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The Little Antique Shop Under The Eiffel Tower
Rebecca Raisin


’Oh, how I loved this book!’ - Reviewed the BookEscape to Paris this summer and prepare to be swept off your feet…Anouk LaRue used to be a romantic, but since she had her heart well and truly broken her love life has dissolved into nothing more than daydreams of the perfect man. Retreating to her extraordinary Little Antique Shop has always been a way to escape, because who could feel alone in a shop bursting with memories and beautiful objects…Until Tristan Black appears at an auction and throws her ordered world into a spin.Following your heart is a little like getting lost in Paris – sometimes confusing and always exciting! Except learning to trust her instincts is not something Anouk is ready to do when it comes to romance, but the city of love has other ideas…What reviewers are saying about The Little Antique Shop Under the Eiffel Tower�The perfect escape if you can't get to France this summer – just add a glass of vino.’ – All Things Bookie�This is a brilliantly written story, but then I have come to expect nothing less from the author. A definite read for fans, and also those who like a great mystery read.’ – Fiona Wilson (Goodreads)�What a wonderful story, its French, it has a kooky shop owner, it's got some bad guys, a fabulous mystery at the heart of the story, and some eccentrics too. What more could you want from a new romantic comedy’ – Rachel Gilbey (Goodreads)�a thoroughly entertaining story of love, trust, friendship, and family, and I was completely entranced by it.’ – Books of All Kinds (Goodreads)�This really is contemporary romance at its best. And although this may be the first time Rebecca Raisin has been in my “to read” pile, it definitely won’t be the last.’ – Zoe (Goodreads)







Escape to Paris this summer and prepare to be swept off your feet…

Anouk LaRue used to be a romantic, but since she had her heart well and truly broken her love life has dissolved into nothing more than daydreams of the perfect man. Retreating to her extraordinary Little Antique Shop has always been a way to escape, because who could feel alone in a shop bursting with memories and beautiful objects…

Until Tristan Black bursts into an auction and throws her ordered world into a spin.

Following your heart is a little like getting lost in Paris, sometimes confusing and always exciting! Except learning to trust her instincts is not something Anouk is ready to do when it comes to romance, but the city of love has other ideas…

A wonderful Parisian romance perfect for fans of Debbie Johnson and Cressida McLaughlin


Praise for REBECCA RAISIN (#ue2c2d852-43f8-5bda-a53e-40cd596f12bc)

�This novel is a love letter to Paris, and even more so a love letter to books; it is absolutely a must-read book for book lovers.’ – Rather Too Fond of Books, The Little Bookshop on the Seine

�Easy to read and devoured quickly, I literally could not get enough and I was so sad to finish it. It was a truly captivating, spellbinding tale of taking chances and living life to the full that I am sure will ring true with many readers.’ – Compelling Reads, The Little Bookshop on the Seine

�I love love love this author, and this book cements the fact that this series is a winner!’ – Fiona, The Little Bookshop on the Seine

�I loved every second of The Little Bookshop on the Seine, easy to read, with words oozing charm and good feeling, that just made me feel warm and cosy.’ – Rachel’s Random Reads

�Simply divine, with stunning writing slipping between being utterly romantic, charming and fun-filled and a little emotional.’ – Reviewed the Book, A Gingerbread Café Christmas

�Drama and romance, but most of all it’s got a more general sweetness and love and happiness that is often hard to find these days.’ – Love Reading Romance, A Gingerbread Café Christmas

�Fun, quick, festive reads that’ll leave you glowing from within (or in my case a puffy mess).’ – Into the Bookcase, A Gingerbread Café Christmas


Also by Rebecca Raisin (#ue2c2d852-43f8-5bda-a53e-40cd596f12bc)

Once in a Lifetime series

The Gingerbread CafГ© trilogy

Christmas at the Gingerbread CafГ©

Chocolate Dreams at the Gingerbread CafГ©

Christmas Wedding at the Gingerbread CafГ©

The Bookshop on the Corner

Secrets at Maple Syrup Farm

The Little Paris Collection

The Little Bookshop on the Seine

The Little Antique Shop under the Eiffel Tower

The Little Perfume Shop off the Champs-Г‰lysГ©es


The Little Antique Shop under the Eiffel Tower

Rebecca Raisin







Copyright (#ue2c2d852-43f8-5bda-a53e-40cd596f12bc)

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2016

Copyright В© Rebecca Raisin 2016

Rebecca Raisin asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition В© June 2016 ISBN: 9781474035514

Version date: 2018-07-23


REBECCA RAISIN

is a true bibliophile. This love of books morphed into the desire to write them. She’s been widely published in various short-story anthologies, and in fiction magazines, and is now focusing on writing romance. The only downfall about writing about gorgeous men who have brains as well as brawn is falling in love with them – just as well they’re fictional. Rebecca aims to write characters you can see yourself being friends with. People with big hearts who care about relationships, and, most importantly, believe in true, once-in-a-lifetime love.

Follow her on Twitter @jaxandwillsmum (https://twitter.com/jaxandwillsmum)

Facebook https://www.facebook.com/RebeccaRaisinAuthor (https://www.facebook.com/RebeccaRaisinAuthor)

Website rebeccaraisin.com (http://www.rebeccaraisin.com)


I want to thank the women in my family who, like Anouk and Lilou, have shown me what quiet determination can achieve. Without their guidance I wouldn’t be the person I am today. I know anything is possible, if you only believe in yourself.


For my Mum, who went without so we could have it all


Contents

Cover (#ua75ae271-47b8-555b-aae9-0509e4c4fc72)

Blurb (#u44686659-9d6b-5e39-86f7-9bb2661287a2)

Praise

Book List

Title Page (#ud1f7923f-4e47-5649-ba2b-0f273948aa67)

Copyright

Author Bio (#u10f1249b-4a92-5318-97ea-208ec84df9d9)

Acknowledgement (#u2a4a72de-9573-5f3c-94aa-a20be7636008)

Dedication (#uc6f028f9-5757-5a20-90a9-fa6b34e620fa)

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Epilogue

Excerpt (#litres_trial_promo)

Endpages (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher


Chapter One (#ue2c2d852-43f8-5bda-a53e-40cd596f12bc)

A forget-me-not scented breeze ruffled the pages of my newspaper, obscuring the headline that had caught my eye. The fragrant sky blue flowers spilled from planters on the balcony above, perfuming the spring air sweet. Impatiently, I snapped the pages taut, hoping I was mistaken, and there wasn’t bad news on the horizon. For our foreign neighbors, at any rate.

“What is it?” Madame Dupont asked, holding a tiny cup of café noir to scarlet-painted lips. “You’ve practically got your nose pressed against the ink. It’ll come off you know, and you’ll walk around all day with the French Enquirer text written backward across your skin.”

I shook my head ruefully. Only Madame Dupont could think of such a thing. She was a vivacious seventy-something woman who still wore a full face of heavy makeup, with rouged cheeks that were so pink they were almost purple. Her deep hazel eyes were outlined thickly with kohl, and framed by false lashes that looked like exotic ebony fans. Still the twinkle in her eyes was that of a woman half her age, and she had a vitality and spark that was hard to match. Plumes of smoke swirled around her carefully coiffed gray hair, which she pointedly didn’t color, claiming the silvery streaks suited her skin tone. She was never without a lit cigarette encased in an ivory holder, a relic from another era. I’d found it for her at a flea market by the bank of the Seine, and she cherished it.

Of course, when I nagged her about her addiction she laughed high and loud, declaring her vices kept her young. Madame Dupont cast most people in the shade when it came to the business of living, with her beguiling charm, and French sophistication, she was an icon in Paris. In her youth she’d been a famous cabaret singer, and rubbed shoulders with artists around the world, and that glamor had never left her. Sought out by men and women alike who were desperate to be part of her life, and know her secrets. I found it amusing, the way people clamored for her attentions. However, our morning tête-à-têtes were taken on a quiet avenue in Paris, so we could gossip in private without a local spotting Madame Dupont and striking up conversation.

The black and white pages ruffled insistently once more as if reminding me about the article and the distressing headline. “There’s been a spate of robberies in Sorrento, Italy,” I said, handing Madame Dupont the newspaper. “The Dolce Auction House, and the Rocher Estate.”

“What? But we were just there!” Madame Dupont said, donning her diamond-encrusted spectacles and skimming the article.

“Oui,” I said. “Can you imagine?” We were well abreast of our Italian counterparts and what they traded in the antique world. I’d accompany Madame Dupont for an adventure in exotic locales; I couldn’t resist the idea of stepping onto foreign soil and breathing in different air, sitting under different stars. We’d go on buying jaunts when a dazzling collection beckoned. More so, Madame, who owned the Time Emporium, and traveled extensively to source unique clock work. I specialized in French antiques, and only bid for pieces that were from my native country but had lived elsewhere for a while. Between estate sales, auctions, flea markets, and my sources, I had enough in Paris alone to keep me busy, but a little wanderlust in my veins justified the travel.

Madame Dupont had invited me to join her for two days in the town of Sorrento. I’d accepted, but her stamina with work and play had worn me to the bone. In response I’d taken afternoon siestas to gather my strength for our evenings out. During the day we’d admired the antiques on display at those very same exclusive auction houses, and Madame Dupont had successfully bid for some exotic timepieces. There’d been no French antiques on offer so I’d happily perused the Italian lots but kept my bidding paddle down.

She frowned. “Oh no…” she said, mouthing the words silently as she continued to read. “Tragic for them to lose the L’Amore di uno and the L’arte di romanticismo collections.” The exquisite jewels were well known because of their Italian heritage. Pink diamonds became synonymous with Coco Salvatore, the soprano singer, who was never seen without them, up until her death a few years before.

In Sorrento we’d been stunned silent when we came to the pink diamond collections on display. They’d pulsed with life, as if they’d absorbed some of the soprano’s vivacity, some of her sound.

Madame Dupont put a hand to her chest. “Such horrible news. What if the thief had walked straight past us but we were too engrossed in the diamonds to notice?”

I nodded, sipping my café au lait. “Oui, imagine that. And we had no idea those beauties were about to be snatched.”

Straightening her skirt, Madame Dupont remained quiet, until finally saying: “How those thieves can override technology that can detect the merest whisper is a mystery, though. They’d have to be experts on security systems, and all that goes with it these days. I can barely send email, so I do applaud their nous.”

“Madame! You can’t applaud thieves!” We paused while a tiny car parked sideways in a car space next to us. The mini car was prevalent in Paris, and expert drivers maneuvered the minuscule vehicles to fit in any size gap.

“Why? It’s true, the facts are he’s a jewel thief with a brain.”

“He?” I asked.

With a look heavenward she said, “Of course it’s a he. Or…maybe it’s a team of he’s. Women respect diamonds too much to steal them. Who knows, but it would be much easier if it were only one person. The more people who are in on the secret the more likely it is they’ll be caught.”

I wrinkled my forehead in mock consternation. “You sound like you’re speaking from experience, Madame.”

I couldn’t help but tease her. Madame’s past was full of salacious stories, yet, it wasn’t from her scarlet lips they spilled. Outrageous rumors still abounded about her glory days. The most infamous one was that she’d been the lover of the idolized Marquis Laurent back in the sixties. He was famous for his flamboyant lifestyle, obscene wealth, and ties with royalty. Their affair was scandalous for many reasons, but everyone remembered the split more than anything – she was the first woman to ever break his heart. No one walked away from the Marquis unless he said so, but Madame Dupont had, because his plan of settling down scared her silly. She hadn’t settled then and wouldn’t now. She craved her freedom, whether it be from man, child, or relative.

That meant she played by her rules, always.

“Are you suggesting in my long, rich history of living I’ve been a criminal of some sort?” A rash of youthful giggles erupted from her.

“I wouldn’t put it past you, not that you’d ever tell.” That was the thing about Madame’s past: from the woman herself, little was said.

“Oui, my secrets are under lock and key unless I go senile, and even then I hope I’d have the good sense to lie.” She smiled. Her gaze traveled just past me, as she considered something. “Have you thought about it though, Anouk, the work involved in being a criminal these days? What he would need to do in order to get in and out without detection defies belief. And then there’s selling the loot. No one could ever wear the jewelry in case it was recognized.”

I tore off the edge of my croissant. Flakes of pastry scattered over the table. “What a waste of such precious artifacts. It’s not only the worth of the jewelry – there’s a whole history attached to those diamonds. And now it’s lost forever. And what for? To sit in someone’s vault for a lifetime. What’s the point of that?” I ate slowly, leaning back in my chair, and turned toward a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower, visible from the Boulangerie Fret-Co on the Avenue de la Bourdonnais. Madame Dupont and I had been breakfasting at the same place for years.

Regular customers strode in and promptly out with a fresh baguette. Nothing ever changed: the coffee was always strong, the croissants buttery, and the view of the tower partially obstructed by a leafy canopy of trees, which shimmied as the wind collected them. It was mostly quiet here in the mornings, with only the stooped man next door ambling about whistling as he dragged his postcard carousels to the footpath, giving them a light dusting with a rag.

Madame Dupont lived in a penthouse apartment on the Avenue Élisée Reclus one street over. A hop, skip, and a jump and she was practically at the Eiffel Tower. My little antique shop wasn’t far from there, closer to the Avenue Gustave Eiffel, and surrounded by nature, leafy trees, and lush gardens, with flowers that changed with the seasons.

