The Little Antique Shop Under The Eiffel Tower

“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

“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 wanted to 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?”