Find Me in Paris

Chapter 6

Six

CAMILLE

Camille didn’t need to look up the address of Isabelle’s apartment. She rattled off the cross streets to the taxi driver and sank back against the leather seat, closing her eyes to the view of Paris, focusing instead on her breathing, like she’d done on the Eurostar, only then it was because she was trying to take her mind off the thought that she was not only on a train going to her childhood city but, worse, in the Chunnel.

For an agonizing thirty-five straight minutes, she focused on not hyperventilating while the train moved under the body of water separating England from Europe, because there wasn’t exactly any hope of dealing with a medical emergency from the depths of the English Channel. Isabelle used to tell her that she worried too much; later, that she was a pessimist. Camille knew it was more than that. Her mind was on overdrive, capable of going to all sorts of dark places about what could go wrong. She had her dear Papa to thank for that—for the creative spirit that his daughters had inherited in their own, unique ways, and for proving that her suspicions were right. You couldn’t trust anything or anyone. And so, the moment the train began its descent into the tunnel, she’d closed her eyes, gripped her seat handles, and focused on her breathing. She didn’t relax again until light filled the cabin and the tension finally left her body. Even if, by then, she was in France.

But now the tension was back with each turn they took, bumbling down cobblestoned roads, turning right and then left, screeching to a halt for people on bicycles, no doubt. She didn’t know. Her eyes were closed. She simply imagined.

Sometimes her imagination was her worst enemy. But sometimes, when she wanted to escape reality, it was her best friend.

Right now, as the taxi carried her toward Grand-mère’s apartment, Camille thought of what Flora and Rupert were doing.

It had been a cheerful, typical late Sunday morning when she’d zipped her luggage closed, meaning that Rupert was making breakfast, like he always did, the only surprise being what was served. Today, he’d put together a special menu filled with all of her favorites, and she knew without him saying it that he’d done it because he knew how difficult it was for her to make this trip.

He just didn’t know the real reason why she’d decided to go.

Sitting at the table, eating blueberry pancakes and drinking milky coffee, she’d had to all but force herself to finally walk to the door, and even then, she’d hesitated. It would have been so nice to stay in that world—just like it would be so easy to make that sort of morning a permanent thing.

But it was permanent. A constant. And committing to it, making it official, would only change things, and not for the better.

So now Rupert and Flora were probably taking a walk, or a bike ride, or maybe dusting off their tennis racquets for the season. And as much as she longed to be right there with them, to join in the laughter and the closeness and the fun, she knew that it was best that she wasn’t.

She was here to clear her head. To remind herself of just how wrong love could turn out. And where better to do that than Paris?

She didn’t even realize she was smiling until the car came to a firm stop, the driver’s-side door opened, and Camille felt her spirits droop. She climbed out of the car and collected her bags, then paid the driver and slogged over to the door just as a handsome man was leaving the building.

He gave her a flash of a smile, one that reached his dark eyes, and Camille couldn’t help but feel a little perked up. There were other men in this world, men other than Rupert, that is. She knew. She’d dated here and there over the years, but nothing ever serious. Maybe she’d even start up again. Have a French fling.

The thought made her almost laugh, but the man’s smile broadened when he caught her grin.

“ Avez-vous besoin d’aide ?” the man asked. Do you need any help?

Camille had forgotten to prepare for this, the language barrier, and she was almost dismayed to realize that after all these years away, she was still fluent.

Or at least semi-fluent , she thought, stumbling over how to respond. The truth was that she wouldn’t mind having some assistance with her heavy luggage, but she also didn’t want to invite any further complications into her life.

This was supposed to be a girls’ trip. Isabelle had said so herself. And that’s what it would be. Two sisters, catching up and laughing over wine—and cheese. At least she was promised that much. So they’d be in Paris. At least she could indulge in some good bread.

“ Non, merci ,” she told the man and rolled her luggage across the marble lobby. She eyed the elevator sternly, remembering how terrified she’d been every time that gate closed and the creaking sounds began, how a five-story climb felt like an eternity, how she nearly wept with relief every time it finally stopped, and she’d fling open the gate and jolt out onto the landing on shaky knees.

The six-year-old version of herself couldn’t trust that elevator.

The thirty-four-year-old version of herself couldn’t, either.