“Greed! That’s what it is!” Madame Dupont said. “That’s what drives these black market buyers. The collections won’t be lost, not forever. I’m sure the Italian Carabinieri will catch those responsible. After all, they’re just as well armed these days in technology – someone’s always watching.” Her words were meant to reassure, but her high-pitched musical tone gave her away. She knew as well as I did, if the jewels had left the country, they’d never be seen again.

“Maybe,” I said not convinced. The avenue was slowly coming alive: cars zoomed along tooting their horns, tourists with sleepy expression meandered by on the hunt for coffee, the usual soundtrack to our morning, and a sign it was time to start our own jobs.

I finished the last of my coffee. “I suppose we should be thankful Paris hasn’t been targeted.”

Madame Dupont just lifted a brow and took a sip of her coffee.


Chapter Two (#ue2c2d852-43f8-5bda-a53e-40cd596f12bc)

Just past noon, the shadow of the Eiffel Tower fell through the window of my little antique shop, casting a sepia light over the treasures sitting solemnly inside. Chestnut swirls and golden hues of dusty sunlight swept in, shimmering on the antiques and making them appear faded, like an old photograph. The space appeared otherworldly, as if we’d truly stepped back in time.

Instead of languishing in the filmy haze, I turned back to the matter at hand, unable to shake off the sensation all was not what it seemed.

“You have my word, Anouk,” Oceane said, her china blue eyes fervent. She dropped her voice to a whisper. “I’ve known Agnes forever. She’s trustworthy, I promise.” With a wave she indicated a thin, raven-haired woman who stood a few paces back and blushed under my scrutiny. Agnes fiddled absently with the tassels on her handbag and wouldn’t meet my gaze.

“She’s French?” I whispered, still not convinced. I would only sell my precious antiques to those who had an introduction from a customer I trusted. A foible, but one I wouldn’t change. If I sold to just anyone, who knew what would happen to our heritage? Even when times had been tough financially, I still made sure I was selling to someone reliable.

Every now and then Agnes’s composure slipped, and she’d gaze at the antique jewelry with a type of hunger that made her features sharp. Those were the kind of people I said non to, because I didn’t trust their motives. They weren’t after a piece of history, or an heirloom to cherish – they were accumulating things with no regard to the past. Certain items with sentimental and historical value had to be protected, and I did my best to uphold those principles, despite the economic strain it sometimes caused.

However, Oceane from Once Upon a Time, a little bookshop on the Seine, was a loyal and trusted customer of mine, and would only introduce someone to me if she felt they were genuine. It was just the shiftiness in the woman’s eyes that made me hesitate. Perhaps I was unsettled by the reports of the Italian robberies earlier that morning, and thus, analyzing the woman’s motives too closely.

Still, antiques had to be treasured. Efforts taken to ascertain that the right match was made.

Sadly tradition was slowly slipping away as people looked to the future, rather than the past. Technology and the desire to have things instantaneously were pervading old values. My shoulders slumped just thinking of it.

“Of course she’s French,” Oceane said, pulling me back to her. “Her family have a boulangerie on Rue Saint-Antoine. She’s after a small ruby pendant for her maman. Her parents are celebrating their fortieth wedding anniversary. I promise, she’s legitimate.”

The cagey demeanor of the woman changed at the mention of her parents’ impending wedding anniversary. A ruby gift was tradition after forty years of marriage. Agnes smiled softly, her expression relaxed – she looked beyond me, as if she was thinking of them, and the memories they’d created in their years of matrimony. I watched her for a beat. She was unaware of my analysis, caught somewhere inside her mind, glassy-eyed, almost hypnotized, at wherever her reminisces were taking her.

A fine trail of goose bumps broke out over my skin, a surefire sign I could trust her with my exquisite jewelry. Sometimes, I relied on my own visceral reaction to a person more than any other sign.

Agnes’s gaze darted to a simple solitaire ruby pendant in the display cabinet, and there it stayed. She wasn’t greedy, she didn’t want them all, only wanted one perfect piece – you could read it on her face as clearly as if the words were written on her skin.

The precious gem twinkled magnificently even in the shadow of noonday. Her fingers found the hem of her shirt, and she toyed with it as if she was trying to stop herself from reaching for the ruby. She had chosen well. Classic, timeless, and utterly captivating. Luscious red so deep you could get lost in it.

I prided myself on finding out the origins of any purchases I made, as I believed without that the piece lost some of its luster.

“Come closer.” I gestured to Agnes. “I bought that pendant a few years ago from an estate sale in Provence. Would you like to know more about its past life?”

She nodded. “Oui, I’d like that very much. I’ve never seen anything so perfectly suited to my maman. Somehow the rest of the jewelry fades in comparison.”

It was the right pendant; of that I was certain. I said quietly, “When I was at the sale a neighbor came to watch her late friend’s belongings be auctioned, so I approached her and asked what she knew of the ruby pendant – what it had meant to its former owner. Like you, it had called to me amongst everything else on show. The neighbor told me the woman had found love as a young girl, and it had lasted a lifetime.”

Agnes smiled, perhaps recognizing the same in her parents.

I continued: “Her husband had given her the ruby on their honeymoon, and she was always fumbling with it, touching it to make sure it was still there. Of all the pieces she’d owned, the neighbor said the ruby was what most represented their love, and its longevity.”

Agnes cocked her head as she absorbed the story of the ruby. “Did she live a good and long life?” When a customer bought something sacred like the ruby, they’d be carrying the previous owner’s story forward too. The ruby absorbed fragments of the heart and soul of its owners, past and present, like osmosis, becoming part of the fabric of it for eternity.

I smiled. “She did. They both did. Octogenarians, until death came for him, and then soon after, her. The neighbor said it wasn’t all lavender fields and laughter. They argued high and loud about his job, which took him all over the country, and left her alone at home. They fought about her hair: he liked it long, so she cropped it short. Once she threw all his clothes off the balcony in a fit of pique, and he laughed, which made her angrier. The neighbor said they were drawn to each other like magnets. The highs, and lows were many, but only because of their fierce love for one another.” I paused, watching Agnes’s face light up at their epic story. This was the best part of my job, knowing intuitively that the ruby was going to be prized not only because of its beauty but also because of its history.

I continued: “They were married for sixty-two years before he was summoned away. It was said she wrote him love letters every day until it was her time. I almost kept the ruby for myself, I was so taken with their love story.” That day there had been antiques worth more and easily saleable but I was drawn to the ruby and knew I had to have it. And now I knew why – for Agnes’s mother.

If I closed my eyes, I could see it as it had been, hanging brilliantly against her olive-skinned dГ©colletage, the faint scent of lavender in the air, an olive grove in the distance. But perhaps that was just a daydream, a picture painted by my imagination.

Agnes gave me a wide smile. “My parents still hold hands walking to work. They bicker about whose baguette recipe is the best, and I mean really bicker in typical French style, hands on hips, red-faced, low steady growls, until someone intervenes, and placates them saying both recipes have their merits. Maman calls him a goat, and he says she’s a mule, and they affect animal noises, until one of them starts howling with laughter, scaring the customers. Some days, they don’t talk at all, because they’ve spent the day chatting to their regular clientele and they’ve run out of words. Other days she rests her head on his shoulder and he murmurs to her as if they’re the only two people in the world. Their love still shines…”

“And now it will sparkle,” I said with a grin.

Carefully, I took the pendant from its housing. It winked under the lights as though it was saying yes. “For your maman.” I offered her a closer look.

With a slight quake in her hands, she took the proffered pendant and whispered, “It’s perfect.” She blanched when she saw the price tag, but admirably reined herself in. For such a unique and precious gift, it was worth every cent. Any fiscal talk set my teeth on edge, and I was glad she didn’t mention it. It was poor taste, and I didn’t negotiate, and neither did any of my self-respecting Parisian customers. “Can I take it…?”

I gave her a nod. “Let me wrap it for you.”

Oceane smiled her thanks while Agnes watched me polish the pendant before I placed it in a satin-lined box, wrapped it, and tied an antique lace ribbon around to finish it off.

“May they have many more anniversaries as special as this one,” I said. Agnes handed over a stack of well-thumbed Euros, her face bright like a child’s on Christmas Eve. Times like this I realized how much I loved my little antique shop, and pairing something from a lifetime ago, to start over in a new home, with a new family. I knew Agnes would recount the story of the former owner of the pendant to her parents, and they’d know it was more than just a piece of jewelry. And when they passed it on, their love story would be remembered too.

“Merci,” Agnes said, cradling the box in her open palms as if she held something as delicate as a baby bird.

Just then a rowdy tour group appeared by the window. I stiffened in response.

“Merde. There’s so many of them,” Oceane said, following my gaze to the tourists outside, led by a guide who was purposely bringing these people to me knowing I’d turn them away. Innocents, who just wanted to see what all the fuss was about.

“Ah, the ever-present legacy of Joshua, the American whose shadow is felt even when he’s not here,” Oceane said. I’d confided in her recently about my ex-boyfriend, Joshua, who spitefully informed the editor of Solitary World, one of the biggest guide books sold on the planet, about my little antique shop and the secret room. Since then, I’d been inundated by people wanting to take photos and mark off another stop on their to-see list in Paris.

My blood boiled each time I saw their faces fall, the groups expecting to clap eyes on something marvelous and instead told there was no such thing. But I had to protect the delicate objects in my care. If I opened the doors to just anyone I’d be overrun and things would be damaged. Or worse, stolen, and I couldn’t face that again. I hadn’t told Oceane the rest of the bitter breakup story because I didn’t want any more pity, but his vindictiveness was the least of what Joshua had done in his efforts to ruin my life.

“Do you want me to tell the guide off? He shouldn’t be bringing them here only to disappoint them,” Oceane asked, glaring at the group forming at the front door, their noses pressed against the glass.

“Non, it’s OK. The guide is well aware he isn’t welcome, but he does it for their entertainment. The French mademoiselle who won’t let people shop, he cries out like I’m a novelty. I suppose they think it’s odd, and then they move to the next place and it’s fodder for a funny travel story when they’re home.” I flounced over and turned the sign to Closed. Dusting my hands, I ignored the plaintive cries from the gaggle and gave the tour guide an icy stare.

“But what about the secret room!” one yelled out.

The secret room was just that – a secret – and no sugar-dusted fingers would pad at the treasures in there or snap pictures of what lay hidden in its depths.

The tour guide was gesticulating wildly and putting on a show for their benefit. “You have to know the secret handshake if you want to shop here,” he said, turning and giving me a wolfish smile. “Anouk is unconventional – just like the dust gatherers she collects. The French mademoiselle who won’t let people shop!”

“See?” I said to Oceane. “He’s so predictable.”

“A jerk,” she countered.

The crowd were delighted by such an anomaly, and peered at me through the glass. I did my best to ignore the guide, knowing he’d eventually get bored and move on. A reaction is exactly what he wanted from me, so I was loath to give it.

Instead, I walked toward Agnes who was still staring at the box in her hands, unaware of anything else going on around her. “Next time,” I told her, touching her arm. “You don’t need an introduction. You may visit my shop alone.”

Her eyes widened and she clapped a hand over her mouth, muffling, “Merci! Merci!”

There was something I trusted about Agnes now. Usually I wouldn’t grant a first-time customer the ability to shop without returning with another loyal customer for months, sometimes years. But aside from the immediate bout of unease, I sensed Agnes was the type of person who appreciated old beauty, valued it; you could see it by the instinctive way she responded to the ruby story. She worked hard for what she had, as did her parents, and there was a sincerity about her. I liked the way she hadn’t romanticized her parents’ love; she told their tale warts and all. In my eyes, those attributes made a person whole, and utterly dependable with my treasures.

“Merci, Anouk,” Oceane said. “You’ve made their anniversary very special. See you again soon.” After a peck on each cheek, they stepped out into the splendor of the breezy spring day.

With the door swung open the chatter and merriment from outside drifted in. Paris was in full bloom, from the flowers to the influx of visitors and the radiance of the sunshine. The faint echo of boats gurgling along the Seine carried over, the wind sweeping up its earthy, fathomless scent and blowing it gently across the cornflower blue Parisian sky all the way into my little antique shop.

Distracted by the elements, I jumped when a camera flashed in my face. I hastily blinked away at the orb clouding my vision. The tour group were still mingling close. They held phones aloft, snapping pictures, edging closer to me saying, “Say cheese!”

Why did they always say that? Say cheese? It didn’t make any sense.

“Au revoir,” I said coolly to the tour guide, and closed the door tight.

Silently I cursed Joshua for betraying my trust and breaking my heart. With the number of malicious things he did, being published in the Solitary World travel guide and the havoc it created lingered long after he’d gone. Still, I’d learnt a valuable lesson, and steeled myself against men and strangers too, knowing I’d never make that mistake again.

One of the women from the group gave me an apologetic smile that I returned before nodding my thanks.


Chapter Three (#ulink_d79c7ca2-cfaf-5fe6-8039-5338be0ecc59)

“Bonjour, Anouk! What’s new?” My little sister’s lyrical voice bounced around the shop, after she flung herself through the door, and took two great lunges to wrap me in her arms, suffocating me in the peach-scented locks of her hair. She was a bubbly, zany girl with a zest for life that matched no other. Great in theory, but if you spent any longer than a day with her, you’d find yourself zapped by an exhaustion you couldn’t shake, as though her reserves of energy pilfered your own. It was hard to keep up with her constant motion, and bevy of ideas about every little thing.

