Paris Cravings: A Paris & Pastry Novel (25 page)

After several long minutes, Jean-Paul pulls me to my feet and we wander the park, stopping in various spots to kiss some more.

We sit on one of the benches and kiss. We stop against a tree and kiss. Then we leave the park and kiss on each corner as we walk the last few blocks home in the dark night.
La Patisserie
is filled with shadows, a single nightlight illuminating the empty shelves.

“It’s probably time to start baking,” I murmur against Jean-Paul’s mouth.

He kisses me again as we walk up the stairwell to the overhead apartment. “It’s a good thing you’re leaving, Chloe. It would be hard to restrain myself with you right next door to my bedroom.”

Now I know he’s the guy for me. He cares more about me than himself. How did I get so lucky?

We enter the apartment and Madame Dupré is already awake and up. I can hear the shower running down the hallway. My life in Paris is truly over.

“I’m personally taking you to the airport,” Jean-Paul says as we lean against the door together, my head in the crook of his neck as he holds me tight. “But I have to know when are you coming back to France.”

I shake my head. “I have no idea.”

“This can’t be it, my Chloe girl.”

“Neither of us have any money to cross the Atlantic.”

“I’ll write to you—email.”

Tears begin to slip out of my eyes and I laugh to cover it up. “I don’t want to spoil this night.”

“Will we never see each other again?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “It would take me more than a summer to earn enough for even a one-way ticket.”

He reaches over and brushes his fingers across my cheeks. I feel tears stinging my eyes, and it feels unbearable not to ever see him again. Not to ever experience his touch or his lips on mine.

Tightly, he says, “Someday we will see each other again, Chloe. I know it.”

“How can you know that?” This is harder than I thought it would be. “I’m so afraid, Jean-Paul, that this night will disappear once I get on that plane.”

He grabs me and pulls me close again, his lips against my hair. “Don’t be afraid,” he says, and then he pulls away to look me in the eye with those pools of deep, rich brown. His words are low and intense. “Do you believe in destiny?”

It was a question he’d asked earlier at the first café.

I bite my lips and taste Jean-Paul’s scent lingering there. “So many things can go wrong. The fact that I’m even here with you at this very moment has been pure chance.”

“A single minute changed your life,” he whispers. “And mine.”

Were Jean-Paul and I meant to meet each other?
The idea is pretty mind-boggling.

“If we’re supposed to find each other, how can I leave? And yet I have to. I can’t leave New York. Or my mom. And neither can you leave Paris.”

“This can’t be chance,” Jean-Paul says, his hands cupping my face. “Somehow destiny will find us again.”

“I don’t want to say goodbye.” I honestly think my heart is going to break.

“Neither do I. That’s why we met each other in Paris instead of New York so we need only say
au revoir—
until we meet again. And know that it won’t be the last time.”

Madame Dupré enters the room and cries out in surprise when she sees us now lounging on the couch. She speaks to her son in French and he slaps his forehead. “
Mais oui
,” he mutters.

“Don’t tell me,” I say. “Time to make the pastries.”

Jean-Paul laughs and kisses me on the cheek. “How did you guess?”

“There’s something about living in a pastry shop that gives me ESP.”

“It would be a good way to end the night, don’t you think?”

“A perfect ending to a perfect day,” I whisper back.

Outside, the streets are dark and it’s the middle of the night, and we’re in our own little cocoon before the world wakes up. The windows to the street are black as midnight, but the kitchen is bright and cheery and warm.

I’m secretly thrilled.

“You are our guest, I’m not going to make you work,” Jean-Paul tells me as he ties his apron around his waist.

We play a short game of “no, you won’t,” and “yes, I will,” and in the end I get my own white apron.

Assignment: stove duty as Official Chocolate Melter. Using a sharp knife, I break up chunks of sweet chocolate and dark Belgian chocolate from the thick slabs kept in the cool, dark pantry near the freezer.

The chunks of chocolate go into two different double boilers and then I begin stirring until my arms ache. I swear my muscles are growing bigger. When Jean-Paul walks by as I’m taking a break to give my arm a rest, I roll up my sleeve and flex my biceps to show him.

“No need for a personal fitness trainer. Just come to
La Patisserie
,” he says, pulling on the strings of my apron so that I have to retie them.

A radio plays and Jean-Paul whistles as he works. I love it. The whistling reminds me of my dad, which is what he used to do when he was working around the house or doing accounts at his desk.

At home, my dad was also the official taste tester. I remember bringing him weird popsicle mixes I’d frozen in plastic trays. Things like guava juice and cranberry. Tomato and pineapple. Once I made brownies and accidentally put twice as much sugar. He still loved them. Even though I’m thousands of miles from home, sometimes it feels like he’s watching over me, and as Jean-Paul whistles, the peaceful feeling stays.

Jean-Paul starts whistling “Think of Me” from
Phantom of the Opera
as he boils water and melts butter and whips eggs for the éclair dough.

Madame Dupré calls it
pâte à choux,
and I roll the words around on my tongue practicing. I’m going to learn French even if it kills me. And it probably will!

Once the flour and eggs are beaten into a sticky
pâte à choux,
Jean-Paul shapes them into rectangular éclairs on the baking trays and sticks them in the oven.When they’re done baking and are cooling on wire racks, we get out pudding and whipping cream from the refrigerator.

The next moment Jean-Paul’s at my side, scooping up a ladle full of warm melted chocolate to pour onto the tubes.

“Looks perfect, Chloe,” he says. My heart soars and I feel my face turn red. I’ll blame it on the heat from the stove. “Now come help me stuff the éclairs,” he orders. “
Maman
said she showed you how earlier today.”

