Find Me in Paris

Chapter 7

Seven

ISABELLE

Isabelle knew that she should have told her sisters about their father’s request, just like she should have probably warned each of them that the other was coming to Paris. She had made the conscious choice to leave that part out, and not because she was naive enough to think that now that they were all adults they might all be able to get along. Their time at the café had snuffed out that remaining hope.

She wasn’t surprised that Camille wasn’t happy to see Sophie any more than she wasn’t surprised that Sophie was visibly tense around Camille. And it was for that reason that she had purposefully kept their invitations to herself. If she hadn’t, then she stood a chance of neither of them agreeing to come and stay, and where would that leave Papa?

But now she felt guilty for bringing them here under somewhat false pretenses, sensing that both of her sisters continued to hold a less than favorable opinion of Paul Laurent, even though she hadn’t been sure where Sophie stood until now.

It was clear that neither of them had spoken to their father since her wedding, something that Papa had alluded to and something that made her sad, especially now in light of his surprising request.

She considered blurting it out the next morning over croissants and coffee, but Camille was still asleep by the time she and Sophie finished eating and she hoped to spend a few hours at the gallery today.

“You can join me if you’d like,” Isabelle told Sophie as they cleared the dishes, leaving two croissants in the bakery bag for Camille. “Unless you wanted to see the sights first?”

“I’d love to see your gallery!” Sophie said with sparkling eyes, and Isabelle couldn’t help from reaching out and hugging her, holding her tight, this young woman who was still just a little girl in her mind and maybe always would be.

No, now was not that time to blurt out that Paul Laurent was requesting their presence. Now was the time to be grateful that both of her sisters were here, and that one had such an appreciation for it that it was almost contagious. Who couldn’t see the bright side of the day with Sophie’s overwhelming excitement?

They took Isabelle’s usual path to work, stopping every so often so Sophie could take photos of cafés and storefronts that Isabelle passed every day but never thought of as particularly special until she saw the way her sister lit up with excitement. When the winding street eventually opened up onto the Quai des Grands Augustins, she heard Sophie gasp, and even she stopped to appreciate the view. There, just across the river divided only by its ornate and impressive bridges, was all of Paris, the Louvre spanning a sizeable part of the Right Bank in the distance, and the Notre-Dame in plain sight on the nearby ?le de la Cité. Isabelle played the tour guide, pointing out the highlights, even as she felt like she was seeing the city for the first time. Through Sophie’s eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she felt the need to say when they reached a quiet spot.

“Sorry?” Sophie stopped walking and stared at her in confusion.

“For not telling you that Camille was coming,” Isabelle explained. Or for why I invited you here in the first place . “The truth is that I was afraid you wouldn’t come if you knew she’d be here.”

Or the whole truth.

“More like she wouldn’t have come,” Sophie said, showing a frown for the first time that morning.

Sophie was correct, not that Isabelle would admit it. Isabelle had hoped Sophie was oblivious to Camille’s coldness to her when she was younger, but she was old enough to see it now and mature enough to understand it.

If only Camille were mature enough to see the situation for what it was, too.

“She’s a great person once you get to know her,” Isabelle said, hoping to bridge the gap between her two sisters.

“She doesn’t let me get to know her,” Sophie replied. “How can I ever connect with her if she’s so determined to shut me out and treat me like a distant cousin?”

Isabelle had no excuse for her sister’s treatment of Sophie other than the obvious. “I’m afraid that Camille never really recovered from Papa leaving.”

“Another thing we have in common,” Sophie said with a wry smile. “It’s amazing how all these years later, one person can still have that much influence. He doesn’t deserve it, really.”

No, Isabelle supposed in some ways he didn’t, but she also knew that it wasn’t that simple.

“I don’t think Papa set out to hurt anyone,” she tried to explain, as she’d managed to convince herself over the years.

“But he did,” Sophie said simply. “Relationships end, I get it. But the way Papa ended things is what makes it all so wrong. If you love someone, you don’t just…disappear.”

Isabelle could barely swallow as they continued the walk. No, you didn’t just disappear if you loved someone, and that’s exactly what Hugh had gone and done, wasn’t it?

She glanced across the river, to the Right Bank, where most of the big hotel chains were located in the 1st or 8th arrondissements, closer to the tourist spots like the Champs-élysées and the Louvre, many with views of the Eiffel Tower for lucky, or affluent, guests.

Was Hugh up there now, looking out the window onto the Left Bank? Was he thinking of her at all?

But he couldn’t be. If he was thinking of her, he would have called. He wouldn’t be living in a hotel, in the same city, pretending that he wasn’t. If he loved her, he’d come home.