With her free spirit and flighty attitude my papa hoped she would follow my example, so sent her to study in Paris, and build the foundations she would need to make a life of his orchestrating, with me as a sort of chaperone.

Lilou flouted his rules, and snubbed his advice, though not to his face, or down the line of the phone. If she stopped long enough and he actually caught her on the telephone she lied, or she instructed me to lie about what was really going on. It was a game of cat and mouse, with me an unwilling participant.

Papa thought I’d steer her down the right path, but so far all that meant was bending the truth to him when she escaped the tediousness of her paralegal course and flitted off somewhere with the war cry, �You only live once!’ It was enough to make me throw my hands in the air, and think of her as my wayward child, rather than younger sister.

So far I was having even less luck than Papa at getting her to focus. If he knew she was playing truant with her study he’d be livid. But she was like a wrecking ball, impossible to stop once the momentum got going, and so very clever at manipulating the situation in her favor. Still, you had to give her credit – she certainly lived life on her terms.

“Lilou, where have you been? Papa’s been calling every day,” I said, trying to rearrange my expression to appear somber, which was hard when her dazzling face was beaming at me. How I loved her, craziness and all.

She shrugged. “Papa can call all he wants. I hate that paralegal course. I’m not doing it.” She shook her head. “I don’t want to work in a legal firm; the dullness would kill me.” I stifled a smile, knowing it was true. Papa wanted Lilou to become a paralegal, had his heart set on it, after hearing a proud neighbor gush about his daughter and the executive life by proxy she was leading, but that wasn’t Lilou. An office environment would make her wilt like a rose without sunlight.

Living for the moment was fine for now, but I did agree she should have something to fall back on. I worried she’d find herself lost one day, with no skills and no real ambition.

“He’ll cut off your allowance if you don’t study, and then how will you pay for your apartment?”

Typically, she ignored the crux of the issue and said, “I am working. I don’t need to study. And luckily –” she flashed a grin “– my job allows me the freedom to travel. I just need to make more money, which’ll take time! There’s nothing wrong with making jewelry for a living… It is a career!”

It was obvious Lilou would not be swayed. “It’s a fantastic hobby, and it might become a business if you work at it, but you don’t earn anywhere near enough to even make your rent. An Etsy store and eBay doesn’t pay your bills, let alone the lifestyle you lead. He worries, that’s all.” Lilou’s jewelry was spectacular but it sold for a pittance, and I couldn’t see her building it up to a level she could comfortably live on because work was a foreign word to her.

With a flick of her long silky tresses, she rolled her eyes heavenward. “I have to start somewhere. Etsy and eBay are great stepping-stones for me. Sure I’m not at the 7th arrondissement stage…” She pulled a face, teasing me about the location, and exclusivity, of my shop. “But it’s a start. Papa should focus on his own life, and so should you for that matter. Don’t let him force you to be my keeper.”

I smirked. “Good idea,” I said, voice heavy with sarcasm. “Here’s the phone.” I lifted the receiver. “Give him a call and explain that to him.”

She had the grace to color, the apples of her cheeks pinking up, only making her more beautiful. “Well…maybe we can leave it a few more weeks, Anouk? Just until I really build up my sales.” Papa was set in his ways, and neither of us wanted to answer to him, gruff as he was. “Forget it for now,” she said. “I saw the most magnificent sunset in Marseille. I’m going to create a whole range of orange jewelry in ode to it. Let’s go to lunch and I can tell you everything. I’ve left Claude at your apartment so we don’t have to rush.” She leaned over the counter to grab my handbag, and in one swift movement took my elbow and barreled me out of the door. I halted and fumbled for my keys.

“Claude’s at my apartment?”

“Yeah, you’ve made a very valid point, and I was thinking of it, even before your spiel. You’re totally right – I can’t support myself with what little Papa gives me, and what little income I make with my jewelry, so I’ve given up my apartment in favor of staying with you – to save money on rent. I knew you’d be supportive of my decision…” She frowned at my expression of abject horror.

“Lilou…”

“What? You said yourself I had to figure out my expenses and set some long-term goals. That’s exactly what I’ve done! I’ll miss my apartment but sacrifices have to be made. Living with you will be one huge sacrifice but I’m planning for the future – just like you wanted. And how happy will Papa and Maman be knowing you’re keeping a close eye on little old me?”

I took a steadying breath, disarmed by her cunning, clever ways. Living with her would be a lesson in patience, tolerance, and cleanliness, to say the least. “It’s just…I like my own space, as you well know.”

She swung to face me. “Claude and I will use it as a landing base, that’s all. Don’t worry, you’ll still have your freedom.”

With the shop locked and the sign flicked to Closed, we let the debate drop and meandered away. In France we were accustomed to having long lunches, and sometimes ducking home for a nap before recommencing work. It was a way to relax and recharge. There was no race to get to the weekend because each day was a good day, with its own rhythms.

“Hang on, who’s Claude?” I asked.

“My boyfriend!” She zoomed on, pinning my arm so I had no choice but to keep pace.

We zigzagged through throngs of people who were enjoying the spectacle of a lively Parisian spring day.

“What? What happened to Rainier?” I asked, trying to catch my breath as she propelled me forward.

Before Lilou had vanished three weeks ago, she’d been smitten with a gorgeous Frenchman whose broody nature intrigued her. Rainier was a wine-maker from Haut-Médoc who was taking a year to explore his native country to broaden his horizons, sipping Bordeaux along the way – an oenophile if I ever met one, as he supped, and swished, lamenting about the complexities of wine like he was reciting poetry. I thought he was perfect for her, mysterious enough to keep her guessing, and therefore interested.

“Oh,” she hesitated, no doubt trying to formulate a lie to soften the fact she’d ditched him like an apple core. “We just weren’t compatible. C’est la vie.”

“C’est la vie again?” I couldn’t hide the rebuke in my voice. It was one thing to take flight every time something shinier came along, but she’d left a trail of broken hearts in her wake, and I knew only too well what that felt like. I couldn’t tell her how to care – she wouldn’t listen anyway – but it grated that she could be so frivolous with other people’s feelings. I blamed it on her youth, and hoped she’d grow out of it. There was a six-year age gap between us but sometimes it felt like twenty.

I mused. “I liked Rainier. He was soft on the inside.”

She ignored me and winked at two young guys sitting on the grass nearby. Lilou was an incorrigible flirt who winked, waved, and whispered her way around Paris, just for fun.

Turning away from the guys, she said, “I could have set you and Rainier up. You should have told me!”

I gasped, and broke into a fit of giggles at the ridiculous idea. “Not for me, for you!”

We strolled along the fringes of the Champs de Mars. The 800-meter-long green space was once used as a market garden centuries ago. Once upon a time locals grew abundant crops to harvest and plied their wares. Now it was a verdant park for people to picnic on and gaze at the Eiffel Tower.

“Well you haven’t met Claude yet. And…” she paused for effect “…his brother Didier lives in Paris, and just so happens to be an art critic. Art. He likes art. You like art!”

As if that was enough to jump into bed with someone, which is what she constantly nagged me to do. I shook my head in a vigorous no.

“Don’t do that thing you do, not again, please.” It was her mission to set me with up with a man, any man, the only prerequisite seemed to be that he was breathing. So far she’d introduced me to a sixty-year-old count with a handlebar moustache, a dreadlocked guitarist who spoke in tongues, and the last and most explosive no: a magician who kept threatening to make my clothing disappear. I shuddered at the thought of such paramours.

We walked in silence, enjoying the hazy sunlight on our faces. Twenty minutes later we arrived at one of our favorite restaurants, Mille, near Les Invalides. Inside the various buildings that made up Hôtel National des Invalides there were museums and monuments pertaining to the French military, and deep within its walls lay Napoléon Bonaparte’s tomb. It was a hallowed place and steeped with history, a popular spot for tourists who could wander most of the expanse for free.

Mille served traditional French food, and a selection of fine wines, perfect for a slow lunch, and it was a good vantage point for people watching, which was one of my favorite things to do.

The maître d’ recognized us and hurried over, motioning to a table by the window. We thanked him, taking proffered menus. Lilou ordered white wine without consulting me, and fluttered her lashes at the poor smitten man, as was her way. “Vin blanc, OK?” she asked, leaning her head on her hand, giving me a lazy smile.

“Well you’ve ordered it now, haven’t you?” I furrowed my brow, trying to appear disapproving, but failing.

“Oui, I have.” She laughed, and it lit up her blue eyes. We were similar in appearance, but Lilou had a playfulness to her that made her radiant, which I had never had, even in my teens. While our facial features were alike, our style was markedly different. I tended to wear vintage clothing, forties style, and Lilou was very a la mode, and kept up with the latest fashion trends even on her limited budget. Her hair was always loose, and shiny, like a shampoo model, and mine was curled or coiffed. She favored natural makeup, and I preferred the dramatic smoky-eyed, scarlet-lipped look. Though many a time she’d pilfer my wardrobe for scarves or dresses – a younger sister’s rite of passage.

Perusing the menu I decided on the dish of the day – let it be a surprise – and Lilou went for the beef fillet with béarnaise sauce and potato dauphinoise. For such a lithe specimen of a girl she could eat as heartily as any man. She’d have entrée first and finish the meal with a rich dessert, of which I would steal a bite, and then she’d order yet another bottle of wine. I had her measure, and knew without doubt I’d pay for the lunch, and its accoutrements. It was nice to be able to shut off for a few hours, with someone who knew me inside out.

I enjoyed our sisterly time together, and the fact we could be ourselves and relax into the afternoon. I wondered if that might change if we lived together. The thought of Lilou wreaking havoc inside my pristine apartment, where everything was just so, was enough to make me rue my choice not to say no to her – but how could I? Parisian apartments were expensive, and I knew she couldn’t keep up paying for hers for any length of time. I calmed myself, promising there’d be rules she’d have to adhere to. She would be on her best behavior surely?

We ordered our meals, and the waiter filled our wineglasses. I sat back feeling my limbs loosen with the first sip of crisp white wine.

“As I was saying,” she said, giving her hair a customary flick, “I know my match-making choices haven’t been ideal but this Didier…” She pretended to pull her collar out as if she was hot, and waggled her eyebrows suggestively. “Whoa! Seriously, you have to meet him.”

I clucked my tongue like my maman would do when Lilou was being too Lilou. “No thank you. Your choices have been downright hideous.” I gave her a withering stare. “A magician? A sixty-year-old count? You might think I’m mature but I’m only twenty-eight for God’s sake. I don’t think we need to reach for the fringes of society just yet. And certainly not a man old enough to be my papa!”

She leaned forward and whispered, “Some women find silver foxes very attractive, I’ll have you know.”

It was like speaking another language with Lilou. “Silver foxes?”

“Oui,” she said. “Silver foxes, you know, a man with a sprinkling of gray, a little mature but a whole lot of sex appeal.” She slapped her hand on the table and let out a roar of delight.

“Hush, Lilou. Mon Dieu!” All eyes were cast toward us.

“What?” She blew out her cheeks. “You can’t nurse a broken heart forever. Six months is enough grieving time, too much time for a man like him. You need to have a passionate affair!”

I shriveled in my seat, hoping no one could understand her fast-talking sentences. “I’m not grieving –” I scoffed “– far from it. I don’t have time for it, that’s all.” Lilou knew the intimate details about Joshua because the petit espion had found my diary and read every single word. If not for that she’d know zero, because who would tell the world a horror story like that? “And if I did have time for a relationship, I wouldn’t reserve it for the type of men you’re suggesting. A silver fox, I mean…?”

Laughter burbled from her. “You said you wanted someone extraordinary! Gray is the new black, non?”

I arched a brow. “I don’t think so, Lilou.” Really, she was so adamant about the most ridiculous things.

Tugging her dress down as she sat back in her chair, she said, “Sister of mine, I hate to say it, but you are only twenty-eight. Not eighty-eight. Why can’t you have a little fun while you’re waiting for Mr. Right? Even Madame Dupont beds more men than you do, and she is almost eighty.”

Madame Dupont took Lilou into her confidence when it came to matters of the boudoir. Lilou was a good secret keeper when she wantedto be, and Madame Dupont trusted her. They recognized something in one another: a spark of similarity, of lives lived the same, only half a century apart.

I struggled not to roll my eyes at Lilou’s disappointed expression. “For some of us, it’s not all about sex you know. There’s more to intimacy than that.”

She sighed. “What do you want – flowers, chocolates? A sonnet or two? Your name written in the sky?” She pretended to yawn as if she was bored. “A cookie-cutter romance? No, Anouk, no. You need to dust off your lingerie, and throw yourself at the first available debonair man, and let nature take its course. High octane, a helluva lot of adventure, and boom, you’ll never remember what’s-his-name.”

It was impossible not to laugh. Dust off my lingerie? “Thanks for your input, Lilou, but I don’t think that’s very sage advice. Throw myself at just anyone as if I’ve been sex starved or something! What’s the rush? What if Monsieur First Available is a raving sociopath? He could be married, or a misfit, or a gambler. What if he had a hairy back? A passion for flat-pack furniture?” I suppressed a giggle at Lilou’s darkening expression. “What’s wrong with taking time to get to know someone and then later expressing love with little gifts, especially a poem?”

