The Little Bookshop On the Seine (33 page)

“Once they’re done,” Oceane said. “I’ll toss them in a little butter, and top with some roasted almond slivers and some chopped parsley.” The French knew how to cook, even the most basic dishes they fancied up with different herbs and the essential dollop of butter that accompanied everything.

We sat down to eat, everyone complimenting the meal and managing to hide their grimaces when the
jus
I’d made tasted sour enough to pucker their lips. I don’t know what I did but it had split, and tasted all sorts of wrong. I played along, “Anyone want more of the
jus
?” I lifted the gravy jug in the air.

Ridge coughed. “I wouldn’t want to appear greedy.”

“None for me,” TJ said. “I have another party later. Don’t want to overdo it.”

Beatrice rolled her eyes. “Sarah, it tastes like vinegar. I don’t think you can call it a
jus
just yet. But well done for trying.”

I laughed. “I was waiting for someone to say it! I have a way to go before I can call myself a French cook.”

Oceane raised an eyebrow. “When you arrived here, Sarah, you couldn’t boil an egg. You’ve come a long way.” And I had. Not just with my kitchen prowess either.

“My life of microwave meals are over.”

We finished the meal, and the guys cleared the table and stacked the dishwasher. “I could get used to this,” I said, watching them work from the comfort of the sofa.

Oceane sat beside me. “Me too. I have a present for you.” She took a small gift from her handbag. “So you don’t forget about us whenever you decide to leave. And so you remember how much fun your first Paris Christmas was.”

“I’ll never forget,” I said. I took the paper off and it was my turn for tears to prick my eyes. It was a photo of us all around the Christmas tree in the bookshop, taken the night before when we’d closed the shop, and opened a bottle of wine, exhilarated about a few days off. We were pulling silly faces, and our eyes shone with happiness, in that pure, free way you have when life is truly the best it can be. “The frame Anouk says belonged to a formidable woman who collected art, and scribbled some books too. You might know her as one of the lost, who wasn’t lost at all.”

I gasped. “Gertrude Stein?”

“The very same.”

“I’ll treasure it,” I promised. I went to the tree and grabbed Oceane’s gift.

She gave me a wide smile and opened it. “It’s perfect,” she said, placing the necklace over her head. I’d searched everywhere for the girl who has everything and eventually stumbled on a tiny market that sold bookish gifts. The pendant was a pile of golden books and by chance the top one was engraved with Once Upon a Time. “I absolutely love it!” We gave each other a quick hug, delighting in our presents and what they represented.

The guys wandered back into the room and filled our champagne glasses. We pulled the Christmas crackers, laughing at the silly jokes that were written on the parchment inside.

Evening came too quickly, the rest of the staff coming and going, cheery and smiley and leaving for other parties around the town.

“Should we go for a walk before the Sandman comes for Marc?” I asked. His blinks were getting longer, the excitement of the day catching him. “We could take him to see the Christmas lights.” Almost every avenue was lit up, whether it was the trees along the side of the road, to balconies above circled with fairy light and glittery decorations.

“He’d love that,” Beatrice said smiling.

Luiz nodded and said, “Shall we leave a note on the door in case the other staff arrive?”

“I’ll stay back, and wait,” TJ said, waggling his eyebrows as he clutched an unopened bottle of champagne. “Now I’m a proper published writer I think I’m supposed to develop some bad vices like drinking too much or smoking?”

Oceane laughed. “I don’t think so. But for today, you can do whatever you want.”

Ridge wandered over and sat on the edge of the sofa, taking my hand in his, giving me that special look, one that said so much with just a raise of his brows. Having him so close made my heart lift, and I knew if we were separated again for work or anything, I wouldn’t overthink it. I wouldn’t second guess myself. Our love was real and we could deal with anything. I was overjoyed he’d eventually work in Ashford full time, but if the shine wore off that, I’d understand. This exchange had opened my eyes to so many things, and my future wouldn’t be spent in one place anymore. Perhaps vacations would be the order of the day and that would be enough for me.

Outside the Eiffel Tower pulsed and flashed on the hour. Fireworks burst in the distance, making us stagger to the window in haste to catch the spectacular sight. The merriment from outside drifted up. Full boats chugged down the river, people milled along waving, the Notre Dame in the distance had a crowd of people lining up for a Christmas concert.

