A Wedding in Paris Read online

  “Wonderful.” Madame Beaulieu clapped her hands together, clearly delighted. “Madame Ortolon tells me the inn is full. Everyone has arrived. We will have a beautiful week, and a beautiful wedding.”

  “All weddings are beautiful, are they not?” Giselle said, turning once more to her croissants.

  “Yes, but a wedding in Paris, that is the most beautiful of all, I believe.” Madame smiled at Lacey.

  Lacey nodded and turned her attention once more to the eggs. Though the excitement of helping with the wedding preparations remained, she couldn’t help but feel a little melancholy, too. As she had told Marc, being around lovers made one more aware of one’s own loneliness. Her fantasies of the perfect man were entertaining, but she was ready to find the real thing. Paris was a city made to be enjoyed in the company of a lover.

  DESPITE HIS EXHAUSTION, Marc spent a restless night. Uncle Frank’s words rubbed at him like a rock beneath his mattress. There are more important things in life than a job. People, and your relationships with them…

  It wasn’t as if he didn’t have friends. He got along well with the other photographers and writers with whom he often traveled. And he rarely went long without a woman in his life. He just wasn’t ready to settle down. He didn’t need all the closeness and romance most women wanted.

  Still, he had to admit his life these days revolved around work. It might be that he could use a little more balance. He could start by taking his uncle’s advice and trying to relax this week.

  He finally fell into a deep sleep and woke late. Half-afraid he’d missed breakfast, he dressed hastily, grumbling as he maneuvered in the narrow space between his bed and the wall, and made his way downstairs.

  The first person he spotted was the little American cook. She was exiting the kitchen with a large silver tray of still-steaming croissants. Marc rushed to hold the door for her. “Good morning,” she greeted him in English. “You’re looking much better today, Mr. Kendrick. Did you sleep well?”

  “Eventually, yes.” He followed her into the dining room, where she transferred the croissants to a laden buffet table. “I’m glad I ran into you,” he said.

  “Oh?” Her cheeks were very pink beneath a fall of dark hair. Was she flushed from the heat of the kitchen? Or from something he had said or done? The idea intrigued him.

  “I didn’t even get your name.”

  “It’s Lacey. Lacey Jessup.”

  She turned back toward the kitchen and he held the door open for her once more. “You’re American?” he asked.

  She nodded. “I’m from Iowa. I’m in Paris studying at Le Cordon Bleu.”

  That explained the chef’s uniform. “I wanted to apologize for my abruptness last night,” he said. “My only excuse is that I really was exhausted.”

  “It’s all right. You weren’t that bad.”

  Her smile dazzled him. He might even have forgotten to breathe for a moment. It wasn’t that she was extraordinarily beautiful. She was pretty in a wholesome way, but her chief attraction lay in the way she was so completely focused on him—as if there was no one else in the room.

  “You’re in a wonderful place to relax now,” she said.

  “I am?” An inn crowded with relatives and soon-to-be-relatives hardly seemed the ideal place to rest.

  “Of course.” She laughed. “Paris is one of the most beautiful cities in the world. The wedding isn’t for five days, so you have plenty of time to explore. Unless—” she glanced at him out of the corner of her eye “—you’ve seen the city so many times before you’re bored with it.”

  “The only part of Paris I’ve really seen is the airports.” He’d passed through many times on his way to other parts of the world, but had never taken time to see anything outside the terminal. The thought of doing so now, alone, held no appeal. But with a pretty female for company… “Maybe you could show me some of the city, if you have time.”

  She stared openly at him, obviously surprised by the invitation. He cursed his impulsiveness. She probably had some hulking French boyfriend who liked nothing better than to pound hapless Americans. Or else she was still so put off by his rudeness last night she didn’t want to spend one more minute in his company, much less a morning or afternoon. He tried for a graceful exit. “Of course, if you’re busy…”

  “No.” Her expression relaxed, and she fixed him with a smile that once more momentarily stunned him. “Today I have class, and I have to help prepare tonight’s dinner. But tomorrow I’m free all day after breakfast. I’d love to see the city with you.”