“It’s just so last century.” She raised her hands up. “And let’s be real, can we? You’re not going to meet anyone stuck at work or holed up in your apartment, are you? I can see your tombstone already.” She gazed over my shoulder, and scrunched her face up as if she was crying, with a faux sob she said, “Here lies Anouk LaRue. Born. Worked. Died. She leaves behind her beloved little antique shop, who’ll miss her dearly.” For effect she buried her face in her hands and faux wept, once again drawing attention from curious onlookers. If only they knew.

“There’s nothing wrong with the amount I work. It’s called,” I enunciated slowly, “being responsible. Setting myself up for the future. A man would complicate all of that. When the time is right, I’ll date again, but at the moment, the thought makes me want to scream. I just simply do not have a minute of the day left to worry about another person. You make it seem like we need men to survive! We don’t!”

She took her hands from her face. “No time? You spend an age reading the newspaper. You play around on your laptop every evening! How much time do you need for love? Joshua was a nasty excuse for a boyfriend – I get that. Pure evil, and enough to break the steeliest of hearts, but so what? That was a million years ago, and it’s time to forget it. If you hide away it means he’s still winning. We don’t need men? We don’t need wine either, but how much sweeter is life with it?”

I shook my head. She didn’t understand, and she never would. Lilou was a free spirit, and so utterly different to me. Yet here she was suggesting I missed love, but it just wasn’t an issue for me. The thought of another man in my life was enough to make me recoil in horror. I just couldn’t envisage it. Didn’t need it. Didn’t miss it. I’d choose the wine option any day.

“Lingerie aside, Lilou, it really is more complicated than that and you know it. I have to work doubly, even triply hard after Joshua sold the piano from under me. My savings were tied up in that piece, and without any help from the gendarmes, what could I do, except to scramble to sell antiques at a discount so my business wouldn’t go bust. I’m still trying to get my finances stabilized and replenish the stock. And if that’s what love does to you, forget it.”

Even after all this time the memory of Joshua and what he’d done still stung. I was a fool to have believed a word that poured from his honeyed mouth. Every single sentence that fell from his lips, I listened to rapt. So exotic with his American accent and bright-eyed gaze. His declarations of love seemed so sincere and took me to a place I’d never been before.

“I don’t have time to sift through their lies.” I swished another mouthful of wine, glad for its numbing properties.

“Not all men lie,” she said giving me a pointed look.

I scoffed. “And how do you know that? Your longest relationship has been three weeks, Lilou.”

She shot me a glare. Joshua had taken a selection of antiques from the secret room, including a very rare piano, very expensive piano, promising me they were off to good homes, people he’d known forever. Payment to follow. The sale would fund our �grand plan’.

And the buyers were French people, he said. Trustworthy.

In that flurry of love, I had believed him. Of course I had.

It was the greatest shock when I stumbled on them at an online auction and confronted him about it. Non, non, non, he mimicked my French accent, remember your messages? The antiques are mine as you said so many times! Au revoir, Anouk. It was fun while it lasted.

Ambushed.

And fraught, the gendarmerie couldn’t help me. They said I’d gifted them to him. They had proof. Text messages that came from my cell phone, saying those exact words. Joshua was clever. He’d been ribbing me, he called it. Teasing me about �gifting’ my treasures and like the lovestruck idiot I was, I played along by text, waiting months for these so-called buyers to pay. By the time I realized what he’d done, he was on the arm of another woman. Antiques vanished. And those texts came back to taunt me.

The grand piano once owned by Fania FГ©nelonis yours! A gift from me to you. Love Anouk xxx

It was the cold, calculating way he did it that struck fear in me – the thought that a man could fake a love like ours broke something inside of me. I begged, yelled, pleaded for the gendarmes to listen to me, but they gave me a bored stare, and asked me to come back with more proof, like I should do their job for them.

Joshua and I had planned to pool our resources and were going to buy the best antiques, build a museum, so the world could clap eyes on such rare beauty, and not just people who could afford such luxuries. In order to do that, we had needed to sell some bigger pieces to fund it, and then source the most famous, the most illustrious of what France had to offer. Little did I know, he was selling them to amass his fortune… He’d played me like a piano, knowing instinctively I’d fall for it because it was a lifelong dream of mine to open a museum for cherishables.

The thing that hurt the most was that I did love him. When it all came to light I realized I had been in love with a ghost. Joshua wasn’t who he portrayed himself to be. The man I loved didn’t exist. The one who held my hand as we slept, or woke me with butterfly kisses, was a charade. So if I held myself at arm’s length from the world, that’s why, and I wasn’t going to be apologetic about it.

Sadly, Joshua was still working the antique circuit, so I ran into him often, which felt like a stab wound to the chest.

Lilou gave my hand a pat, dragging me back to the present moment. “Three weeks might be my limit with a guy, but that’s because I haven’t found anyone who makes me want more.” She lifted a shoulder. “I know what that crétin did, and the fallout that remains. I’d strangle him if I knew I could bury his body and get away with it.” Her eyes blazed at the thought. “All I’m suggesting is ease yourself back into the dating game with a few one-night stands. Pick a rugged type, one that has commitment-phobe written all over him, and go from there…”

“Lilou! I couldn’t do that. Non. I need to know more about a man before I let him sprawl all over my cotton sheets…”

She wrinkled her nose. “Oh God, because they’re some kind of special antique material? Fine, swap the sheets for a cheap supermarket brand for one night!” Her voice rose with every inflection.

A waiter hovered close by, refilling the wineglass of a woman at the table beside ours, and overfilled it as he concentrated hard on us out of the corner of his eye. Ruby red wine spilled over, staining the white tablecloth. The woman gasped, and the waiter wrenched his gaze away, apologizing profusely to her.

Lilou jerked a thumb in his direction. “Prime example: nice taut derrière, sleepy eyes, and sensual full lips. Just picture those buff arms tangled around you, the bed sheets…”

This time the waiter knocked over the woman’s wineglass. Burgundy liquid spilled quick and fast into the woman’s white-skirted lap. Lilou gave them a cursory glance. “OK, maybe not him, he’s too clumsy.” His face colored scarlet.

“Stop!” I hissed, struggling to remain composed. “I see your point and I’ll take it under advisement.”

She swallowed back half a glass of her wine. “I hate it when you say that.”

***

Lilou and I stood out front of the little antique shop, languid after lunch, and hugged our goodbyes. “See you tonight,” I said.

“Actually you won’t.” Lilou gave me an elfish grin. “I’m off to follow a musical festival around Normandy with Claude. I thought I might do a collection of jewelry based on sound. It’s a research trip.”

“What?” My big-sister instinct kicked in. “You’ve only just got back. You and Rainier were only going away for a week. It’s been three and now Rainier is gone, and there’s someone called Claude, and you’re going to follow a music festival? I thought you were doing a line of sunset-inspired jewelry? No, Lilou! You’re supposed to be studying. At least try and build up your online site so we have ammunition if Papa finds out.”

She let out a long harrumph as if I was the veritable thorn in her side. I could guess what was coming next…

“Anouk, you only live once!”

Voila!

Once Lilou had her sights set on something, she was a force to be reckoned with. Even though her life lacked direction, I had a feeling she’d always be OK by using her charm and quick wit. She was irresistible when she flashed her radiant smile. Deep down she was a minx, but I loved her so, even though she added an element of drama to my already busy life and created the worry I carried in my heart when she was off on one of her adventures. I was desperate for anyone or anything to slow her down and keep her in one spot, long enough that she’d plant roots and stay.

I dreaded another call from my papa, asking after her. I’d have to cross my fingers, and lie yet again, knowing eventually it would all come crashing down around me.

A part of me envied her; I was never that frivolous, never had been. My days revolved around work, sourcing antiques, investigating their history, traveling near and far for estate sales and auctions, hunting through bric-a-brac for gems at flea markets and vintage fairs. That didn’t leave much time for anything else. My heart and soul went into my business. I kept myself coiled tight against any uncertainty that came my way.

I shook the familiar feeling of angst away before it could settle, blackening my mood.

“When Papa phones me what do you suggest I say?”

With a groan, she said, “Tell him I’m at the library! Or at study club, or out with a lawyer…who cares.” Typical flippant Lilou style.

“He’s going to find out eventually and then we’ll both be in trouble.”

She laughed, high and loud. “What can he do?”

“He can cut off your allowance…”

Her face paled. “True, so lie good.” She kissed me goodbye, and stole away. “I’ll be back soon!” The words bubbled above, blowing toward me in the Seine-scented breeze.

I watched her retreating frame, heading off into the sunset like an actress from a movie, her long hair undulating and her step jaunty.

From the corner of my eye I sensed someone watching me. I turned, hoping it wasn’t another uninvited customer. A man sat at one of the benches along the promenade. He was wearing chinos, with a tight white T-shirt. His lips curved into a smile when we made eye contact. He was double-take gorgeous with his blond hair swept back like he’d just stepped off a windblown boat, and his aviator sunglasses reflected my own surprised gaze back.

For one brief moment, I considered Lilou’s advice: go out with a man, any man, and see what happened. He moved to stand, like he was going to approach me, and the idea suddenly seemed ridiculous. I bustled into my shop as quickly as possible and locked the door, peeking out through the lace curtain. He was still watching, an amused smirk on his face. In one swift movement he stood and waved, sending me scurrying back into the dark recesses of the shop. Mon Dieu, he knew I was spying on him!

For one unguarded minute the stranger with the athletic physique and gorgeous face had intrigued me. Perhaps I had too much wine at lunchtime. I bustled around keeping busy, and pushed any silly notions from my mind. There was work to do.


Chapter Four (#ulink_729d86e6-0d86-5b43-9e20-ecc02e875868)

In the Luxembourg Gardens tulips popped their yellow heads up as if to say hello. They were such happy flowers, and in abundance now spring had sprung. It was peak time in the park; tourists and locals alike perched on the side of fountains, reading, chatting, or staring off into space. Checkered picnic rugs were spread out, topped with baskets laden with lunchtime feasts.

Normally, I’d sit and people watch, eavesdrop, and imagine who these strangers were and what brought them to Paris, but today I didn’t have a moment to spare. I was meeting someone with some pertinent information about an upcoming auction, and I had to move fast. My sources were varied, some were a touch shady, and others were part of the traditional antique establishment. They confided in me, because they trusted me, and knew I only wanted the best for French antiques, and I paid them in return, in a multitude of ways.

Sitting under the shade of a chestnut tree was Dion. A sixty-something-year-old contact of mine who gave me information about antiques and my competitors. We’d become close over the years, and he treated me like a daughter in some ways. When he had arrived in France he had little more than the clothes he was wearing, and now he had a nice apartment, and a steady income selling certain information.

His passion, though, was refugees. He gave a ton of money to charities, and often flitted off for aide work during the winter months. Dion had no idea I knew about his charity involvement but I’d done checks on him, like he’d done on me. It was the way the circuit worked. I knew he’d come from a war-torn country, and got out just in time to save his life, but sadly most of his family were unable to leave. It was why, I think, he was always chasing deals, something to keep the loneliness at bay. Something to help him forget at least for a little while.

“Anouk.” He nodded solemnly, as was his way.

“Bonjour, Dion. What have you got for me?” We always got straight to the point; Dion wasn’t a fan of small talk.

“An arcane scroll originally from Antibes. It’s damaged because of its age, but still, it’s so rare you could name your price if you sold it on. The seller just wants it gone. He inherited a bunch of antiques from his grandfather but doesn’t hold them in any esteem. You know what the youth of today are like…”

Like Lilou, I thought with a smile. “Sure, sure. So what’s the deal? Who’s up against me?” You had to be quick in this business, or risk losing out. Everyone had their own ways and means of getting there first.

Dion shook his head, the thick black shock of hair not moving an inch, so weighed down with gel, which shone silver in the sunlight. His face was lined with fatigue. I often wondered if he pushed himself too far to the detriment of his own health in the business of gathering information. He veered away from society types, and old money, having little respect for those born with the so-called silver spoon in their mouths. “So far only Joshua is sniffing around. That guy has a nose like a bloodhound. He’s always one step ahead.”

My pulse sped up at the mention of Joshua who like a contagion seemed to spread far and wide, knocking people from their perches. Dion knew my background with Joshua because I’d asked him for help trying to get the piano back from his clutches. To no avail. Still, Dion had tried hard and his loyalty had meant a lot in such a dark time. On the antique circuit, ruthlessness was a key characteristic, and emotion and affection was kept out of it, or very well hidden, so Dion’s generosity of spirit had touched me. Around town I was known as the eccentric one because I often fell in love with a piece that had only sentimental value, and bid on objects other dealers deemed worthless.

I joined Dion on the wooden bench with a heavy sigh. “Joshua, again? I wish people weren’t so easily fooled by his charm.” But how could they not be? He was smooth, and suave and utterly beguiling. Lots of practice at wooing people to suit his needs.

Dion clasped his hands over his middle. “The problem with Joshua is that it’s all a sport to him. He’ll win, and use whatever cunning faculty he can. He will get bored eventually, and move on, Anouk. People like him always do.”