There was a knock on the door. “Must be another reveler,” I said, moving to answer it.

“
Oui
?” I said to the man who stood there. His face fell when he saw me.

“Where’s Sophie?”

“She’s in America, on…a sort of holiday. Can I pass on a message?”

His gaze flicked behind me, as if he didn’t believe she wasn’t really there. “Tell her that Pierre called for her, and I am hers now. If she wants me. Tell her…that I’ve always loved her.”

I gasped, recognizing his name. “Why don’t you phone her and tell her yourself?” I said, my words coming out in a garbled rush. The love letters… Of course, it was Sophie! I felt blind for not seeing it now. The piano room! A legacy to the man she loved and lost. Luiz nodded to me, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

Pierre blushed with so many sets of eyes on him as Luiz welcomed him into the apartment. I yelled out the phone number while Luiz practically dialed the cordless phone for him, before pushing him into the bedroom for some privacy, and shut the door.

I was frozen to the spot. Ridge stood next to me and pulled me in for a hug. “My reporter sense is tingling,” he said, laughter in his eyes. “But you can tell me later. For now, I want to stroll through Paris with you and watch your face light up at every little thing you see.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I’ve been thinking long and hard about things, Sarah Smith. And I think we should stay in Paris as long as you want. Will you miss your bookshop too much?”

“You’re going to stay?”

“Every minute, every hour, until you cluck your tongue and want some space.”

“But the…”

“The investors confirmed this morning. We’re good to go, and like I said, I can edit anywhere.”

“So I’ll be your tour guide?”

“I hope you’ll be all that and more…” He kissed me so softly on the lips and I swooned. Actually swooned like they do in the books. Here he was, my book boyfriend come to life.

We were interrupted by Pierre rushing from the room, his face shining. “She said yes!” he said. “She has always loved me. It’s not too late for us. This time the music will
not
get in the way!”

I smiled. He’d chosen his career which led to a lover and a baby. Ridge had chosen me. But Pierre got a second chance and my heart lifted with happiness for Sophie getting her happy ever after, finally.

Ridge wrapped his arm around me, pulling me close. We gazed at each other, the rest of the world fading.

It was true. Real love always finds a way.

If you loved
The Little Bookshop on the Seine
then turn the page for an exclusive extract from

A Gingerbread Café Christmas

Chapter One

Amazing Grace
blares out from the speakers above me, and I cry, not delicate, pretty tears, but great big heaves that will puff up my eyes, like a blowfish. That song touches me, always has, always will. With one hand jammed well and truly up the turkey’s behind I sing those mellifluous words as if I’m preaching to a choir. Careful, so my tears don’t swamp the damn bird, I grab another handful of aromatic stuffing. My secret recipe: a mix of pork sausage, pecans, cranberries and crumbled corn bread. Punchy flavors that will seep into the flesh and make your heart sing. The song reaches its crescendo, and my tears turn into a fully-fledged blubber-fest. The doorbell jangles and I realize I can’t wipe my face with my messy hands. Frantic, I try and compose myself as best I can.

“Jesus Mother o’ Mary, ain’t no customers comin’ in here with this kinda carry-on! It’s been two years since that damn fool left you. When you gonna move on, my sweet cherry blossom?”

CeeCee. My only employee at the Gingerbread Café, a big, round, southern black woman, who tells it like it is. Older than me by a couple of decades, more like a second mother than anything. Bless her heart.

“Oh, yeah?” I retort. “How are you expecting me to move on? I still love the man.”

“He ain’t no man. A man wouldn’t never cheat on his wife. He’s a boy, playing at being a man.”

“You’re right there.” Still, it’s been two lonely years, and I ache for him. There’s no accounting for what the heart feels. I’m heading towards the pointy end of my twenties. By now, I should be raising babies like all the other girls in town, not baking gingerbread families in lieu of the real thing.

I’m distracted from my heartbreak by CeeCee cackling like a witch. She puts her hands on her hips, which are hidden by the dense parka she wears, and doubles over. While she’s hooting and hollering, I stare, unsure of what’s so damn amusing. “Are you finished?” I ask, arching my eyebrows.

This starts her off again, and she’s leg slapping, cawing, the whole shebang.

