Free The Little Antique Shop Under the Eiffel Tower by Rebecca Raisin

don’t mention what you just saw.”
    “Oui. Thanks.”
    We wandered back out, chatting in French, pretending we were mid conversation about classical music. “Ah, there you are,” I said to Tristan. I waited for him to tell me about the altercation but he just put his hands together and said, “Paperwork is all done.”
    “Merci.” In light of what I’d just witnessed I said, “That was very nice of you, Monsieur Black. I do appreciate it. That cello is very special to a customer of mine.”
    “My pleasure.” He raised his eyebrows. “Perhaps we can have a dance or two at the May Gala?”
    His expression was so genuine, so sweet that I surprised myself by saying, “Oui, of course.”
    Would the usual gala glitterati make a beeline for the stylish Monsieur Black? Perhaps a little digging would unearth his secrets, and I’d have some tidbits to share when my colleagues enquired after him. He was sure to make an impression with his powerful saunter, and strong jawline. It was his eyes that caught me off guard; they were so blue, hypnotic, and I reminded myself to be careful. Business and pleasure did not mix.

Chapter Six
    Safely ensconced in my shop with the door bolted for privacy I made some calls about Tristan Black.
    Rachelle from the little flower shop near the Notre Dame was usually a hive of information. An unassuming Parisian with russet curls, and wide brown eyes. I’m sure the flower shop was a front for something because she knew too much about everything, but I never asked her directly. Often she tipped me off about antiques that were making their way to Paris from outer regions of France. “Non, Anouk,” she purred. “I haven’t heard of such a man. What did he do? Rob you? Because if so, I know a man who can sort him out!”
    My eyes widened. “Non, non, he hasn’t. I don’t need a man to…sort him out, I just wondered if you’d heard anything on the usual channels.”
    “Nothing. But if I do, I’ll let you know. And, if he does step out of line, you let
me
know…” Her voice was as hard as steel, and I smiled. Joshua’s betrayal had made my colleagues protective of me, and it was sweet even if I was a little alarmed at exactly what ‘sort him out’ might’ve entailed.
    “And Anouk, tomorrow, if you go the flea markets on Rue des Rosiers, find a man with a carnation in his pocket, wearing a pink bow tie. He has something for you. Tell him I sent you, and he will know.”
    “Merci. I’m intrigued.”
    “My maman was very happy with the gift you sent. It was so sweet, Anouk. Every morning I hear the music as she warms up; the dedication she has to her ballet is astounding.” Rachelle’s maman had always wanted to be a ballerina, and now finally had the time to try. People thought it was preposterous.
At sixty?
they’d cried,
how silly
. But why couldn’t a woman learn to dance at sixty? She wasn’t expecting to grace the stage at Opéra National de Paris!
    I’d found some vintage ballet shoes that had never been worn and a leotard and sent them with a note saying
Dance your way to happiness
. I liked the idea that passion didn’t fade away no matter what age a person was, and if she wanted to plié her way around her living room where was the harm in that?
    “Your maman is a wonderful woman,” I said, meaning it.
    We gossiped about a few things before saying au revoir.
    Next, I phoned Madame Dupont to see what she’d make of the newcomer and what had happened earlier. I fell into a walnut leather wingback chair that I’d rescued from an estate sale. The executor of the estate had wanted to clear the belongings out fast, and had ignored my pleas to save the chair, and other valuables littered on the verge like lost souls.
Take it
, he’d cried,
take it all!
And I did. The leather was crazed, and dimpled, and it sighed wearily when I took my place on it. It was like an old friend, and I’d never get it rejuvenated. I loved it, scars and all.
    “Anouk, my darling, did