Chapter 1: Only in Paris

The bitter-sweet dark chocolate and rich cream
danced in Elizabeth’s mouth as she savored the last bite of her chocolate
éclair. Café de Flore in Saint-Germain-des-Prés was bustling with patrons and
passers-by.  

Across the boulevard elegant Parisians waltzed in
and out of the sleek Armani store.

A woman in a skin tight, cap sleeve, white dress
exited a black car. Her oversized black sunglasses, red lips, perfectly coiffed
hair, and silky Birkin bag exuded purpose.

She talked on her phone and scanned the street. It
looked like she was meeting someone.

Elizabeth watched her with some interest, already
creating a story in her head. The woman was definitely meeting a man.

She could be there for herself, but then she
probably would have gone in directly. Perhaps she was a personal shopper or an
attentive wife or girlfriend . . . or even a mistress?

A few seconds later, an expensive looking man
pulled up in a sleek car behind the woman. He got out of the car, put on his
chic black sunglasses, and then walked towards her with all the swagger of a
French man.

They kissed on both cheeks and then proceeded
through the glass doors.

It was one of Elizabeth’s favorite things: people
watching. And there was no better city for it than Paris. There were always
interesting scenes unfolding, examples of life happening, micro-stories in the
making.

Her photography brain worked around the
clock. 

Mostly, she recorded the scenes in her head. Only
rarely was she compelled by a landscape to take out the camera. It had to be a
very compelling image indeed to brave the looks of contempt and displeasure
from her fellow patrons.

A camera was the number one identifier of the most
despised label in Paris: tourist.
Regardless of whether the equipment was professional grade.

Even with her camera bag at her feet she felt
self-conscious; she knew that eventually she would get over it and acclimate to
the sometimes-judgmental Parisian culture.

It was the mark of a true Parisian: the ability to
wear simple black with all the swagger of a movie star and to strut down the
sidewalks with an I don’t give a damn attitude. 

Elizabeth often thought about the difference in
cultures she had encountered in the five months she’d been away from San
Francisco.

Parisians were the most perplexing by far. They
could be friendly when they wanted, rude when it suited them, and downright
mean if prompted. Nice and naive were the attributes most often met with the
rude and the mean.

It wasn’t that the French went out of their way to
be nasty, it was that they really understood life. Understood that there was
really no point—or time—for bullshit.

The world could learn a lot from them, she
thought. Their joie de vivre,
effortless elegance, discerning tastes and colorful opinions made them a
fascinating people. She had enjoyed rediscovering this about them.

Next to the Armani store was the Emporio Armani
Caffè. A gleaming black box with crystal clear windows in the center, like a
chocolate macaron with a clear jelly filling.

The patrons were posh and wore black and white,
matching the decor. Beth watched the two couples sitting at small tables by the
windows. They were having completely different days.

A blonde in a black mini dress leaned back in her
chair, crossing her arms and legs simultaneously. The man with flecks of gray
in his hair and an impeccable suit sat opposite her. 

He was in his mid-forties while she was in her
mid-twenties. She could tell they were both French from the way their lips
moved, the way their tongues wrapped around the words.

The blonde glared daggers at him as he leaned
forward using his hands to explain something vitally important, his ring caught
the light. It wasn’t difficult to guess what their relationship might be.

For a moment Elizabeth envisioned the wife. Where
was she on this bright balmy Tuesday afternoon? And how soon after they’d
promised forever had it stopped being enough?

Behind the couple arguing sat a brunette in a
black shirt and white skirt. She was leaning forward her hands both enveloped
by the man sitting opposite her. They were in their late twenties or early
thirties—completely oblivious to the two people having a row just inches behind
them. With each sentence, each laugh they drew closer until finally their lips
met and they kissed openly with abandon.

She wanted to laugh at the contrast between the
two sets. Only in Paris. Only in Paris could people argue with such passionate
abandon in public and kiss so wildly in such close proximity.

The kissing partners made something in her chest
ache for Connor, her beautiful Irishman. It had been two weeks since he’d
handed her a box with a big crystal on a simple chain.

To others it was an inexpensive bauble, to Connor
it was one of his most prized possessions. It was part of an irreplaceable
memory, a clear manifestation of his mother’s love for him. To Beth it was
priceless.

She’d run out of the Natural History Museum in
London after winning Wildlife Photographer of the Year. Taking the steps of the
main entrance in her five-inch heels and running past the gathered crowd until
she’d finally caught up with him.

Finally given in to her feelings.

Finally given in to the gorgeous Irishman with the
blue eyes, light brown hair and green Celtic Cross on his arm; whom she’d
unexpectedly seen naked on that very first day.

He kissed her outside the museum like it was the
final scene of some Hollywood movie. A fairytale ending—except it wasn’t an
ending—it was their beginning.

They’d spent the next week and a half in bed. Or
curled up on the couch together. Or wrapped around each other in Rose Square.

They rarely ventured out beyond a few instances in
Belgravia and Hyde Park, always hand in hand.

One notable exception had been when Connor had
surprised her with a private tour of the film studios outside London where her
favorite book series had been filmed. He’d used his connections to get them in
after it had closed to the public and the staff had gone.

She smiled, looking down at the green Café de
Flore table as she remembered.

“Mon Amour,” a young voice brought her back to the
present. “J’ai besoin de toi. S’il
te plaît!” A young man, barely out of his teens sped past the crowded
tables under the white awning and green lettering of the café on the corner of
the famous Boulevard Saint-Germain. “No, no, nooo . . .” he said into his phone
before disappearing down the street.

There was nothing like June in Paris. It was only
their third day in the city together, but already the alternating cool breezes
and thick humidity—the sun and the flowers—had a strange effect.

It was spring and summer and love and sex, the air
was heavy with it. Passionate scenes flooded the streets, the parks, the open
spaces. Emotions were running high.

Or maybe that was just Paris.

Her phone buzzed against the table. 

Be there in
three, Luv. –Connor

A strange little jolt ran through her. She still
wasn’t used to it. Used to being in a relationship full of love and passion and
everything you hear about in songs. Just the thought of him, could put her in a
euphoric, up-in-the-clouds sort of state.

She shook her head clear and turned around to make
eye contact with the waiter, "L’addition, s’il vous plaît." She
motioned with her hand.