Camille had said those words to her years back, when she was only six, and Isabelle was nine. Papa had been gone for days, and this time, it seemed that he wasn’t coming home. Still, Isabelle insisted he would. Maybe it was denial, or maybe it was hope, or maybe it was faith. She saw the hurt in her little sister’s eyes, the tears that flowed each night when darkness came and another day ended, and as they lay in their twin beds, side by side, divided by only an antique nightstand filled with books and toys and treasures that they’d collected from the streets of Paris, she promised Camille that tomorrow Papa would come home. That he loved them. She said it every night, if only to convince herself, until one night, Camille stopped crying, gave her a stony look, and said firmly that if Papa loved them, he’d come home.

And he never did.

Deciding that was enough talk about Papa for now, and more convinced than she’d been earlier that she was right in not saying anything about his invitation yet, Isabelle linked Sophie’s arm, the one good thing to have come from that painful part of her past, eager to catch some of Sophie’s excited energy. She didn’t want to think about Hugh or Papa. And she wasn’t about to put a damper on Sophie’s fun or cloud this beautiful spring day.

She had enough to worry about without upsetting Sophie, too.

With every step she took, her eyes darted, looking for a glimpse of Hugh. She knew that it was ridiculous. Not only was the city huge, and packed with tourists who flocked here every spring to see the cherry trees in bloom, but it was the start of the workweek, and Hugh’s office (like his hotel and current place of residence) was across the river. He had no reason to be on the Left Bank, and he certainly wouldn’t risk crossing one of the ponts knowing that he might get caught.

She didn’t even realize she was scowling until Sophie nudged her carefully. “Is everything okay?”

“What?” Isabelle shook her head and forced a smile. “Oh, just thinking about the big opening. All the work I have to do.”

And it was true, as a fresh surge of anxiety made her heart begin to race. She still had to finalize the guest list, confirm the menu with the caterer, and decide on the arrangement for the exhibit, which was her favorite part of her job and also the most important. Art wasn’t always about something of beauty. Each piece was meant to evoke emotion, good or bad, or trigger a memory, hope, or loss. When people came in for the Gabriel Duvall exhibit, she wanted to give them an experience, not hit them square in the face with the biggest and brightest piece.

But she couldn’t do that until Gabriel delivered the final painting.

“I’m happy to help,” Sophie suggested almost hopefully.

“I can’t put you to work!” Isabelle quickly dismissed the idea even though it was appealing.

“Are you kidding me? Spending time in an art gallery, on an island in the middle of the Seine, in Paris? That’s hardly what I classify as work.” Sophie’s eyes went wide as if she’d realized her faux pas. “Sorry. I didn’t mean—”

Had Camille said this, Isabelle would have taken offense, because Camille had a way of insinuating that her life was far busier and more important than Isabelle could ever understand, but coming from Sophie, Isabelle laughed, feeling better than she had just a moment ago. “I know what you meant and you’re right. Even I can’t call it work most days. I’m lucky to do what I love. In the city I love.”

Even if she wasn’t lucky in love.

“You are lucky,” Sophie said softly as they walked.

Isabelle glanced at her. Now she was the one who felt concerned.

“How do you like your job? It must be exciting working at a major publishing house in New York City.”

“At first, but then, it just became a job.” Sophie hesitated. “I guess I always hoped that someday an editor would be reading my book. Instead, I’m the one editing everyone else’s work.”

Isabelle remembered clearly the little girl who used to scribble in her notebook on their holidays together. She’d always ask to read one of the stories but even then, Sophie had been fiercely private about her creations.

It had reminded Isabelle of Papa, when he was in the beginning stages of a new idea, and it was too precious to share.

“You’re young,” she told Sophie. More than nine years younger than herself. She realized that somehow that age difference felt huge, that she hadn’t even been dating Hugh when she’d been Sophie’s age. She hadn’t traveled to dozens of countries yet. She hadn’t moved into Grand-mère’s apartment. She hadn’t decided to open a gallery or dare to go through with it.

Everything had still been possible at that age. Unknown, but possible.

And now, everything felt cemented in stone. As firm as the bridge they now crossed. She’d made choices. She was settled.

And she was alone. And childless.

“Working at the publishing house must help your writing,” she said, forcing her attention away from her own problems and onto Sophie’s dilemma.

“If I could find any time to write,” Sophie said a little wistfully.

“Maybe you’ll find the time while you’re here.” Isabelle opened her free arm wide, sweeping the panoramic view. “Or the inspiration.”