With a very deep sigh and yet another moment spent questioning her decision to come back to the scene of her best and worst memories, she hoisted her tote bag deeper onto her shoulder, grabbed each piece of luggage by the top handle, and began dragging herself up the winding stairs, her bags bumping along awkwardly behind her.

Each landing had a window, some to the street, some to the courtyard, but she didn’t look out and admire the view. She knew the view. She’d climbed these stairs plenty of times, and nothing had changed in all these years. That was the thing about this city, and maybe life in general. Years could pass but the things that mattered stayed the same.

She was out of breath and hot and, admittedly, badly tempered by the time she finally reached the second to the top floor. Grand-mère’s door was the second on the left, across from that deathtrap her sister called an elevator. She raised her hand to knock, remembering the last time they’d been here, when Camille was still wearing her blond hair in braids, when her family still felt complete.

That was back when things like the elevator just felt scary because of her imagination. That was before she knew that the things that you came to count on the most could be snatched away without any warning.

Grand-mère had been hosting Christmas Eve, as she loved to do. She’d opened the door and they’d stepped inside to see a tree fully decorated, sparkling in front of the large windows, with all of Paris illuminated in the darkness behind it. A fire crackled in the marble fireplace, and an antique record player filled the living room with Christmas songs. There was champagne flowing, trays of fruit and cheese, and pastries from the little shop around the corner that Grand-mère knew the girls enjoyed. She’d given them each a gift that night, wrapped in gold paper and tied with a bow. Two matching porcelain dolls in lavish dresses with hair colors that matched theirs, blonde for Camille, and brown for Isabelle, both with bright blue eyes and a sweet painted smile.

“Two sisters,” she’d said. “A pair.” And that’s what they’d been.

And if Camille had any say in it, that’s how it would have stayed. Two sisters. Their mother, their father, their grandmother, all tucked into this apartment, toasting to the season, to the new year, to each other.

Camille shook away the cobwebs and knocked on the door. Isabelle was expecting her; she’d be home. Sure enough, the locks turned and the door opened, only it wasn’t Isabelle who greeted her.

It was someone she hadn’t expected to see. Someone she didn’t want to see, if she was being honest.

Someone who wasn’t supposed to be here. Not in Grand-mère’s apartment. Not in Paris. Their Paris. The city that housed their memories alone.

It was her other sister. The sister she’d gained by the loss of everything else. The one who didn’t know what it felt like to have her father disappear at such a young age or to leave the only country you’d ever lived in, to worry what tomorrow would bring and what would come crashing down next. The one who had laughed all those years that Camille had cried.

The one Isabelle never mentioned would be here. And once again, Camille cursed to herself for coming here. She should have known better, expected the worst, or at least imagined it.

Because nothing good ever happened in Paris. And like so many other things, time hadn’t changed that, either.

Isabelle could tell that Camille wasn’t happy with her if her tense smile and wide eyes said anything. That was fine, Camille thought. Served Isabelle right, really.

After an awkward greeting, the eldest Laurent sister suggested they all get out and enjoy some fresh air, and Camille and Sophie eagerly agreed, because even Camille would rather take in the sights of this awful city than be trapped within four walls with two sisters she wasn’t exactly pleased with at the moment. Soon, they were sitting at a café terrace a few blocks from the apartment, one of many that lined the streets in this neighborhood. At least here there was the distraction of the scenery, other people, and the very (very) occasional interruption from the waiter.

Camille had forgotten how in Paris you could linger for hours at a table with just a beverage. There was no one to rush you along or push you out. The sisters could spend the rest of the day here if they wished, and maybe they would.

Or maybe Camille would go back to the train station and put her return ticket to use.

If she could stomach the thought of that Chunnel again.

When they’d left France the first time, they’d taken the ferry, something she hadn’t been able to face again even if it probably was a safer bet.

Instead, she gave Isabelle another long, silent look over the small table that was filled with three kir royales, a small bowl of nuts, and an untouched cheese plate.

It was coming on the time of day known to the French as the apéro , when drinks and snacks were consumed before dinner. As a child, it had been Camille’s favorite time. It was when life slowed down, work and school were over, and evening hadn’t yet set in, but somehow all the tough parts of the day were behind everyone.

If only that were the case now.

“So Sophie,” Isabelle began, refusing to react to Camille’s glare. “Are you dating anyone?”

