Find Me in Paris

Chapter 11

Eleven

ISABELLE

Isabelle sat in her gallery the next day, enjoying the quiet now that her apartment was anything but. It was strange, having her sisters there, even though neither talked very much when the other was around. Still, there was the familiar buzz of life: footsteps down the hallway, the running of the shower, the opening of the fridge.

She hadn’t realized how used to living alone she’d become until these sounds became so obvious, and she now pulled up her calendar on her laptop to see just how long it had been since Hugh had last been in Paris—or rather, home.

She frowned as she looked at the screen, telling herself that this couldn’t be correct. Last month, between his so-called trips to Brazil and Japan, he’d been here for four days. She remembered now because they’d had a picnic in the Parc du Champ de Mars near the Eiffel Tower, and then strolled home that evening, taking their time meandering through the streets of the 7th arrondissement as it turned into the 6th. For as long as she’d lived in this city, Isabelle always felt like there was something new to discover, and she enjoyed doing it most with Hugh, hoping that with appreciation for the city, he’d eventually fall in love with it, too.

Only it would seem that Hugh might have fallen in love with someone else. Right here in this city where he was spending more and more time—without her.

She scrolled back another month, her hand freezing over the keyboard. That couldn’t be right. Had he not been home at all in February? Surely she must have just forgotten to add the dates. He’d been in Paris for Christmas and New Year’s, and then he’d stopped by for a weekend at the end of January before flying to Chile. There had been talk of a romantic dinner on Valentine’s Day, but now Isabelle remembered that she spent the evening with a girlfriend who worked at the Louvre, talking about art, and Paris, and indulging in good red wine and chocolate soufflés at a little bistro in the Marais.

She looked up to see a young mother pushing a baby stroller down the street, and Isabelle knew that she couldn’t sit there for one more minute. At least back at the apartment she would have Camille or maybe Sophie to distract her unless she was out sightseeing again—but here, she had only her thoughts, memories, and longings.

Deciding she’d done enough work for the day, especially because she still couldn’t begin to plan the installation until she’d seen Gabriel’s final painting, Isabelle gathered up her tote. She took her usual route back to Saint-Germain-des-Prés, only it didn’t hold the same magic it usually did, and she found herself wishing that Sophie were with her, not just because Sophie’s endless commentary was a welcome distraction but because Sophie made her remember why she loved Paris so much. And that maybe Paris would be enough.

It would have to be.

Without Hugh, there would be no baby, and time wasn’t on her side when it came to meeting anyone new. And besides, she didn’t even want anyone new.

But did she still want Hugh?

Her head felt cloudy and her chest ached and she knew that the answer to that should be simple, clean-cut, straightforward—that’s how Camille would see it. But Isabelle wasn’t Camille and never would be. And this was about more than Hugh. This was about the life they’d shared, and the future she’d hoped they’d have.

And the part of it that depended on him.

Another woman with a stroller passed by her, and something deep in Isabelle physically ached. It wasn’t just longing now, but loss, for what she’d wanted so badly and now most likely would never have.

Would the only baby she’d ever push in a stroller be Sophie, who was now a grown adult, not a pudgy little toddler with silky curls and a big smile?

With Sophie in mind, she decided to stop by a patisserie for a special treat. Her sisters hadn’t all gathered for a meal since Camille’s first day in Paris. They’d have omelets tonight, a good bottle of cold white wine, and something decadent for dessert.

Something that might be good enough to help her forget her troubles for a while.

But even as she admired the offerings in the shop window, she knew that this was wishful thinking. Even Paris, with all its beauty and delicious food, couldn’t help her now. And if not Paris, then what?

Isabelle awkwardly carried the grocery bag, her usual leather tote, and a bouquet of flowers, all while trying not to crush the dessert. She managed to do this quite well, even as the sky turned overcast and raindrops started to fall until she reached the apartment.

She stared at the wet cobblestone, and then at her overfilled hands, weighing her options, wondering which object to sacrifice to the wetness so she could fish out her key, when the front door swung open.

Isabelle sighed in relief. “ Merci! ”

She started to move into the small vestibule, grateful to be inside and dry, giving a flash of a smile to Antoine as she went on her way.

