Paris Cravings: A Paris & Pastry Novel (9 page)

Jean-Paul helps me onto the couch and picks up the fallen crutches. I want to cry and sink into the floor. I can’t believe he caught me dancing in his living room. On one foot, no less. He must think I’ve lost my mind.

“Are you hurt?” he asks, running to the kitchen to get me a drink of water. He examines my ankle for new bruising or swelling and I say a silent prayer of thanks that I shaved my legs that morning.

“I’m fine. No, actually my ankle feels better, it’s just—it’s just—” what can I say? How can I explain? Am I merely hormonal?

“
Maman
and I planned to let you sleep as long as you needed to.”

“The wonderful smells from the shop woke me up.”

“Ah, yes.
Désolé, je suis désolé
,” he repeats, saying he’s sorry several times.

“No, don’t be sorry! I want to come downstairs and help. That’s why I got dressed. Then I called my mother and, well, you know how mothers can be.”

“Say no more,” he says with a wink. “Your
maman
must be crazy with worry.”

I hold up my finger and thumb close together. “Just a teensy bit.”

“Come downstairs and have a soda. It’s on the house.”

“I can’t keep taking from you.”

“You have it backward, Chloe,” Jean-Paul tells me. “We are
giving
. There is a difference.”

“
Merci
,” I whisper. I don’t know what else to say. They are just too kind.

“Shall I carry you?” he offers suddenly. “The stairs can be difficult.”

An image of me in Jean-Paul’s arms, my hands around his neck, pops into my head. “No way, I’m much too heavy.”

He ignores my protests as he bends down and scoops me up as though I weigh hardly anything. Does this guy lift weights or what?

“You are light as a feather,” he says, grinning. In this position our faces are way too close. I glance away and my eyes dart around the room wondering where I should rest my gaze. I can only hope I don’t begin hyperventilating.

“You’re going to break your back,” I tell him weakly.

Jean-Paul kicks aside the crutches. “We can get those later.”

“Do all French guys carry girls in distress down their stairs?” I say, trying to make a joke out of it.

He frowns as though seriously pondering my question and I like how his forehead wrinkles in the middle. “I’ve never counted before, but I do believe you are the first girl to break her foot in our shop.”

I laugh and then add under my breath, “And the last, I hope.”

Of course he hears me and those Hershey syrup eyes fix on mine. He’s so close I feel dizzy. His dark hair falls over one eye, looking so soft and thick, I want to reach out and smooth it back.

“I hope so, too,” he says as he maneuvers the stairs.

Questions torture my mind. Did I feel like this when I first met Mathew? Were there jolts of electricity, a jump in my stomach, the sensation that I’d faint every time I looked in his eyes? I need to think about that. I also need to think about this somewhere quiet without Jean-Paul around. His presence confuses my brain.

When he sets me down at a table in a corner of the kitchen, Madame Dupré runs over in her floury white apron. She looks shorter and smaller than I remember from my position on the floor that morning. Her cheeks are bright red like she’s been standing over the stove.

Flying into French, Madame Dupré says several things I don’t understand except for one phrase.
Beignets.
That sounds fantastic, and I’m still hungry even though I ate soup for lunch awhile ago. “
S’il vous plait
,” I say.

Immediately a basket of fresh chocolate
beignets
is placed on the table along with a mug of steaming hot chocolate. A plate filled with pats of butter and jam along with a knife and spoon comes next, as well as an assortment of thinly sliced ham.

I pick up one of the gorgeous rolls, and it’s so warm and fresh I close my eyes in ecstasy as I take a bite. From this corner I can see the hustle and bustle of the kitchen. A huge electric mixer is kneading dough and there are pots on a big cast iron stove. The whole place smells heavenly. Yeasty and chocolaty.

I’m dying to help, but I don’t know how to ask, and I probably can’t do any mixing or baking wearing this skirt and jacket. I need jeans and sneakers and a white smock. I want to be a pastry shop girl. Bad.

Jean-Paul stops at my table with a tray on his way to the front counter. “Would you like anything else?”

I’d like to taste you.
The thought flies through my mind, and quickly I gulp the rest of my cocoa. Which burns my tongue. Tears sting my eyes as I blink past the scorching of my mouth and take a fast gulp from a water glass.