Camille turned to Sophie with only mild interest. She had to admit that Sophie was a pretty girl. She had their father’s dark hair, like Isabelle, but otherwise, she mostly resembled her mother, a woman whom Camille had made a point of never getting close to, and who had left most of Camille and Isabelle’s care to Papa, anyway. Looking back on that time, which Camille tried not to do, she saw Sophie’s mother in the shadows during those short summer visits. At the time, she’d assumed that her stepmother wasn’t interested in forging a relationship, but now she saw it differently. Sophie’s mother was focused on her own daughter, who was six years younger than Camille, and just a newborn when the girls started visiting.

Even then, Camille always resented having to share their father with Sophie during those precious fourteen days. And she resented even more having to board the flight back to England, while Papa returned to his new home with her new sister. Her replacement.

“Oh.” Sophie’s cheeks colored as she glanced at the table. “Yes. No. Sort of.”

Isabelle smiled. “You sound like Camille.”

“She sounds nothing like me!” Camille bristled. Then, a little softer, “You know I don’t have a boyfriend, of any sort.”

Isabelle merely raised an eyebrow at that.

Camille heaved a sigh. “Go on. Out with it.”

“Out with what?” Isabelle said primly. Sophie darted her head from one sister to the other.

Camille leaned back in her rattan chair. “Isn’t this the part where you tell me that I have issues? That I have a great man right in front of me that I don’t even notice?”

“You know that I refrain from commenting on your love life,” Isabelle replied.

“As I do yours,” Camille said.

Color bloomed in Isabelle’s cheeks and she reached for her glass. Camille decided to drop it. While she’d kept her mouth shut, and not without some effort, when Isabelle first introduced her to Hugh on a rainy summer night some six years ago, her eyes shining with joy, alarm bells went off in Camille’s head. She braced for it—the inevitable tear-filled call, Isabelle working her way through a carton of ice cream to nurse her broken heart.

Only it was Camille who ate the ice cream while she sat alone on the sofa most nights after Flora had gone to bed, listening to Isabelle on the phone, talking about her travels and her happiness. And it was Camille who’d eaten the cake at Isabelle’s wedding, where she glowed from within, nearly casting aside all of Camille’s doubts. But not all of them.

There was this whole business of Paris, the apartment, and then the gallery. Camille couldn’t quite understand how her sister could be content to spend so much time in this city, especially when her husband continued traveling the globe—without her.

But then, who was she to talk? She liked her space, too. She was taking it right now from the man she loved most, only in her case, she rather hoped it would change the way she felt about him, whereas it was clear from the mere blush when Hugh was mentioned that Isabelle was still mad for her husband.

“Back to you then, Sophie,” Camille said, and she realized that it was the first time she’d spoken directly to her younger sister since she’d arrived in town, and before that, all the way back to Isabelle’s wedding. She’d done her best to avoid her then, too, but it was Papa’s presence that had really unsettled her, stirring up emotions that she tried to keep from bothering her, reminding her of the little girl with braids she’d once been, even when she’d had her own little girl with braids sitting right beside her.

“Oh.” Sophie’s cheeks also turned pink. Camille refused to go so far as to think it was a family trait. One that she hadn’t inherited.

“Who is this man? Is he cute?” Camille wasn’t really interested, but she would rather talk about Sophie’s love life than think about her own. Or her lack of one.

Isabelle laughed. “I’m sure he’s handsome! Look at how beautiful Sophie has turned out!” She shook her head. “I still remember when you were a pudgy little baby. I used to love pushing your stroller around. Papa always let me.”

Camille pursed her lips. Who could forget the early years of their visits when Isabelle played house with baby Sophie? She was like a little doll to Isabelle. Camille always preferred stuffed animals, especially after that last Christmas here in Paris. The sister dolls served as a constant reminder of the magical holidays that they’d never again celebrate in the beautiful apartment. She’d been happy when they’d been packed away for the move and then never removed from the trunk.

“Anyway, it’s not what he looks like that matters,” Isabelle went on. “It’s how he treats you.”

“Oh, come on,” Camille chided. “It’s not like you didn’t marry a handsome fellow.”

“And it’s not like Rupert doesn’t treat you like a queen,” Isabelle shot back, smiling.

“Jack is very handsome,” Sophie said a little reluctantly.

“Jack!” Isabelle nodded with approval. “I like that name. And where’d you meet him?”

“At lunch,” Sophie said. “We always went to the same place, halfway in between our offices. I noticed him, and I guess he noticed me. And then one day he happened to be standing next to me in line. We got to chatting, and… Well, that was two years ago.”