In the distance a mother and child held hands, taking tiny steps across the grass. “I hope so. Somewhere far far away.” I wished he wasn’t a shadow everywhere I went. “So any tips on how I convince the grandson to sell to me?” Already my brain was spinning with ideas. How to secure the scroll, who I could get to value it – it’d have to be an expert in the field – and then finally who I could sell it to. I knew a woman who’d have the right provisions in place, a humidity-controlled room, the right kind of display case to prevent dust, to protect the delicate parchment. Madame Benoit, who lived near the Champs-Élysées, would love such a thing. She was a fifty-something Parisian who loved collecting rare pieces.

“The grandson is training as a classical musician. He plays the cello, amongst other things. It wouldn’t be unreasonable to think he’d swap the scroll for the Mollier cello. Word is he’s a fan of Mollier, God rest his soul.”

I smiled. “The Mollier cello!” Dion had already half done the deal for me. He was like that: outwardly the tough guy, inwardly a teddy bear looking out for his closest clients. “My estimate for the cello was around ten thousand Euro. If he’d swap for the scroll, I’d be well in front. Time to visit our young musician and see what can be done.” Dion shook my hand, slipping me a folded piece of paper. Without reading it I knew it would contain the man’s phone number and address. “Let me know if you need a chauffeur,” he said.

“Oui, I will.”

Dion smiled, flashing his tobacco-stained teeth. “When you win it, don’t forget your friends, will you?” He winked.

I smiled back. “Never. And until the deal is done, here’s a little something to tide you over.” From the depths of my handbag I took a bottle of Château Lafite Rothschild, a wine from Bordeaux, and handed it to Dion. I kept my cellar, which was only really a wine rack in the corner of my shop, stocked with fine wine in order to have something tangible to give thanks.

“Château Lafite Rothschild for me? This is worth a lot of money, Anouk.” He inspected the label on the bottle. Dion knew a lot about everything, from wine to antiques, to people’s secrets.

“It’s the least I can do.” I bent to kiss his still-stunned face.

“Merci,” he said, collecting himself. “Call me if I can help with the grandson.”

I smiled and managed a quick nod. “I will, same as always.” Dion didn’t believe in lengthy phone calls – thought the government was listening in, recording every single one of us. If I called him he automatically named a place to meet, and that was that.

I had a soft spot for Dion in a paternal way. Life had been a struggle for him, and he was doing his best to climb out of a black hole, by whatever means he could. It was the way sometimes his eyes clouded, the slump to his beefy shoulders, like his sadness hovered above him and pressed him down. Sometimes I wanted to play Lilou’s trick and be the matchmaker for him, but I knew well enough not to meddle. Who was I to help him find love when I’d been so spectacularly bad at it myself?

***

“I’m so sorry for the loss of your grandfather,” I said softly after introducing myself. I tried very hard not to drop eye contact and exclaim over the sumptuous furniture surrounding me. Besides, it wasn’t fitting in the circumstances.

The young man, Andre, nodded solemnly and stared out the bay window. I was just out of Paris in the town of Rocquencourt, on the family’s lush sprawling estate. Not far from here was the Palace of Versailles, and while Andre’s estate was on a much smaller scale, from what I had seen so far it was equally as opulent as the former royal château.

Andre had the serenity of an expansive garden with a small lake but was close enough to Paris, giving him the best of both worlds. There were stables on the property, and some dog kennels. Thick hedges and fat-trunked trees, standing close together like a row of gruff watchman protecting the property, surrounded the garden.

“Merci,” he said eventually. His thin, drawn face appeared much older than Dion had thought him to be. “Were you close?” I wanted to kick myself for my nosiness, but something about him suggested he was angry, rather than grieving. It was just a feeling, the fleeting look of mutiny on his face when I mentioned his grandfather.

He let out a bitter laugh. “No we weren’t close. Unless you were a wad of rolled-up Euros, he didn’t have the time of day for you.”

“Oh,” I said lamely, unsure of what to say to such a thing.

“My grandfather was a cold man. Driven by money, and money only. Hence I have no desire to continue with his legacy of collecting things, which will never be appreciated. You’ve heard about the arcane scroll, I take it?”

I clasped my hands, feeling a wave of empathy for Andre. “I did.” It struck me he’d invited me into his house without clarifying my reason for visiting, as if he knew I was coming. Dion, again, helping grease the wheel. “I was hoping to secure the late Monsieur Mollier’s cello for you, in return for the scroll if that’s something you’d consider.”

“Mollier’s music was the soundtrack to my youth, a way to block out the real world.”

His cheeks pinked as if he’d said too much, so I hurried to reassure him. “Music has the ability to be a friend, an escape hatch when we most need one.”

“Oui,” he said, smiling.

“May I see the scroll?” I spoke quickly, not wanting to scare him off by getting too personal; instead I tried to be businesslike and brisk.

He surveyed me for the longest time. I felt he was weighing up whether he could trust me. I only hoped I could afford any counter offer he made, like the cello for the scroll, and extra funds on top, if the scroll was in good shape. Because of Joshua’s theft, my business was still teetering, so I didn’t have the high reserve of funds I used to for deals like this.

Red-haired Andre took a key from his pocket, unlocking a drawer. From the vague scent wafting out I knew it was a humidity-controlled space. I was relieved that the scroll had been well cared for in its time here.

“Anouk, please come closer, but don’t touch it. It’s whisper thin, and will have to be handled correctly by experts if it’s moved from here.” While he wasn’t keen on keeping his grandfather’s collections at least he respected the antiques, which made me soften toward him even more.

I made my way over, a hand on my throat as my pulse beat a fast rhythm. It never waned, that first flush of excitement seeing something that was hundreds of years old. It was preserved as well as it could be for its age, though damaged in places, as if it had been set alight, and someone had snuffed the flame out in time to save the body of it. It resembled a fairy-tale treasure map, with its rough black edges. But instead of sketches of geography it contained text.

“It’s a poem,” he said, smiling. Andre’s posture relaxed, and when grinning, he looked infinitely younger. What hate he must’ve held in his heart to transform his entire being when he recalled his grandfather, and how quickly it disappeared once he was distracted.

I leaned close and tried to read the tiny words, written in fancy flowery cursive that was difficult to translate. Goose bumps prickled my skin and I knew I couldn’t simply swap the cello for the scroll. The scroll was worth far too much money, and I wouldn’t be able to sleep at night if I wasn’t honest with Andre. But would I have enough funds to make the deal?

“It’s breathtaking,” I said pulling my gaze away and meeting Andre’s, whose expression was haunted once more. “A treasure.”

“I’d like to take you up on your offer,” he said abruptly. “The cello of Monsieur Mollier’s in exchange for the scroll. But only if experts transport the scroll, and you vouch for its safety in transit and with its new owner. As much as I hate what it represents, it still has historical significance, and I’d hate to see it ruined by inappropriate handling.”

“Oui, of course, I can have all of that arranged. But there is a problem,” I said, fluttering my hands. “This scroll is worth more than I thought. While it has been slightly burnt at the edges, the writing is still well preserved. I’d have to get a specialist to investigate its origins and likely author, but I know from experience and by sight it’s worth a lot of money. Much more than the cello.”

Andre moved to the plush lounges and sat, motioning for me to do the same. “I have papers from numerous scholars who’ve studied the period. You can have those too. And I’m well aware of its value, Mademoiselle LaRue, but you see, this holds only bad memories for me. My grandfather manipulated the former owner, bullied him into selling it really, for far less than it was worth. He then had the gall to brag about it. Greed is a terrible thing; it can turn men into monsters.” With a sad shrug he gazed out of the window into the distance. His grandfather sounded far too similar to Joshua for my liking. He continued, his voice soft: “This is a way to atone for what he did.”

I could understand his motivations, and thought that Andre was the kind of man the world needed more of. Someone not driven purely by money, or greed.

Quietly, he said, “I made some enquiries about who I should sell it to, and your name kept popping up. I know you’ll find the right home for it. And then it will be a chapter closed for me, and I would very much like that.”

I didn’t know what to say in the face of such generosity. “Merci, Andre, that’s very kind of you, and you have my word I’ll find it the perfect home. So, I’ll secure the Mollier, and call you once it’s done?” I was rendered silent once more by the fact people had spoken so highly of me, and that Andre was so pure of heart to make up for his grandfather’s shady deals.

“Oui.” His features softened. “Mollier was an inspiration to me. To own something as extraordinary as his very own concert cello would be an honor.”

Outside an old fluffy dog gave a halfhearted bark before settling onto one of the benches under a row of acacia trees. I turned back to Andre. “Wait until you hold it. It hasn’t lost its luster after all this time. There’s magic inside, I’m sure.”

Andre gave me a wide smile. “Let’s hope it stays there when I play, and doesn’t run away screaming.” He made a self-deprecating face. Enquiries I made about Andre suggested his talent was astonishing, but I could tell he was the humble type.

The mood had lightened and I hoped Andre would have some closure in his life, and be able to move forward. “I’m sure you’ll add another layer of magic too.”

We made the deal on a handshake and said our goodbyes. Andre walked me out into the fading light of the spring day to my waiting car. Dion was playing chauffeur today, and sat reading a newspaper, squinting against the gentle sun that shone through the windscreen.

I smiled, and gave Andre the customary French goodbye peck on both cheeks. “I’ll be in touch. Au revoir.”

Back in the car I briefed Dion on what had transpired with Andre, and the reason he was happy to see the scroll go.

“Life is such a complex thing.” He started the engine. The car purred – it was Dion’s pride and joy, and was polished to a shine. I’d never understand men and cars. “You have to secure that cello; don’t lose it, Anouk.”

“I will. I’ll bid until they all fall away. I’m hoping the more popular showy instruments will woo the crowd, and they’ll leave the Mollier to me.” We drove sedately out of the estate, heading for the double-bronzed gates. As they creaked open a flashy red sports coupe careered sideways from the road, into the driveway and came to an abrupt stop, spraying gravel in its wake. Dust plumed up and straight into my open window.

“Who is this fool?” I spat between dusty mouthfuls.

I was ready to yell a volley of abuse to the dangerous driver when I clapped eyes on his face. It was the hot guy wearing the Aviator sunglasses who had been outside the front of my shop the day I had lunch with Lilou. Inwardly I groaned. I’d thought he was a handsome holidaymaker, but he was obviously a dealer too, and hot on my tail. You couldn’t trust anyone! This industry was with rife with chameleons and I thanked my lucky stars I hadn’t entered into conversation with him that day, encouraged by the white wine racing through my bloodstream. Another competitor in an already suffocating industry.

He ran a hand through his blond hair, and gave me an ostentatious smile. “Is this Andre’s place?” An American! My mind shrieked a warning; stay well away. I could already tell he’d be a problem with his playboy good looks, and that swagger that came with money, and ambition and the desire to win at any cost. I’d seen it one too many times to miss those markers now.

I pursed my lips, and pressed the button for my window. Slowly the glass blocked him from sight but not before I caught his wink. Really, how did winking help the situation? Did he think I’d dissolve into a hot mess, and tell him everything? Amateur. “It doesn’t take long for them to sniff out a deal,” I said to Dion.

“Forget him. He doesn’t know the backstory.”

I leaned back into the leather seat, and closed my eyes. “Oui. You’re right. Andre will send him on his way.”


Chapter Five (#ulink_6a2c6d15-3305-5bd7-bd82-4d25b3638a57)

Antiques missing as suspected smuggler ring hits Paris

Paris gendarmerie are investigating a robbery that took place overnight at the prestigious Vuitton Auction House on Rue St Honoré in Paris. They believe the theft is linked to the recent spate in the town of Sorrento, Italy, but won’t release any further details. The Vuitton Auction House released a statement today saying that their security cameras had been interfered with and the thief overrode the high-tech alarm systems, including the state of the art infrared sensors. It’s suspected that the rare collection of jewelry stolen would fetch up to two hundred thousand Euros on the black market in America, where it’s believed the antiques are being shipped to, after police raided a southern Californian home and found some earrings believed to be the ones stolen from Sorrento. Anyone with any information is asked to visit their local gendarmerie or call the hotline direct.

My stomach lurched. A smuggler ring? Had they multiplied? It wasn’t just a rogue cat burglar like in the movies? I whipped open the newspaper once more, scanning the next page in case there was any more detail but found nothing. It appeared that the thief was interested in jewelry, and France had a wealth of it under lock and key, especially in Paris, where so many exclusive auction houses were situated.

The jewels would be lost forever, and with it their story. It was migraine-inducing, picturing those precious keepsakes being lifted in the dark of night, hastily wrapped, badly treated, and gone for good.

Blood drained from my face right down to the tip of my slipper-clad toes but it was auction day, and I had no time to make any calls or hunt out any leads. I had to win the cello to secure the scroll.

Once dressed and ready, I hurried down the Boulevard Saint Germaine, making my way toward the 8th arrondissement. The perk of living in Paris meant I didn’t own a car; I walked everywhere. If it was too far I used the Metro. Driving was such a nuisance in this bustling city and I was glad to avoid it.

With sunshine on my back I was almost certain I could feel the presence of the illustrious François Mollier, the famous cellist who’d died over half a century ago. I’d found out that the reason his descendants were selling some select pieces from his musical collection was to fund a theme park set on the grounds of his estate. The idea had me crying into my soup bowl, but there was little I could do, except secure the cello knowing it would go to Andre who would worship it. Mollier’s château and expansive grounds should have been a museum, a place for the people to visit, and celebrate his achievements in a world that still hadn’t forgotten him, and never would, not a place for bumper cars, and mechanical bull rides.

