The Little Antique Shop Under the Eiffel Tower (15 page)

Chapter Eleven

After finishing a breakfast – framboise pâtisserie and a scalding café noir – I cleared the dishes away, and gave the table a wipe down. I couldn’t help smiling as I hummed my way around the apartment. Tristan had made such a mess in the kitchen last night, but not a speck of flour nor a dirty dish remained. A man who cooks
and
cleans…
Good with his hands
, Madame Dupont would tease me, waggling her eyebrows suggestively.

Despite worrying I’d be chased around my pillow with nightmares about the attempted mugging, I had slept soundly. A full belly, a night of laughter, and feeling safe with Tristan was the tonic I’d needed. I wasn’t sure what I felt, but there was a spark there, and I needed time to think about what it meant.

Wandering to my bedroom, I threw open the cupboard doors and debated what to pack for my overnight visit to an estate sale in Saint-Tropez. Noting the time, I blanched. I had to hurry; my train was scheduled to depart in two hours.

What’d happened to the girl who was always on schedule? I’d dawdled over breakfast earlier this morning enjoying the quiet, lost inside a daydream. Lilou was out at her ‘office’ working on a new jewelry collection and Henry had raced out the door before I had left my bedroom.

It was nice to have the peace and quiet of my apartment, with only the scent of their half-drunk coffee for company.

I had such a languid morning and didn’t keep to my timetable. I caught myself grinning once or twice, remembering the night before with Tristan. Time to snap out of such a girlish reverie and get myself back on track.

Saint-Tropez waited for no one, me included. The salty scent of the Mediterranean never failed to perk me up. I longed to feel the sand under my feet, the breeze in my hair. But first to finishing packing, and quickly. I pulled some fitted dresses from the cupboard, both with wide belts that cinched at the waist. Added some scarves, and gloves in case the occasion called for it. A pair of wedged heels, and some ballet flats, just in case.

My maman said I was an old soul, caught up in a past life, which I’d never been able to shake, from the way I dressed, to my shop, and my dreamy obsession with the past. Maybe she was right. Perhaps that’s why I found the loosening of traditions so heartbreaking. It felt like Parisians were racing to become more and more modern, and with it we were closing a door on our history. Memories would be lost for good as generations left this world, if we didn’t cherish their possessions and their stories that connected past to present. Sentimental thinking maybe, but that was why I worshipped antiques. Lived and breathed them.

Checking my watch, I sighed, and quickly grabbed a book –
Paris Fashion in the 1920s
– and stuffed it into my handbag, hurrying from my little apartment.

Excitement coursed through me as I rushed to the station. Waiting for me in Saint-Tropez was a writing hutch formerly owned by Anaïs Nin. If I closed my eyes I could see her as a young woman with her brown wavy hair dusting the tops of her shoulders, as she stared outside, waiting for inspiration to strike. She’d been ahead of her time, and an icon to so many.

Anaïs wrote novels in Paris in the thirties. Since then the hutch had moved from place to place, long after the erotic writer left France for the United States. Luckily it had remained on French soil and had been passed down to other writers who had tenuous links with Anaïs. I had a buyer lined up for it who wrote romance novels, in keeping with the theme that it be used for creative types. Marie, the writer who wanted it, was giddy with the thought, and had sent me photos of her disorderly office with a spot the perfect size for the hutch.

The most rewarding part of my job was seeing a customer’s eyes light up when they took delivery, their hands finding their face, mouths hanging open, and the still of the moment, as if time stopped as two worlds collided.

Past and present. Then and now.

Using the hutch, I knew that Marie would have an epiphany, an idea that hauled her from the well of writer’s block; was it her subconscious, or was it Anaïs, giving her a ghostly hand up when the words wouldn’t flow?

You would have been surprised how many customers called me with shy voices and told me stories about their antique, and how they were visited by ghosts – the former owners checking in. As if every now and then, they traveled back from their fluffy perch in heaven to check their beloved antique was still being cared for.

