Sisterchicks Say Ooh La La! (16 page)

Tapping him on the shoulder, I said, “Café, s’il vous plaît. It’s the other way, isn’t it?”

“Oui,” he shouted back at me as he took another corner with what felt like a daring dip.

I laughed nervously. That seemed to signal to the daredevil that I was enjoying the detour. “I wasn’t trying to get you to go faster,” I said. “You can take me back to the café now. Or even to the police station. I know how to get to the café from the station. The prefect? Is that what Amy called it? Hello? Are you catching any of this?”

He was grinning now. I could see the side of his smile. With another accelerated dip, he passed two cars and swerved to avoid a puddle. My heart pounded in my throat and my fingers dug into his shoulders. Just as I was summoning my most authoritative voice to command this officer to stop and let me off, we tipped around another corner and bumped onto cobblestone.

The café, lit with twinkling lights, was straight ahead. We spun as we came to a stop in front of the café entrance. There stood Amy, laughing merrily and making good use of her camera. I hoped she was capturing the I’m-going-to-get-you-for-this expression on my face.

“How much did you pay him?” I spouted.

“Nothing.” Amy gave the officer a final wave and a series of giddy French words. “When you’re partially responsible for the capture of a criminal, you’re entitled to all kinds of perks.”

“That was perky all right.” I smoothed back my floofed-up hair.

“Wasn’t it fun?” Amy showed me to my seat at our table. “A little joie de vivre goes a long way on a night like this.”

The rest of our joyous night rolled out with calmness as we charted out a plan for the rest of our days in Paris. Amy decided she was ready to find the linen shop on Rue Cler in the morning.

“So you’re not nervous about going anymore?”

“Not as nervous as I was, but I still doubt they’ll be able to understand me.”

“I’m telling you, Amy, you’re doing great. Everyone understands you.”

“We should take a gift.”

“Chocolates?” I suggested.

“Maybe. I wish I’d brought something special from home. That would have been smart.”

The next morning Amy was still contemplating what sort of gift to take to Madame du Bois as we got ready for our visit to Rue Cler.

“What about flowers?”

Amy nodded, letting the idea sink in. “Yes, flowers. Perfect. Why didn’t we think of that earlier?”

We left the hotel after studying the map and discovering that Rue Cler was close to the Eiffel Tower. That made it easy to get there by Metro. No taxis for us today, not in the sunshine.

Walking a few short blocks to the Metro station, we noticed a difference in how the city felt now that the rain had passed and the calm night had smoothed over what the blustery wind had done the day before. Or more accurately, the difference was in how the city smelled. It was a strange combination of wet car oil evaporating on the asphalt and overzealous trees determined to sprout one new green leaf or one new pink blossom for every drop of rain received in the storm.

Leaving the busy trees to their task, Amy and I disappeared underground and surfaced again three blocks from our destination.

Finding flowers was no problem because Rue Cler turned out to be a charming street lined with specialty shops. The busy stretch was closed to motorized traffic and reflected an old world charm. It would be easy to find the linen shop on this street. The only difficult task was deciding what flowers to buy at the stand.

Amy finally selected calla lilies and purple-bearded iris with a few pink rosebuds tucked in. The merchant wrapped the generous bouquet in green paper and tied it
with a ribbon. Amy thanked him twice and walked away looking like a beauty queen minus her tiara.

I pulled out my camera and called out, “Amelie!” She didn’t hear me. “Amelie Jeanette!” She turned, and I snapped a great shot of her looking like the Parisian princess I always knew she was.

Several shops we passed on the Rue Cler made use of the open space in front to set up tables outside to sell their goods. One shop sold only olive oil. We dipped inside for a look and were amazed. The entire shop was a beautiful world unto itself, boasting every sort of specialty olive oil one might conjure up. We were invited to taste several of the oils by dipping a square of pita bread into the various small ceramic dishes.

“It’s okay,” Amy said, giving me a fun wink. “You can take a sample off these plates. These really are samples and not leftovers from previous customers.”

Ignoring her teasing, I sampled each and every oil as if I were a connoisseur. The truffle oil was the most memorable. Amy translated for the shopkeeper as he explained how the truffles used in the olive oil came from the French countryside. These rare fungi were scouted out by specially trained pigs that rooted their snouts around in the earth to find the truffles.

The shopkeeper was demonstrating as he described the process to Amy. She, in turn, joined the antics as she translated the process for me. I tried hard not to laugh aloud at
two adults snorting and flaring their nostrils while trying to help me appreciate the beauty of the product contained in the small bottle.

Of course I had to buy a bottle of the expensive oil after that. I thought Joel might like it, since he had asked me to bring home some interesting food items. Then I realized it was Joel’s sister, Claire, who would really appreciate the gourmet truffle oil. She had a flare for the finer things in life. I bought two bottles and decided I’d give the second one to my sister-in-law with a note saying, “A gift for Claire from Rue Cler.”

Amy bought four bottles of various olive oils. Each of our purchases was wrapped individually and tied with simple twine sealed with a gold label from the shop.

As we were politely saying “au revoir,” Amy paused and asked about the location of the linen shop.

“He said it’s near the end of the street on the right side,” she translated for me as we walked to the next store. “Ooh,
miel
!” Amy looked in the window at the tiny shop that sold only honey and honey-based products. We entered and were amazed all over again at the care and craftsmanship displayed with something as simple as honey items. I bought a bar of honey soap, and Amy bought honeycomb candles and a jar of spun honey with raspberries for toast.

“I really am planning to go to the linen shop,” Amy said, as we paused in front of the next store. “It’s just that each shop seems to call me to step inside.”

“I know. I love this one.” I gazed at three crisp white blouses displayed in the window as if they were flags on a sailboat. “Look at the one in the middle. Isn’t that gorgeous?”

