Paris Is Always a Good Idea (30 page)

The best moment of the day:

Father and son have found each other!

Robert has just called. He was still very emotional about their talk in the parc de Bagatelle. Max showed him the spot under the old tree near the Grotto of the Four Winds where he was with Ruth that day.

Apparently Max already knew when we left yesterday evening. A feeling of affinity. And then there was that date on the photo … My suspicion was also correct. Ruth spent the last night with him. And almost exactly nine months later, Robert was born. And yet for all those years Max had no idea that he had a son. He never saw Ruth again—not even at the time when Robert was in Paris with his mother.

By that time Max was already married to Marguerite. Did Ruth travel to Paris on that occasion to look for Max and then see him with his wife? Perhaps in a café? Perhaps she found out somehow that he was married? That would at least explain why she was so depressed when they left.

How could she ever have forgotten Max, since she had his son in front of her every day, a boy who was so wonderful that she showered him with love? Perhaps she guessed and hoped that he would combine the best qualities of Paul, Max, and herself.

Robert says they talked a lot, he and Max. About Ruth and everything else.

He's spending the night in Le Vésinet.

 

Thirty

Looking back with the nostalgia of a woman in love, Rosalie had thought that she would never experience such great happiness as she had that night when she first lay in the arms of the professor of literature from New York. She would never forget that night, not least because the lack of an entry in her little blue notebook would always remind her of it.

Robert had whispered the tenderest words in her ear, lover's oaths both invented and borrowed interwove magically in that very personal midsummer night's dream, and Rosalie was almost a little jealous of this precious, unique moment which she would be as little able to keep hold of and prolong as any other moment in her life. And as her feelings flew higher than they had ever done before, she allowed herself the bittersweet and somewhat sentimental thought that their feet would have to touch the ground again sometime—but only to tread a path into the future together.

But she was certainly not prepared for such a crash landing. She'd thought of everything—except that her relationship with Robert would come to a swift and sudden end.

*   *   *

COMPLETELY UNSUSPECTING, SHE HAD
been returning from the vet with William Morris that afternoon when she saw the red-haired woman in the slim, dark-green skirt and white blouse who was walking up and down outside her store in elegant leather pumps. From a distance she had thought it was the Italian woman—Gabriella Spinelli. But as she came closer she saw that it was a stranger. A strikingly beautiful woman.

She carefully put down the bag that contained the softly whimpering William Morris. “
Bonjour madame,
are you looking for me? I'm afraid the store is closed today.” The slim woman with the red curls smiled.

“I've already noticed that,” she said in rather clumsy French, which didn't quite fit in with her perfect appearance. “I don't want to buy anything, anyway. I just want to talk to the owner of this postcard store.”

“Oh!” said Rosalie in some surprise. “Well then, you're in luck. That's me. Rosalie Laurent. What do you want to talk about?”

“I don't really want to discuss it on the street,” said the stranger with a strange smile, her gaze resting on a passerby who was looking at her in fascination. “Can I come in for a moment?”

She had an unmistakably American accent, and Rosalie wondered if it was a matter of business. Was this woman with her chin-length curls perhaps a publisher looking for a new illustrator?

“Yes … of course … come in.” In spite of the smile she looked kind of intimidating, thought Rosalie. More like you imagined a tax investigator to be. She unlocked the store and invited the American in.

“Please sit down.” Rosalie opened the bag and put William Morris carefully into his basket. “What did you want to talk about?”

The American glanced at William Morris in some confusion, and looked briefly around the store before looking back at Rosalie. Was she just imagining it, or could she glimpse a trace of hostility in her green eyes?

“No thanks, I'd rather stand.” She deliberately looked Rosalie over from head to toe. “It's about Robert Sherman,” she said.

“About Robert?” repeated Rosalie, not understanding at all. “What about Robert?” A bad feeling took hold of her. “I spoke to him on the telephone yesterday. Has something happened?”