“Hey, don’t drink so fast,” he tells me gently.

I try to stand up, knowing that I really need to get out of the same room as Jean-Paul and stop my out-of-control mind. “I’m going to hobble down to the corner and get some money out of the ATM, okay? I’ll be right back.”

“You should take the day off and rest your foot.”

“I will, I will, it’s just that—I can’t wear this all day, can I?” I ask, pointing to my stained and crusty jacket and skirt.

“Why not? I think it looks good on you.” He stops, and then adds in a rush. “I mean you look fine. I mean, the clothes are fine. Everything is fine.” He stammers on his last words, swiping the table with a damp cloth. Then he calls out a string of French words over his shoulder.

It’s like Jean-Paul is having a fluster moment, which doesn’t seem possible. He turns back, his face composed again. “The last batch of croissants are about to come out of the oven.”

“Sure! Please. Don’t stop for me. I’ll just do my thing. See you later!”

Cool, nonchalant, that’s me. When I return with some suitable clothes for dough rolling, I’ll ask if I can help. Jean-Paul retrieves my crutches so I won’t have to climb the steps. He brushes away my thanks. “Come back in one piece,” is all he says with a wave of his hand.

Madame Dupré tells me goodbye, kissing me on both cheeks, as if I’m going to be gone for the rest of my life, even though I’ll be back in ten minutes.

“
À bientôt
,” I call as she holds the door open for me to a clear summery afternoon.

Madame Dupré stands there watching me, then greets an older gentleman coming up the sidewalk. “
Bonjour, Monsieur Allard
,” she says. He tips his hat, replying, “
Bonjour, Madame Dupré
,” and then they both take off in rapid French, losing me instantly.

Too bad the doors hadn’t been opened wide like that this morning. I wouldn’t have missed my bus. I try to imagine what I’d be doing right now, but it’s difficult to picture. All I come up with is me wandering through lots of ornate castle rooms while trying to read a pamphlet.

When I get to the next corner, I see a debit machine. Maneuvering my handbag and crutches is tricky, but finally I get my card out and stick it in the machine, punching in my PIN and the amount of money I need.

Insufficient funds.

No way.

I try again, pressing the numbers more carefully to make sure I haven’t accidentally made an error. A line forms behind me. One of the crutches clatters to the sidewalk and a gentleman reaches down and picks it up for me.

“
Merci
,” I murmur, getting more self-conscious as the line grows longer.

Insufficient funds
blinks at me again. Then the machine starts beeping, as if I’m doing something illegal which makes me jump and I nearly fall over.

“
Pardon, mademoiselle
,” a voice says impatiently.

“
Je suis désolé
,” I say, realizing that I seem to be saying that a lot lately.

I take my card and shove it into my bag, hobbling off again. The crutches are starting to annoy me and so does my handbag which bumps against my thigh relentlessly. I want to throw the crutches into the nearest fountain.

When I pass an outdoor café, I sit down at one of the tables farthest from the restaurant. Maybe they’ll take pity on a crippled girl and let me have a few minutes before trying to get a drink order out of me. Not that it’s required, but it’s the polite, French thing to do. If you use a café table—order a drink, Robert strongly advised.

I get out my cell phone and call my mother again. She has to put some money into the bank. Like now. I feel so stupid wearing this awful skirt and jacket in public, and I wish we weren’t so broke—and I wish I wasn’t losing my phone when I get back home—and I wish I could talk to Mathew. And I wish Jean-Paul and Paris weren’t so perfectly beautiful.

I give a sigh, listening to our home phone in New York ring and ring and ring. There’s no answer. Is Mom in the shower? Has she called the police? There’s no predicting. If my mother took one of those Ambien pills the doctor prescribed to help her sleep after Dad died, she might not even hear the phone at all. I’d definitely given her an anxiety attack this morning.

I try to think calmly. Why is there zero money in the bank account? Has this class trip really used it all? I know that my mother doesn’t get paid again until royalty statement time. If it’s on time. And
if
the statement includes a check. A lot of “ifs” when it comes to book publishing.

“Darn, darn, darn,” I repeat, rummaging through my bag again. There are a couple of coins at the bottom, but that’s it. Why didn’t Mom tell me sooner we were so broke?