  “All right then. Good.” He stepped back, detesting the sudden awkwardness that had him tripping over his own tongue. “I’ll see you tomorrow after breakfast, then.”

  He whirled and exited before he made a bigger fool of himself.

  Of course there was no such thing as solitude in which to brood in an inn full of wedding guests. He was filling his plate from the buffet table when Gabe’s sister, Gina, stormed into the room, followed by her mother, Audrey. “I can’t believe you forgot to pack your shoes,” Audrey said, her voice rising above the low murmur of conversation in the room.

  “Mom! It’s just shoes,” Gina said as she helped herself to coffee. “I’ll just go today and buy another pair.” She grinned. “Or three. After all, this is Paris.”

  “Those were dyed to match your dress.” Audrey filled her own cup. She had the harried look of a woman with very many details to see to and not a great deal of time to devote to the matter.

  “But they don’t have to match, do they?” Gina said. “I mean, it’s not like everyone’s going to be looking at my shoes.”

  “If your shoes don’t match, then everyone else will have to change,” her mother said.

  Gina shrugged. “So?”

  They drifted out of earshot. Marc grimaced at his plate. This was what he had to look forward to—five days of uproar over trivial matters like the color of shoes, the length of hems and place settings at the dinner table. It was enough to make any man want to become a monk.

  Right now, though, he’d settle for breakfast in peace. He was searching for some place to sit when he was literally accosted by the erstwhile bridegroom, Gabe, and dragged by the elbow to a table in the corner. “Marc, I want you to meet my future wife, Alexis Donovan. Alex, this is my cousin Marc Kendrick.”

  At the words “future wife” Alexis, a stunning blonde, gazed at Gabe with an impossibly tender expression that made Marc want to retreat to the farthest reaches of the building. But of course he was stuck here, Gabe still gripping his arm. “It’s nice to meet you, Alexis,” he said. “I don’t know how my ugly cousin here managed to persuade such a beautiful woman to date him more than twice, much less marry him.”

  Gabe’s grip on Marc’s arm tightened and Marc struggled not to wince; obviously, his cousin had been working out. “As you can tell, I got the biggest share of the family charm,” Gabe said. “Marc’s spent far too much time away from civilization, hanging out with terrorists and other unsavory characters.”

  Marc sent Gabe a look that let him know he would pay for that one, then assumed a kinder expression for Alexis’s benefit. After Gabe’s last statement, she was looking a little alarmed. “I’m a photojournalist,” he said. “I photograph the bad guys, I don’t ‘hang out’ with them.”

  “That sounds fascinating,” Alexis said. “Would you like to join us for breakfast? I’d love to hear more about your work.”

  “Can’t do that, honey.” Gabe released Marc’s arm and helped Alexis out of her chair. “We promised my mother we’d take her shopping this morning.”

  No doubt Gabe remembered the times his girlfriends had defected to Marc. Not that Marc had tried to steal Gabe’s dates, but women seemed to prefer Marc’s aloofness to Gabe’s charm. He supposed they saw him as a challenge, though they usually ended up disappointed when they found they couldn’t change him. No doubt agreeable men like Gabe were easier to love.

  Gabe and Alexis said goodbye and Marc
sat at the table they vacated.

  Lacey entered the dining room again, this time with a fresh carafe of coffee. She went around the tables, refilling cups, until she came to Marc. “Giselle says her coffee is the sure cure for jet lag,” she said, topping off his cup.

  “Giselle—that’s the Frenchwoman in the kitchen? The one who doesn’t approve of me?”

  He suspected she struggled against a smile. “Giselle doesn’t approve of very many men,” she said. “I wouldn’t take her attitude personally.”

  “I seldom take things personally.” He sipped from the cup and sighed. “She does make good coffee, though.”

  “I’ll tell her you said so.”

  “Will that earn me brownie points with her?”

  “Maybe. She might even slip you a larger serving of dessert at dinner tonight.”

  “You think I have a sweet tooth, then?”

