The Devil's Own Chloe (Bistro La Bohème Series) (4 page)

Seven

“Take
a few more.” Hugo nudges the sushi tray toward me. “You don’t eat enough.”

Jeanne
cocks her head and looks me over. “He’s right. You look skinnier than two weeks
ago.”

I
turn to René. “Will you please tell the Bonnet siblings my weight is none of
their concern?”

“Leave
Chloe alone,” René says without conviction and without bothering to look up
from his fried noodles.

The
four of us are having a standing picnic at the bistro’s counter. Normally, our
lunch breaks consist of sandwiches and thermos coffee, but today Jeanne broke
our routine by showing up at noon with bags of Asian takeout.

“Oh,
look!” She points at something outside the window.

Everyone
dutifully turns to stare at the two mounted police officers trotting down the
street.

“Isn’t
this great?” Jeanne says. “They look so dignified, so… constable Benton
Fraser.”

René
frowns. “Should I know him?”

“Haven’t
you seen
Due South
?” Jeanne gives him a moment to place the show and
then waves her hand. “Never mind.”

“Their
backs are too stiff,” René says.

Hugo
swallows another piece of sushi. “Whose backs? The riders’ or the ridees’?”

“The
cops’.” René points at the men. “They’re uncomfortable. You can see they lack
practice.”

“It’s
worth the effort, though,” I say. “Horses are a green means of transportation,
and Paris needs more of that.”

René
serves himself more noodles. “Not as green as you think. Have you thought of
all the methane those horses release into Parisian air? The police should stick
to bicycles.”

At
that point, one horse halts and drops a huge heap right in the middle of the
street.

Jeanne
winces. “I retract my enthusiasm. Maybe they should just walk.”

“Bicycles
don’t poop,” René says with a shrug.

“Good
point.” Jeanne begins to pack away our empty tubs and used chopsticks. “I’ve
always admired the no-nonsense wisdom of the northern regions.”

“Was
that a compliment?” René smirks. “Coming from a southerner, I can never be
sure.”

“Just
because we’ve turned nonsense into an art form doesn’t mean we can’t appreciate
level-headedness,” Hugo says, coming to Jeanne’s rescue.

I
can’t help adding my two cents. “The north,” I say as I pick up our crumpled
paper napkins, “may be France’s last bastion of common sense, but Midi will
always be its heart.”

René
waves his hand in an I-give-up gesture while we southerners exchange triumphant
smiles.

Only
mine fades a second later when I remember I’m not a real southerner the way
Jeanne and Hugo are.

I
could be from the north like René, for all I know.

Or
from another country altogether.

Or
even from outer space, if I pursue this line of thinking to its logical
conclusion.

At
about four in the afternoon, when the light flooding the front room is at its
warmest, I plant myself in its center and face the art gallery wall.

I’m
on the fence about it.

“Does
it help?” Hugo asks, stopping by my side.

I
turn to him. “What, staring?”

He
nods.

“It
will, eventually.” I return my gaze to the wall. “I just need to concentrate
enough to picture each option in full detail.”

“If
we go for gray, what shade would it be?”

“Slate,”
I say without hesitation. “To give the place a more modern look.”

He
crinkles his nose. “Jeanne is a traditionalist.”

“Please.”
I cock my head. “She used to be a Goth.”

“It
was a teenage thing—a way to say she had a personality.”

I
narrow my eyes to show I’m not buying it.

“When
no one’s around,” he says conspiratorially, “she listens to Celine Dion and
ABBA, and she loves hanging out with old folks.”

“Traditionalist,
huh?” I shake my head. “Who would’ve guessed?”

“Trust
me.”

“So
are you saying we should just paint it white and leave it at that?”

“How
about…” He pauses, thinking, and then points to the wall. “Slate for the bottom
half and white for the top half?”

I
picture it in my mind’s eye. “Bottom third, not half, with molding to contrast
the two parts even more… Hmm…. It could work.”

Hugo’s
eyes light up. “Baguette or chair rail?”

“Chair
rail.” I give him a wink. “To satisfy Jeanne’s traditional side.”

He
nods. “She’ll like it.”

“It’ll
have to be spray-finished MDF so we stay within her budget.”

“OK,”
he says all businesslike.

I
catch a smug little smile on his face just before he takes off.

And
then I catch myself smiling, too.

At
six-thirty, René leaves, but Hugo and I continue working. We still have a week
to go but I’m beginning to stress. Hugo doesn’t seem stressed, but he does stay
later and later every night, working by my side in this cold space.

Tonight,
we’re finishing plastering the basement walls. Considering how slowly things
dry in this weather, I’ve rented a big dehumidifier. Jeanne’s portable heater
is on, too, although it doesn’t seem to be doing much. The basement is freaking
cold.

As
we spread plaster across two opposite walls, Hugo starts humming a familiar
tune and then sings, “We are the champions, we are the champions…”

I
grin and chime in.

Suddenly,
I’m sixteen again. I’m the captain of the Lycée Dumas girls’ basketball team,
determined to get us a medal at the upcoming interschool tournament. Every day
after class, I change into a tee and shorts, dump my schoolbag on top of a
dozen others by the wall, and jog to the middle of the outdoor court to join a
gaggle of similarly dressed girls. We practice daily, rain or shine, singing
the Queen song at the beginning and end of each session. It’s our unofficial
anthem.

And
Hugo—our volunteer coach.