“Yeah, I'd like to know that, too,” replied the redhead with a cold smile. “Because I spoke to Robert on the phone over the weekend—and I have to say it was a very strange call. Dear old Robert seemed to me to be quite confused.”

“Dear old Robert”? Was this woman an acquaintance of Robert's? Rosalie looked at her in bewilderment. “Well, yes…,” she said. “A lot of things happened, you know—”

“I don't want to be impolite, but may I ask what your relationship to Robert is?” the woman interrupted sharply.

“Pardon?”
Rosalie could feel herself getting hot. “What do you mean? Robert Sherman is my boyfriend. And who are you, please?”

“Listen, that's what I wanted to have a little chat with you about. Because there's a little problem here.” She fixed her eyes on Rosalie. “Robert Sherman is
my
boyfriend—or rather my fiancé.” She gave a thin-lipped smile. “I'm Rachel, by the way.”

“Rachel?” The name meant nothing to her. Was this woman crazy? Or was there a conspiracy of red-haired women who were all after Robert Sherman? Rosalie shook her head energetically. “There must be some misunderstanding—Robert doesn't have a girlfriend called Rachel.”

“Oh … doesn't he?” Rachel raised her eyebrows and her voice took on a very unpleasant tone. “I'm afraid the misunderstanding is all yours, mademoiselle.”

“No…” Rosalie contradicted her, but then suddenly turned pale. She had of course heard the name Rachel once—when she'd been standing outside the terrace door at Max Marchais's villa and Robert's cell phone kept on ringing.

“Oh, that was just … Rachel. Someone I know.” In her mind's eye she saw him again, sheepishly putting his cell phone back in his pocket.

“But … Robert said you were just an acquaintance … you sent him the manuscript … now I remember,” she said in confusion.

“An acquaintance?!” Rachel laughed curtly. “Well, he certainly hasn't told you the whole truth.” She held her right hand under Rosalie's nose. “Do you know what this is?” she asked triumphantly. A diamond was glittering on her finger. “Robert is my fiancé, we've been living together for three years in a little apartment in SoHo. But when we marry this fall and Robert takes over at Sherman and Sons, we'll probably look for something bigger.”

She pulled her hand back and looked at her perfectly manicured fingernails. “Fortunately he's come back to his senses—a guest professorship at the Sorbonne, really! I told him straight away that it was a crazy idea, but after his mother's death he was understandably a bit out of it.” She sighed.

“And then all the excitement about that manuscript.” Rosalie felt as if the old stone floor was rocking beneath her feet. This woman knew too much to be just an acquaintance. Was it possible that Robert had lied to her so badly? She could see him again as he leaned back in bed after that unbelievable night, smiling at her as if she were the only woman in the world. “That can't be true,” she said in a dull voice, leaning on the counter for support.

“And yet it is,” replied Rachel cheerfully. “I've come to Paris to fetch Robert. Didn't he tell you that? On Thursday we're flying back to New York.”

“He said he loved me.” Rosalie felt as if the pain was tearing the floor out from beneath her feet.

Rachel looked at her pityingly. “I should really be mad at you, but I can see that you had no clue at all. Don't take it too much to heart, you're not to blame.” She shook her head, and a keener observer than Rosalie, who was totally floored by this experience, might well have noticed how false her smile was as she now said, “It's always the same with Robert. He's like a little boy—he just can't resist a pretty face. That's why I'll be very glad when he gives up working at the university. All those young students.” She clicked her tongue and looked with the utmost satisfaction at the young woman behind the counter, who was staring at the floor, blinded by tears.

“So, no hard feelings,” she said, shaking her red curls and turning to go. “I think we understand one another. I'm sure I don't need to ask you to keep your hands off my future husband?”

Without waiting for an answer she turned and left the store.