“Two years!” Isabelle looked surprised. “That sounds rather serious.”

“Well, we live together. Unofficially. He still has his old apartment he shared with his brother.” Sophie opened her mouth and then stopped. “We’re taking some space.”

Camille felt an unfamiliar sense of kinship for Sophie, but she quickly shrugged that off.

“Well, there’s certainly no better place for a little time to yourself than Paris!” Isabelle grinned as Camille scowled.

Sophie, however, beamed. She swiveled her neck, looking up and down the street. They were seated at a popular café, right on the corner of a bustling area of Saint-Germain-des-Prés. There were three other cafés at this intersection, and others in between, along with a bookstore, a clothing boutique, and a chocolate shop that Camille had to admit smelled heavenly.

“I still have to pinch myself to believe I’m really here.”

Camille fluttered her eyelids. Of course Sophie would think Paris was the best place ever—if only because Camille found it to be the worst. It was just further confirmation that they had nothing in common then or now.

“But you live in New York,” she insisted. “Surely, you can’t be that impressed by Paris.”

“How can I not be impressed?” Sophie’s eyes were wide. “The architecture. The cafés. The people walking by with fresh baguettes! And the language! Oh, I can’t believe that I went so many years without speaking or hearing any French.”

“It’s amazing how quickly it comes back to you,” Isabelle said, looking pleased.

Camille could only grunt, even though she secretly agreed. At least it would help her get by. Make her stay a little easier.

“Papa never taught me the language,” Sophie said, a disappointed edge creeping into her tone, one of the first hints that she wasn’t anything but completely enamored by their father. She’d practically swayed to every dance with him at Isabelle’s wedding, after all.

“Well, we lived here for a big part of our childhoods,” Isabelle reminded her. “We had no choice but to know the language.”

The table fell silent. Their life here was rarely ever spoken about—regardless of Sophie’s presence.

“How’s Flora?” Sophie finally asked. It was the first direct question she’d posed since Camille had arrived. Was it possible she disliked Camille or resented her? But that was impossible. Camille had done nothing to this girl other than fail to embrace her with the same open arms as Isabelle.

Camille relaxed a little bit at the thought of her daughter. “She’s getting tall. A little sassy, too.”

Isabelle again raised a single eyebrow. Like mother like daughter , she was no doubt thinking.

“And where is she staying while you’re away?” Isabelle asked.

Camille knew that Isabelle knew better than to assume Flora was with their mother. Despite living only an hour from Camille’s little house, she wasn’t the kind of grandmother who stopped by with a warm dinner when Camille came down with the flu or offered to bake cookies with Flora after school. She’d struggled enough with raising her own two girls once her marriage broke down, choosing to throw herself into an interior design career the moment she was back on British soil, a business that she still ran to this day.

“She’s with her father, of course.” Camille felt Isabelle’s eyes on her as she rearranged herself in the chair to reach for her phone. Could the tables be any tighter? Desperate to avoid talking about the man who was perfect on paper and in real life, she scrolled through some photos and leaned into Sophie, only then realizing just how desperate she was.

“Oh, she’s a beauty!” Sophie said, and her tone sounded truly sincere. “She looks just like you did at that age!”

Camille blinked at her, startled by this confession. “I didn’t realize that you remembered me at that age.”

“I remember everything about both of you,” Sophie said, grinning widely. “What you would wear. How you would style your hair. The boys you liked that year. What you ate. What you talked about—or what I could try to overhear, at least. I looked forward to those summer visits all school year.”

Whereas Camille had dreaded them.

Momentarily at a loss for words, Camille glanced at the phone again. “Speaking of Flora, I should call her. A mother never gets a break,” she joked.

Isabelle’s lips pinched before she took another sip of her cocktail, reminding Camille of the underlying tension that had been there ever since Flora was born. She knew that Isabelle felt pushed aside, and maybe she had been, but not by choice. By circumstance. And reality.

But Flora wasn’t a baby anymore. And a call could wait a little bit.

Especially because a call to Flora would only make Camille think of Rupert, and right now she wanted to do anything but that.

She signaled to the waiter for another round of drinks, prolonging their return to the apartment, hoping that by the time they did, she could drop into bed and fall blissfully to sleep.

“Maybe a small break is okay once in a while,” she said to Isabelle with a conspiratorial grin.

Maybe, this time, it was necessary.