He gave her a frown of disapproval. “Let me help.”

“Oh…” Isabelle was used to doing things on her own. Her mother had raised both of her daughters to handle their own affairs and especially to never rely on men.

And yet that’s what Isabelle had gone and done, anyway, wasn’t it? Maybe not financially, but in every other way. She’d assumed that Hugh would take care of her emotionally. That he’d fill her needs by giving her what she wanted most in this world. A life in Paris. A family of her own. A baby.

“It’s no problem,” she replied with a tight smile. “I can manage.”

She’d been managing on her own just fine since she’d moved into the apartment, and she’d have to get used to it full-time if she and Hugh… Her eyes filled with hot tears and she blinked them back quickly, looking away so her neighbor didn’t see.

But of course, at that moment, the flowers that she’d rested rather precariously on top of the grocery bag started to topple, and, seeing as Isabelle didn’t have a free hand, it was Antoine who stopped them from falling.

“Please. We’re going the same way,” he told her. “Just let me get my mail.”

Isabelle was too tired to argue, and a moment later, she was relieved to be handing off the heaviest of the bags to her neighbor.

They stepped into the elevator, and Antoine closed the gate, locking it.

“This thing always scares me a little,” he admitted, giving her an amused look.

Feeling more comfortable, she said, “You’re not the only one. My father grew up in this building and he liked to tell scary stories about all the people who would get trapped in here.”

“Did people really get stuck?” Antoine looked suspicious.

Isabelle bit back a smile, recalling Papa’s fantastical stories.

“Only the ones who didn’t fall to their deaths,” she deadpanned.

Antoine seemed to pale before they both started laughing, and when they reached the top floor, both of them seemed to move a little quicker than usual to exit.

Isabelle expected Antoine to set the grocery bag outside of her door as she fished for her key. “ Merci beaucoup ,” she said again.

“I’m happy to help,” Antoine said, showing no signs of handing over the bag.

Isabelle opened her mouth to protest but then decided that she was too exhausted to argue. Besides, a little help was nice, and she was far too used to not having any.

She unlocked the door and set the key down on the small entry table, freeing up both of her hands. There was no noise from down the hall, no pages of a book turning or shuffling of feet. She was alone, and she had come here precisely so that she wouldn’t have to be.

She reached out for the bag to liberate her neighbor, but something in his dark eyes warmed her, made her feel a little less lonely, for a second at least, and without giving it much thought, she said, “Would you like to come in? For a glass of wine?”

“That would be nice,” he said without hesitation, and then proceeded to carry the bags into the kitchen, where he deposited them on the marble counter.

Isabelle narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “You seem to know your way around.”

“It’s not my first time in this apartment,” he said with an easy smile.

Meaning he had probably helped her grandmother a time or two. Still, it was a foreign feeling to have a stranger in her personal space, and Isabelle suddenly felt nervous as she plucked a bottle of Sancerre from the refrigerator. The cabinet fronts were glass paned, and after a nod of approval, Antoine took down two glasses.

“We can move into the living room,” she told him, already heading in that direction, eager to get out of the cramped kitchen before she started to regret this decision more than she already did. Really, what kind of message was she sending this man?

But then, they were neighbors. He’d helped her out more than once. There was nothing wrong with being friendly.

She realized as they took the two armchairs closest to the windows that she didn’t know the slightest thing about him other than his first name. She knew that he lived alone, but then, she supposed that some people might think that she did, too, given how rarely Hugh was ever here. Like her, he left for work each morning, but she didn’t know what that work was.

“How long have you lived in the building?” she asked.

Antoine did a quick calculation as he uncorked the bottle of wine. “Ten years?”

“And you’re still scared of that elevator?” Isabelle couldn’t help but laugh.

“I’m a rational man,” he replied, giving her a small smile. “Anyone who isn’t at least a little afraid of that thing is reckless.”

Isabelle felt her smile fade then. Maybe that’s what she was, reckless. Or maybe she just put too much trust in things, and in people.

Maybe Camille had it right all along. About the elevator. About a lot of things.