Pausing, I imagined the cello with its soon-to-be new owner, red-headed Andre, alone on his balcony at nighttime with his own chГўteau silent. His eyes slowly closing as he clamped the cello tight, drawing the mother of pearl bow back and forth across its taut strings, relaxing into the sound, and letting go of bad memories, like a vapor.

Mellifluous notes drifting above, stars shrieking in the inky sky. Beautiful music would invigorate the antique instrument and summon the ghost of François Mollier, who’d visit standing off in the distance in the realm of here or there, a faint smile playing at his lips…

Whimsical, but totally possible.

Time was stealing away, so I picked up the pace, finally arriving at the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré in the 8th arrondissement where the Cloutier Auction House was situated. It was a grand old building with a French baroque façade that stood out among the less imposing neighboring structures. A burnished gold sign announcing the house hung perpendicular, and creaked softly as it swayed. Nerves fluttered but more from anticipation than anything.

A doorman wearing an immaculate, sharply pressed suit, and top hat nodded as I rushed past. “Bonjour, mademoiselle.”

“Bonjour, monsieur.” I flashed him a smile as he opened the heavy black door and ushered me in. “Merci.”

With quick steps, I headed down the entrance hall and into the bar area.

Exclusive auctions held around France were filled with collectors and dealers from all around the world who were backed up by old money, families with recognizable names, or lots of available cash. It was a sacred circle, and you had to pass some invisible test to be accepted by them. It’d taken me an aeon to be invited in, and I was still looked at as the new girl, but they weren’t threatened by someone who often bid on items that were perplexingly valueless in their eyes and were only sold at some auctions as part of a deceased estate.

But sentimental or not, I had a varied range of customers who, like me, held antiques with rich histories in high esteem. It could be something as small as a tin of buttons rescued from a Dior 1940s’ collection. The men would frown over their spectacles at me and mutter, “Buttons…?” their confusion apparent. But I’d have a customer who collected vintage buttons, and I knew they’d adore such a bounty. Who wouldn’t? Some amazing seamstresses had probably thumbed those little plastic discs – what had the buttons overheard? Talk about hemlines, waistlines, the progression of fashion…

Auctions were jovial affairs. Champagne flowed freely because punters paid more when they were relaxed after a few glasses of bubbles, though no auction houses admitted that’s why they supplied copious bottles of Moët & Chandon – it was the way it had always been done, a tradition that had always made the numbered paddles raise that little bit easier.

The antique trade was still a bit of a men’s club despite halfhearted protests that it wasn’t. But it suited me just fine to be one of the token women. My presence was largely ignored. They didn’t see me as a threat, and I could go by unnoticed and savor the lots alone.

Today, while they clinked glasses, and told tall tales about their latest conquests in the world of antiques, I casually flounced out of view and into the auction room, ready to take my seat at the front.

I spotted Gustave, the security guard.

“Bonjour,” I said, holding my handbag to the side while we air kissed each cheek.

“Bonjour, Anouk,” Gustave replied, his brown face crinkling into a smile. He was a robust man, about late fifties, with a big heart. He’d been working here as long as I could remember, and often saved me a seat if I was running late.

Laughter rang out from the bar area. “They’re in fine form today,” Gustave said, raising an eyebrow.

“Half sozzled already?”

“Oui.” Gustave tutted. “Monsieur left the front door unlocked last week! Can you imagine? Had the gall to blame me.”

I inhaled sharply. “He left it unlocked?” Anyone could have walked in and scurried away with something valuable. Monsieur Cloutier in his old age was getting business mixed with pleasure, a mistake I vowed not to replicate. Hence the rule: no champagne when working. I had to keep a clear head and focus.

Life was all about appreciating the steamy pah of escaped air as you broke into a twice-cooked soufflГ© deflating its cheesy goodness, and pairing it with a wine and languishing over lunch with friends. But not during work time.

“Not fair on you, Gustave. Let’s hope he doesn’t make that mistake again.”

Gustave rocked on his heels, and smiled. “He won’t. I’m barreling him out when my shift finishes each day, and locking it myself, but I’m not here all the time. There’s a lull between security staff; the place is empty for an hour, so I’ve asked him to rectify that. Just in case.”

“You heard about the robberies, then?”

His eyes clouded. Gustave loved the auction house like it was his own, so he followed industry news. Monsieur Cloutier was lucky to have such a loyal employee, especially as age crept up on him, and made him forgetful. Age or champagne, that is.

“Terrible.” He nodded. “And we don’t need to make it any easier by being lax with security.”

“Oui.” I felt a shiver, as if I was being watched. I turned, surprised to see the American standing behind me. He’d been out the front of my shop, at Andre’s estate, and now here. I didn’t like it – it meant he was on my trail and that usually implied he was after my contacts. I hadn’t heard him approach on the noisy wooden floors. Had he eavesdropped on our conversation? I’d hate for anyone to know about the door being accidentally left unlocked, especially a stranger. He must’ve had ties with someone to be here, though, and that meant trouble.

“It’s you,” he said, appraising me coolly.

“Excusez-moi?” I said in faux surprise as if I didn’t recognize him. His azure blue eyes twinkled, and he thrust his hands in his pockets and took a step closer. In response, I folded my arms and stuck out my chin. Who did he think he was?

“It’s you. The girl who everyone talks about. You’re famous, you know.”

“Me?” I stumbled slightly on my heels, put on the spot by such a thing. I wondered if the �everyone’ he was referring to were talking about the Joshua disaster. It’d taken months for the speculation to die down, but it cropped up now and again. I remained poised, adopting a haughty expression as if his presence bored me. “I hardly think so.”

He grinned, Cheshire cat like. “Humble, too, I see.”

“Is that all, Monsieur…?”

“Black.”

His smile slid into a smirk, showing his even, white teeth. He had a strong jawline, and was classically handsome in that all-star American way. He ran a hand through the neat blond of his hair.

“Well if that’s all, Monsieur Black, I’ll be taking my seat…” I said over my shoulder, as I walked across the shiny wooden floor to the front row seat I favored. It gave me the perfect view of the antiques on offer, as well as good visibility to the auctioneer. The American followed me and stood just in front of the stage.

I surveyed him as I sat. His clothes fit like they were tailor-made, his shoes shone like they’d never been worn before – even his nails were manicured. Rich playboy with too much time on his hands. A rich American playboy at that, which meant goodbye antiques. He’d probably ship them to somewhere where there was too much humidity for their moderate French wood, letting them buckle and bow, and another masterpiece would be scarred for its lifetime.

“Mind if I join you?” he said, indicating the empty chair beside me.

I clenched my jaw. “It’s a free country.” I didn’t like anyone to see how I bid, or what I was interested in. It was better to remain incognito if possible, but sitting right next to me he’d be able to ascertain what I wanted.

“Great.” He let my jibe sail past, as if he hadn’t heard, and sat. There was something about him I didn’t trust. He’d obviously been following my tracks too closely for comfort. And I didn’t buy the innocent act: oh it’s you. Please.

“I’ve got my heart set on something magnificent,” he said. I gathered the swell of my skirt, and tucked it, facing away from him.

“Wonderful,” I said, my voice heavy with sarcasm. Better he know I was disinterested by his presence.

“The cello,” he said. “Have you seen it? It’s magnificent.” I turned back to him, my heart sinking. He gave me such a penetrating stare it took all my might not to react. Surely Andre wouldn’t have asked him to secure it for the scroll too? Instinctively I knew this stranger was trying to unsettle me. I toyed with telling him to back off, but maybe playing it down would be better with a man like him. They thrived on competition, and it would only encourage him if I acted irritated. He didn’t say the Mollier cello though. I quickly scanned the lots in front, recognizing a German cello… Fingers crossed he meant that one.

I changed tack. “This is an exclusive auction house, Monsieur Black. Were you invited here?” I gave him a chilly stare, but he didn’t cower. His smile widened, flashing those too-white teeth of his.

“Of course I was invited.” He winked. I stifled a groan. They were all the same these young, handsome Americans. They thought a wink here, a slow saucy smile there would be enough to weave their way into a woman’s embrace… Well this belle fille wouldn’t be so silly ever again.

“I see what you’re doing, you know,” I said. “And it’s not working.” His attempt to ruffle me was transparent. But my main concern was the cello. I’d promised Andre I’d secure it, and now this imposter was in my way. “This is a very select circle, so watch your step. It wouldn’t take much to have you…barred.”

His lips twitched but he was saved from answering as the crowd wandered in, their chatter accompanying heavy footsteps. I hadn’t seen Monsieur Black on the circuit before. And he was American so there was less chance he was related to someone here, maybe my bluff would make him think twice.

I made a show of saying, “Bonjour, it’s a lovely day for an auction.” A collector I knew took a seat beside me. Raphe shot me a puzzled look, knowing I kept silent when an auction was about to begin and usually ignored everyone so I could watch them behind my sunglasses, Audrey Hepburn style.

“Everything OK, Anouk?” Raphe frowned, perplexed over my effusive greeting. I hadn’t uttered a single word to him before, usually nodding a greeting, or giving a small wave. My striking up a conversation in an auction room had him surveying me as if I’d partaken of too many glasses of champagne.

A smile crept across my face. I could still feel the American’s gaze like a laser on me. To Raphe, I said, “Très bien.” Very good. I opened the program and pretended to study the lots, though I had them memorized from my earlier visits, and knew the story behind each one.

The auctioneer stepped up to the podium, and grappled with the microphone before introducing himself. I zoned out, fanning myself with the program, unable to switch off my worry that Monsieur Black was going to bid against me. The scroll and the profit I’d make on selling it would help me immensely, and I wouldn’t let some stranger take it from me.

The first lot was called, and the bidding commenced for an Asian xylophone. It was exquisite, bowed like a boat, its wood intricately carved with roaring dragons breathing fire. It wasn’t my specialty so I subtly studied the people to the left of me, studiously avoiding the American who sat on my right. I watched them tense when someone bid them up, or feign disinterest as they gave the auctioneer the tiniest, almost imperceptible, finger raise.

We were all given numbered paddles to bid with, but most of us used them only once we’d won, so they could record our number to process our payment. They were too obvious, bright white, and showed the competition who was bidding. If you had a reputation for quality buys then there was a chance attendees would bid against you, without having to do their own research on a piece. It was better to be as invisible as possible when you bid.

Thirty minutes later the French cello was introduced. The auctioneer gave a short spiel about its origins. He rhapsodized Mollier, and the maestro’s many accomplishments, drawing sighs of longing around the room.

The bidding commenced slowly at first. I was surprised to feel a rush of cool air, as Monsieur Black left his seat for another elsewhere. Good.

From the corner of my eye I could see the gnarly hand of a painter known only as Ombre raise up. My heart lifted. Ombre’s modus operandi was a few early bids before bowing out to resume drinking the free champagne, and chat to anyone lingering by the bar in the hopes of selling his surrealist artwork. So far the stranger hadn’t bid. Was he toying with me?

A few collectors joined in, heartily bidding, until one of them pulled out with a shake of the head.

I made an effort to act disinterested while waiting for the auctioneer to call it, and on the third count caught his eye and raised an eyebrow in my signature move. A subtle way to bid without anyone knowing it was me. I took the bid up to ten thousand Euros – it was affordable, a downright bargain for such a piece, and what I’d envisaged spending.

“Last bid at ten thousand Euros? Going once, going twice… Eleven thousand next bid.”

I stiffened in response, but raised an eyebrow. There was no need to ponder who was bidding against me; it must have been the American! Typically here to splash his cash and draw attention.

“Twelve,” the auctioneer said taking my next bid. “Thirteen, away from you.”

To the auctioneer, I mouthed, “Fifteen.” If I had to bid him up, I would, and hope he’d stop.

“Twenty, against you.”

Twenty! I’d expected to buy it for ten thousand! Though it was worth every cent of twenty thousand Euros, sadly my funds were limited and I had to be cautious. I couldn’t let Andre down, and I’d all but secured a buyer for the scroll. Time to let him know I meant business!

“Twenty-one,” I called high and loud, drawing the attention from the crowd. What was he doing to me? My emotions were usually kept under wraps, but with him goading me, my rules vanished.

“Twenty-two, away from you,” the auctioneer called. I wanted to spin on my seat and face my opponent, but I wouldn’t give him the pleasure of seeing my face fall when I had to bow out.

I did some quick calculations and knew it was well beyond my savings. But he was American! Another beloved piece of French history would be freighted to some fancy summer home on a coast far from here to collect dust.

And poor Andre would wander those cavernous halls, a shadow of bad memories in his wake.

My face reddened. “Twenty-three!” Anxiety gnawed at me – my stomach roiled. I’d send myself bankrupt being caught in a bidding war. It was his flippancy that galled me. Just because he could afford the cello didn’t mean he deserved it.

“Twenty-four, away from you.”

Damn him to hell! Anger coursed through me, my hands shook, so I planted them under my legs. The auctioneer called it, and looked past me, and then back, waiting in case I bid once more. I worried my bottom lip, clamping down hard, as conflicted emotions tore through me. I hated letting people down, really despised it, especially in business, but going higher than twenty-four would be making a bad choice. It was a little more than I had in the coffers in case I got stuck with the scroll for a while. I slowly shook my head no.

