Paris Cravings: A Paris & Pastry Novel (8 page)

“If only Jerry were here . . .”

“Don’t think about him,” I warn her.

She sniffs and I know she’s dying to call him even though we made a pact that she wouldn’t. “Choose your man carefully,” she tells me. “That’s all I have to say.”

“Work on your rewrites. Don’t you have a deadline? Like next week?”

“You’re such a drill sergeant.”

“I’m partial to three meals a day,” I tell her, and when I laugh she actually laughs with me. “I’ll call you later this afternoon. Your afternoon. Night for me.” I make a mental note not to forget. I might get very busy today.

I hang up and stare at the swirls of plaster on the ceiling. I consider trying to get through to someone’s phone in my tour group, but decide against it. I’ve had enough excitable females for the moment. Besides, there may not be good reception at Château de Chenonceau in the middle of the river.

I glance around the room, taking in the details for the first time. The window seat is covered in fluffy, embroidered pillows and the furniture is definitely girlish. A bulletin board hangs on the far wall, plastered with snapshots. A girl about twelve kicks a soccer ball. She’s playing the flute at a school concert; next, a birthday party with a group of friends making faces at the camera. The same girl sits in the middle, sticking out her tongue. A dimple appears in the corners of her mouth and Hershey chocolate eyes seem to stare right at me. I sit up quickly.

Under the sloping eaves a mirror reflects the view of the room, and directly above the mirror, there’s a display of cutout letters, shiny with glue and glitter taped to the wall.

E-L-I-S-E.

A tremor runs down my arms. These sheets, this blanket, this pillow—they belong to a girl named Elise, but who is she? Where is she? Why didn’t Jean-Paul mention her?

I hop out to the hallway again. Inside the bathroom I find my sandals sitting in a neat little pile on top of a fluffy bath towel. Someone has repaired the broken heel. It’s finished off so expertly, I can hardly tell it was ever broken. I’m pretty sure Jean-Paul fixed it for me.

I test my bare foot by resting it lightly on the floor. It’s not nearly as sore as it was at the hospital. The swelling has gone down, too, due to the major ice pack I napped with. I rewrap the gauze the nurse gave me at the hospital so I don’t accidentally twist it again.

Hopping around on crutches, I figure I’d better plan for the worst and be prepared like a good Girl Scout should. I open drawers in a roll-top desk in the Duprés’ dining room and find a telephone book. I spend almost half an hour studying the pages along with my trusty French/English dictionary, but have no luck at all finding the American Embassy number.

I picture my luggage arriving at La Guardia airport without me and Mom finding the passport inside my underwear. She could mail it to me, but how long would that take? Probably much longer than a day.

I know I should be homesick, torn up over my mother’s worry, but there’s really nothing to be sad about. She’s fine; I’m fine. I’ll just buy a new ticket and get home a couple of days later if I have to, although it might cost me my clothes allowance for the next five years.

What did I have to look forward to in New York? Sweltering heat, pounding the pavement for a job—and Mathew and I having that scheduled “talk” about our relationship.

I squirm every time I think about that little chore. I thought Paris would help me chill out, and then go home to a better future with Mathew. I wanted Paris to give me amnesia, to help me forget and forgive all the recent bad history.

I haven’t made any decisions. I haven’t written out my notes for our relationship talk. I still love Mathew, but I’m not sure how he feels about me. We’ve communicated by cell phone during the trip, but we haven’t really
talked
. How can you have a heart-to-heart with texting? I hate the fact that I’m having a hard time trusting him. But do I trust myself?

Paris got a lot more exciting once I lost my French class to the Loire Valley, even if I’m paying for it with a flimsy ankle. The thrill of this beautiful old city seems to wrap around me. I stand up from the table in the Duprés’ dining room and bump my hips in a little dance, humming out loud for background music.

Hanging onto the bookcase so I don’t fall, I give another one-footed hip grind—and someone behind me gives a little cough.

I whirl around on my good foot. Jean-Paul is at the top of the stairs wearing a white chef’s apron. There’s a spot of flour on his cheek, and he’s watching me dance.

I feel my face turn bright red at the very moment I spin out of control. Jean-Paul dashes forward, reaching out to keep me from falling. Our fingers catch and my heart actually forgets to beat.

His hand—it’s so warm—so perfect—so incredible in mine. A strange jolt races through my fingers and right up my arm, sizzling the hair on the back of my neck.

What’s happening to me? I’ve never felt anything like this before in my life. I stare at Jean-Paul and he gives me a confused smile. I’m sure he thinks I’m a complete idiot.

I don’t mean to be having these feelings about this French guy. Believe me, I’m really not that sort of girl.
Really.

Six Months Earlier

Parvati, Sera, and I were soon a threesome. We did homework at Sera’s house, watched movies at my place, and Parvati even invited us over to her elegant apartment for dinner one night. Mrs. Eswana had hired a daily cook since she was buried under with thesis research.

