One Paris Summer (Blink) (21 page)

“No,” I lied, feeling guilty about it, but I couldn’t confess to my lessons with Mathieu.

“I can teach you if you would like.”

Part of me rebelled at the idea, and I knew all too well why. Mathieu. Jenna had a point. I tended to pick unavailable guys.

The previews started before I could answer. They were in French—and since I had embarked on this mission to learn more about everything French, I found them fascinating. The movie started soon after, and it turned out to be some kind of romcom, which surprised me since the guys had willingly attended. I had no idea what anyone was saying, although I listened carefully for the words in my limited vocabulary, catching a few here and there and getting ridiculously excited whenever I did. I found myself wishing Mathieu was there. Thomas was leaning against the armrest next to me, his right knee lightly touching my left one, but I didn’t feel a single butterfly.

Eric kept glancing over at us, and I caught his gaze after about the third time, lifting my eyebrows at him in frustration. Marine put her hand on top of his soon after that, and it seemed to make him forget he
had
a sister.

When the movie was over, we left the theater and gathered on the sidewalk. Once again, Camille held court, but with my new knowledge of her past, I saw the group’s dynamics in a new light. There was a hint of sympathy in their eyes, and it occurred to me that they tolerated her behavior because they felt sorry for her. I wondered again what she’d been like before, because it was obvious her friends were very loyal.

“Did you enjoy the movie, Sophie?” Thomas asked.

I knew I should give him a chance. He was available. He was interested. But there just wasn’t a spark. “Yes, even though I didn’t understand most of it.”

“I really would be happy to teach you French.”

Eric moved closer. “Maybe another time. We’re leaving.”

I shot my brother a glare as I waved good-bye to Thomas, but I was partially relieved. It bought me more time to work through the jumbled mess of my feelings.

We took the Metro back to the apartment. Camille and Dane sat several rows ahead of us. I studied my new stepsister, wondering how she and her mother could have reacted so differently to their grief and ability to move on. I suddenly had a desire to show Eva how much I appreciated everything she’d done to welcome us into her life.

I had an idea.

After Dad left, I’d started cooking to help Mom. I could make dinner. It seemed like such a small thing, but it was the only thing I could come up with.

When we got to our neighborhood, I convinced Eric to stop at the market with me to pick up the ingredients for spaghetti and meatballs.

He laughed. “You’re cooking Italian food in France?”

“You don’t complain when I make it at home.”

“No complaints. Only an observation.”

I ended up substituting sausage for ground beef and getting fresh tomatoes instead of canned since the fresh fruits and vegetables were so good here. Camille seemed surprised when I started cooking dinner, but to my relief she and Dane stayed out of the kitchen. Dinner was almost done when I heard the front door open.

“Oh!” Eva exclaimed front the entryway. “What smells so good?”

“
Bonsoir
, Eva.” I smiled at her when she came into the kitchen. “I made dinner.” I lifted a wooden spoon filled with sauce.

She closed her eyes and tasted it. “Delicious.”

I beamed. “You like it?”

“I can’t believe you made dinner,” she said, tears filling her eyes.

“It’s nothing,” I said. “I cook all the time back home. I hope it’s okay.”

She pulled me into a hug, then murmured something in French before saying, “I am so lucky to have you for a daughter.”

“As opposed to having me?” Camille asked, glaring at us from the doorway. “You can have a good daughter now?”

My heart skipped a beat.

“Camille,” her mother sighed.

Camille walked away, and Eva turned to me with an apologetic look. “She will grow to accept you.”

I wasn’t so sure about that. Camille already saw me as a threat, and this was one more strike against me.

“Thank you for making dinner, Sophie,” Eva said, struggling not to cry. “This is a very special gift.” Then she went into her room and shut the door.

Dad came home soon after that. The guys set the dining room table, and Dad opened a bottle of wine for him and Eva to drink. We all sat down, and it wasn’t long before Eva said, “Sophie, I think I have a solution to your piano problem.”

I stopped eating, my fork midair. “What piano problem?”

“Your father told me you need to play on a real piano, not just a keyboard.”

My face burned with embarrassment. “Eva, I don’t want to seem ungrateful. I know you went out of your way to get it for me.”

“No.” She gave me a reassuring smile. “I understand, and I think I have a solution. At least a partial one.”

I waited, a band of anxiety tightening around my chest.

“Camille’s friend Mathieu has a piano in his apartment. His mother is an instructor at a
conservatoire
, and I contacted her this afternoon. I asked her if it would be possible for you to use their piano during the day since she and her husband are away at work. She said she would arrange for Mathieu to let you in.”

Eric’s eyes narrowed, and I could tell he was trying to decide whether or not to say anything.

I wanted to kick him under the table, but my mind was whirling. Mathieu’s mother was an instructor at a conservatory? I had assumed she was a teacher like Miss Lori, not an instructor at a music school. But the Steinway and the fact that Mathieu managed to find a spare copy of the Rachmaninoff prelude so easily should have tipped me off.

“Are you open to this idea?” she asked.

I shot a glance to Camille, although I wasn’t sure why. If Eva and Mathieu’s mother had cooked this up, she couldn’t hold it against him. She looked unhappy, but not as furious as I’d expected.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” Eric said.

“What?” I squawked.

“I don’t think you should be alone with a teenage boy in an apartment for hours at a time.” He turned to Dad. “I can’t believe you’re actually considering this.”

Dad looked blindsided. “Uh . . .”

“You would never let me stay home alone with Dori.”

He was right. Dad used to insist that Eric and his girlfriend couldn’t be home alone together. Which meant I had been stuck playing chaperone more times than I could count. Not that it had stopped them from going into his room and shutting the door.

“Do we really want to talk about how well that rule worked, Eric?” I asked.

