{"product_id":"paris-by-the-book-isbn-9781101986295","title":"Paris by the Book","description":"\u003cb\u003eNATIONAL BESTSELLER\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA missing person, a grieving family, a curious clue: a half-finished manuscript set in Paris\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eOnce a week, I chase men who are not my husband. . . . \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen eccentric novelist Robert Eady abruptly vanishes, he leaves behind his wife, Leah, their daughters, and, hidden in an unexpected spot, plane tickets to Paris.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHoping to uncover clues--and her husband--Leah sets off for France with her girls. Upon their arrival, she discovers an unfinished manuscript, one Robert had been writing without her knowledge . . . and that he had set in Paris. The Eady girls follow the path of the manuscript to a small, floundering English-language bookstore whose weary proprietor is eager to sell. Leah finds herself accepting the offer on the spot.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs the family settles into their new Parisian life, they trace the literary paths of some beloved Parisian classics, including \u003ci\u003eMadeline\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eThe Red Balloon\u003c\/i\u003e, hoping more clues arise. But a series of startling discoveries forces Leah to consider that she may not be ready for what solving this mystery might do to her family--and the Paris she thought she knew.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCharming, haunting, and triumphant, \u003ci\u003eParis by the Book\u003c\/i\u003e follows one woman's journey as she writes her own story, exploring the power of family and the magic that hides within the pages of a book.“Sublime . . . Callanan has crafted a beautifully drawn portrait of a woman interrupted, set among the exquisite magic of Paris, where life frequently imitates art as the ghosts of the past linger just out of sight.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePublisher's Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e (starred review)\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Callanan has woven a tale of grief, resentment, and the everyday madness of equivocating the unfathomable. . . . Callanan’s sweet and compulsively readable tale invites readers to fall in love with Paris, Leah, and her family.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“A love letter to reading, writing, and all things French, \u003ci\u003eParis by the Book\u003c\/i\u003e combines a charming first-person protagonist, a nuanced family drama, and the magic of Paris.”\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eShelfAwareness\u003c\/i\u003e (starred review)\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Liam Callanan’s spirited \u003ci\u003eParis by the Book\u003c\/i\u003e offers a near-irresistible package of twin glories, Paris and books (love of reading), delivering vibrant tours of each. . . . [A] witty mystery-adventure.”\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—San Francisco Chronicle\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“Both playful and serious . . . Liam Callanan's new novel has two ingredients that make booksellers and readers swoon: Paris and bookstores . . . a must for fans of \u003ci\u003eThe Red Balloon\u003c\/i\u003e and the \u003ci\u003eMadeline\u003c\/i\u003e stories\u003cb\u003e.\u003c\/b\u003e”\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003eMilwaukee Journal-Sentinel\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eParis by the Book\u003c\/i\u003e is inherently addicting, thrilling, and literary in more ways than one.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Michigan Daily\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Liam Callanan’s \u003ci\u003eParis by the Book\u003c\/i\u003e is much more than an elegiac portrait of an artist who has vanished. Here we witness the sacrifices and yearnings of the ones left behind as they continue to love, live, and flourish. Like James Salter’s \u003ci\u003eLight Years\u003c\/i\u003e, Callanan depicts the once seemingly simple conditions of a young marriage and what it takes to let such conditions go.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Min Jin Lee, National Book Award finalist author of \u003ci\u003ePachinko\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“This charming and poignant novel made me fall in love with Paris and all things French. Oh, to own a bookstore in any arrondissement! Within this love story there are reflections on the mystery of writing, the solace of reading, the ties that bind and those that don’t, plus the joy of \u003ci\u003eThe Red Balloon\u003c\/i\u003e, to name but a few of the pleasures of\u003ci\u003e Paris by the Book\u003c\/i\u003e.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003eJane Hamilton,\u003cb\u003e author of \u003ci\u003eThe Excellent Lombards\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eA Map of the World\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“In \u003ci\u003eParis by the Book\u003c\/i\u003e, the marvelously gifted Liam Callanan tells a spellbinding story of reading and writing, romance and marriage, French frozen food and a small bookshop. I loved walking the streets of Marais with his eloquent narrator. And I loved how Callanan simultaneously reveals the history of her marriage and of her adopted city. Open a bottle of wine, open this wise and wonderful book, and enjoy.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003eMargot Livesey, author of \u003ci\u003eMercury\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eThe Flight of Gemma Hardy\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e“A haunting literary mystery and a multifaceted love story of husbands gone missing, of daughters left behind, of starting over, of books, and finally, of Paris. I love, love this novel.”\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003eCaroline Leavitt, author of \u003ci\u003eCruel Beautiful World\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Liam Callanan's new novel is charming and full of fabled accordion music and wonderfully Márquezian magic--and best of all it's told by a narrator I came to love, whose funny, honest, wryly snarky voice drew me in from the first line.