Story 21 | Parisian Patina

Based on the subscriber-submitted prompt: On a work trip to Paris, he goes vintage shopping in Le Marais, stumbling upon a find that changes everything.

Apr 17, 2025

Welcome back! This week, we have another what-I’m-now-calling Plot Twist Challenge. You know the drill: 2 hours, 1000 words, write a short story start to finish off a subscriber-submitted prompt.

Today’s story is based on Mauricio’s prompt: “on a work trip to Paris, he goes vintage shopping in Le Marais, stumbling upon a find that changes everything.”

Originally, I had a cool set-up with a clichéd and depressing payoff. But I kept pushing on the idea and a different direction came to light with which I am thrilled. Let’s just say I slightly reinterpreted the meaning of the prompt.

Subscribers: to submit a prompt for consideration for future stories, please share them in the Plot Twists Chat! I could use a few more. Thank you in advance!

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Parisian Patina

He desperately wanted Paris to be magical, the romantic fairytale of tourism dreams, but the reality was this: he couldn’t make heads or tails of the city.

He had woken up from his overnight flight groggy and fatigued, moving through customs in a fog and crediting it to jetlag and a sleep deficit, but three days later, it had yet to lift.

Outside of work meetings, he had ordered not one, but two soupes à l’oignon, at two different cafés of course, and they were both only mediocre, barely even hot. Maybe he should stop making them at home, but how – how – were his better than that from the source?!

And where were the quintessential streets with the fancy buildings with the iron railings that were signature to Paris? He could never remember the name of the architect for which they were named. It felt like he had walked all over creation and had yet to turn onto a stretch of city that was quiet, perfect Parisian.

Stay in the Marais, they said, it’s so cool and bohemian. Too cool for him, apparently because he was not moved. It was so commercial, where was the soul? One of the oldest neighborhoods in the world, and it was all massive global chains and trendy, soulless brands? Was he turning into a curmudgeon? Is this what getting old looked like? Surely forties wasn’t old old.

It didn’t help that the skies had been a steady gray since he arrived, spitting rain at the most inopportune moments for sport. He had traveled much of Europe and knew London like the back of his hand, swooned over Gaudi’s architecture in Barcelona and was enamored with Amsterdam’s entire vibe, but here he couldn’t even figure out which way was north. There was something about Paris that was deeply disorienting to him.

Work had sent him for a handful of client meetings that were inexplicably bookended over a weekend. At first, he was excited for the all-expenses-paid time in Paris – who wouldn’t be?! But now on this Saturday morning, he wished he were home working on his son’s bedroom redesign and not biding his time on a street corner being misted on while studying Google Maps’ most efficient path to his destination: the marché aux puces, the flea market.

The boy would soon be nine – nine! – and had outgrown his more babyish room. It had hit him all at once at bedtime a few nights before he left for this trip. One minute he was reading a book to his son, and the next, the juvenile nightlight was winking at him, revealing how plain it was that the room needed a complete makeover. Paw Patrol sheets?! For a nine-year-old? Absolutely not.

A friend had suggested he take the bus instead of the metro to be able to see more of the city; it was good advice. He gave up his seat to an older man walking with a cane, who gave him the quintessential tip of the hat in thanks, and the traffic broke, the bus moving deftly through the storied streets.

As he stepped off at his stop, conveniently at the very entrance of the marché, so his phone’s map was not needed again, the sun burst from behind the clouds, in a most dazzling shifting of sets, from dreary gloom to radiant spring in an instant. The swath of sunshine brought with it color and playful bird sounds and lifted the heads of passerbys.

Was the sun’s benevolent grace a sign? Maybe that he should change careers from consulting and pursue interior design? He chuckled to himself as he considered the periodically recurrent idea and strolled from vendor to vendor. Their family home was gorgeous, if he said so himself, but had it come to him naturally? His first apartments had progressed in style as he moved and laboriously studied and evolved his design tastes. His home was a culmination of those skills.

He knew immediately that the marché would yield nothing for his son’s room. Not for lack of the right items, but for lack of direction. There wasn’t time to set proper design intention, not when his attention was demanded by so many curiosities at every turn. Instead, he would follow this pull, this sudden understanding of his locale and see what he could see. Namely, treasure after treasure. Paris did patina better than anyone. It was real, it was old, it had earned soul. Price on the other hand…

A piece stopped him in his tracks: a carved stone mantelpiece, thickly veined in an improbable but chic ultra-deep purple, playing with gray and burgundy, muted and bold at once. To the touch, it was soft and cool, cut with elegant fluting and classic moldings. It was heartstoppingly good.

Practically fondling the weathered marble, he considered his possible epiphany and how he wished he could ship this piece home for someone, anyone. Imagine the well-off client who would declare they had to have it; exorbitant shipping costs be damned. And the room he would design around it…

No, he was a design hobbyist at best, and he didn’t want to make it work. And he liked consulting. He was good at it. And the pay would be tough to give up.

Still draped over the mantel, he was pulled from his reverie by a voice.

“Excusez-moi, monsieur,” said a very good French accent from an American woman.

He turned to find himself facing an older, very familiar-looking woman, standing with a companion, who was none other than the instantly recognizable, tv-famous chef Ina Garten. Before he could say anything, the woman continued.

“Do you speak English?” He nodded. “I see you’ve claimed this mantel. I regret I passed it by before and was coming back for it. If I could get you to give up your claim, I would be glad to owe you a favor. I’ve foolishly set my heart on it. I’m Nancy, by the way.”

The first name was enough to place the puzzle piece of her identity: director and screenwriter Nancy Meyers. And Ina Garten. Vintage shopping in Paris. Together.

“A favor? That could be arranged,” he said, as his purpose clicked, the sun shining down, a light breeze moving through the flowered branches above, birds chirping, the light murmur of native French from nearby shoppers. “Show me your Paris.”

Nancy matched his smile and held out her hand to shake on it. “Deal,” she said.

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