Rebecca Raisin - The Little Antique Shop Under The Eiffel Tower

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

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 élégance 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 Étoile 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!