 

Thirty-one

They had certainly been the three most exciting days of his life, thought Robert Sherman, as he walked on air through the Latin Quarter. An hour before he had been with Professeur Lepage to sign the contract for his guest professorship. The day before he had sat for hours with Max on a bench in the rosarium of the parc de Bagatelle and come to the astonished realization that it looked as if he now had a father again. And the day before—he shut his eyes for a moment and experienced once again that incredible sense of happiness that filled him whenever he thought of his night with Rosalie—the day before, he had found the woman of his dreams.

The ludicrous ultimatum that Rachel had presented to him in New York had almost run out. He remembered their edgy conversation when he called her back after the break-in and told her excitedly about the manuscript that Rosalie had found totally by chance in a box on top of Marchais's wardrobe. “Gosh, it sounds like a novel by Lucinda Riley,” Rachel had said with a sigh, and then laughed—although the laugh had not sounded particularly friendly. “Perhaps you two should open a detective agency. Listening to you, I get the impression that you're hanging around with that postcard seller day and night.”

“What nonsense. Rosalie's just helping me, that's all,” he had said—and at that point in time it had still been the truth. “She's very nice. You'd like her.”

“I'm not so sure about that.” Rachel had ended the conversation rather snappily, but when she called him again on Friday evening she had been very friendly and understanding. She had kept on asking questions, and so he'd finally told her about his planned visit to Max Marchais and also briefly mentioned that he'd spoken to the dean at the university.

“And?” she had asked.

“We need to talk about that calmly when we have more time.” He hadn't wanted to get into an argument with her, not at that moment, not before the other important matter was cleared up. So he'd given her evasive answers and ended the call by saying that he'd be in touch with her again on the weekend. “I'll call you when I get back from Le Vésinet,” he had said, and only now did he remember that he still owed Rachel that call. Because it was precisely that weekend when all those events had coincided; his whole life felt like a whirlwind had hit it and he'd tumbled from one excitement to the next. But as he sat at breakfast with Max in the morning and gazed out over the garden he had suddenly become very calm. The decision was made: he would stay in Paris, perhaps forever.

He intended, as soon as he got back to the hotel, to call Rachel and get things straight. Nothing was going to hold him back on his new path through life.

“Oh, Mr. Sherman, you will see, you will like it 'ere with us,” the dapper Professeur Lepage had said as he escorted him to the door and delightedly shook his hand. “You already look like an 'appy man.”

With a smile, Robert speeded up as he turned from the boulevard Saint-Germain onto the rue du Dragon.

He was a happy man.

He was burning to tell Rosalie everything and could hardly wait to take her in his arms.

Strangely, nobody came to the door. The store was shut as it was every Monday. Robert peered through the store window in the hope of seeing Rosalie inside, but she wasn't there. He rang the doorbell of the apartment several times, also in vain. He looked at his watch. It was six thirty and he'd called her that morning to say that he would drop in on her in the early evening.

Was she still in the veterinary clinic? Had her little dog's condition perhaps worsened?

Robert stood indecisively for a while looking at the pattern on the turquoise gift wrap that was hanging in the window like a cloud in the sky. Then he called Rosalie on her cell phone. But no one answered that either. He left a short message to say that he was now going back to the hotel and then directed his steps toward the rue Jacob.

The receptionist in the Hôtel des Marronniers gave him an amused smile. “You have a visitor, Monsieur Sherman. Your friend said she'd like to wait for you in your room. I hope it was all right for me to allow her to go up.” She smiled conspiratorially as she handed him the second key over the dark wooden counter.

Robert nodded, a bit surprised, but then his heart began to beat a little faster in joyful anticipation. Rosalie had obviously already picked up his message and rushed to the hotel. Impatiently, he pressed the button in the elevator which, after a short, worrying buzzing noise, clattered into motion.

That's all I need—to get stuck in here now,
thought Robert cheerfully. But the elevator got to the fourth floor without any incident.

He ran his fingers quickly through his hair and tugged open the door in happy anticipation. He saw the silhouette of a woman standing in the sunlight beside the window.

“You're here already!” he said tenderly. “My God, how I've missed you!”

“Hello, Robert!”