She accepted a glass of wine from him and took a sip, hoping to push away her darkening mood for at least a little bit. She had a friendly neighbor to keep her company, the rain was pelting against the long windows that lined the wall of the living room, and it was springtime in Paris. Surely, there was something to enjoy right now.

“It feels good to relax,” she said with a sigh. Or try to, at least.

“What is it that you do for work?” Antoine asked.

“I run a gallery,” Isabelle explained. “And you?”

“I’m a translator,” Antoine said. “I work for the government.”

“No wonder your English is so good,” Isabelle said. Then, curious, she asked, “If you’ve been in my apartment before, how well did you know my grandmother?”

A smile lifted his face. “Very well. And I feel as if I know you too. She spoke of you girls all the time.”

Isabelle was surprised by this, if only because in the year since she’d moved into the apartment, she’d exchanged only polite and brief words with all of the neighbors.

“I looked out for her,” Antoine clarified. “She was an older woman, living alone. I know she was independent and proud. She didn’t like to ask for help, but I was happy to offer it. In exchange, she always made me something to eat, and since I’m a bad cook, I was happy to have whatever she was offering.”

They shared a smile and Isabelle felt her heart lift for the first time all day.

“She was a very good cook,” Isabelle agreed. “I’m afraid I didn’t inherit that talent so it will have to be wine from me.”

“I like wine,” Antoine said good-naturedly. “And good company.”

“ Santé ,” Isabelle said, giving the traditional French cheer as she raised her glass. “To Marie Laurent. Wonderful grandmother and neighbor.”

“The best neighbor and, I imagine, the best grandmother,” Antoine said, drinking to it. “She showed me an album once, of when you and your sister were little.”

Isabelle knew the one. She found it when she moved in and now kept it on a shelf in her closet.

“My sister Camille and I lived in Paris until I was nine years old. When my parents divorced, our mother took us back to London.”

“And how do you like being back in Paris?” Antoine asked.

“I love it,” Isabelle said sincerely. “Although I don’t think my sister Camille would agree. She’s visiting for a bit.”

“Ah, the woman with the blond hair?” Antoine nodded. “She looks like Marie. I noticed her the other day when she arrived. I was going to offer to help with her bags, but I could sense that like your grandmother she would have scoffed at me.”

Isabelle laughed. “You’re right, she would have!” She shook her head, imagining her sister schlepping all that luggage up five flights of stairs. “Camille is very much like the French side of our family, even if she would never admit it.”

“Ah, another Marie trait.” Antoine smiled. “You must miss her very much.”

“I do,” Isabelle said. “After we left Paris, I didn’t see her very often. But being back here in this apartment makes me feel close to her. It’s almost as if she’s right here sometimes.”

“I can see you kept a lot of her things,” Antoine said, looking around the living room that was a mix of new and old.

Most of the furniture was the same as it had always been, down to the threadbare and fading rugs that Isabelle never planned to replace. But the artwork was mostly new, from Isabelle’s personal collection, lovingly acquired on her many trips. With Hugh.

Now she wondered if she’d take them down. Replace it with new work. From a new chapter.

“I needed to make it my own,” Isabelle said emphatically, almost to herself. But her own was what it was, wasn’t it? She didn’t consider until now that Hugh had never put his mark on it. Aside from a few toiletries and drawers of belongings, she’d never have known that Hugh even lived here.

And maybe he never had. Maybe she was more of a stopover than she’d thought. Nothing more than another hotel room.

“And…you’re married, right?” Antoine asked, looking only slightly unsure of himself.

Legally speaking, she thought. But she still wore her rings, and she twisted them now, not ready to take them off, not ready to admit that her marriage was over.

“Hugh.” Just saying his name made Isabelle’s heart start to pound. She swallowed back another sip of wine, barely tasting it, thinking that Hugh could be standing outside the building at this very moment, that he could turn the key, walk in, and find her sharing a bottle of Sancerre with a handsome man.

Even if it was just a neighbor.

“He isn’t here often,” Isabelle managed to say, hoping that was enough of an explanation. She couldn’t exactly say that he traveled a lot, could she? It would be a lie because it was a lie. Hugh wasn’t in Tokyo. Who knew if he’d ever gone to Chile or Brazil or any of those other destinations he’d talked about with her so casually.

