Rory said. “He’s got a penthouse on Nob Hill with views of the Oakland Hills and Bay Bridge.” He fiddled with his collar. “I’m going to stay with him.”
“But what are you going to do?” Isabel felt her heart beat faster.
“Get up in the morning and explore Fisherman’s Wharf.” He shrugged. “Sit at a café in North Beach and eat a calzone and strawberry gelato.” He paused. “I’m sure I could write a few society pieces for the San Francisco Chronicle. All those dot-com millionaires showing up at the symphony in jeans and sneakers.”
“I see.” Isabel examined the stack of books so he couldn’t see the tears in her eyes.
“Your trainee program ends in December, so you can come in January,” he continued.
“You want me to come to California?” Isabel asked.
“Of course, San Francisco is the banking capital of the West Coast,” he said. “And the wedding will be in December, so it will be perfect.”
“What wedding?”
“Our wedding,” Rory replied. “Have you forgotten? I said at my mother’s birthday party that she would be thrilled to meet the woman I’m going to marry.” He paused. “We’ll have the rehearsal dinner at the Radnor Hunt Club and the reception at my parents’ house—” He stopped and smiled. “One of the benefits of having a thirty-room estate is you don’t have to deal with hotel staff when you host a party for four hundred people.”
“We’re too young to get married,” Isabel said, suddenly flustered. “I just graduated from business school and you…”
“Don’t have a proper job?” he finished. “Marriage isn’t a contract about who takes out the garbage and who stops at Kroger’s to pick up the laundry detergent.” His green eyes flickered. “You get married because everything is brighter when you’re together and you’d rather have chicken pox than be apart.
“I’m doing this all wrong, I haven’t formally proposed.” He got down on one knee and took Isabel’s hand. “We haven’t known each other long, but it only took a moment to realize I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you.
“I’m not the best with words, that’s why I write society pieces instead of the great American novel.” He pushed his hair off his forehead. “But I love you and I’ll do anything to make you happy.”
He reached into his pocket and drew out a green velvet box. Inside was a square emerald surrounded by diamonds on a platinum band.
“Isabel Marie Lawson”—he took out the ring—“will you marry me?”
“Do you always carry antique engagement rings in your jeans pocket?” She tried to laugh, but her legs were shaky and she couldn’t breathe.
“I wanted to propose on our weekend in the Adirondacks, but our cabin smelled like fish,” he began. “Tonight Alice, our cook, offered to make us a romantic dinner. But I didn’t want my mother to forget her pashmina and return early from the theater.” He leaned forward and touched her hair. “I like proposing in the attic. We’re all alone and that sweater is practically see-through.”
“I wasn’t expecting company.” Isabel glanced down at her fishnet sweater and beige slacks.
“Well, I found you,” Rory whispered. “And I’m asking you to marry me.”
Isabel inhaled his musk scent and thought they were too young to get married. She barely had started her career, and Rory didn’t know what he wanted besides his daily swim and cup of Peruvian coffee.
And could she really move to San Francisco? She loved her parents and their big house in Ardmore. She adored the change of seasons and the giant Christmas tree in Rittenhouse Square.
But she looked at Rory’s chiseled jaw and knew she had to marry him. Marriage wasn’t about having a joint 401(k) and planning for a golden retirement. It was about laughing together and never wanting to be apart.
“Yes,” she whispered.
He slipped the emerald ring on her finger and kissed her. One hand undid her zipper and slipped beneath her panties.
“What are you doing?” she gasped, feeling the delicious heat.
“I’m kissing the bride,” he murmured, pulling her sweater over her shoulders.
She lay on the thick carpet and drew him on top of her. He slid out of his jeans and pushed her legs open. The carpet was soft and she inhaled his musk aftershave. She wrapped her arms around his back and he plunged deep inside her.
“I’m not the bride yet,” she said, feeling her body reach and tip.
He moved faster and she didn’t think about anything except the delicious glow and her body being wrenched apart. The endless waves carried her over the edge and she wondered how anything could be so good.
* * *
“WE HAVE TO practice for the wedding night,” he murmured, draping his arm around her waist.