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003eDan Chaon, author of \u003ci\u003eIll Will\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eLiam Callanan\u003c\/b\u003e is a novelist, teacher and journalist. His novel, \u003ci\u003eParis by the Book\u003c\/i\u003e, a national bestseller, was translated into multiple languages and won the 2019 Edna Ferber Prize. He’s also the 2017 winner of the Hunt Prize, and his first novel, \u003ci\u003eThe Cloud Atlas\u003c\/i\u003e, was a finalist for an Edgar Award. Liam’s work has appeared in \u003ci\u003eThe Wall Street Journal, Slate, The New York Times, The Washington Post \u003c\/i\u003eand\u003ci\u003e The San Francisco Chronicle\u003c\/i\u003e, and he's recorded numerous essays for public radio. He's also taught for the Warren Wilson MFA Program for Writers, Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference, and the University of Wisconsin–Milwaukee, and lives in Wisconsin with his wife and daughters.Chapter 1\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I've long considered the front of our bookstore a trap, one      carefully set.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e This is as it must be. Although we are in the wearyingly popular      Marais district, we are in the lower Marais, closer to the Seine      but farther from the falafel stands and crperies, the pedestrian      streets, and thus the crowds, and thus, customers. One side of our      block is almost entirely taken up with the blank back wall of a      monastery, which may or may not be occupied. Despite all the      bells, I've never seen a monk on the sidewalk. Opposite the      monastery, a succession of shops like ours, peering out from the      ground floors of anonymous, flat-front buildings in various shades      of cream forever wizening yellow. High above, zinc roofs slowly      bruise black, windows shrug away shutters. Here and there appear      flowers, or their remains. So, too, wrought iron railings, or      their remains.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And our store, bright red, like an apple, a wound.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The store has always been red, but it was deeper, bluer, more      toward the color of cabernet when I first saw it. It was my choice      to update it to cherry, almost fire truck, red. This caused a mild      scandal even though I'd cleared it with our landlord, the store's      original proprietor, Madame Brouillard; one painter quit on me      before he got started and another quit after scraping and priming.      Upon the recommendation of my UPS driver (and unofficial street      concierge), Laurent, I finally hired a Polish man who spoke almost      as little French as I did and thus didn't care what anyone      thought. I asked Laurent what he thought when the job was done.      Laurent looked up and down the street. The painter had not only      gotten exactly right the clarion red I wanted, he'd layered what      looked to be thirty-six coats of clear lacquer on top. The place      shone as if it had been enameled in molten lollipop.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Laurent said I should sell them, lollipops.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I shook my head.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He shook his.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e We sell books. Gold letters say this on the window. bookshop to      one side, librairie anglophone to the other. In the middle, our      name, a debate. It had been named for the street, which is named      for Saint Lucy. This confuses people; across town, there is      another street named for her. More confusion: Lucy is the patron      saint of writers, but Madame Brouillard said the name sometimes      brought in religious shoppers, and most times, no one at all. Once      upon a time, she insisted to me, the street had been crowded, not      just with book buyers but booksellers. One by one, the stores      departed, and many left their stock behind with Madame. The      English-language volumes, not the French. The dross, not the      treasures. And needless to say, the dead, not the living. She had      hardly anything by living authors.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I suggested rechristening the store The Late Edition. Late as in      we would henceforth specialize in authors who, unlike their books,      were dead.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She didn't like it, but she let me proceed, as one of her keenest      pleasures is bearing a grudge. I sometimes think it's why she let      me, who knew little about bookstores (and even less about French),      assume control of a bookshop she'd owned for decades. And it's      likely why she watched with interest as the dead-authors angle      turned out to be just the sort of Paris quirk travel writers      craved (who are quick to note that I make living-authors      exceptions for children's books and books of any sort by women).\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Madame pays Laurent off the books to bring more stock from storage      units outside Paris, where she's piled the leavings of her      predecessors. Laurent says there aren't enough customers in the      world for all the books waiting there.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And Madame had a very small share of the world's customers. When      we took over the store, the running joke was that we were down to      three. Two Americans and one New Zealander, who also formed the      sum total of my friends in Paris: another joke. And whenever my      daughters made it, I would smile to hide the hurt. Not only was it      a stretch to call the three customers, but even more so to call      them friends. Still, I was grateful they occasionally bought      books.