The Little Antique Shop Under The Eiffel Tower. Rebecca Raisin

becoming part of the fabric of it for eternity.

      I smiled. “She did. They both did. Octogenarians, until death came for him, and then soon after, her. The neighbor said it wasn’t all lavender fields and laughter. They argued high and loud about his job, which took him all over the country, and left her alone at home. They fought about her hair: he liked it long, so she cropped it short. Once she threw all his clothes off the balcony in a fit of pique, and he laughed, which made her angrier. The neighbor said they were drawn to each other like magnets. The highs, and lows were many, but only because of their fierce love for one another.” I paused, watching Agnes’s face light up at their epic story. This was the best part of my job, knowing intuitively that the ruby was going to be prized not only because of its beauty but also because of its history.

      I continued: “They were married for sixty-two years before he was summoned away. It was said she wrote him love letters every day until it was her time. I almost kept the ruby for myself, I was so taken with their love story.” That day there had been antiques worth more and easily saleable but I was drawn to the ruby and knew I had to have it. And now I knew why – for Agnes’s mother.

      If I closed my eyes, I could see it as it had been, hanging brilliantly against her olive-skinned décolletage, the faint scent of lavender in the air, an olive grove in the distance. But perhaps that was just a daydream, a picture painted by my imagination.

      Agnes gave me a wide smile. “My parents still hold hands walking to work. They bicker about whose baguette recipe is the best, and I mean really bicker in typical French style, hands on hips, red-faced, low steady growls, until someone intervenes, and placates them saying both recipes have their merits. Maman calls him a goat, and he says she’s a mule, and they affect animal noises, until one of them starts howling with laughter, scaring the customers. Some days, they don’t talk at all, because they’ve spent the day chatting to their regular clientele and they’ve run out of words. Other days she rests her head on his shoulder and he murmurs to her as if they’re the only two people in the world. Their love still shines…”

      “And now it will sparkle,” I said with a grin.

      Carefully, I took the pendant from its housing. It winked under the lights as though it was saying yes. “For your maman.” I offered her a closer look.

      With a slight quake in her hands, she took the proffered pendant and whispered, “It’s perfect.” She blanched when she saw the price tag, but admirably reined herself in. For such a unique and precious gift, it was worth every cent. Any fiscal talk set my teeth on edge, and I was glad she didn’t mention it. It was poor taste, and I didn’t negotiate, and neither did any of my self-respecting Parisian customers. “Can I take it…?”

      I gave her a nod. “Let me wrap it for you.”

      Oceane smiled her thanks while Agnes watched me polish the pendant before I placed it in a satin-lined box, wrapped it, and tied an antique lace ribbon around to finish it off.

      “May they have many more anniversaries as special as this one,” I said. Agnes handed over a stack of well-thumbed Euros, her face bright like a child’s on Christmas Eve. Times like this I realized how much I loved my little antique shop, and pairing something from a lifetime ago, to start over in a new home, with a new family. I knew Agnes would recount the story of the former owner of the pendant to her parents, and they’d know it was more than just a piece of jewelry. And when they passed it on, their love story would be remembered too.

      “Merci,” Agnes said, cradling the box in her open palms as if she held something as delicate as a baby bird.

      Just then a rowdy tour group appeared by the window. I stiffened in response.

      “Merde. There’s so many of them,” Oceane said, following my gaze to the tourists outside, led by a guide who was purposely bringing these people to me knowing I’d turn them away. Innocents, who just wanted to see what all the fuss was about.

      “Ah, the ever-present legacy of Joshua, the American whose shadow is felt even when he’s not here,” Oceane said. I’d confided in her recently about my ex-boyfriend, Joshua, who spitefully informed the editor of Solitary World, one of the biggest guide books sold on the planet, about my little antique shop and the secret room. Since then, I’d been inundated by people wanting to take photos and mark off another stop on their to-see list in Paris.

      My blood boiled each time I saw their faces fall, the groups expecting to clap eyes on something marvelous and instead told there was no such thing. But I had to protect the delicate objects in my care. If I opened the doors to just anyone I’d be overrun and things would be damaged. Or worse, stolen, and I couldn’t face that again. I hadn’t told Oceane the rest of the bitter breakup story because I didn’t want any more pity, but his vindictiveness was the least of what Joshua had done in his efforts to ruin my life.

      “Do you want me to tell the guide off? He shouldn’t be bringing them here only to disappoint them,” Oceane asked, glaring at the group forming at the front door, their noses pressed against the glass.

      “Non, it’s OK. The guide is well aware he isn’t welcome, but he does it for their entertainment. The French mademoiselle who won’t let people shop, he cries out like I’m a novelty. I suppose they think it’s odd, and then they move to the next place and it’s fodder for a funny travel story when they’re home.” I flounced over and turned the sign to Closed. Dusting my hands, I ignored the plaintive cries from the gaggle and gave the tour guide an icy stare.

      “But what about the secret room!” one yelled out.

      The secret room was just that – a secret – and no sugar-dusted fingers would pad at the treasures in there or snap pictures of what lay hidden in its depths.

      The tour guide was gesticulating wildly and putting on a show for their benefit. “You have to know the secret handshake if you want to shop here,” he said, turning and giving me a wolfish smile. “Anouk is unconventional – just like the dust gatherers she collects. The French mademoiselle who won’t let people shop!”

      “See?” I said to Oceane. “He’s so predictable.”

      “A jerk,” she countered.

      The crowd were delighted by such an anomaly, and peered at me through the glass. I did my best to ignore the guide, knowing he’d eventually get bored and move on. A reaction is exactly what he wanted from me, so I was loath to give it.

      Instead, I walked toward Agnes who was still staring at the box in her hands, unaware of anything else going on around her. “Next time,” I told her, touching her arm. “You don’t need an introduction. You may visit my shop alone.”

      Her eyes widened and she clapped a hand over her mouth, muffling, “Merci! Merci!”

      There was something I trusted about Agnes now. Usually I wouldn’t grant a first-time customer the ability to shop without returning with another loyal customer for months, sometimes years. But aside from the immediate bout of unease, I sensed Agnes was the type of person who appreciated old beauty, valued it; you could see it by the instinctive way she responded to the ruby story. She worked hard for what she had, as did her parents, and there was a sincerity about her. I liked the way she hadn’t romanticized her parents’ love; she told their tale warts and all. In my eyes, those attributes made a person whole, and utterly dependable with my treasures.

      “Merci, Anouk,” Oceane said. “You’ve made their anniversary very special. See you again soon.” After a peck on each cheek, they stepped out into the splendor of the breezy spring day.

      With the door swung open the chatter and merriment from outside drifted in. Paris was in full bloom, from the flowers to the influx of visitors and the radiance of the sunshine. The faint echo of boats gurgling along the Seine carried over, the wind sweeping up its earthy, fathomless scent and blowing it gently across the cornflower blue Parisian sky all the way into my little antique shop.

      Distracted by the elements, I jumped when a camera flashed in my face. I hastily blinked away at the orb clouding my vision. The tour group were still