It was especially true for antiques used by artistic people. They found it that much harder to let go and move to the next place. A violin from the early 1800s was heard during the night, the soft lament of the strings ringing out as the new owner was roused from sleep and followed the sound, catching the curtain shiver once or twice, even though the windows were locked tight, and the door bolted.

Or a typewriter, once used by some robust, whisky-fueled writer, would suddenly come to life, its keys clacking in the dark of midnight. It was just a brief visit to touch base with the precious medium that made their art immortal. The clink of a glass to whisky bottle heard, a goodbye, before silence enveloped the room once more.

Even I’d had a visit. I had an old clock, once owned by a fifties’ French actress who was notorious for arriving late on set, and then staying up all hours with whatever beau took her fancy. When I first took the grandfather clock home, it would tick tock louder at the witching hour, as if it was greeting her, and I wondered if I sprinted to the living room if I’d catch her curvaceous shadow caught in moonlight as she revisited the one thing that always beat her in her life – time. She died tragically, young and beautiful, and in the afterlife chased the thing that had evaded her.

Ghosts visiting their prized possessions? It was all sorts of crazy, and I’d be dubious myself, if I hadn’t seen it firsthand. I wondered if Anaïs would be there in spirit today, whispering to me through the ages…

Outside, I ticked off a mental list of who’d be there. Tristan. Ombre. Louis from the art preservation society and maybe…the thief! It was highly probable the robber would be circling around with us none the wiser. I’d subtly note attendees, and see if I could narrow down any new faces and suspects.

Once boarded, I settled in for the long journey on the TGV, which would take me to Saint Raphael where a car would be waiting to drive me further on to Saint-Tropez. I pressed my face against the glass as the view whipped past. No matter my age, I never quite got over the thrill of a long train ride, my journey to somewhere different an energy boost. As we made our way out of Paris the vista changed to open fields with lush green grass, houses dotting the expanse. The rhythmic rocking of the train lulling me into a daydream. I must have fallen asleep, as when I woke there was a posy of pale pink peonies in my lap. Their perfume wafted up to greet me, so deliciously potent I was sure the whole carriage must have inhaled their sensual scent. With a smile, I opened the note attached.

You’re beautiful when you sleep, like something exquisite out of a Pre-Raphaelite painting. I couldn’t disturb you… Perhaps we can meet again in Saint-Tropez?

Tristan

I darted a glance around the carriage looking for him. He must have boarded without my seeing him, and a flutter of nerves swarmed – and something new, a tingle of anticipation.

After dinner last night, things had changed between us. Nothing was openly admitted, but it was almost tangible, the energy shift. A touch here, a glance there was suddenly loaded with meaning, but neither of us had made a move. I still didn’t feel like I knew him well enough, but like Madame Dupont would say,
well enough for what?
It’s not like I was going to sign my business over to him. I wasn’t going to accept a marriage proposal and try for children. I was simply
entertaining
the idea that maybe, just maybe, I might like to date him in the future.

As the train slowed, I gathered my things ready to depart, hoping to catch sight of him. I dillydallied as long as I could on the platform but my car and driver were waiting so I made my way over, suddenly eager as I’d ever been to get to a place.

***

The salty Saint-Tropez wind whipped about. I made my way past the marina where boats docked, waves lapped gently against their hulls, the sound like a
shush
, as if even the ocean was saying ‘relax’.

The tightness in my shoulders sprang loose, leaving me so relaxed I was almost floppy. The natural beauty of the elements disarmed me. With the wide-open expanses, the varying hues of blue sky and never-ending ocean, it was easy to just be.

I checked into a hotel with a balcony that overlooked the brilliant cobalt water, the ripples glittering bright like diamonds. The room was small and sparse because nothing could compete with the view outside. The only noise came from a cluster of children on the shore, and their happy squeals punctuating the day.

Slipping into wedged heels, I wandered into the bright afternoon, ready to tackle the hilly walk to the estate sale.

Chapter Twelve

Homes were clustered around the bay, their windows reflecting lapping waves. I took a hastily hand-drawn map from my purse, and tried to place where I was. Not far, by the directions.

I trudged upward, the view distracting me from the steep climb.

On the peak of a hill a centuries-old château stood regally; even the battering from the squally sea winds could do nothing to it except tint its walls dusty with salt.