His eyes narrowed to pinpricks.

Dad turned to me. “I trust Sophie to make smart choices. I don’t see a problem with it.”

My mouth parted. Was he saying that because he was trying to earn his way back into my good graces? Or was it time for me to start taking his words at face value?

“I was going to have Camille take Sophie over there tomorrow, but Madeline messaged me later to say Mathieu would come by to show Sophie the way.”

“I bet he did,” Eric grumbled.

That
caught Camille’s attention.

But Eva wasn’t paying attention to either of them. “Madeline said Mathieu volunteered to pick you up around eight thirty. You can stay until lunch or later.”

“Eva . . . thank you. You have no idea how much this means to me!” Not only was I going to get to be more open about practicing—and for longer!—but I would get to see Mathieu every day. I couldn’t deny that it made me feel like I was glowing inside.

ERIC WANTED TO
walk me to Mathieu’s apartment, a phenomenon that baffled Dane.

“Dude, she’s been walking around the city for three days all alone,” Dane said, furiously tapping and waving his video game controller, his eyes glued to the TV screen. “Let her go.”

I moved closer to Eric, my eyes on his. “You have no say in this. Dad said he trusts me.”

“Dad doesn’t know all the facts.”

“Eric!” I snarled under my breath, my eye on my stepsister, who was watching us from across the room. I put my hands on my hips. “What are you doing up so early anyway?”

Dane groaned. “Your stupid brother woke me up with his alarm, and I couldn’t go back to sleep.”

I grabbed my sheet music and stuffed it into my bag.

Eric followed. “If you’re not back by noon, I’m coming to find you.”

I leaned into his face and whispered, “What in the world has you so freaked out?”

His jaw set. “I don’t like that he was so secretive. I don’t care if he dated Camille or not. He’s trying to take advantage of the situation, and it’s much easier to do when no one else knows what’s going on.”

I shook my head in disbelief. “It’s not a secret anymore, so calm down.” I stomped toward the door and he followed.

“You better be back by noon!” he yelled after me.

“I’ll be back by one!” I had no idea if I’d be gone that long. For all I knew, Mathieu liked our current schedule of me leaving after a couple of hours.

He was waiting for me outside the front door. “Since this isn’t a secret anymore, I thought I could meet you here,” he said, giving me a hesitant smile.

I nodded, suddenly nervous. “Thanks.”

We had started to walk the now familiar path when he asked, “Did you ask Eva to talk to my mother?”

I sucked in my breath and came to a halt, horrified he would think that. “No! It was my father’s doing. Well . . . and Eva’s, I guess. My brother told my dad to get me a real piano to play. Dad must have told Eva, and she remembered your mom.”

He nodded, looking like he believed me, thank God. I didn’t want him to think I was some manipulative stalker.

“You didn’t tell me your mother works at a conservatory.”

His eyebrows rose. “I told you she teaches piano.”

“That’s entirely different than teaching at a conservatory.”

He shrugged.

“Does she mind me playing her piano?”

“No. She likes Eva, so she was happy to do it for her.”

We started walking again. “Are you okay with this? Everyone knowing that I’m coming over to your house?”

He grinned. “Yes.”

“What about Camille?”

“She can’t refuse our mothers.”

Of course, I had to remember that while we could be open about me going to his house to practice, we still couldn’t be together. I had to figure out a way to be okay with that. “Have you had breakfast?”

He beamed at me. “No.”

“How do you say ‘Are you hungry?’ ”

An ornery look filled his eyes. “Are you hungry?”

I bumped my arm into his. “In
French
.”

“I taught you this yesterday. You’ve already forgotten?”

“I know how to say
I
am hungry. I want to know how to ask
you
.”

“Est-ce que tu as faim?”

I repeated the phrase, then laughed. “I really hope I asked you if you were hungry and not if you’d like to buy my goats.”

He grinned. “
Tu
is a familiar you.
Vous
is formal.
Faim
is hunger.”

I cocked my head and gave him an ornery look. “You taught me
tu
. Does that mean we’re past formal status?”

He was still smiling, but his eyes darkened. “Yes.” His voice was husky.

I looked away, embarrassed that I’d pushed our boundaries. It was becoming harder and harder not to flirt with him, but there was no point in torturing both of us.

The line was shorter at the new
pâtisserie
today. I fumbled through ordering a croissant, a
Paris-Brest
for Mathieu, and two cappuccinos, then insisted on paying. “You’ve bought breakfast several days in a row. It’s my turn. It’s the least I can do after everything you’ve done for me.”

“How long do you plan to play today?” he asked after we’d left the bakery and taken a bite of our food.

“I don’t know. At home I just play until I get frustrated or tired. Do you have somewhere to go today?”

“No, but since it is Friday, my friends are going to a club tonight.” He turned to me, a wary look in his eyes. “Are you going?”

“Oh . . .” I shrugged. “I’m usually added as an afterthought. You know that Camille would rather not have me there.”

“But you went to the cinema yesterday.”

My stomach fluttered. He’d asked if I was there. No, maybe not. Thomas or someone could have volunteered the information. “Camille said Thomas asked if I was coming.”

“Of course he did.”

I wasn’t sure how to answer that, so I didn’t.

“Where are you going tonight?” I asked.

“I never said I was going.” His brow furrowed and he looked utterly unhappy.

I knew the decent thing to do would be to feel sorry for him, but I couldn’t. After all, we were both suffering from the same frustration.

If that wasn’t messed up, I wasn’t sure what was.

When we entered his apartment, I pulled out my Rachmaninoff piece. Mathieu lifted the piano lid for me, and I began to play straightaway. I played the piece slowly, messing up the rhythm and getting frustrated with my fingers.

“Maybe this will help.” Mathieu put a metronome by the sheet music, and I glanced up at him in surprise.