“It’s just…” She looks at me, and wipes her weeping eyes. “You look a sight. Your hand shoved so far up the rear of that turkey, like you looking for the meaning of life, your boohooing, this sad old music. Golly.”

“This is your music, CeeCee. Your gospel CD.”

She colors. “I knew that. It’s truly beautiful, beautiful, it is.”

“Thought you might say that.” I grin back. CeeCee’s church is the most important thing in her life, aside from her family, and me.

“Where we up to?” she says, taking off her parka, which is dusted white from snow. Carefully, she shakes the flakes into the sink before hanging her jacket on the coat rack by the fire.

“I’m stuffing these birds, and hoping to God someone’s going to buy them. Where’s the rush? Two and a bit weeks before Christmas we’re usually run off our feet.”

CeeCee wraps an apron around her plump frame. “It’ll happen, Lil. Maybe everyone’s just starting a little later this year, is all.” She shrugs, and goes to the sink to wash her hands.

“I don’t remember it ever being this quiet. No catering booked at all over the holidays, aside from the few Christmas parties we’ve already done. Don’t you think that’s strange?”

“So, we push the café more, maybe write up the chalkboard with the fact you’re selling turkeys already stuffed.” This provokes another gale of laughter.

“This is going to be you in a minute—” I indicate to the bird “—so I don’t see what’s so darn amusing.”

“Give me that bowl, then.”

We put the stuffing mix between us and hum along to Christmas music while we work. We decorated the café almost a month ago now. Winter has set in. The grey skies are a backdrop for our flashing Christmas lights that adorn the windows. Outside, snow drifts down coating the window panes and it’s so cozy I want to snuggle by the fire and watch the world go by. Glimmering red and green baubles hang from the ceiling, and spin like disco balls each time a customer blows in. A real tree holds up the corner; the smell from the needles, earth and pine, seeps out beneath the shiny decorations.

In pride of place, sitting squarely in the bay window, is our gingerbread house. It’s four feet high, with red and white candy-cane pillars holding up the thatched roof. There’s a wide chimney, decorated with green and red jelly beans, ready for Santa to climb down. And the white chocolate front door has a wreath made from spun sugar. In the garden, marshmallow snowmen gaze cheerfully out from under their hats. If you look inside the star-shaped window, you can see a gingerbread family sitting beside a Christmas tree. The local children come in droves to ogle it, and CeeCee is always quick to invite them in for a cup of cocoa, out of the cold.

I opened up the Gingerbread Café a few years back, but the town of Ashford is only a blip on the map of Connecticut, so I run a catering business to make ends meet. We cater for any party, large or small, and open the café during the week to sell freshly made cakes, pies, and whatever CeeCee’s got a hankering for. But we specialize in anything ginger. Gingerbread men, cookies, beverages, you name it, we’ve made it. You can’t get any more comforting than a concoction of golden syrup, butter, and ginger baking in the oven in the shape of little bobble-headed people. The smell alone will transport you back to childhood.

CeeCee’s the best pie maker I’ve ever known. They sell out as quickly as we can make them. But pies alone won’t keep me afloat.

“So, you hear anything about that fine-looking thing, from over the road?” CeeCee asks.

“What fine thing?”

She rolls her eyes dramatically. “Damon, his name is. The one opening up the new shop, remember? You know who I mean. We went over there to peek just the other day.”

“I haven’t heard boo about him. And who cares, anyhow?”

“You sure as hell wouldn’t be bent over dead poultry, leaking from those big blue eyes of yours, if he was snuggled in your bed at night.”

I gasp and pretend to be outraged. “CeeCee! Maybe you could keep him warm—you ever think of that?”

“Oh, my. If I was your age, I’d be over there lickety-split. But I ain’t and he might be just the distraction you need.”

“Pfft. The only distraction I need is for that cash register to start opening and closing on account of it filling with cold hard cash.”

“You could fix up those blond curls of yours, maybe paint your nails. You ain’t got time to dilly-dally. Once the girls in town catch on, he’s gonna be snapped right up,” says CeeCee, clicking her fingers.

“They can have him. I still love Joel.”

CeeCee shakes her head and mumbles to herself. “That’s about the dumbest thing I ever heard. You know he’s moved on.”