“Let’s go in for a closer look,” Amy suggested.

The store sold white blouses. Only white blouses. I never thought of how many variations a simple white blouse could have. I wanted one of each. There was something honest about these white blouses. I loved blouses tucked in and blouses with the tails out. I just didn’t like ironing blouses. This store presented its unique and expensive blouses so beautifully, I could almost believe they ironed themselves each morning and crawled back on their hangers.

As we had done in each store so far, Amy and I entered, made eye contact with the proprietor, said “bon jour,” and Amy answered politely if the storekeeper asked if he or she could help us. We had noticed in restaurants, shops, and museums that we were treated differently from other English-speaking tourists when we tried to fit in with Parisian ways.

I asked if I might try on one of the blouses. The shopkeeper helped me by coming into the large dressing room with me. Amy sat on a padded chair in the corner, cradling her large bouquet and adding occasional comments, always in French and in English for my benefit. The blouse fit beautifully. The price tag was pinned discreetly on the
inside of the cuff. It cost more than the fun pink top and much more than any blouse I’d ever bought.

“Merci,” I said, slipping off the blouse and handing it to the proprietor. I loved it. Absolutely loved everything about it. But I couldn’t spend that much for a blouse. It was too luxurious. Yet the sensation of the soft airy cotton lingered on my skin.

A
my and I paused
again at the front window of the shop next door. “Have you ever seen such beautiful chocolate in all your life?” Amy exclaimed.

“No, never.” And I meant it. The window display hosted various levels of golden serving dishes lined with doilies. On each doily was arranged a pageant of chocolate delicacies, and each hand-dipped bonbon was embellished with a different twist or twirl on top. The milk chocolate candies all came with a yellow line across the side. The dark chocolate treats bore a white polka dot on top. To the side was a separate display of marzipan, toffees, and caramels.

Opening the door, we breathed in the fragrance of melting chocolate that floated from the back room. A blue velvet curtain separated us from the kitchen where the delicacies were being created.

At the sound of our arrival, the blue curtain opened, and a young woman stepped out to greet us. She left the curtain open, allowing us to see the candy chef at work. He stood in front of a marble-top table that occupied the center of the small kitchen. His right hand was covered with chocolate. I watched as he dipped another nugget of candy into a copper pan filled with melted chocolate and placed it on the marble. With a steady hand he fashioned a dainty curlycue on top of the bonbon.

“Do you see that sign on the wall?” Amy asked. “It says this shop was established in 1893. I wonder if Grandmere ever came here.”

“She probably did,” I said, sharing in the wonder of the possibility.

“Her favorite candies were dark chocolate wafers with bits of orange inside.” Switching to French, Amy asked the young woman a question.

She answered, “oui,” and went to the end of the display case.

“She said dark chocolate with orange is one of the shop’s specialties.” Amy had tears in her eyes. “I don’t know why I’m crying, except that I can’t believe I’m in Paris, buying my grandmere’s favorite chocolate at a shop she probably came to.”

Returning with two flat wafers of dark chocolate arranged artfully on a glass dish, the woman smiled and spoke to us.

“She says the chocolates are complimentary. In honor of Grandmere.”

I said, “Merci.”

Amy and I went all out, selecting chocolates for our families, some friends, and us. I made special selections for Joel, knowing how much he would appreciate handmade chocolates. Our generous purchases were treated regally, with the chocolates carefully nestled in small boxes, which were sealed with gold stickers and each wrapped with a dainty satin ribbon tied in a perfectly balanced bow.

Exiting with our revered chocolates carefully sequestered in handled shopping bags, Amy said softly, “Don’t you feel as if we need to whisper so we don’t wake up our sleeping candies?”

I laughed. “What would Grandmere think of us now?”

“She would be smiling.”

I nodded. “Yes, she would. I loved your grandmere, Amy. Have I ever told you that?”

“I’m sure you have. I loved her, too.”

“The way she looked at me …” I tried to find the words to express how I felt. “Well, she captured my heart. I always felt as if I were a dandelion child, and she was just dying to take a deep breath and send all the airy strands of my blond flyaway hair off to the four corners of the earth. She made me feel like I was her wish.”

“Ooh, Lisa, that is the sweetest thing anyone has ever said about Grandmere!”

I teared up. “I guess in a small way, her wish for me is coming true. I’ve been blown to one of the four corners of the earth, and here she is, with us in a gentle memory.”

“Okay.” Amy wiped a tear. “Not fair. You got me crying. Right when I was about to go into the next shop.”

I looked up and saw the sign for the next store. The Linen Shoppe. We both composed ourselves and drew in a deep breath of sunshine kissed with fresh air.

“This is it, Amelie.”

“I know. Stay beside me.”

“Don’t worry. I will. I’m with you all the way.”

A small bell sounded our arrival as I closed the heavy door behind us.

“Bon jour,” Amy said to an older woman who was folding linen dish towels behind a mahogany counter.

“Bon jour,” I repeated.

The woman asked Amy the usual question in French that I was beginning to recognize. Were we looking for anything in particular?

Still carrying the large bouquet in her arms, Amy walked over to the woman. Pulling out Grandmere’s letter from her shoulder bag, Amy handed the missive to the woman, who reached for a pair of half-glasses on the counter. She read without moving her lips. Amy and I watched her eyebrows slowly rise. Her mouth formed a small “o” and out came a tender “ooh.”

Amy grinned shyly.

The woman’s words came rushing over us. She introduced herself as Norene and indicated we were to wait while she went upstairs. A few moments later she returned, cheeks rosy, and invited us to follow her up the stairs. We entered a spacious, second-floor apartment where Oriental rugs covered the wood floor. An elegant light fixture hung from the center of the ceiling.