I continued toward it. While it was my business to buy from places like this, sadness always engulfed me that such fine objects had to be sold for whatever reason: death, debt, or just clearing out. For example surely no one wanted to part with the Anaïs Nin hutch, but for some reason this estate was shedding its treasures… So while I bought and sold, I did so gently, knowing sometimes the reason was a sad one.

Out of breath from the ascent I reached the top and had a full view of the château. Wrought-iron gates swung wide open, exposing lush green grass. Garden beds were a riot of color with azaleas spilling out in shades of plummy pink. The château itself loomed large, its vastness stealing a chunk of cerulean sky. Bougainvillea climbed up stone walls, shrieking in vibrant fuchsia, their tissue-paper-like petals fluttering as they clung on in the forgiving breeze.

I imagined the interior of the château: the burble of laughter reverberating through cavernous hallways. The echo of voices bouncing off the vaulted ceilings. A grand old ballroom – did it stay silent, its parquetry floors no longer privy to the tap of high heels shoes? What memories must these old walls have absorbed over centuries? I prickled with curiosity, my mind spinning through the decades, picturing the fashion of the mademoiselles changing from generation to generation. Yet still this grand old tribute stood, weathering it all.

In the distance dogs barked, their
woofs
woeful as though they were locked away for the day to save a buyer getting nipped. I made my way along a seashell path, its edges layered with ranunculus. At the door a man wearing a suit gave me a nod. His sunburnt face crinkled into a smile. “Do you have your invitation?” he asked.

I took it from my purse. “Are there many people here?”

“Oui,” he said, giving the invite a cursory glance. “Many. Go through. Follow the passageway to the right, and you’ll come to a parlor. Drinks and canapés are being served there. If you want to see the lots, they’re in the sunroom just beyond that. You have thirty minutes before it commences.”

“Merci,” I said, taking a program from him. My business instinct kicked in. I wanted that hutch and I only hoped no one would bid me up. You never knew who would turn up for estate sales. The thought made my stomach clench. Punters here were unpredictable; often the only prerequisite for an invite was wealth. It was the type of industry where people came to events like this just to be seen, to splash their cash, and then go on their way. I couldn’t do much to protect the pieces, except try to win some and make sure they went to a home where they would be adored.

My wedge heels clacked nosily over the wooden floorboards, which were polished to a shine. When I found the parlor, a waiter approached holding a tray aloft. “Champagne?”

I shook my head. “Non, merci.” I’d toast once the Anaïs Nin hutch belonged to me.

I waved to a few people I knew, not stopping to chat, and made my way to the sunroom. As always, my heart lifted when I was surrounded by exquisite antiques. So much history crowded into a space, their futures up in the air, as if they were holding their breath too, awaiting their fate.

It was late afternoon when filmy sunlight filtered in, landing on the furniture like a soft spotlight. Two security guards leaned up against a wall, their arms crossed loosely as they chatted, their voices reverberating in the high-ceilinged room. They nodded to me and resumed their conversation.

There was a huge collection of items: lamps, world globes, a regal four-poster bed with dramatic velvet drapes. Rare books – probably first editions – which were locked in a glass cabinet. I gave them a passing glance; if there was an Anaïs Nin edition it would pair well with the hutch. I ran a finger along the glass:
Stein. Hemingway. F Scott Fitzgerald.
A fine trio of American novelists who’d made Paris their home for at least a little while. If I got the hutch at a reasonable price I vowed to bid on those beauties for my own collection.

The air in the room hummed as I felt the presence of someone behind me, yet I hadn’t heard their approach, as noisy as my own had been. I whirled and came face to face with
him
, my heartbeat increasing just a little.

“Thank you for the flowers. Peonies are my favorite.” A blush crept up my cheeks, and I frowned at my body betraying me. Game face should’ve been on, no matter what may have changed between us.

He smiled. “Lucky guess then.” Tristan was dressed immaculately, pleasure-seeker style, his blond wavy hair pushed back, the sparkly blue of his eyes a shade lighter than the Mediterranean outside.