We sat on cushions at a low table and dined on spicy chicken and rice, sweet breads and tea. For Eleanor Roosevelt girls, we felt très chic and very grown-up. Her mother came out of the study, dropped a kiss on Parvati’s silky dark hair and told us in her British accent that we were darling girls and should come again sometime.

We clinked cups and Sera graced us with a memorized school quote: “As Mrs. Roosevelt used to say, ‘The purpose of life is to live it, to taste experience to the utmost, to reach out eagerly and without fear for newer and richer experience.’”

We fell onto the floor in giggles.

“I think I reached out eagerly and consumed too much food,” I said, so stuffed I could no longer move without groaning.

Parvati smiled demurely. She had a way of doing that without looking like an idiot.

Parvati’s famous connections in Bollywood spread through the school, and the next day all the girls were coming over to our lunch table to ask questions and gush over the girl from India as if she was a rock star and they were her groupies.

“Your cousin is Aishwarya Rai?” Lacey Smith asked, leaning dangerously close to the pool of unused ketchup on her tray. “ She’s the most beautiful actress ever!”

Sera was drooling, too. We’d just watched Aishwarya Rai in
Bride and Prejudice
over the weekend.

Parvati took a delicate bite of her Hamburger Delight, compliments of Eleanor Roosevelt’s state-of-the-art cafeteria menu, and nodded. “I got to be one of the dancers in the market scene. Did you know that she just signed for a movie with Johnny Depp? Aish said she’d try to get me on, too.”

The girls were now hanging on her every word.

“What’s Bollywood?” Stacy Stewart whispered next to me.

“The India version of Hollywood,” I whispered back. “But they make even more movies than we do here in the States.”

“Wow.” Stacy bit into her apple, chewing slowly. “She must get a lot of frequent flyer miles going back and forth.”

I laughed into my yogurt as Mathew suddenly appeared at the end of the cafeteria table and beamed at us, his hair wet from the locker
room
showers, his skin scrubbed and fresh. I imagined how good he probably smelled and melted just a little inside. “How are all you ladies today?” he asked.

There were a few giggles and hellos around the table as tuna sandwiches and Hamburger Delight were forgotten. I smiled up at him, thinking how lucky I was to have a boyfriend everyone liked and admired.

“Hey, Perotti,” someone yelled across the room. Mathew winked at me and said he’d be right back. I nodded and finished off my lunch. Five minutes until the bell rang. I had an Algebra test next period and worried
whether
I’d studied enough. Xs and Ys were flying like mush through my brain from a study session the previous night.

Sera elbowed me in the ribs. “Check that out.”

My gaze followed her finger. “What is she doing?”

While I’d been staring off into space, Parvati had jumped up and followed Mathew across the cafeteria. I noticed how smoothly her hips moved around the tables as students rose to toss their trash and collect backpacks.

She had stopped Mathew in the open doorway, one hand on her hip as though asking him a question. Guys from choir clustered around her, and then a few basketball players wearing letter jackets sauntered that direction as well, sinking milk cartons into trash cans from ten feet away as though they were actual basketballs.

Suddenly, Brian Fenway pointed to the doorway and yelled, “Kiss her!”

The whole cafeteria seemed to explode in unison. “Kiss her! Kiss her!”

“What the hell—?” I sputtered.

Above the door of the cafeteria an old forgotten string of mistletoe from December’s Christmas Pageant was hanging in full view. This was the middle of January. Obviously the school janitors were not doing their job cleaning up properly—and now I was paying the price. The dimwit freshman class were all hooting and hollering at my boyfriend and the new gorgeous girl from India to lay one on each other.

Parvati’s expression was puzzled, as though she had no idea what everyone was cheering about. Finally, she glanced up, saw the mistletoe, and her hands flew to her face as though she were mortified. Was she innocent or just a good actress? I hated being so suspicious, but I was anyway.

“Do you think she knows what mistletoe means?” Sera asked.

I froze in my seat, unable to answer.

The entire cafeteria erupted into chanting and clapping. “Kiss her, kiss her, kiss her!”

My strawberry yogurt threatened to come up my throat. “I can’t look,” I said as I stared daggers at my boyfriend and Parvati.“Why doesn’t she walk away?” I whispered fiercely.

“Come on, Chloe, let’s get out of here.” Sera’s tone became indignant on my behalf. “I’m not going to let you be humiliated.”

The cafeteria crowd wouldn’t let up the shouting and whooping so finally Mathew and Parvati shrugged their shoulders, leaned toward each other, and kissed while the crowd cheered. Now I was truly pissed.

The image of their locked lips wouldn’t leave my brain.

Why did
I have
a
photographic memory when it
came
to some new chick kissing my boyfriend but I always come up blank when it’s time to memorize algebraic equations?