We'll Always Have Paris Read Free Page B

most beautiful city in the world, and she wasn’t going to waste time mooning over the past. Who needed romance when she could window-shop Chanel?
    But first things first. If she was going to enjoy every minute, she needed a long shower, a huge pot of strong black coffee and an obscene amount of freshly baked goodies.
    The women she had noticed on the way into thecity from the airport had all been slim and amazingly stylish. She could only hope it had something to do with pastries.

CHAPTER TWO
    A S IT TURNED OUT , the number-one footballer in England wasn’t big on interviews and Ryan was finished in less time than it took to eat a Big Mac with fries. The superstar’s answers were, in random order, yes, no, I dunno and a firm maybe. Good thing the guy had been given a hard head and a great right foot, because clearly conversation wasn’t his strong suit. But the most important words, “I’m retiring at the end of the season” had come through loud and clear.
    Why Derek Brody chose to hand that exclusive to an American was Celeste Beaulieu’s secret. How his aunt-in-law even knew Brody was a mystery for the ages, but when she phoned Ryan in Boston and asked if he wanted a sit-down interview with the elusive sports star he didn’t have to think twice.
    â€œYou caught him on a good day,” one of the photographers said as they left the hotel suite after the interview. “The bloke’s not always that chatty.”
    Ryan was still laughing when he reached the other side of the Channel.
    Originally he had figured to spend a day or two in London before he joined the rest of the family at Milles Fleurs for the start of Wedding Week.
    â€œI might stick around town,” he told Aunt Celeste over the phone yesterday. “Look up some old friends.”
    Celeste, however, was nobody’s fool. She was the only person on the planet who understood what Paris meant to him and to Kate.
    And why he was trying to stay away as long as he could.
    â€œHair of the dog, mon cher. Immerse yourself in my city now, before you see Kate again. London will always be there waiting for you. Now it is time for Paris.”
    What was it about the French anyway? Celeste was French by choice, not blood, but when it came to understanding love, she might as well have been born on the banks of the Seine. He hadn’t told anyone about what had happened at the engagement party, but the old woman’s romance radar had honed in on the change in the status quo with unerring precision.
    â€œNever underestimate our Kate,” she had counseled him. “Her truest feelings are the ones she shields from view.”
    Apparently she hadn’t managed to shield some of those truest feelings from Alexis on that fateful night. He had received an impassioned e-mail fromtheir daughter the next day, chronicling the sight of her mother flinging her wedding band into a dresser drawer in what used to be their bedroom.
    Why does it have to be this way? Alexis had written in her e-mail. You two were always so happy together. Why can’t love last the way it’s supposed to?
    Four months later he was still looking for the answer to that question.
    So now there he was in the lobby of the Hotel St. Michel on the Left Bank, trying to explain to the concierge that they were welcome to take his bags up to Madame Beaulieu’s suite but he wouldn’t be going with them.
    Back home his French didn’t sound half-bad. He had no trouble ordering off the menu at any French restaurant between New York and Boston. Here in Paris he sounded like a not-too-bright four-year-old with a limited vocabulary.
    â€œLe bistro,” he said, gesturing toward the corner restaurant he’d noticed when he got out of the cab. “Déjeuner.” He mimed repeatedly raising a spoon to his lips. “Bon appétit!”
    He had to hand it to the concierge. The guy didn’t crack a smile. He nodded and said,