He picked up his gavel. “Last call, for the Mollier cello, a magnificent instrument played by the maestro himself…”

A sob rose in my throat but I swallowed it down.

“Une fois, deux fois, trois fois,” Once, twice, three times, the auctioneer closed the bidding. With a bang of the gavel the cello was lost to me. And I would have to explain to Andre that the deal was off. This wasn’t my year, that was for sure. It went to show you could never be complacent in business.

Time slowed, as the other lots were called. I stayed riveted to my seat, until finally, it was over. With as much poise as I could muster I made my way out of the auction room, tugging my skirt straight, wondering who my new nemesis really was, and how I’d go about finding out. The melancholy notes of the cello would drift up under a different sky, if it ever got played again. Of course, he couldn’t let his win go unnoticed. With his hands deep in his suit pockets he sauntered over to me.

“Who were you going to sell it to?” he asked.

I scoffed. “As if I’d tell a stranger my business.”

“But I’m not a stranger, I’m a friend, a fellow antique aficionado.” He was goading me, and I just couldn’t understand why. For fun? His way of flirting? A way to ease his boredom? Whatever it was, it rankled. This was my lifeblood, and he had bid against me on purpose.

“You are a stranger, Monsieur Black –”

“Tristan,” he said.

I sighed and continued: “Monsieur Black –”

“Just call me Tristan; we don’t need to be so formal, do we?”

Now he was telling me the rules? “Do you make a habit of interrupting every time a person tries to speak?”

He reared back, and laughed. “Are you angry with me for some reason, mademoiselle?”

“Are you dense? You knew I wanted that cello. You don’t need it. America has some fine objets d’art… Why don’t you hop back on your private jet and go hunt in your own country.”

His lips curved into a wide smile. “My private jet?”

For years, I’d heard men identical to him harp on about custom leather seats, and dinner degustation menus aboard their private planes. Memory-foam pillows, and round beds, and any number of things they boasted about to one-up each other with their vast wealth. Why couldn’t they fly on a domestic plane like everyone else? Their carbon footprints were yeti-sized. “Yes, fly it to America or somewhere else, and leave France alone.”

“I’ve just been to Italy,” he said. “And nothing there compares to what I’ve seen here today… The quality is breathtaking.” He flicked me a loaded stare. Was he flirting with me? Did he think I was a fool?

Women veering past did a double take when they saw him. I wrinkled my nose in disgust. If they’d spent two minutes talking to him they’d know he had no substance. He was an empty shell with a few dollars to his stupid name. Mr. Black? Honestly, it sounded like a pseudonym to me.

“You should pull your bid on the cello,” I said, giving it one last try. “You don’t really want it.”

“I only bid on it at the very end, because I knew you wanted it, and I couldn’t let the weasel win it from you. If I didn’t know better I’d say he was bidding for it just to upset you. Something about his smarmy face made my blood boil.”

“Wait, you weren’t bidding against me the entire time?”

He frowned. “Of course not! Not until you stopped, and he was set to win it. I couldn’t let him have the satisfaction.”

“But you said you were interested in the cello when we first sat down!” I narrowed my eyes.

“In the German cello, not the French one.”

Could I trust this Tristan Black? “Which guy was bidding against me?”

He turned and surveyed the people milling in the bar area, some drinking champagne to celebrate, some to commiserate. “That guy.” He pointed to a guy wearing almost identical clothes to himself. Goddamn it! It was Joshua.

I softened slightly toward Tristan; he’d picked up on Joshua’s vindictiveness and tried to protect me against it. Why Joshua continued to torment me was beyond me. But Tristan had stepped in unwittingly, and no matter what his motivations were, I was grateful for it.

Tristan leaned forward, standing inches from my face. Up close, his eyes were mesmerizing ocean blue. I shuffled backward, not wanting to be hypnotized by his cosmetic qualities. I could see how a girl would fall for his kind. “So I guess we can make a deal, now? The cello is all yours, if you want it.”

“For how much?” Don’t drop your guard.Nothing is ever what it seems.

“For the price I paid,” he said, shrugging. “I know you have a buyer for it.”

“Because you were hot on my heels that day?” The red sports coupe driving spy!

He lifted a palm. “Isn’t everyone around here guilty of that?”

Touché. “And that’s it? I pay for the cello, and nothing else?” Usually a deal like this they’d tack on ten percent at least.

He smiled, and this time it reached his eyes. The aquamarine of them sparkled. “I wouldn’t rule out a dinner date, but yes, that’s all.”

A smile played at my lips. “A dinner date? I don’t think so.” Tristan Black would have to learn things didn’t just fall in his lap no matter how generous he might seem to any unsuspecting person. There was always an agenda with men like him. Always. And he was choosing the wrong girl if he thought I’d be silly enough to go along with his whims.

“Why not?” He laughed. “I won’t eat you.”

“Very funny.” I wondered what would be a fair compromise. Ah! “Perhaps we can share a drink at the May Gala, if you’re invited that is…?” If he was invited to the gala, then he was connected with someone influential in Paris. It would be a good way to find out just who he really was.

“The gala…” A blank look crossed his features. “Oh the gala! Yes, I’ll be there and I’ll hold you to that drink, Anouk.”

Before he could add any more addendums to our deal I said, “Let’s go to the office and sort out the paperwork for the cello.”

We explained to the clerk and she switched our details for the piece. Gustave the security guard called me over, waving frantically, as I was waiting for the invoice to be printed.

“Excusez-moi, Tristan. I’ll be right back.”

I rushed to Gustave, my heels click-clacking. His face was pinched, and he motioned for me to join him behind the curtain in the antechamber just near the office.

“What is it?” I whispered.

“Shhh,” he said and pointed. Joshua wore a mutinous expression and was making his way straight to Tristan.

“Oh no! We have to stop him!” I went to push the curtain back but Gustave grabbed my arm to stop me. Tristan Black didn’t deserve to cop a mouthful from Joshua. As much as I distrusted the newcomer, I couldn’t stand by and watch him get berated on account of me.

“Wait, Anouk. I have a feeling your Monsieur Black can look after himself just fine.”

“He doesn’t know the story, Gustave. He has no idea what he’s dealing with! I have to warn him…”

“Wait. I think you underestimate the new guy.” Gustave pulled the curtain aside an infinitesimal amount so we could peek out.

Joshua tapped Tristan on the back with an index finger, pointed like a gun.

I held my breath, wishing for the hundredth time Joshua would just walk off and disappear out of Paris for good.

Tristan took his sweet time, chatting to the office clerk, and totally ignoring the finger in the back.

Joshua tried again, this time using the palm of his hand.

Tristan turned, annoyance clouding his face. “What can I do for you?” he said, his voice clipped.

“Any reason you snuck in a bid like that? Or was it just to win her over?” Joshua pulled a sour face like he’d been sucking lemons, angry that someone had got the better of him. “She’s not worth it, you know.”

I gasped. That lowlife! Gustave shot me a look that said, see?

I clung on to the curtain that separated us from them. Through the gap I could see Tristan pull himself up to full height. “She has a name if it’s the person I think you’re referring to, and I don’t like your accusations, or your tone.”

Shivers raced down my spine. “Yeah?” Joshua snarled like a beast. “Watch your step, I’m warning you now. She,” he spat the word, “isn’t who you think she is.”

I reeled back. “What does that mean?” I mouthed to a shocked Gustave who shrugged. It was bizarre to hear myself discussed, and it was especially odd when it made no sense.

“Well who is she then?” Tristan asked, an edge of menace in his tone.

I inched closer again, intrigued too.

“Who knows? It’s all an act with her.” Joshua’s lip curled. “What you see isn’t what you get. Comprendre?”

An act with me? With him more like it! The hide of that guy. I wanted to storm outside and berate Joshua for making trouble. Again. But Gustave held my arm firmly, shaking his head.

“The only thing I understand,” Tristan said, leaning right into Joshua’s face. “Is that you’re a man with no principles, and if I see you bid her up again for no reason, there’s gonna be trouble. Comprendre?”

I bit back on a laugh at the way Tristan mimicked him.

Joshua narrowed his eyes, and said, “You were warned. Next time I won’t be so nice.”

“Duly noted. Now go away.” Tristan shooed him like he was a fly and turned his back, leaving Joshua standing there like a fool.

He finally stalked off, with an angry glint in his eye. I’d never seen anyone upset Joshua before. I had a new level of respect for Tristan knowing instinctively how to act around that rat of a man.

When we could finally talk properly without fear of being caught behind the curtain I said quietly to Gustave, “Why did he say it was all an act with me?”

Gustave pursed his lips and then said, “To make trouble. You know he manipulates the situation in his favor.”

I nodded, not convinced it was that simple. “Every day I wonder if I was under some kind of spell to have ever thought I loved that man.”

Gustave gave me a paternal pat on the back. “Don’t beat yourself up about it, Anouk. None of us knew what he was like.”

“I was so awful to Tristan a few minutes ago and then he goes and does that.” I gave Gustave a thin smile. “So, we walk out and pretend we saw nothing?”

“You’re just protecting yourself with new faces on the circuit, and rightfully so.” Gustave smiled. “We walk making small talk, and you don’t mention what you just saw.”

“Oui. Thanks.”

We wandered back out, chatting in French, pretending we were mid conversation about classical music. “Ah, there you are,” I said to Tristan. I waited for him to tell me about the altercation but he just put his hands together and said, “Paperwork is all done.”

“Merci.” In light of what I’d just witnessed I said, “That was very nice of you, Monsieur Black. I do appreciate it. That cello is very special to a customer of mine.”

“My pleasure.” He raised his eyebrows. “Perhaps we can have a dance or two at the May Gala?”

His expression was so genuine, so sweet that I surprised myself by saying, “Oui, of course.”

Would the usual gala glitterati make a beeline for the stylish Monsieur Black? Perhaps a little digging would unearth his secrets, and I’d have some tidbits to share when my colleagues enquired after him. He was sure to make an impression with his powerful saunter, and strong jawline. It was his eyes that caught me off guard; they were so blue, hypnotic, and I reminded myself to be careful. Business and pleasure did not mix.


Chapter Six (#ulink_6ec6d029-3347-552e-81a4-d12ccfc53c30)

Safely ensconced in my shop with the door bolted for privacy I made some calls about Tristan Black.

Rachelle from the little flower shop near the Notre Dame was usually a hive of information. An unassuming Parisian with russet curls, and wide brown eyes. I’m sure the flower shop was a front for something because she knew too much about everything, but I never asked her directly. Often she tipped me off about antiques that were making their way to Paris from outer regions of France. “Non, Anouk,” she purred. “I haven’t heard of such a man. What did he do? Rob you? Because if so, I know a man who can sort him out!”

My eyes widened. “Non, non, he hasn’t. I don’t need a man to…sort him out, I just wondered if you’d heard anything on the usual channels.”

“Nothing. But if I do, I’ll let you know. And, if he does step out of line, you let me know…” Her voice was as hard as steel, and I smiled. Joshua’s betrayal had made my colleagues protective of me, and it was sweet even if I was a little alarmed at exactly what �sort him out’ might’ve entailed.

“And Anouk, tomorrow, if you go the flea markets on Rue des Rosiers, find a man with a carnation in his pocket, wearing a pink bow tie. He has something for you. Tell him I sent you, and he will know.”

“Merci. I’m intrigued.”

“My maman was very happy with the gift you sent. It was so sweet, Anouk. Every morning I hear the music as she warms up; the dedication she has to her ballet is astounding.” Rachelle’s maman had always wanted to be a ballerina, and now finally had the time to try. People thought it was preposterous. At sixty? they’d cried, how silly. But why couldn’t a woman learn to dance at sixty? She wasn’t expecting to grace the stage at Opéra National de Paris!

I’d found some vintage ballet shoes that had never been worn and a leotard and sent them with a note saying Dance your way to happiness. I liked the idea that passion didn’t fade away no matter what age a person was, and if she wanted to plié her way around her living room where was the harm in that?

“Your maman is a wonderful woman,” I said, meaning it.

We gossiped about a few things before saying au revoir.

Next, I phoned Madame Dupont to see what she’d make of the newcomer and what had happened earlier. I fell into a walnut leather wingback chair that I’d rescued from an estate sale. The executor of the estate had wanted to clear the belongings out fast, and had ignored my pleas to save the chair, and other valuables littered on the verge like lost souls. Take it, he’d cried, take it all! And I did. The leather was crazed, and dimpled, and it sighed wearily when I took my place on it. It was like an old friend, and I’d never get it rejuvenated. I loved it, scars and all.

“Anouk, my darling, did you get the cello?” Madame said huskily.

“Oui, not without a little drama.” I filled Madame Dupont in on the morning.

“Ooh la la, I adore him already! Joshua must have been seeing red! What a delight! What does he look like this devilish Monsieur Black?”

I shook my head. I could have bet money Madame Dupont would ask such a thing. “Like a man with too much money.”

“Parfait!”

“Parfait for what?”

“For you, Anouk! Lilou and I are in agreeance on this matter. It really is time to throw yourself to the wolves and see what happens…”

“I’ll get eaten alive!” I laughed. Honestly, they had this idea that I was missing something in my life, but they just couldn’t see I wasn’t made like them. Love did not come first for me.