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The truth is, in modern France as in modern elsewhere, Amazon      sells books (and snow tires); bookstores sell coffee. Or the      profitable ones do. Those with bookstores that only sell books      have a tougher time. It is slightly easier in France, although      Amazon's smirk is almost as ubiquitous here as it likely still is      in Milwaukee, where my girls and I lived until recently. (Unless      two years is not recent? Some days it feels like twenty years.      Other days, twenty minutes.) Enlightened France, however,      regulates discounting books (or attempts to) and, even more      cheering, occasionally provides independent bookstores financial      support. Such aid favors the selling of new books, but Madame      Brouillard had long ago figured out a way to benefit, by running a      second, smaller bookstore that sold new titles in French. It just      happened to coexist inside a bookstore that sold used books in      English. The French store specialized in children's titles and was      on the front half of what looks like the building's second floor      but is actually a cramped mezzanine.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The back half of the mezzanine, flimsily walled off, became my      daughters' bedroom, which, if they left the door open upon      leaving, sometimes became an ersatz English-language children's      bookstore: Daphne once complained someone was stealing her old      Beverly Cleary books; I'd been selling them without asking buyers      just where they'd picked them up.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The kitchen, living area, and my bedroom are on the floor above      the girls. With higher ceilings and more elaborate architectural      detail, this is the Žtage noble. But in our building, the resident      noble, Madame Brouillard, commands the top two floors, which have      much better light. She lives on one and her own private collection      of books lives just above, or so she once told me. For the longest      time, I'd never ventured farther into her apartment than the small      sitting room just inside the door (which, like the building, like      so much of Paris, looks just like authors and artists have long      led you to think: late-sun yellow, delicate furniture, lace, an      old crystal lamp atop a tiny table).\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Paris, in other words, like Madame's promises to show me the top      floor, is a challenge, an invitation, a city that doesn't      distinguish between the two. It may be why my conversations with      Madame often ended abruptly. Or it was because she knew, long      before I did, that the trap I'd set was not for customers but for      my vanished husband-and that it had ensnared me instead.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It is faintly ironic I find myself running a bookstore, because      almost twenty years ago I was caught running from one, a stolen      item in hand. And ironic that IÕve ever chased any man anywhere in      Paris, because on that long-ago night, my husband was chasing me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Please change the set. Unroll a new sidewalk, erect a different      storefront, lower a fresh backdrop. Gone is the Eiffel Tower, and      arriving in its place is-nothing, really. Blue skies, clouds if      you like. A simple city skyline. Steeples here and there, some      smokestacks, but otherwise, clip-art buildings. After all, we're      no longer in Paris, but Milwaukee.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And there, on my left hand, no ring. We're not married yet, my      husband and I. Two moon-pale Midwesterners, we don't even know      each other, which makes it awkward that he's just accosted me on      the street-a series of heys! dopplering ever closer until I had to      turn-about something I have clutched in my right hand. A book. I'm      not hiding it, mind you. (I'm not hiding it because I couldn't-it      was about ten by twelve inches, a children's book, with a bright      red balloon on the cover.)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Hi,\" he said with half a smile. \"I think you forgot to pay?\" He      now crinkled half his face to go with his half smile, which was      good. It gave him some creases, which gave him some years. He was      short, fair, slender but athletic. I'd taken him for seventeen. On      his high school's cross-country team. Now I added four years.      Later he would add four more: twenty-five. Incredible.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Oh, I pay,\" I said. \"I pay every day.\" I got ready to rant about      men accosting me on the sidewalk, about men everywhere accosting      women everywhere on all the sidewalks of the world-but it wasn't      true, not for me, not there, not then.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e What was true was that I was embarrassed. Embarrassed I'd stolen      something-I'd never stolen anything before-and embarrassed that      I'd stolen a children's book. And I was embarrassed I was so poor.      I was almost twenty-four, and I had exactly that many dollars in      my checking account. I would have more on Monday when I received      my grad student stipend, but until then, I had twenty-four      dollars, two suspended credit cards, and a surplus of anger. The      university library had inexplicably closed early and I'd decided      that I needed the book version of Albert Lamorisse's 1956 movie,      The Red Balloon, at that very moment to finish my master's thesis      on the great (and quite curious) man. Never mind that I knew by      heart every frame of this classic Paris film and every page of the      companion book-indeed, its every cobblestone and cat (one living,      black, another on a building's poster, white).\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Many people my age briefly shared my obsession as kids, thanks to      rainy-day recess copies of the film that saturated American      elementary schools in the 1970s and '80s. I noticed that, as years      passed, those children moved on. I knew I had not, and would not.      That book was my first love. Like a crush, a companion, a      boyfriend of the type I wouldn't really have, ever. That book,      that film, understood me. Or so I felt. I knew that I understood      it. And moreover, I understood its Paris. For other girls (and the      odd boy), Paris meant flowers and romance and accordions wheezing.      