Madame Dupré might have something I can wear, but she’s so short and wide I’d have to glue the pants to my hips so they didn’t slide off my
derrière
. Maybe I’ll just borrow some socks and put an apron over my skirt.

I call Sera next, using the cell number she called me on earlier, even though I don’t know the owner of the number. I feel guilty I haven’t called her before now. Miraculously, she picks up on the second ring. She must have permanently borrowed that phone.

“
Chloe
,” she says and her voice rises in a squeak. “Where are you?”

“I’m sitting at a café in the middle of Paris. Where are you?”

“Shopping for earrings with Stacy. And then we’re going to walk down this cute cobbled road to Leonardo da Vinci’s house. Did you know he lived in France until he died? He was a personal friend of the king’s. I never knew that.”

“Um, cool.” Jewelry gets Sera really distracted.

“So what happened to
you
, Chloe? I get on the bus and you just disappeared! Madame Sauvant is ticked off, and Robert isn’t speaking to anybody. He’s glued to his phone with the Tour office which is getting really annoying—but who cares about
him
? Are you lost? Are you scared? Tell me what happened!”

“I just fell and broke my shoe and my foot and I went to the hospital and everything was a mess.” My voice dies away and I realize that I just don’t want to talk about it.

“So who helped you? Give me your address and we can pick you up when we get back into Paris tomorrow night. It’s going to be, like, midnight or something, but then you won’t have to find your own hotel and get a taxi to the airport. I’d be so scared if I were you.”

“Actually, I’m not scared at all.” It’s true. Other than my clothing problem, I’m feeling perfectly contented enjoying Paris by myself knowing Jean-Paul and Madame Dupré are waiting for me back at the shop.

“Okay, I’m ready to write down your address. Robert said he can find where you are on his maps. In fact, there he is now! Robert!” she screeches in my ear. “Robert, it’s Chloe! I have her on the phone right now.”

Sera is yelling and I can picture her waving down Robert. I hear his deep voice in the background, and I can’t stand it. I don’t want to be found. Not for a few more hours.

“Are you still there, Chloe?” Sera asks breathlessly.

Before I can stop myself, I take the edge of my jacket and brush it against the phone as though I’ve run into major static. “You’re breaking up, Sera. I’m losing my signal. Are you there, are you there?”

“Of course, I’m here,” she says clear as day, but I ignore that. “Where are you—tell me fast!”

“What did you say?” I keep repeating through the cloth on the speaker. I can’t believe I’m doing this. But I have to. My heart is beating and my palms are sweating. “Sera, I think I’ve lost you . . . “ I punch the phone off and bite my lips, hoping she’ll never find out what I just did. It’s no big deal. I’m safe, and I have a plan to get to the airport. I’ll see her then.

Rising from the table, I pick up the crutches and start my trip back down the street to
La Patisserie
, hoping no one is paying attention to a girl in a ruined salmon-colored skirt and blouse.

Then I realize that I
am
being watched. A chill crawls along my neck as I dart my eyes up and down the street, trying to figure out who’s studying me.

A guy wearing a white canvas hat, faded jeans and a brown blazer throws his cigarette to the ground, stamps on it, and approaches me from the open door of a taxi.

“
Mademoiselle
Dillard?” he asks in a perfect English accent, grasping my elbow.

I jerk my arm back. “Who are you?”

A wallet comes out of his back pocket, from which he extracts a business card. “Robert sent me.”

He’s talking like James Bond even though he looks like a graduate student in need of a shave and double coffee after pulling an all-nighter.

I take the corner of the card and try to focus my attention on the printed words.

Educational Tours Company

(ETC. We specialize in the details!)

Gerald Polk, Tour Guide

45 Rue de Jardin

Paris, France

+33 (1) 46 67 88 93

I guess he’s legit. There’s even a cartoonish picture of a bus full of giddy students hanging out the windows like they’re having a fabulous time. I try not to laugh at the incongruity.

“You missed your bus, Chloe Dillard.”

“Um, yeah.” I lean on my crutches and point downward. “I sort of sprained my ankle.”

“You’ve seen a doctor?” He pulls out a green cellophane pack of menthol-light cigarettes and taps it against his palm. I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone to look so bored while asking questions.