Madame’s loud drawing of a cigarette filtered down the line. “Is he a collector, or a dealer?”

“I don’t know, he spoke like a collector, but he was out the front of my shop the other day and then he turned up at Andre’s estate as I was leaving, so I suppose he could dabble in both. A way to alleviate the ennui I suppose.”

“He’s a dashing American. A knight in shining armor! I can’t wait to run into him.” In the background the ticking and chiming of various clocks rang out. I wondered how Madame Dupont could stand the disharmonious symphony.

“Oui, and he has that same innate charm, exudes confidence. Eyes the color of the ocean,” I sighed. Why couldn’t men like him be French, staid and solid? That kind of man I could go for.

Madame Dupont let out a sensual sigh. “If I was your age, Anouk, there’d be no stopping me. In fact, even at my age, there’d be no stopping me, because who dares wins. Why don’t you dare, just this once?”

A customer knocked on the door, and I motioned for him to come in. It was Elliot from the wine bar, who often browsed the shelves for décor, and stopped for a chat about business. “Won’t be long,” I said to him.

“No rush.” He moved about with his hands in his pockets, peering at a selection of mirrors hung from gold hooks along the walls.

I lowered my voice. “Madame, aside from your many petit affairs, I’m just like you. I don’t want to be tied down, to follow any particular set of rules, or form. I’ve never really dreamed of walking down the aisle, maybe I never will, and is that so bad? You haven’t, and you’re the happiest person I know.” They were just words, though. I wasn’t sure how I felt about marriage. I envied the idea of it. But I couldn’t see it happening for me.

She tutted. “We’re not the same, Anouk. I could never be as sweet of heart as you! I chose to remain single because I couldn’t commit to one person. But it isn’t easy. There are plenty of times when I wonder if I made a huge mistake with some of the men I’ve loved and let go. Maybe I would have enjoyed love, after the dizzying novelty of that first rapture faded and was replaced with something more fulsome? Truer, deeper? But I never gave it a chance. And that might have been a huge mistake…”

Madame Dupont had never spoken this openly with me about her love life. “Do you really regret it, Madame, or do you just think it’s what I need to hear?” I couldn’t see Madame Dupont as lonely, even now, men flocked to her, but maybe she did crave that more solid love, one that had longevity.

She took some time to answer. “Regret is such a miserable word. But there have been plenty of times alone, where I wished I took the risk and gave someone my heart, and not just a sliver of it. After one stumble you’ve pulled the shutters down. Closed up shop. I’m just saying, don’t waste your life protecting your heart, or you’ll get to the end of it, and realize it wasn’t worth it.” Her words poured out with so much melancholy, it was hard to know what to say, and whether she truly meant me, or if something had happened to make her so forlorn.

Speaking gently, I said, “I see, Madame, I really do. But I’m not �closed for business’ I’m just not interested, and there’s a big difference.”

A laugh escaped her. “Listen to me, having an elderly moment. Forget it, Anouk, I don’t know what came over me. Some days, my life flashes before me in the blink of an eye, until I get to the scenes I wish I could change, and they play over again and again, until I can’t see straight. Promise me though, you’ll stop pouring every ounce of yourself into work. Save a part of your life for something else.”

“I promise, Madame Dupont.”

I hoped to ease her anxiety, but really, without work, what else was there? I was grateful work kept me moored to this place.

“And you owe it to that man to go to the gala and have some fun with him. He earned it after dealing with that pig Joshua.”

I smiled at the memory. “Oui, I will, Madame. It’s not often someone reads Joshua so well. It was like he had heard about him already, or he knew what to watch for. Joshua backed down pretty quickly. I think he was intimidated by Tristan…” And that was a first.

When we wrapped up our chat Elliot from the wine bar had found a selection of goods and had them lined up along the front counter. “What can you tell me about these?” he asked, settling on a stool.

“For that we’ll need coffee!” I smiled and went to brew a pot, returning with everything on a tray.

Most of my customers spent hours in the shop, carefully selecting pieces and then making their choice after hearing their stories. It was the highlight of my day when I could impart the histories of each antique and watch the customer’s eyes widen when something resonated with them and the decision was made, as if by someone else.

“So this one –” I pointed to a golden French gilded mirror with cherubs “– is a Louis Phillipe, circa 1890, and once hung in the boudoir of…”


Chapter Seven (#ulink_67eeef65-47c9-5a64-ad39-e06b3470a197)

The four seasons in Paris each had their own charm – I was hard pressed to choose a favorite. The elemental cycles seemed to change at a time I most needed them, as if the planet regenerated itself, which was cue for me to do the same. Layers were peeled back – literally, and figuratively – coats were vanquished, flowers bloomed, fashion became bolder, smiles wider, strides sashayed into saunters, as spring cast its magnificence over the city. A rejuvenation for earth, body, and soul.

The gentle warmth and smudged blue skies were so provocative, they urged even the most sedate to wander the uneven boulevards of Paris with a basket loose over an arm, freeing a person to sniff and select plump, fat tomatoes, ripe fragrant peaches, rounds of creamy camembert, and baguettes so fresh and wholesome you wanted to hug them to your chest like a baby as you dawdled home, stopping only to add a bouquet of lively carnations with egg-yolk yellow buds that screamed sunshine, and the promise of warmer months to come.

I made a mental note to go the markets later and find some fresh ingredients for dinner. I wandered to my balcony to see what was on offer in my own pots. My herbs seemed to double in size overnight, their stems reaching upward in supplication for the sun. It was the season for simple dishes: poached salmon with beurre blanc sauce and a handful of fresh parsley. Newly plucked asparagus with a buttery tarragon topping. Today, in an ode to my maman, who was an incredible cook and had taken many years to teach me the French basics, I made vichyssoise for lunch, which sat cooling on the stove. I snipped a handful of chives to add to the pot of potato and leek soup, her favorite spring recipe, best served cold.

Time in the kitchen was one of life’s greatest pleasures, and aside from when Lilou graced me with her presence, I cooked for one, which did cast a gray cloud over the meal. You could only chat to a soup bowl for so long before your voice echoed dismally back reminding you of your extremely solitary life. Still, I enjoyed the comfort of cooking, and making delicious French meals, slowly, carefully following my maman’s old recipes. And work always called, so really I was lucky to have no ties to pull me every which way.

After rinsing the chives and roughly chopping them I garnished the vichyssoise, and the peppery scent of the herb added a little Г©lГ©gance to the meal.

Even though it was just me and the bowl of soup, I still set the table with the silver vintage cutlery, a crystal wineglass, and a sharply ironed napkin, which I set on my lap. After dusting my hands on the tea towel, I poured myself a glass of crisp sauvignon blanc.

I ate my soup slowly, and tried very hard not to mumble to inanimate objects just to make conversation. Silence was golden, and I had the birds outside chirping away for company so it wasn’t like I was completely and utterly alone. Chirp, chirp, chirp.

Really, if I wanted someone to dine with, I could invite any of my neighbors over, and that would prove less problematic than a relationship with a man. Though, I shied away from getting to know my neighbors, as they rotated so often, what would be the point? Lilou knew them all though and they often asked about her in passing. Then a new group would move in, and they’d ask after her too, even though up until now, she wasn’t actually living here. She had an ease with people, and made friendships quickly.

Lunch consumed, I moved to the balcony with my wine and the newspaper. Once again the front-page headline screamed for attention.

The Postcard Bandit hits Paris again!

A brazen robbery was committed overnight at the exclusive Arles Auction House on the Boulevard Pereire in Paris. The suspect has been dubbed the Postcard Bandit by the press because of his trademark calling card: vintage postcards with famous love poems typed on the back, with the original verses changed to taunt police.

Gendarmes were quick to snuff out the press romanticizing such a criminal act, and warned people about aggrandizing the person responsible. The gendarmes released a photograph of the Audrey Г‰toile collection stolen in the hopes it will be recognized by collectors around Europe. If you have any information regarding the robbery please contact your local gendarmerie.

My stomach sank. The collection of jewelry pictured was exquisite. We’d been ogling photos online of the upcoming Parisian auction so I recognized them, including a diamond-encrusted timepiece Madame Dupont had her heart set on. The collection was elegant, and timeless, subtly simple, the diamonds set in each the pièce de résistance.

Madame Dupont had joked she’d get that fob watch no matter what she had to do! When I laughed, she’d fallen silent, and reiterated her point. I groped for the memory of exactly what she’d uttered…

Anouk, that watch was once Zelda’s. I must have it for myself…

Madame Dupont was obsessed with the roaring twenties of Paris – the jazz age – and adored Zelda Fitzgerald, heralding her as an icon and a woman who was gifted and creative, but often cast as just a flapper and wife, rather than the talented artist she was in her own right. Madame Dupont had been downright fervent about that fob watch.

I frowned. Was that what her heart-wrenching spiel on the phone had really been about? That she hadn’t given in to love because she wanted her independence and now regretted it? As much as she loved the idea of Zelda, she believed staying single she could accomplish so much more without a man holding her back. But even so, Madame Dupont wouldn’t resort to… I blushed at my treacherous thought – of course she wouldn’t; she couldn’t. She wasn’t a thief!

Once or twice she may have manipulated the truth in the past for reasons known to only her, but she wouldn’t be so shameless or immoral to actually steal! Money mattered little to Madame Dupont because she had plenty of it. She only continued working because she claimed her business kept her young. But committing a brazen robbery? Madame Dupont could easily have bought the entire collection ten times over if she had wanted to!

Shame spread through me. How could I have dreamed up such a thing?

I read the article once more. The Postcard Bandit. Stealing was one thing, mocking the investigators was another. Whoever it was didn’t like authority. Another long afternoon at the shop would give me ample time to think. I thanked the universe I hadn’t been sitting in front of Madame Dupont when I read the newspaper, lest she suspect my mind went straight to her. It was the heady rush of daytime vin blanc, and the angst of missing antiques. That’s all it was. Madame Dupont was as innocent as a newborn baby…

I finished the last of my wine and headed back to the shop, hoping the walk would invigorate me, and clear the detritus in my mind. Madame, the thief! Really.

The late afternoon was quiet. Everyone was soaking up fine weather, and the cloudless sky, so I found my rolodex, oui, I still used a rolodex because I liked the musty smell, and the eggshell-colored cards. I flicked through, scanning the details of my clients, searching for one in particular. I always jotted notes about their purchases, their style, what they desired, so I could help them better. Some cards had only one line, 1920s’ Lalique vases, present for aunt. Others had minuscule scribbles over a handful of cards, my longest and most loyal customers.

I found the card I was looking for. Eva, a woman who collected crystals and other spiritual paraphernalia. She said they had magical powers, and healed any ailment. The different color crystals worked on various emotions: turquoise for balance, amethyst for creativity, and scarlet to conquer fear. The reason I remembered those colors and what they represented was that Eva told me time and again. They were traits I needed to work on.

I dialed her number.

“Anouk, darling! What have you got for me? Yellow, perhaps for enlightenment, because I’ve been seeing the world so clearly lately!”

“Yellow, perhaps… I have some pictures to send you. Next week, there’s an auction, full of crystals from an astrology shop that closed down. All sorts of colors, and sizes being sold in bundles. As far as I can see, there’s been very little interest in it. I thought I might bid for you – what do you think?” A group of women huddled outside, their faces pressed against the window as they pointed to various curios while slurping milkshakes through striped straws.

She shrieked, “You are too good to me, Anouk! Oui, send me the pictures, and I’ll tell you which bundle I need most.”

“I think they’ll each go for perhaps a hundred Euros per lot, maybe less.”

An audible gasp rang out. “It amazes me people just don’t see the value! But it’s great for me. Let me flip your tarot, and see what’s in your future because I know it must only be good things.”

“Merci,” I laughed. There wasn’t a dealer in Paris who’d bother with a sale like this, especially an auction they’d have to attend in person. But for me it was all part of the business. I had customers who spent the equivalent of a small house, and others the cost of a dinner out. They were all important to me. I could see the relevance in everything, from collecting postcards, to candelabras, or pianos. We each desired different things, driven either by budget or simply love.

Eva always read my tarot, and I played along, never really believing but not disbelieving either.

“Oh,” she said. “Oh. Ah.”

“What is it, Eva?” I asked, staring out the window of the shop, watching the peach roses sway in the breeze.

She gasped. “Anouk, you have to tread very carefully. Your life…it’s about to take a strange turn.”

“How so?”

She took a long time to answer. “The cards are showing me some kind of altercation and you’re in the middle of it. All I know is, you’re about to become embroiled in something that you can’t extract yourself from. Be careful, Anouk.” Her voice dropped to a whisper, provoking shivers up my spine.

The door opened suddenly, sending a gust of spring air into the shop, and in he walked. Tristan. I nodded hello, and gripped the phone a touch tighter.

“Anouk,” she said. “Are you there? I haven’t scared you have I?”

Eva’s readings were usually lighthearted. A joke about soup for one, and some lucky guesses about antiques I’d win, and road trips I’d take, but this was new. Perhaps she could see the quarrel from the day before.

“No, you haven’t scared me. I’m sure I’ll be fine, Eva. But thank you for the warning.”




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1. Книга снята с продаж по просьбе правообладателя
2. Книга ещё не поступила в продажу и пока недоступна для чтения