“Well, if you ever need anything,” Antoine said, “I’m just next door.”

Isabelle smiled. It was a reassuring thought, even if she’d never act on it. This man knew her grandmother, and in a way, that made him feel like family.

She went to refill their glasses, but she was interrupted by the sound of the locks turning and a moment later, Camille stood in the entranceway to the living room, wearing a look that was a cross between curious and surprised.

“Camille,” Isabelle said, rising. “This is my neighbor, Antoine.”

Camille crossed the room and glanced at Isabelle before shaking his hand.

“We meet at last,” Antoine said gallantly. “Officially, of course.”

“Officially,” Camille said, giving a guarded smile.

“I must say that you’re very strong,” Antoine remarked, fighting off a grin. “It’s no small feat to haul all that luggage up all those stairs.”

Camille pursed her lips, but it was clear she was trying not to laugh. “Better safe than sorry, as the saying goes. When it comes to protecting myself, I do what needs to be done.”

Yes, Isabelle thought, she certainly did. But at what cost?

She thought of Rupert, otherwise known as the nicest guy in the world, and how Camille was committed to keeping their relationship platonic.

But then she considered her own disaster of a marriage, and she supposed that maybe Camille wasn’t wrong. Because she had someone to go home to when she left Paris. Whereas Isabelle was going to be all on her own in the city of love…

“Your grandmother always had nice things to say about you,” Antoine went on, but Isabelle could have told him that there was no use in trying to charm Camille, who would close up the moment someone tried to flatter or compliment her.

Sure enough, Camille narrowed her eyes at him and then at the side table between the two armchairs, where the half-empty bottle of wine stood between the two glasses.

“This looks cozy,” she remarked, meeting Isabelle’s gaze with a challenge. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You’re not interrupting at all,” Isabelle said lightly, refusing to feed into her sister’s judgment, even if it did trigger something in her. Guilt, she supposed, even though she’d done nothing more than reminisce about her grandmother with a neighbor. Even though her husband didn’t feel guilty about his behavior at all. “Is Sophie with you?”

It was a stupid question to ask, but Isabelle felt out of sorts, and desperate for some normalcy.

Camille gave her a funny look. “Sophie’s been out since before I got up this morning. I had some sketches to do, so I sat by the river for a while. I forgot how warm it can get here in the afternoons.”

“Then come sit down and join us.” Isabelle motioned to the empty chair near the fireplace. “I can get another glass.”

“I should call Flora, but…” She looked like she was making a quick calculation and finally said, “I’ll get my own glass.”

When she disappeared into the kitchen, Isabelle and Antoine shared a small smile. He was right; Camille was just like Grand-mère, in all the best possible ways, infuriating as they sometimes were.

“Flora is Marie’s great-granddaughter!” Antoine said when Camille returned, helping herself to a heavy pour before sitting down on the nearest chair.

“She’s my daughter, yes,” Camille said. “Although she takes after her father much more than me these days.”

It was the first time that Camille had mentioned Rupert outright since she’d arrived, and Isabelle leaned forward, happy to talk about him. She’d always liked Rupert, and she’d always secretly hoped that maybe Rupert would develop feelings for her sister because it was clear as day that Camille had always been in love with him, even if she’d never admit it.

She smiled to herself, thinking again of Marie Laurent. She’d been a widow for decades, and never talked about romance, but now Isabelle found herself wondering if her grandmother had ever found it again.

If Isabelle would, too.

If she’d dare to believe. Again.

“And she’s the only grandchild?” Antoine looked uncertain, given the possibility, Isabelle supposed, that another might have come along since Marie’s passing.

A lump formed in her throat and she forced it back with a sip of wine.

“So far!” she managed. “Our other sister isn’t married yet.”

“She’s our half sister,” Camille stressed before meeting Isabelle’s disapproving glare.

“The American.” Antoine nodded, polite enough not to feed into the family drama that threatened to unfold. “I didn’t hear as much about her, I’m afraid.”

“That’s because Sophie never came to Paris until now,” Isabelle explained. “Papa never took her. She never even met Grand-mère.”

Antoine frowned. “That’s a shame.”