“Those were practice, but these are for paying customers,” I protest. “I don’t want to mess them up.”

“No arguments,” he says, pulling me to the table, which is loaded with five trays of pastries ready for their filling and waiting to be iced.

“That’s exactly right,” he says when I attempt the first éclair and finish successfully. “Keep on going.”

By the time we get to the last tray of two dozen, we end up having a race and Jean-Paul beats me, but not by much.

Madame Dupré bursts into rapid French, shaking her head at our antics.

“Are we busted?”

“
Oui,”
Jean-Paul says sternly
.
“Go to your corner and fry one hundred
beignets
, pronto.”

“Right away, sir! Show me to my jail cell and the dough.”

It doesn’t seem possible to have so much fun at a time of day I’ve never even seen before. The sun is barely cracking the horizon, and tarts are next on the list, but since the filling is already done, the pastry bakes up quickly. Ten minutes in the oven is all they take.

Madame Dupré is chattering about a hundred miles an hour as she runs around cutting cakes and laying them out on trays. Dollops of whip cream punctuate practically everything in sight.

It’s almost five-thirty when the last of the tarts and cakes and
beignets
are finished and displayed in the glass cases in the shop. I’m ready for a break, but I have to get to the airport instead. And fast. If I miss this plane, I’ll be grounded for the rest of my life, but I’m having too much fun, even when we have to scrub the kitchen down.

When I glance around the clean counters and stovetops, I realize how familiar it’s all become and feel a prick of melancholy. I admire the gorgeous trays of fruit tarts and lemon squares and éclairs and
beignets
and croissants we created. The air smells heavenly.

“The berries with all that sugary dust sprinkled over them are so beautiful,” I say, observing the shop and the cases all filled. “Tarts for royalty.”

Jean-Paul reaches over to engulf me in a bear hug, laughing at all my oohing and aahing. “You are like a kid. That’s one thing I like about you, Chloe.”

I lift my face, staring into his eyes, and he bends down to kiss me, softly, and it’s so romantic my legs begin to melt underneath me.

The strange thing is—I want to do it all over again tomorrow. The baking, the stirring, the melting, the crimping, the doilies, and yet, it’s truly over now. My stolen time is gone.

Jean-Paul’s arms around my waist tighten and just as he starts to kiss me again there’s a gasp behind us. I twist around as Jean-Paul sucks in his breath. We’ve been caught red-handed by his mother.

Madame Dupré launches into a volley of French and dang, I wish I knew more of that gorgeous language. Goals for the summer:
Study my French books. Buy a set of language CDs. Get a tutor
.

Jean-Paul’s mother grasps our arms and pulls us apart for a moment, staring at first me, and then her son. Her head slowly shakes as if she can’t believe her eyes. Frankly, neither can I. She tsks her tongue, then nods, and gives me a wicked smile. Impulsively, I reach out to give her a hug, laughing. There’s more French chattering in my ear, but I just go with the flow, not even trying to translate or hunt for my dictionary.

Untying my apron, I shake it out with a flurry of flour over the wide trash bin before hanging it up on the hook. Tears rush to my eyes. I’ve barely gotten to know this little shop and yet I’m going to miss it so much. Who knew a little
La Patisserie
on a side street in Paris could have changed my life so drastically?

As if sensing my distress, Madame Dupré walks over and puts a protective arm around my waist. Maybe she understands more than she lets on. Just like I’m beginning to understand more French than I can actually get out of my mouth.

So I’m standing there in the kitchen weeping, being comforted by Jean-Paul’s mother as his own dark brown eyes are fixed on my face and I’m homesick for them already. I’m also scared to death because I’m facing the biggest decision I’ve ever made in my personal life. Breaking up—with my very first boyfriend. Just the thought of it makes me queasy. I thought I’d be in love with Mathew Perotti forever.

Twelve
Days Earlier

Mathew called as I was finishing packing for France—the day after The Worst Night of My Life.

“Hi, babe,” he said in that husky, endearing way.

I found myself melting and ordered myself to lock up my emotions.

“Hang up!” Sera hissed from the bed where she was painting her toenails.

“Don’t hang up,” he said quickly as if he’d heard her. “You gotta let me explain.”

I glanced at Sera and she folded her arms across her chest, shaking her head in that know-it-all way she has.

I tried to ignore my best friend. I wanted to scream at Mathew now that I didn’t have Parvati for an audience, but nothing came out. I knew I should hang up, but I couldn’t. We’d been together for too long and I felt like I should give him a chance, especially since he was the one to call me.

“What you saw—at my place—it wasn’t what you think.”
“What am I supposed to think? Looked like she was practically undressing for you.”

“She just showed up, and wanted to—to talk—and I don’t think we should break up over this. It just seems stupid.” Was he sounding repentant? His voice went lower. “My mom told me I shouldn’t let you go so easily.”

“I guess she’s trying to get you to see quality rather than quantity.”

“How many times do you want me to say I’m sorry, Chloe? Can’t you cut me some slack?”

“What do
you
want, Mathew? Maybe that’s what you need to figure out.” I was proud of myself for sounding so smart even though I hurt so bad my stomach ached.

“If I promise not to do it again, Chloe, will you come back?”

I swallowed hard and squeezed my eyes shut. He was starting to get to me. Could I throw away
most of
our last school year together for one stupid night? “Doesn’t Parvati want to hook up with you? Isn’t that the whole point of last night?”

Mathew’s voice was low. “Yeah. I think she’s been sort of hoping we’d break up so she and I could . . . but I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

My intuition was right.

“I’ve been faithful to you on the big stuff. The stuff that matters. Believe me, I love you.”