The Little Bookshop On The Seine. Rebecca Raisin
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mind boggled with the details, not to mention the fact that leaving my books would be akin to leaving a child behind. I loved my bookshop as if it were a living thing, an unconditional best friend, who was always there for me. Besides, I’d never ventured too far from Ashford let alone boarded a plane – it just couldn’t happen.
“Please,” Sophie said, a real heartache in her tone. “Think about it. We can work out the finer details and I’ll make it worth your while. Besides, you know I’m good with numbers, I can whip your sales into shape.” Her eyes clouded with tears. “I have to leave, Sarah. You’re my only chance. Christmas in Paris is on your bucket list…”
My bucket list. A hastily compiled scrappy piece of paper filled with things I thought I’d never do. Christmas in Paris – snow dusting the bare trees on the Left Bank, the sparkling fairy lights along the Boulevard Saint-Germain. Santa’s village in the Latin Quarter. The many Christmas markets to stroll through, rugged up with thick scarves and gloves, Ridge by my side, as I hunted out treasures. I’d spent many a day curled up in my own shop, flicking through memoirs, or travel guides about Paris, dreaming about the impossible…one day.
Sophie continued: “If you knew how I suffered here, my darling. It’s not only Manu, it’s everything. All of a sudden, I can’t do it all any more. It’s like someone has pulled the plug, and I’m empty.” Her eyes scrunched closed as she fought tears.
While Sophie’s predicament was different to mine, she was in a funk, just like me. Perhaps a new outlook, a new place would mend both our lives. Her idea of whipping my sales into shape was laughable though, she had no real clue how tiny Ashford was.
“Exchange bookshops…” I said, the idea taking shape. Could I just up and leave? What about my friends, my life, my book babies? My fear of change? And Ridge, what would he have to say about it? But my life…it was missing something. Could this be the answer?
Paris. The city of love. Full of rich literary history.
A little bookshop on the bank of the Seine. Could there be anything sweeter?
With a thud, a book fell to the floor beside me, dust motes dancing above it like glitter. I craned my neck to see what it was.
Paris: A Literary Guide.
Was that a sign? Did my books want me to go?
“Yes,” I said, without any more thought. “I’ll do it.”
“You what?” Missy shrieked and her eyebrows shot up so high I thought she’d fall over backwards. A handful of customers at the Gingerbread Café glanced over to see what all the fuss was about. I blushed ruby red, and squirmed. Missy shot the nosey parkers a look that said mind your own business.
I bit my lip, and threw my palms up. “It just kind of happened, and I said yes. Yes. It was as easy as that!” I shrugged apologetically. I was plain old Sarah Smith; introvert, bookworm, shy to a fault. Not a fan of change, a subscriber to the steady rhythm of routine. I found comfort in the familiar. The girls buoyed me up, and I could be myself, but my radical plan would definitely shock them, because it was so unlike me.
“I cannot for the life of me imagine you saying yes to such a thing on the spot like that, but you know,” she stopped to fluff her auburn curls, “I think it’s a great idea, sugar. You’ve been skating along lately, without your usual sparkle.” She crossed her legs, pulling at the hem of her leopard print mini skirt. “But, sheesh, this has come out of left field…you’re leaving?” Missy’s face contorted as she grappled with the idea of the bookshop exchange. Being my secret keeper, and my go-to person in times of need, the idea I’d done something so swiftly without asking for advice was a lot for her to reconcile.
“One hot chocolate, and one gingerbread latte. Pray tell, what’s all this screeching ‘bout?” CeeCee asked, and plonked down on the old sofa across from us, putting her feet on the ottoman. “Lil,” she hollered. “Come sit, there’s somethin’ goin’ on over here.” She clasped her hands over the spread of her midsection, and gave me a pointed stare, her sweet brown forehead furrowing.
“Well…” I tucked a tendril of hair behind my ear, waiting for Lil to join us.
Lil waddled over, her baby bump so big she balanced a tray laden with chocolate truffles and gingerbread men on it. She handed us each a plate and sat next to CeeCee.
“So,” Lil said, gazing at me curiosity in her big blue eyes. “What’s the story?”
I rubbed my face, and took a deep breath. “I’ve agreed to exchange bookshops with Sophie in Paris. It all happened so quickly…she Skyped yesterday, and I said yes, without much thought.”
There was an audible intake of breath from the girls. For the first time ever they were rendered speechless. Usually they’d chatter away and talk over the top of one another. I threw my head back and laughed. “Girls, I’m not going to Antarctica, or climbing Mount Everest. I’m going to Paris.”
Lil cleared her throat, and composed herself first. “Wow, Sarah, just…wow. In a million years I would never have imagined you’d leave your shop. You love your shop. Your books are your babies.” Her bright blue eyes were wide with astonishment as she emphasized each point. Pregnancy suited Lil, her complexion was rosier than normal, and her blonde hair seemed to grow overnight, falling down her back in effortless shiny waves. Her face though, paled at my announcement. Did she think I was making the wrong choice?
Lil hurried on: “It’s not that I don’t think it’s a good idea. I just…” her words fell away.
“Ain’t nothing gonna change here. Youth is fleeting, I’ll tell you that for free. There comes a time where you either fish or cut bait, cherry blossom…go on and do what you gotta.” CeeCee, the warm-hearted mother hen of our group, said.
Customers milled by the counter, waiting to order, but the girls were still too shell shocked to notice. I pointed them out to Lil. “Won’t be a minute,” she said, smiling to them, her cheeks now pink from disbelief.
“What does that incredible hunk of a man…?” CeeCee’s eyes glazed over, as she lost her train of thought. “Mmhm, Mr Rippling Abs, if I was forty years younger…” her voice petered off and we all stifled giggles.
“Cee!” Lil said, faux scandalized. “Can you focus?” We giggled into our hands. CeeCee had pet names for all of our partners, and always threw in the same line about being forty years younger. She was at the pointy end of her sixties, and spritely as a teenager despite her plump frame.
CeeCee was looking past us, lost inside her daydream. Her head snapped back. “What? Just ‘cause I’m an old woman that don’t mean I can’t appreciate beauty! My eyesight still works plenty fine! And when I see that boy, and the way he struts up that street like he owns it, all smoldering-eyed, strong-jawed perfection, I just can’t quit starin’. Then there’s that sculpted body o’ his, I say to myself, I says, ‘now Cee, when it comes prayin’ time tonight, you remember to thank the Lord for that fine specimen o’ a man, it’s the least you can do’.”
I almost spat out a mouthful of coffee, and tried my hardest to swallow it down without choking. Missy cackled like a witch and Lil gave Cee an astonished stare.
“I think,” Lil said to me, trying to keep her belly-grabbing laughter in check. “You might want to tone down the bodice rippers you’re lending to Cee. They may be affecting her health.”
We lost our tenuous grip on our composure and laughter burbled out of us. “I don’t know, Lil,” I said. “I think she has a point. He’s definitely not ugly.”
Lil nodded. “Can’t argue there.”
“And then there’s you,” Missy said, surveying my face. “You even look