Page 81 of This Is How It Started
I hop onto the Silverado Trail and at the last second turn the opposite way from San Francisco and head northwest to St. Helena, which is only fifteen minutes away. It’s a scenic drive with rolling vineyards, stately wineries and ornate gate signs, beckoning visitors to tasting rooms. And to think this is right here in my backyard, yet another world entirely.
I’m not quite sure how to get where I’m going but miraculously wind up on Main Street. I park at the foot of the commercial district and wander from shop to shop, peeking in the windows. The quaint town once catered to farmers. Now, the utilitarian stores have all been replaced with high-end clothing boutiques, wine shops, gourmet restaurants and art galleries.
When I get to Les Puces, I cross Main and sit on a street bench where I have to turn backward for a bird’s-eye view of the store. I don’t know what I hope to see or why I’m here. All I know is that there’s likely a restraining order in my future.
The store has more presence here than the one on California Street in the city. Though the calligraphy—big black swirly cursive letters—is the same, the sign is bigger. Actually, everything about the store is bigger. Larger footprint, larger door, larger display window.
It’s pretty, like a wannabe French bakery. Think Ladurée on steroids. The outside trim is painted a pistachio green and the awning is black-and-white stripes. I wonder if Beth picked out the color scheme or if she hired someone to do it.
A long time goes by, and I’m starting to get a crick in my neck, but I can’t seem to pull myself away. It’s as if just staring at the store might give me answers. A few more minutes go by, and I work up enough nerve to go inside.
A little bell over the door jingles, and a girl behind the cash register lifts her head up just long enough to grace me with a smile that sayswhy are you bothering me?before going back to looking at her phone. It appears that it’s just her and me, alone. That doesn’t rule out that Beth might be somewhere in the back, out of sight.
I stroll up and down the narrow aisles, pretending to browse. The shop is as pretty on the inside as it is from the street. Pale pink and pistachio walls, light wood herringbone floors and Leucite shelving. Edith Piaf plays in the background. How original.
The merchandise is what you would expect to find in all the bric-a-brac shops with names like Nest and Home and Abode or anything with the wordmagnoliain it. Les Puces, “the fleas” in French (I looked it up), is a real divergence. At least in the US. In Paris,Les Puces de Saint-Ouenis the name of a world-famous flea market, which I learned from Wikipedia. I’m assuming the store was named after that. Yes, I’ve spent a great deal of time researching the name of Beth Hardesty’s home décor stores. I’m not proud of it. But it is what it is.
I continue to wander, picking up various items as I go, fearing that the shop girl has found me out and is only seconds away from calling the cops. In reality, she hasn’t lifted her gaze off her phone the entire time I’ve been here. By now, I could’ve walked off with enough Riedel stemware to open my own shop.
Everything is displayed and organized beautifully. A row of blown glass candlesticks. Drawers of Provencal linens. Shelves filled with handmade pottery. Racks of gorgeous lace. I flash on Beth and Josh’s apartment and wonder if it looked like this. If every object was curated to reflect their exquisite taste.
Our apartment, with the exception of Josh’s records, hats and books, was a dusty mishmash of things accumulated over our seven years together. None of it looked like this.
I make my way to the back of the shop, half fearing, half hoping that I’ll bump into Beth. If I do, would I have the courage to talk to her?Hey, didn’t you used to date my late husband, Josh Ackermann?Hey, aren’t you Beth Hardesty, my late husband’s ex?
Did Josh love you more than he loved me?
There’s a door that looks like it goes to a storage room. But a painted wooden sign says otherwise. “Garden, come outside.” I turn around to see if shop girl is going to stop me and half expect an alarm to go off as I turn the handle on the door, which opens onto a delightful courtyard that does indeed remind me of my one and only visit to Paris. I was twelve, and my parents took us for their twentieth anniversary. The things I remember most were Adam insisting that the food sucked and that we should eat all our meals at McDonald’s, that all the women wore beautiful scarves, and the courtyard at the hotel where we stayed in the Marais. Green ivy clung to the walls, and red geraniums spilled from big terra-cotta pots. Instead of a lawn, the ground was covered in ancient-looking brick-colored tiles. There was a small iron table and two gloriously rickety chairs. Even as a child, I could feel the magic.
It’s the same way I’m feeling now as I walk through Les Puces’ small oasis with its ornate iron arbor and babbling, moss-covered fountain. Although everything from the patio furniture to the plants displays discreet little price tags, the space is so reminiscent of that courtyard in Paris, I want to stay and never leave.
Over the stucco wall, I spy an alleyway where there’s a line for a taco truck. And just like that I’m back in California.
I turn to leave and hear the voices of a woman and two small children.
“Not today, Kingsley, Daddy’s making paella for dinner. Mommy’s got thirty minutes of work to do. Can you and Rivers sit here and color until I’m done?”
They turn the corner, and I come face-to-face with Beth. I’m pretty sure my heart stops, and by divine intervention I am still able to breathe. She is even prettier in real life than she is in pictures. Her brown hair is tied back in a high ponytail, and her face is bare of makeup. She’s wearing a colorful peasant top, cropped jeans with ragged edges, and a pair of red platform sandals. Very Napa Valley casual. The worst part—Kingsley, Rivers, and paella aside—is she looks down to earth and like the type of friend you can rely on. The one who never gets angry that you drunk-called her in the middle of the night. The one who throws the best bridal and baby showers. And the one who will drop everything to whisk you away for a spa day when your boyfriend dumps you.
She smiles at me, and I stand there, paralyzed. All the questions I’ve prepared in my head since I read the texts are lodged in my throat. There’s no sign that she recognizes me. Then again, why would she?
“Can I help you with something?” she asks as her two perfect children climb up on one of the patio tables.
Yes, you can help me unravel the mystery of why my late husband never spoke of your existence yet saved every text message you ever wrote him.
“I was just browsing,” I say, stunned to hear my voice so steady.
“Is this your first time in Les Puces?” I imagine her French pronunciation is spot on.
“It is. Lovely store.” The urge to flee is so strong that if Beth wasn’t standing in front of me, I’d sprint across the shop and out the front door as fast as a gazelle.
“Thank you. I’m glad you think so. And please let me know if you need assistance with anything.”
Before I can say I will and force a smile on my face, she’s at the patio table with her kids, unpacking a box of crayons and coloring books from her enormous handbag.
I race to the front of the store. Shop girl is still immersed in her phone as I duck outside. I make it all the way to the car before throwing up in my passenger seat.
A mess, I unearth my cell phone from the bottom of my bag and start to call Campbell, knowing he’ll come all the way to St. Helena and get me if I ask him to. But I stop myself before his phone rings. This thing with Beth is a piece of my life that belongs only to Josh and me.