Isabel thought of Rory’s lack of a job and moving to San Francisco. The emerald ring glittered in the afternoon sun and she thought she’d worry about it tomorrow.
* * *
NOW ISABEL GAZED at the tables piled with books at Shakespeare and Company and thought she really had to concentrate on Antoine.
“Excuse me, mademoiselle,” a male voice said. “Can I help you?”
Isabel looked up and blushed, as if the bookseller could tell what she was thinking.
“I’m looking for a book on the French aristocracy.” She smoothed her hair. “I need to know everything, from the Middle Ages to Napoleon. I took French in high school and at Bryn Mawr, but they never teach you anything except the French Revolution.” She paused. “There must be other interesting facts besides how many dresses Marie Antoinette wore every day and who was allowed in Louis XVI’s bedchamber.
“Though that period is fascinating. Have you ever seen Dangerous Liaisons? It’s one of my favorite movies. All those gorgeous châteaux with elaborate gardens perfect for clandestine meetings,” she sighed. “These days you can’t hide anywhere, we all have GPS on our iPhones.”
“We don’t have anything at the moment.” The man clicked through the computer screen.
“This is Shakespeare and Company, it’s the most famous bookstore in the world.” She pointed to the shelves that reached the ceiling. “Surely you have something on the feudal system or the court of the Sun King?”
“All our books are in English, and there is not a great demand for works on the French aristocracy.”
“That’s the problem with Americans, they’re only interested in themselves,” she sighed. “I learned about the Civil War every year from the fifth grade, but I never studied the Wars of the Roses.”
“Perhaps come back tomorrow, we get used books every day.”
“If you don’t have a single book on the aristocracy, one is hardly going to walk in off the street.” She frowned. “It’s very important, I met a French comte and he asked for my phone number.” She stopped and her eyes were huge. “But if I don’t know the difference between noblesse de lettres and noblesse d’épée, he might not be interested in me at all.”
“You seem to know a lot about French history.” He grinned. “I’m sure you have nothing to worry about.”
“I always read the part of the textbook the teacher didn’t go over in class.” She nodded. “But it’s not enough, I have almost a thousand years to cover.”
Isabel was about to walk onto the street when she heard a voice behind her. She turned and saw an old man with gray hair. He wore a faded blazer and tan slacks.
“I overheard you saying you needed a book on the French aristocracy,” he said. “I think I can help.”
“How could you do that?” she asked.
“Come with me.” He led her to the back of the store. He climbed a ladder and pulled a thick book off the shelf.
“The Noble Regime was written by a professor at the Sorbonne and translated into English.” He handed it to her.
“How did you find it?” she gasped.
“Young people think the answer to everything is in a computer.” He shrugged. “But some things exist even if they’re not in a database.”
“This is wonderful.” She flipped through the pages and her face broke into a smile. “How can I thank you?”
He hesitated and then he looked at Isabel. “Can I tell you a story?”
“Of course,” she said. “You just gave me a wonderful gift.”
“Forty years ago I fell in love with an American who was living in Paris as an au pair,” he began. “She wanted to get married, but I was a struggling writer and had nothing to give her. The day she was supposed to leave she appeared at my door.
“She said she didn’t care if we lived in a two-room flat in Montmartre and could never afford a holiday, we had to be together,” he continued. “Our lives were no great success story, I became a teacher and she worked as a florist. She died six months ago, but she left me with memories that will last forever. If you found true love with this comte, hold onto it.”
“That’s a wonderful story.” Isabel’s eyes glistened. “I’m sure she was beautiful.”
He walked to the door and turned around. “I never even noticed.”
* * *
ISABEL STROLLED ALONG the Boulevard Saint-Michel and hugged the book to her chest. The rain had stopped and a thick mist settled on the roofs.
Paris really was a magical place. First she met the fortune-teller, and then the woman at Le Printemps suggested the perfect gown to wear at the ball, and now a complete stranger discovered a book about the French aristocracy.
Couples held hands on the sidewalk and Isabel inhaled the scent of cigarettes and fresh baguettes. All she had to do was go back to her suite at the Crillon and wait for Antoine to call. Then her future would begin.