Page 93 of Ten Christmases Without You
“I secretly checked with Mitch. He’s given you the time off.”
Madison cooed under her breath.
“This is unbelievable,” Emmy said, hugging the tickets to her chest.
“I’m keeping my word from that day in the airport. I was serious about wanting to take my next flight with you. I did have to take one in between to get here, but that doesn’t count.”
Emmy reached out, squeezed his neck, and kissed him to the cheers of her family.
She had something to tell him, but she’d wait until Paris. Hanging onto this secret without spilling the beans would be the most work she’d done all year.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
April 7, 2019
The April sun gleamed off the pale cream and gray architecture, wrought-iron balconies bursting with geraniums, daffodils, and little pots of lavender. Emmy tipped her head up toward the clear blue sky, the soft clouds drifting idly above the Eiffel Tower in the distance.
“I can’t believe we’re here,” she said to Charlie, taking his hand while gripping her suitcase handle in the other. With every step down the busy sidewalk, she felt closer to her mother.
They made their way down streets that were alive with motion: the slow movement of traffic, café terraces with people sipping espressos under striped awnings, the sunshine sparkling on the water as artists, perched at their easels, sketched the Seine. They turned off the main road, leaving the noise behind them. Cherry blossoms lined the quiet lane.
“The hotel is across the street from Café Lumière,” Charlie said. “We can drop our bags off and then have an espresso where your parents met.”
Excitement bubbled up inside her and she had to fight back tears of joy. “You’ve thought of everything.”
He leaned down and kissed her.
“I can’t wait to walk into the café and see where my parents met.”
She took in a deep breath of fresh, warm air. It carried the soft, sweet scent of blooming trees and freshly baked bread from the boulangeries that seemed to be on every corner. Every now and again, a slight vibration of the metro rumbled beneath her feet as they strolled over a sidewalk grate. The sights made her want to walk slower, look up more often, and linger longer at every pot of flowers.
When they made it to the hotel, with its limestone walls and tall windows, each one dressed with Juliet balconies overflowing with ivy and roses, Emmy was awestruck.
Inside, the lobby was a mixture of old-world charm and modern convenience. They strolled along the stone floors that led to a sitting area with plush velvet armchairs in deep navy- blue tones, arranged around a marble fireplace. Gold-framed mirrors reflected soft light from crystal chandeliers and the sun streaming through the large windows.
“Relax,” Charlie said, gesturing to one of the chairs. He rolled their bags next to her. “I’ll check us in.”
She sat down, the soft velvet cushioning her exhausted body. It had been a long flight, but the last thing she wanted to do was sleep. She fought fatigue, forcing her eyes open so she wouldn’t miss a single sight.
Charlie came back over with the room keys and picked up their luggage. “Ready?”
They made their way to the shiny elevator and pressed the brass floor button.
When he opened the door to their suite, she went inside. Each room was full of texture and warmth—patterned walls, high ceilings with exposed beams, and tall french windows that opened to a balcony with views of the rooftops and thebustling street below. The beds were layered with crisp white linens, feather-soft duvets, and pink-rose-embroidered throws for chilly nights. A vase of fresh flowers, a carafe of chilled water, and a handwritten welcome note on fine stationery sat on the bedside table.
“I could fall into that bed right now and never get out,” Emmy said.
“The café will be there tomorrow.”
“No.” She shook her head. “I can sleep any time.” She went over to the balcony and right across the street was an aged stone building, painted in soft, muted colors—cream, dusty rose, pale green, and deep navy. Café Lumière Verte was scrolled elegantly across the aged wooden sign above the door, in faded gold cursive script.
Wrought-iron tables and rattan chairs dotted the sidewalk in front. Tiny glasses, espresso cups, and half-finished croissants sat on the tables, remnants of long conversations and people-watching. A chalkboard menu listed the day’s specials in swoopy French handwriting:croque-monsieur,vin rouge,tarte du jour.
She tugged on Charlie’s sleeve. “Let’s go right now.”
He smiled down at her. “Of course.”
Inside, the café was filled with greenery. Under a glass patisserie display counter, flaky croissants, golden brioche, and bowls of seasonal fruit sat next to little cakes topped with bright berries. A woman in a white apron poured café au lait into two delicate porcelain cups, while the low hum of conversation in different languages filled the air.