  “I wouldn’t begin to speculate on your appetites, monsieur.” With a saucy look, she turned and sauntered to the kitchen.

  He laughed, his mood considerably lightened by the exchange. Lacey was a little too whole-somelooking to pull off the role of coy seductress, but he liked that she had a sense of humor. He couldn’t remember the last time a woman had made him laugh, which made him feel considerably better about his decision to ask her to go sightseeing with him. Lacey might be the one thing that helped him get through this wedding with his sanity intact.

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE NEXT MORNING, Lacey rushed through the breakfast preparations, her mind fixed on the day ahead. Though she had explored Paris some on her own, walking the streets by herself wasn’t the same as having someone to share the sights with. Paris was a city for couples—Audrey Hepburn and Cary Grant; Leslie Caron and Maurice Chevalier; Juliette Binoche and Johnny Depp.

  Of course, Marc wasn’t her lover—she didn’t even know him that well. But he was a handsome young man and that was enough for an exploration of the city together.

  “Your head is in the clouds this morning, chérie,” Giselle chided as she took a basket of onions from Lacey’s hand and replaced it with a basket of oranges for the buffet table. “What has you so distracted?”

  “Oh…nothing,” she lied, and darted toward the door to the dining room.

  “I know what it is,” Giselle said. “It is one of those handsome Americans, non?”

  Lacey stopped and stared at her. “Why do you say that?”

  Giselle smiled her cheshire-cat smile. “Because when a young woman is in a fog, the cause must be a man, of course.” She waved a wooden spoon like a magic wand. “Not to mention you are wearing your very best skirt beneath your tunic. I am quite sure you did not dress up for me.”

  Lacey glanced down at the straight black skirt that just peeped from beneath the hem of her white tunic. When she removed the tunic and substituted beribboned ballet flats for her working clogs, she would be dressed in true Parisian style, simple but elegant, her red boat-necked sweater drawing attention to her neck and collarbone and—she hoped—away from a not-so-flat stomach, one of the hazards of always being in the kitchen and around food. “You’re a very observant woman, Giselle,” she said.

  “Oui. Now off with you.” She brandished the wooden spoon again. “The sooner you are done with breakfast, the sooner you may leave for your assignation.”

  Assignation. The word conjured up images of sultry kisses on the Pont-Neuf or lingering glances across a crowded bistro.

  Reality was more mundane. Marc met her outside the dining room at nine-thirty. He wore tan slacks, a button-down shirt and a camel sweater. But even in the more formal clothes he had the look of a man who spent a great deal of time outdoors. He had a camera bag slung over one shoulder. “I imagine you don’t go anywhere without your camera,” she said as he held the door for her.

  “Old habit,” he said. “Do you mind?”

  “No. I think photography is very interesting. Where do you want to go?”

  He shrugged. “What do you suggest?”

  “It depends.” She’d considered the question carefully all the day before. “They say one of the best ways to see the city is from one of the barge tours on the Seine. They pass by all the most famous landmarks.”

  He shook his head. “No barge tours.”

  She hid her disappointment. She had secretly longed to cruise the Seine on one of the tourist barges, leaning on the rail and taking in the sights, but again, it was the kind of thing that didn’t seem right to do on one’s own. However, if Marc wasn’t interested… “If you like architecture, we could visit the grand cathedrals. Notre Dame, Sacre Coeur.”

  “No architecture. And no Eiffel Tower, either. Too many tourists.”

  She laughed at his snobbery. “But the whole idea today is to play tourist,” she said. “I’m afraid we can’t offer any wars or grisly scandals for your photojournalist’s eye.”

  He frowned and she feared she’d offended him, but he quickly relaxed. “Sorry. I just…I’d rather not stand in long lines to see the same sights everyone sees when they come to Paris. I can get that in a travel guide.”

  “Then what do you want to see?” she asked, at a loss.

  He took her arm and guided her down the street, toward the Metro station. “Show me your favorite part of the city so far.”

  So that is how they ended up in Parc de la Villette.