“Maybe,” Sophie said, brightening. She sighed as she stopped halfway across the bridge to take in the view from all sides. “Do you ever feel like you’re living a dream?”

Isabelle wanted to say that right now she felt like she was living a nightmare, but then she followed her sister’s gaze, seeing Paris as if for the first time, the landmark sites so close that it almost did feel surreal.

“Why haven’t you visited until now?” she asked her sister suddenly. For a woman who was this enamored by Paris, it seemed strange that she hadn’t come sooner.

“Oh.” Sophie started walking again, looking distracted as she stared at the island they were quickly approaching, greeted at the base of the bridge by a cluster of charming cafés with tables set up under the fanning branches of tall trees. “After college, I went straight to work for the publishing company. I guess it just…never occurred to me that I could come, you know?”

There was something in the way she said it that gave Isabelle pause, but by then they were already approaching the gallery, and she had to fish for the key in her bag. She had only just turned the key and flicked on the lights when her phone started ringing.

She stared at the screen, her heart thumping so hard that she was sure that Sophie could hear it as she crossed the room to admire some of Isabelle’s favorite acquisitions.

Isabelle knew that she had to make a decision quickly. She and Hugh hadn’t spoken since the day after their anniversary, and then it was only long enough for her to choke out a comment about the beautiful flowers that she’d tossed in the bin. Since then, they’d texted briefly; knowing that she had her sisters in town ensured that he gave her space.

But now he was calling. And if she didn’t answer, she would only delay the inevitable.

“I need to take this,” she said to her sister before slipping out the door onto the narrow cobblestoned street. Then, upon connecting the call, she managed, “Hello?”

“Well, hello to you,” came Hugh’s rather chipper voice. “I hope I’m not interrupting sister time.”

Her eyes narrowed. Since when did he care about her welfare? Not in a while, clearly. But for how long she wasn’t certain. Months? Years? The entire time she’d been settled in Paris? Was that when it started? Had her moving into the apartment and him joining the Paris headquarters cemented their fate?

She could picture some young French woman working in the office, now lying in his bed.

She had to steel herself from not lashing out right here and now. But she wouldn’t, and not just because it was a Monday morning and she was standing on a public street and Sophie could easily see her through the window.

She wouldn’t because that would be rash, and right now, she needed to think clearly. Gather the facts, try to make sense of this. Prepare for the next steps, whatever they were.

Divorce. Just the thought of a life without Hugh felt impossible, but it was the bigger vision that made her heart ache in a way that it hadn’t since she was nine years old, crossing the English Channel on that ferry.

It was one thing to lose a husband. But another to lose all hope of a child. And that was something she wasn’t ready to let go of just yet.

She walked down the street until she reached the small parkway near the bridge that led into the Marais, all the while listening to Hugh talk about his make-believe business meetings in Tokyo. She finally found a bench in the shade, where she sat, not even trusting herself to speak, because she had only two choices: to feed into his lie or to call him out on it. Neither felt like an option at the moment. Not when she was tired. Confused. Hurt.

“How are your sisters?” Hugh luckily asked, changing the topic rather quickly, she noted.

“Sophie’s thrilled to be in Paris,” Isabelle said. “Camille…I’m not even sure why Camille came.”

“Because you asked her to,” Hugh replied.

No, thought Isabelle, there must be more to it, and it was only now, talking to her lying spouse, that her general suspicions began to grow. She’d invited Camille and Flora to Paris countless times, wanting them to stay at Grand-mère’s apartment, wanting to show Flora all of the city’s charms. Each time Camille made it clear where she stood; she didn’t even bother with a polite excuse. But now, of all times, she’d come, and not for a short stay, either.

The question was: Why? And why now?

But that was a question for another day because there was a bigger one looming. Why was Hugh lying? And why was he bothering to call?

“Sophie’s helping in the gallery today,” she said quickly, before she asked a question she wasn’t ready to hear the answer to just yet. “The show’s coming up soon. Do you think—do you think you’ll be back in Paris by then?”

“Oh, I don’t know, babe. But I’ll try,” Hugh said without the slightest hint of dishonesty.

And it was that part that made Isabelle’s breath lock in her chest and stay there, tightening it so hard that she wasn’t sure she’d be able to breathe again.

He was lying to her, and she’d never have been able to tell.

Because maybe, just maybe, she didn’t know him as well as she thought she did. Maybe she’d never really known him at all.

Maybe, just like with Papa all those years ago, she’d seen what she’d wanted to see. Believed what she needed to believe. Her father had taught her that anything was possible, but maybe some things simply weren’t, no matter how much you wished they could be.