Free Christmas in Paris by Anita Hughes Page A

and thought of all the afternoons she’d spent browsing in Le Printemps during her semester in Paris. It was the most beautiful department store she had ever seen, with creamy turrets and a slate-gray roof.
    Now she paused in front of a window with a mannequin perched on an elephant. The plastic figure wore an orange sweater and khaki slacks and carried a pair of binoculars. The mannequins in the next window were dressed in chiffon evening gowns. Silver balloons were scattered over the floor and a gold ball hung from the ceiling.
    She entered the double glass doors and gazed at marble counters filled with bright lipsticks and expensive lotions. Salesgirls wore ribbed sweaters and pencil-thin skirts, and she remembered when she first came to Paris and wondered how the women all looked like racehorses when the croissants were so buttery and the café au laits were frothy.
    She took the escalator to the fourth floor and entered the Givenchy boutique. There was a stack of pastel-colored pashminas, and suddenly she remembered the first time she met Rory, at the Saks in Bala Cynwyd. She had just graduated from Wharton and was staying with her parents until she started working at JPMorgan Chase.
    She stroked the soft cashmere and thought it was easier to think about Rory; her engagement to Neil was too recent. It was like when you burned your hand on the stove and thought it was fine. It was only when you typed on your computer or tied your running shoes, you realized you were in pain.
    But Rory! It was so long ago, like a romantic movie you loved but couldn’t remember the ending. They had been so young, and he looked like a film star with his blond curly hair and wide shoulders. She picked up the pashmina and remembered his green eyes and smile that could light up a room.
    *   *   *
    ISABEL SIFTED THROUGH a rack of cotton dresses. It was early summer and she was staying with her parents in Ardmore. The weather was humid and she needed light dresses and sandals. She looked up and saw a man examining a pile of pashminas.
    â€œWhich do you prefer?” He looked up. “The turquoise is a little bright, but the pale pink looks like a packet of cotton candy.”
    â€œIt depends on your girlfriend’s coloring,” Isabel replied. “The turquoise is pretty on a blonde, but the pink could make her look washed out.”
    â€œIt’s for my mother. Her hair is that color that’s impossible to describe but is the result of a monthly appointment at John Frieda in New York.” He paused and looked at Isabel. “Perhaps you could model them and help me decide.”
    â€œDo you really expect me to drape a pashmina around my shoulders and twirl around like a runway model?” Isabel laughed.
    â€œI didn’t ask you to twirl. And I’m sure you’d make an excellent runway model.” He studied her long legs. “You’d be doing me a favor. My mother’s sixtieth birthday party is tonight and I haven’t got a present. I’ve been on assignment and I only got back in town this morning.”
    â€œThat sounds exciting. Do you work for the CIA like a character in Homeland ?” Isabel asked.
    â€œSociety columnist for the Philadelphia Inquirer, ” he corrected. “It ranks only slightly higher than the obituary page. But I grew up on the Main Line, so I don’t spell anyone’s name wrong.” He fiddled with his collar. “Spelling is important, no one wants to read their name with a missing y or an extra e .”
    â€œShouldn’t you buy her something more summery?” Isabel suggested. “These linen blazers are lovely and the floral dresses are beautiful.”
    â€œI wouldn’t dare buy a woman actual clothing.” He shuddered. “If you buy it too small, you are implying there has been a recent weight gain. And if you buy a size too large, you didn’t notice the regime of vegetable smoothies paid off