We headed to a side road leading down toward the river. Halfway there, Vincent stepped through the large wooden doorway of a four-story building, pulling me behind him.
Like many Parisian apartment blocks, this one had been constructed around an internal courtyard sheltered from the street. The most modest courtyards are barely as big as a king-size bed, with only enough space to hold the building’s trash bins. Others are large, some even having trees and benches, forming a quiet haven for residents away from the busy street.
This courtyard was massive and had little shops, and even an outdoor café, scattered among the ground-floor apartments, something I had never seen before. “What is this place?” I asked.
Vincent smiled and touched my arm, pointing to another open doorway on the far side of the courtyard. “This is just the beginning,” he said. “There are about five of these courtyards all linked together off the street, so you can wander for as long as you want without seeing or hearing the outside world. It’s all art galleries and antique shops. I thought you’d like it.”
“Like it? I love it! This is incredible!” I said. “I can’t believe I haven’t been here before.”
“It’s off the beaten path.” Vincent seemed proud of his knowledge of Paris’s out-of-the-way spots. And I was just happy that he wanted me along to explore them with him.
“I’ll say,” I agreed. “It’s almost completely hidden from the outside. So . . . you’ve been here before. Where do we start?”
We strolled through stores and galleries packed with everything from old posters to ancient Buddha heads. For a city heaving with summer tourists, the shops had surprisingly few visitors, and we wandered through the spaces as if they were our own private treasure troves.
As we browsed through an antique clothes store, Vincent stopped in front of a glass case that held jewelry. “Hey, Kate, maybe you can help me. I need to get a gift for someone.”
“Sure,” I said, peering into the case as the shopkeeper lifted the cover for us. I fingered a pretty silver ring with a cluster of flowers curving outward from its surface.
“What would someone your age like?” he said, touching a vintage jeweled cross pendent.
“My age?” I laughed. “I’m only three years younger than you. Maybe less, depending on your birthday.”
“June,” he said.
“Okay, then two and a half.”
He laughed. “All right, you got me there. It’s just that I’m not sure what she’d like. And her birthday’s coming up.”
I felt like someone had punched me in the stomach. What an idiot I had been: totally misreading his intentions. He obviously just saw me as a friend . . . a friend with good enough taste to help him choose a present for his girlfriend.
“Hmm,” I said, closing my eyes and trying to hide my dismay. I forced them back open and stared at the case. “I guess it depends on her taste. Does she wear more feminine, flowery clothes, or is she more into . . . um . . . jeans and T-shirts like me?”
“Definitely not flowery,” he said, stifling a laugh.
“Well, I think this is really pretty,” I said, pointing to a leather cord with a single teardrop-shaped silver pendant hanging from it. My voice wavered as I tried, unsuccessfully, to swallow the lump in my throat.
Vincent leaned closer to the piece. “I think you’re right. It’s perfect. You’re a genius, Kate.” He lifted the necklace from the case and handed it to the shopkeeper.
“I’m just going to wait for you outside,” I said, and left as he fished through his pockets for his wallet.
Get a grip, I chided myself. It had seemed too good to be true, and it had been. He was only a really friendly guy. Who said I was cute. But who must just like to hang out with cute girls while buying vintage jewelry for his girlfriend. I wonder what she looks like. My hands were clenched so tightly that my fingernails dug little trenches into my palms. The pain felt good. It relieved some of the stinging in my chest.
Vincent came out of the shop, tucking a little envelope into his jeans pocket as he closed the door behind him. Seeing my face, he came to an abrupt stop. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing,” I said, shaking my head. “I just needed some air.”
“No,” he insisted. “Something’s bothering you.”
I shook my head resolutely.
“Okay, Kate,” he said, linking his arm through mine. “I won’t force you to talk.” The pressure of his arm against my own filled me with warmth, but I mentally pushed it away. I was so used to self-protection by now that it was almost a reflex.
We wandered out of that courtyard and into another, walking in silence for a few minutes as we paused to look into shop windows. “So,” I said finally. I knew I shouldn’t say it, but I couldn’t help myself. “Who’s your girlfriend?”
“Sorry?” he asked.