The Red Balloon has none of this. It's beautiful, but bracing.      Some find it sweet, but I didn't like sweet things as a child and      I don't much now. I'm surprised more people-like the staff of the      Milwaukee bookstore I was stealing from-don't realize the obvious.      Red is the color of warning.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I wish I myself had paid more attention to that warning. I was in      grad school then for film studies-film criticism-but had started      in filmmaking, because I did want to make something, and Lamorisse      made it look so easy. It wasn't, especially when I discovered my      filmmaking program disdained narrative. How much better The Red      Balloon would have been, they said, had it been solely that: a      close-up of a balloon for thirty minutes-or thirty hours! No      dialogue. No actors. Just balloon. What do you think, Leah? I      thought I'd transfer to film studies, and did. There they told me      I needed to be interested in films other than The Red Balloon and      cityscapes other than Paris. For a while, I let them think I was.      But I couldn't sustain the fiction; in a very short time, I would      burn out, give up. Or as I liked to think of it, give in, and to a      private truth: I was mostly still interested in making my own      film. I didn't know how, when, or what it would be. I did know      where it would take place: far from Wisconsin.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And far away from this boy accosting me on the street outside a      bookstore.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I ran.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Doc Martens do not make for good running shoes, especially when      purchased at Goodwill, a size and a half too big. I worried my      pursuer might think I'd stolen them, too. I worried that I was      worried what he would think.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e When he finally caught up to me, the first words out of his mouth      were two I myself was about to say.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I'm sorry?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He was beautiful. I know there's a delicacy about the word. There      was a delicacy about him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"It's okay,\" I said, neatly absolving him for something that I had      done.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He'd been in line at the cashier when he'd seen me slip the book      out of the store. He'd told them to add it to his bill,      impulse-bought still another book, and then he'd chased me. \"Take      it,\" he said now, though I already had.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I'm not sure I want it anymore,\" I said, looking at it, lying.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Can I-can I buy you a coffee?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"How about a beer,\" I said, \"unless you're worried I'd steal that,      too.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He wasn't, or maybe he was, because he kept a grip on his glass at      the bar when we met later that night. He was nervous or thirsty or      knew this about himself: his hands, if left unoccupied, would      flutter, rise, fall, paint shapes familiar and not. He'd run a      hand through his hair and nod, or rub his face and frown, or draw      a letter on the table, another in the air. It was how he spoke. It      was how he smiled. It was nerves, yes, but of a generalized sort,      at least at that point, and my goal soon became to have him be      nervous about me. I wanted to see, and feel, what those hands      could do.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And he had these eyes. Gray, but the right iris was stained with a      tiny burnt-orange splotch I felt compelled to comment on.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He briefly closed his eyes in reply. \"It's meaningless,\" he said,      \"in humans. But in pigeons? Eyes? A big deal, especially if you      race them, which I don't, but it's how you tell them apart, how      you know which one's yours.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And at that moment, I did.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"So, Paris?\" he said, now tapping The Red Balloon, which lay on      the table between us. I winced, I think invisibly. Tap, tap: it      felt like a little thump to my chest.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Robert explained that his own favorite children's stories were by      Ludwig Bemelmans. The Madeline series.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e In an old house in Paris\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e That was covered with vines\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Lived twelve little girls\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e In two straight lines. . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I shook my head. Once upon a time-first or second grade-those      would have been, had been, fighting words. The hats, the bows, the      uniforms? The two straight lines?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But on my future husband plowed. He thought I should be, had to      be, a Bemelmans fan, given my interest in Lamorisse: \"both      artists, before-and after anything else!\" In his hands appeared a      copy of the first Madeline book. Which he had purchased for me. To      go with the book I'd stolen.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He slid Madeline alongside The Red Balloon, both books flat on the      tiny table between us. I looked down at the covers, and then      around at the bar.","brand":"Dutton","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46302440751333,"sku":"NP9781101986295","price":17.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781101986295.jpg?v=1767734504","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/paris-by-the-book-isbn-9781101986295","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}