His
offer to coach us was a move that mystified the entire Lycée. As he was never
known to be a womanizer, his buddies scratched their heads for weeks as to the
reason why the star of the boys’ basketball team had quit out of the blue so he
could tutor the girls. Said girls had no clue either, even though all of
them—except me—flirted with Hugo in a most outrageous fashion.

Diane
had a theory that the champion had sacrificed himself for me, but that was
completely ridiculous.

When
we won the interschool championship, we sang “We Are the Champions” in a loop
as we paraded through the streets of Nîmes, passing our well-deserved trophy to
one another and cheering Hugo as our leader and mascot.

No
time for losers,

’cause we are the champions…

When
Hugo and I finish the song, I compare our progress. His wall is almost done,
while I’m barely halfway through mine. I’m proud of my handiwork—I really
am—but the surface of Hugo’s wall looks so smooth it will hardly need any
sanding tomorrow.

Damn,
he’s good at this.

Hugo
turns around and peers at my wall. “Good job, Chloe.”

I
look at him over my shoulder. “Just because I’m a girl doesn’t mean I was born
without aptitude for wielding a hawk.”

“Don’t
put words in my mouth.” He raises an eyebrow at me. “I was merely saying you’re
good at this, like it’s in your genes.”

Is
it?
Who knows,
maybe I’ve inherited it from one of my birth parents? Maybe my dad was or still
is a builder.

But
I guess I’ll never know.

In
my teens I used to obsess about my origins. It drove me mad not to know who my
birth parents were and where they came from. The countless swaps I offered
Santa and later God included my hair (forbidden from growing back), my left
arm, either of my eyes or ears, and all of my teeth (I figured I could wear
dentures).

But
it was all in vain—the Supreme Being clearly wasn’t interested in any of
my body parts.

On
one desperate, sleepless night when I was fifteen or sixteen, I even offered a
lifetime of chastity in exchange for any information about my provenance.

Radio
silence was the response.

As
soon as I came of age, I made inquiries with the adoption office only to be
told that my birth parents’ identity was unknown.

When
private DNA tests came about, I found it hard to believe that I suddenly had a
chance to learn something about my ancestry. The test wouldn’t give me the
identity of my birth parents, but it would tell me what my ethnic background
is, which is better than knowing nothing at all.

Immeasurably
better.

My
appearance, you see, is extremely uncooperative. I’m a brown-eyed brown-haired
Caucasian who could’ve originated anywhere from Russia to Portugal. If I’m very
lucky, the test may even find some distant cousins. If that happens, the lab
would establish what they call a “family circle” for me and put me in touch
with the people in it.

Can
you imagine?

I
may be able to find my next of kin!

As
I blurt all of this to Hugo in one long, messy monologue, he listens without
interrupting, his expression grave.

“I’m
sorry,” I say. “I must have bored you to death with this stuff.”

“Are
you crazy? It’s the first time since we’ve known each other that you’ve share
something that means so much to you. I’m stoked. And grateful.”

I
blink, not knowing how to respond to that.

“What
does the test involve?” he asks.

“Sending
a little saliva to a private lab abroad.”

“Why
abroad?”

“These
tests are forbidden in France because of our famous precautionary principle.”

“Ha,”
he exhales in annoyance. “How did we get from revolutionaries to Europe’s most
cautious nation?”

“Beats
me.”

“So
you’re going do it, right? Send your saliva sample?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

I
hesitate. “Soon… ish.”

“Why
not immediately, seeing how much this means to you?”

I
turn my back to Hugo and load my hawk with more plaster. These things aren’t
easy to explain. It’s precisely because this means so much to me that I’m
procrastinating.

“What
if,” I finally say without looking at him, “What if they don’t find any
cousins, or anyone even remotely related to me because none of these people happen
to have taken the test?”

Hugo
keeps silent.

“What
if all I learn from the test is that I’m part Celtic and part Basque with some
Slavic blood thrown in, and that’s it?”

He
still says nothing so I turn around, suddenly eager to see his eyes.

They’re
brimming with compassion.

“I
don’t know if I’m prepared to stomach the disappointment.”

He
nods.

Suddenly
I’m cold—teeth-chatteringly cold.

I
set my hawk on the worktable and rub my hands together. “Maybe we should call
it a—”

Hugo
closes the distance between us in a couple of gigantic strides and clasps my
hands between his. His large, callused palms enclose my hands completely, and
I’m dumbstruck by how comforting this feels.

He
begins to rub gently, looking at me as if I were something infinitely precious.
Still rubbing, he pulls my hands up to his face, opens up his palms a little,
and blows a warm breath onto my frigid fingertips.

Ooh,
this is good.
Too
damn good.

Just
as the alarm siren goes off inside my head, he drops his head and brushes the
back of my left hand with his lips. The contact is electrifying, and I let out
a ragged breath. But he won’t relent. Gently, he flips my hands and plants a
burning kiss to the hollow of my right palm.

My
knees wobble. A weird chemical reaction heats my blood, driving it to my lower
abdomen. I’m petrified with the shock of what Hugo is doing and how I’m
responding to it. I’m awash in exaltation. And fear.

His
soft, full lips press harder against my sensitive skin and then shift a little
to the base of my fingers and linger there. How can this gentle, no-tongues
kiss—my friend’s kiss—feel so intimate? How can it feel a thousand
times more erotic that the sophisticated ministrations of all the bad boys I’ve
been with? How can Hugo do this to me?

What
exactly is he doing to me?

I
struggle to breathe. The alarm in my head grows louder and louder until it
becomes deafening. I pull my hands away and stare into Hugo’s darkened eyes.