  “What is this place?” Marc asked as they stopped at the end of a long wooded promenade, the trees endlessly reflected in giant mirrors arranged on concrete pillars among them.

  “It’s the Garden of Mirrors,” she said, leading the way down the walk.

  “It’s an outdoor fun house,” he said, looking around them at their image and that of other visitors distorted by the many mirrors.

  “Exactly.” She laughed. “Now you know my secret.”

  “That you like mirrors?” He eyed her skeptically.

  “That I’m drawn to the fantastic and absurd.” From the Garden of Mirrors they passed a children’s playground of turning windmills and flying sails and trampoline waves. “The Garden of Dunes,” she said.

  “There’s something to be said for someone who appreciates the unusual,” he said as they watched children bouncing on the air-filled “waves.” “Is your whole family this way?”

  She laughed again and shook her head. “No. They’re all very solid, well-grounded citizens. I’m the only dreamer in the bunch.”

  He nodded. “So you came to Paris.”

  She glanced at him. His eyes met hers, warm interest in the gold-green depths. For a moment she forgot what she was going to say, mesmerized by that look.

  “You came to Paris?” he prompted.

  “Oh. Yes.” She looked away, composing herself. “It’s a good place for dreams, don’t you think?” Dreams that would no doubt now include a certain hazel-eyed photographer.

  “It has that kind of reputation,” he said. He took her arm and they continued walking, into a terraced garden shaded by trellised vines. Dozens of fountains burbled musically among the vines and the scent of warm greenery perfumed the air. “What is this garden called?” he asked.

  “The Trellised Garden.” She leaned into him, enjoying the closeness. “What about you? Is your family full of artistic people like you?”

  “No. My mother is a schoolteacher and I’m an only child.” He paused by one of the small fountains. “I don’t think I realized before now how many fountains and gardens Paris has.”

  “What about your father?” she asked.

  His arm in hers went rigid. “What about him?”

  She sensed she was entering delicate territory, but curiosity drove her onward. “What kind of work does he do?”

  “Something in sales. I don’t keep track. My parents divorced when I was ten.” He moved away, distancing himself from her physically, the tension in his voice and on his face ending the emotional closeness they had felt as well.

  “That must have been difficult,” she said softly, following h
im from beneath the trellises.

  “Yeah, well, I survived.” They moved into an open area dotted with benches, flowers and kinetic sculptures.

  “The Garden of Movement,” she said, nodding to one of the abstract sculptures, which moved gently in the breeze.

  “How did you find this place?” he asked.

  “I got lost one day. I was trying to find a dress shop someone had told me about and I ended up here instead.”

  “Interesting place,” he said. “Better than visiting a cathedral or the Eiffel Tower.”

  “Those places are nice, too, and you should see them while you’re here. But this is different.” She took his hand and pulled him down the walk. “I want to show you something.” She led him to a glass dome suspended above the walk. “Stand here and wait,” she said.

  Then she hurried down the walk to a second dome. “Hello, Marc,” she said.

  “Hello,” he said. “I can hear you perfectly.”

  “Yes.” She laughed. “It’s like the tin-can telephones we played with as children. Tell me a secret.”

  He was silent, then said, “No.”

  She suppressed her disappointment. “Then I’ll tell you one.” She thought of all the things she might say: I’m very attracted to you. Or I sense a sadness in you that I want to understand, but she couldn’t find the courage yet to say these things out loud. So instead, she said, “Giselle uses frozen dough to make her famous croissants.”

  He laughed. “She’d probably fire you if she knew you said that.”

  “Yes, but I’m trusting you not to tell her.”

  They met again in the middle of the path. Marc was smiling, his earlier dark mood once more in retreat. “I’ve never met anyone like you,” he said.

  “I find that hard to believe. I’m very ordinary.” She turned to watch a pair of elegant Parisian women stroll by. Everything about them spoke of style and culture, from their neatly coiled hair to their erect carriage and fashionable shoes.

  “Maybe ordinary seems extraordinary to me because I’ve spent the last ten years chronicling the bizarre.”