“Yes,” Isabelle said softly, only just now realizing what a loss it was. For both of them. Grand-mère was the ultimate French lady, from her silk scarves to her signature red lipstick. Sophie would have adored her and Grand-mère would have been completely charmed by Sophie’s passion for French culture.

She knew what Camille thought, that they’d missed out on so much because of Papa’s second marriage. But more and more, Isabelle couldn’t help but think of what Sophie had missed out on, too.

Christmases in this apartment, with the tree lit up and all of Paris glistening behind it. Walks through the different arrondissements, always with stops for her favorite apple-filled pastry, chaussons aux pommes , and chocolate croissants, or steaming cups of hot chocolate at little cafés. Picnics in the Jardin du Luxembourg. Rides on the carousel at the base of the hill in Montmartre.

There were happy times. If only Camille could remember them.

“Well,” Antoine said, glancing a little nervously at Camille, who returned his gaze flatly. Challengingly, even. “I should leave you to your evening.”

Isabelle had a strange urge to invite him to stay if only because he had managed to take her thoughts away from the present for a while and put them firmly back on the past, a time she didn’t reflect on very often, but when she did, she did with fondness.

Instead, she stood and walked him to the door. Antoine’s smile was warm when he stepped out into the hallway, where his apartment was just a few feet away.

“Thank you again,” Isabelle said, leaning against the doorjamb. She was feeling relaxed from the wine, and all her earlier stress seemed to have melted away thanks to good conversation.

“Anything for one of Marie’s granddaughters,” Antoine said with a smile. “Hopefully, I’ll meet Sophie before she leaves.”

“I’ll make sure of it,” Isabelle said, giving one last smile before closing the door.

In the living room, Camille was waiting for her with a second bottle of wine and a pert expression.

“What?” Isabelle groaned as she moved back toward her chair.

“I didn’t realize you were so friendly with the neighbors,” Camille replied. “I seem to recall you telling me you had most of your packages delivered to the gallery since there would be no one to sign for them here at the building and you worried that they might get stolen if they were left in the lobby.”

She had said that once, hadn’t she? And it turned out it wasn’t true. Someone had been looking out for her, all this time, even if she hadn’t known it.

“He helped me with some groceries today,” Isabelle replied with a shrug, even as she struggled to meet her sister’s eye. “It would have been rude not to invite him inside.”

Then, because she could sense that this wasn’t enough of an excuse for Camille, she added, “Not everyone cheats on their spouses, Camille.”

But her eyes prickled with tears, damn it, and she blinked quickly before they could fall. A part of her longed to tell her sister what was happening in her life, but doing so would just confirm Camille’s cynical belief that marriages didn’t last, and neither did love.

Maybe she was right. Maybe Isabelle had been foolish and naive. Maybe all this hope for a baby was nothing more than a fantasy, much like her entire life.

“I’m not implying that you were cheating,” Camille said tersely. “I mean, you? You’d be the last person to stray.”

Isabelle sat a little straighter. “Are you saying that Hugh would stray?”

Camille looked down into her wineglass. “Of course not. I’ve had a long day, too much sun, and now too much wine. What groceries did you buy? Tell me we still have some of that brie I bought the other day.”

Isabelle couldn’t help but laugh because it was easier than pushing a topic that she’d rather forget.

“Of course. And something for dessert, too.”

“What’s the occasion?” Camille asked, perking up.

Isabelle shrugged. “I just thought we could all use a treat, that’s all.”

“We? Or you?” Camille asked.

“Honestly, Camille, I was just trying to do something nice!” Isabelle was exasperated as she stood but Camille set a hand on her arm, stopping her.

“I’m joking,” she said, looking deep into her eyes. There was a softness there, an understanding, a connection that only a shared history could create.

Isabelle once again felt the urge to sit back down, to let the tears fall, and to share everything.

But talking to a stranger was a lot different than confiding in her sister. Isabelle didn’t need to hear Camille say that she’d told her so or fight back a satisfied look that would only confirm her cynical view on life and love.

Because just like she saw Paris as beautiful, she wanted to see her marriage as something wonderful, too.

There were good times. She was sure of it.

Even if, like all those other perfect moments here in this city when she was a child, it came to a crashing, crushing end.