say no when the next big story gets waved in front of you?” He wouldn’t though. It was too hard to resist – a new place, a fresh twist, the way he’d spin the story. I respected him for the way he worked, his ethics. Intrinsically, he wanted to do the right thing, report honestly, when so many others concocted a headline that would sell, not a headline with the truth. Ridge had integrity, and was building a name for himself because of it.
“I promise, Sarah. When I get to Paris, it’s you and me, for a few weeks at least. Enough time that you’ll get sick of me, and push me to go back to work.”
“Yeah right, Romeo. Just try me.”
I wanted to clutch his hand while we strolled along the cobbled streets of Paris, the wind whipping my hair around, while Ridge whispered sweet nothings to me. The river Seine flowing languidly beside us as we walked without purpose, perhaps stumbling into the warmth of a bistro, where sensual French chatter would wash over me making me feel like I was living inside my own dreams.
“Oh I plan to try everything, at least once.”
I smiled into the quiet of the night. “Good…I need a tour guide after all, and you’re the man for the job.” Ridge had spent a few summers in Paris, working for a French newspaper. He spoke the language fluently, and knew a lot about the city.
“Tour guide?” he said huskily. “You’re not going to see much except the inside of the bedroom, for the first few days at least.”
My lips parted in anticipation. “I’m going to hold you to that.”
“Fly safe, and call me when you arrive?” he said.
“You too. Be careful in Indonesia.”
“I love you, Sarah Smith.”
“And I you, Ridge Warner.”
***
Before dawn draped its golden orange ribbons across the sky, I was at my bookshop, enjoying the quiet, relishing the long goodbye. The lull before the town awoke. Soft yellow lamp light spilled through the shop, the novels basked sleepily in the warm glow.
Leaving my books would be like leaving a piece of me behind, just the thought made me catch my breath, as though I’d done something audacious even considering it. I ran my fingers over their covers, murmuring farewells. How many would be missing when I returned? Their voyage into someone’s home, someone’s life, completed without me. There’d be no time to wish them well.
There was a slight rustle, a whisper-quiet mewling. I pivoted, hoping to catch a book moving, but I was too late. The stacks stood solemnly, fat with pride and perhaps a touch of melancholy. Did they sense I was leaving? I wanted to lock the front door, and let them all languish until I returned…
Would Sophie’s shop be this alive? With stacks of leather bound books peeking from a wooden shelf so high, I’d need a ladder to investigate? Or hidden hutches piled with old letters and diaries, penned by some of the writers who’d escaped from their lives and scribbled away there, their words flowing in such a famous place. Would I arrive and hear whispers from the past? The murmur of authors long since gone from this world? Their ghostlike presence hovering in the place they wrote their very last masterpiece. The place they were happiest – a haven for word lovers.
I wanted that…that feeling of being wholly alive, surrounded by likeminded souls. Bibliophiles who re-read a book because it was so damn good – it had become a friend, one you turned to for comfort. The intimacy, the quiet, where words washed over you and made you smile again.
And to befriend other bookworms whose lives were left in tatters after falling in love with a fictional character. Unable to eat or sleep, and sad that you’d never met him, because he wasn’t real, except in your mind. But you still looked for him in faces of people on the street anyway, you’d recognize him anywhere. It would take weeks, sometimes years to stop yearning for that character who’d virtually jumped from the page and smothered you with kisses. Would I find people like that in the bookshop on the Left Bank where the cherry trees stood?
With a nervous flutter in my belly, I said goodbye to my books, and silently wished them well, hoping that if a customer stumbled upon them while I was absent they’d be cherished.
The sun bobbed in the blue sky, making me squint. For October, it was warmer than I’d expected, more so than Ashford. It was as though the city of love had pulled out all the stops on my first morning here. The air was fragrant with promise. I rifled through my backpack, searching for sunglasses. My face was split with a cheesy grin.
I was really here! Paris!
And so far, I’d hadn’t been snatched, mugged, or even scammed, as Mom had warned me about four million times before she kissed me goodbye. Rolling my suitcase along, stifling a yawn, I made my way to a ticket booth to ask where the train station was.
I had to catch the RER train to central Paris, but I’d been swept along in a throng of people, and unsure of which way I was meant to go. Somehow I’d ended up outside, and couldn’t contain my joy. I wanted to jump in the air, kick my heels together, and screech Bonjour, France! Instead, I smiled and trundled forward. Fatigue tried to catch me, I’d stayed awake for most of the flight, as excitement pulsed through my veins making sleep impossible. I shook the lethargy away, promising myself a nap before starting at the bookshop. The time difference made my head spin – but I was here, and that was the only thing that mattered.
A raven haired woman, chewing gum in the same repetitive pattern, click, blow, pop, eyed me with feigned disinterest as I approached the counter. “Oui?” she said.
I dropped my backpack to the floor, and leaned close to the glass.
I hastily found the train timetable, and pointed. “Où est…” Where is – how did you say train station? I flipped through my French phrase book.
Before I could find it, she popped her gum and said in English, “The train station is that way.” She looked over my shoulder to the next person, signaling she was finished with me. I wanted to laugh, she was so French!
“Merci beaucoup,” I thanked her, feeling foolish that my accent was so jarring compared to the words that fell from her tongue in a silky cadence.
Hefting my backpack on, I wheeled my suitcase in front and made my way to the platform. The sign was a maze of different colored lines crisscrossing all over the place. Shoot. It was a complicated web, how on earth would I pick the right one? I’d expected one freaking train! My research hadn’t stretched to public transport, and again the size of the place hit home.
Overhead on the PA a French voice rang out, announcing something, but speaking so quickly I couldn’t untangle the words. I blew out a breath, maybe Sophie’s French lessons wouldn’t be enough here – unless people spoke to me like I was a five-year-old, with laboriously slow enunciation. Behind me people hurried along, bumping into me and jostling me out of the way. A train approached, its motor screeching, and brakes grinding, so loud it was like a drawn out scream. I turned in fright, but no one took any notice. Open mouthed, I watched crowds exit the newly arrived train, and others elbow their way on, in one big gorging mass of bodies, and bulky accoutrements.
As fast as a
