Paris in Love by Eloisa James Read Free Book Online

rhythm or a rhyme
    Assumed responsibility for time.
    Let them leave language to their lonely betters
    Who count some days and long for certain letters;
    We, too, make noises when we laugh or weep:
    Words are for those with promises to keep.

    On the Métro, Anna pointed out a tiny orange ladybug in the car with us. We watched as she gamely walked upside down across the ceiling and then flew to the ledge above the door. As the subway stopped, I toppled her into my hands and we brought the ladybug up a flight of stairs, down a hallway, up two more smaller sets of stairs … finally into the chilly morning, where she flew into a cluster of glossy bushes.

    Anna and I are slowly exploring the grocery stores in the Japanese quarter of Paris. My favorite has a wall of different soy sauces and an upstairs room filled with mysterious foods in exotic packaging. Nothing is labeled in French or English, and we bring things home and puzzle over them.

    Alessandro and I followed an exquisite pair of legs out of the Métro today. They were clad in flowery black lace stockings and dark red pumps. Their owner wore a coat with five buttons closing the back flap, and gloves that matched her pumps precisely. We walked briskly up the steps, and I turned around to see the front of the coat, only to find that the lady in question was at least seventy. She was both dignified and
très chic
. Old age,
à la parisienne
!

    Twelve teens from Luca’s ninth-grade class were out sick today; the H1N1 virus has hit the Leonardo da Vinci High Schoolhard. Luckily, both my kids had got it back in the States, in June. Luca has the same happy glow in his eyes that I used to get while standing at the window watching snowflakes fall in rural Minnesota: will it, will it,
will it
snow enough to close school? The contemporary equivalent involves refreshing Facebook every five minutes, asking friends if they feel feverish, and hoping desperately (disgracefully) that they do, so that the whole school closes down.

    All the buildings lining rue du Conservatoire are constructed of cream marble or limestone. When I went outside today, the sky was pale and fierce, on the very cusp of rain. From the top of the church and the conservatory, the contrast was almost imperceptible, as if marble and air danced cheek to cheek.

    I just sent Anna to school with a blotted, misspelled, blood-sweat-and-tears note of apology to her teacher for cheating “a little bit” during an exam. She vehemently protested, telling me that her teacher wouldn’t care, and that it was like writing a letter to Santa Claus apologizing for burning his beard. The logic of the burning beard escaped me, so I just kept saying, “Your teacher has to sign this letter, Anna.”

    Last night we went to a bistro gifted with an irritable waiter who brought us tepid skate swathed in salty capers. The menu included a section
à l’ancienne
, so I chose a unique appetizer: beef snout. It came in little strips, drowned in vinaigrette. The taste? Spam! I know Spam because my father was in World War II and wouldoccasionally have a fit of nostalgia and buy some. And now I know what’s inside Spam, too.

    Halfway through an enormous antiques fair, we collapsed into a tiny café overlooking gardens near the Bastille and drank glasses of
chocolat à l’ancienne
—old-fashioned hot chocolate with whipped cream, topped with a drunk cherry. There was almond laced in there somewhere … it was incantatory. As we sat, savoring our chocolate, the atmosphere turned to
l’heure bleue
, the sliver of time between afternoon and evening, when the sky is periwinkle.

    Two objects at the antiques fair kept me awake last night, and I had to remind myself several times that possessions don’t lead to happiness. The first was a madly improbable Venetian blown-glass chandelier. It was festooned with tiny glass fruit and flowers, and probably dated from the 1950s, taking a crazed glassblower two years of his life. The second