Paris Cravings: A Paris & Pastry Novel (20 page)

Jean-Paul rubs his hands along the thigh of his jeans, thoughtful. “It would be hard to get used to a step-father.”

“Not that she’s had a lot of boyfriends, really only one. And he wasn’t ready to commit to an instant family—meaning me. That hurt because I liked him. For an old guy. So now Mom and I joke about that movie,
White Oleander.
The one where the mother poisons her boyfriend by sticking bouquets of oleander into his glass of milk at breakfast.”

Jean-Paul lifts his eyebrows and gives a shocked laugh. “Wow. That’s a new way of murdering somebody.”

“Really creepy,” I agree. “The only men my mom murders are the villains in the romance novels she writes.”

“
Mais oui
? She’s a writer?”

I lean back against the stage crates full of props. “
Alessandra Natasha Beaumont
is my mother’s pen name. The pseudonym keeps her sort of anonymous. She gets to write the deeds she’d like to do in real life.” I lean forward and whisper, “But it keeps her out of prison.”

We laugh together again, and then suddenly Jean-Paul stands and pulls me to my feet. “Time to go.”

Disappointment sinks to the bottom of my stomach. I don’t want our time to end. I don’t want to just be a kid sister. Oh, Lord, I need to talk to Mathew. And soon. I feel so unsettled. I’m changing without even trying, and so has my boyfriend, but I’m not there to stop it or fix it or figure out anything. If I hear Mathew’s voice and know that everything is still good with him, then maybe I can stop thinking about Jean-Paul.

“Back to the shop?” I say brightly, trying to hide the letdown that our day is ending so soon. “What time is it?”

“Dinner time.”

“Gosh,” I say lamely. “No wonder I’m starved.”

We’ve spent nearly two hours inside
L’Opera
exploring and talking, but it feels like a fraction of that. We have so much in common it’s almost scary.

“I take you now to go eat wonderful French food. I’m not going to make you walk and climb all over Paris and not get you dinner. What kind of a Frenchman do you think I am?”

“Actually, you’re the best French guy I’ve ever met,” I tell him. “But then I’ve only met one.”

He chuckles. “I like the things you say. You make me smile.”

I feel myself grinning and try to tone it down, brushing the dust from the catwalk off my borrowed jeans as I compose myself. “So, where are we going?”

“My favorite outdoor café. We’ll have our own table in the middle of the Champs Elysées, the prettiest avenue in the whole city.”

“And the craziest,” I add.

“
Mais oui
!” he adds, his eyes widening as he laughs. “Then, at midnight we’ll climb the Eiffel Tower and from the top you will see Paris turn from day to night.”

How perfect is that? There must be something in all that
chocolat
I’ve been drinking. Some sort of spell has come over me. And it’s not over yet.

Two Weeks Earlier

“Just happen to be in the neighborhood?” Matthew’s Uncle Mario said, lifting an eyebrow as if he knew that Sera and I hadn’t come all this way for piano lessons.

“Something like that,” I mumbled. “Actually, I just thought maybe, you know, we could bring you guys lunch or something. Is Mathew around?”

Uncle Mario’s grin widened. “Yeah, he’s here. Upstairs in the attic. Can’t let you on-site though. Insurance regulations.”

“Oh, we understand,” Sera piped up. “Actually, I was thinking about doing a school project next year on home-building so I thought I’d come observe.”

“Yeah. Okay.” Mario wasn’t buying our excuse, but he shrugged anyway. “You can wander around the perimeter, but I can’t give Matt a break until lunchtime so come back then.”

“Sure, that sounds great,” I gushed. “We’ll bring back sandwiches and stuff.”

“If you wanna. Later, girls.”

“And thanks,” Sera called after him. She whipped out a notebook and pen from her large shoulder bag, clicking the end of the ballpoint like a professional. Flipping open the notebook, she began taking notes, sketching the house.

She had my undying admiration as an amateur spy when she actually pulled out a camera and snapped a few shots. Sera pursed her lips. “I came prepared, girlfriend.”

I watch her pretend to shoot pictures as we wandered down the sidewalk for different angles.

“Think Mario is covering up for Mathew?” I couldn’t help asking.

“Nope, why would he do that? He has nothing to gain by lying to you about whether Mathew is actually here or not.”

“Oh, right . . .” my voice trailed off as Mathew stuck his head out one of the upstairs windows and waved.

My heart leaped. He was here. Just like he’d said he would be. Just like every day. The job wasn’t bogus. The sleuthing worked, even though I felt like a sneak.

The sun seemed to come out. Everything was fine again.

“We’ll get a drink at the café and talk before dinner,” Jean-Paul says as we exit through a different door of the Opera House while checking for Gerald Polk, but the man is nowhere to be seen. “That is what the French do.”

Well, I certainly want to do whatever the French do. Fifteen minutes later we’re on a street corner waiting for our drinks. I order a Sprite and get something called a
limonade
which is lukewarm like every other drink I’ve ordered during this trip, but the flavor is good.

I keep glancing around the street and the sidewalks, expecting Gerald to pop up again. It’s making me jumpy.

“Relax, Chloe,” Jean-Paul tells me. “It’s a beautiful evening. He’s given up and is probably relaxing in a bar. You are not a child that needs to be chaperoned.”

“Exactly! And you’re very sweet to help me, Jean-Paul. You and your mother have both been so kind. How can I ever repay you?”

He looks straight at me with eyes I’d like to melt in my double boiler. “There is no need to ever repay. That is silly.”

“But—”

“
Non, non
,” he says, lapsing into French, and laughing. “
Tu es une idiot
.”

I open my eyes wide, pretending to be insulted. “I’m an idiot? I beg your pardon.”

“
Non, non
,” he says, bursting into laughter. “What is the word for s
tupide?
Silly. You are silly.”

“Well, that’s better,” I retort. “I’ll take silly.”

I sip my drink, wondering what in the world is coming next, and I’m totally unprepared for his words.

“You have a boyfriend, yes?”

Do I have to answer that?

“Um, yes. Sort of,” I finally manage to get out.
I honestly don’t know anymore
, is what I want to say.

“I overhear you speak of him.”

“You heard me talking on my cell phone?” I guess it’s not surprising. I also got another message from Sera using someone’s phone I didn’t recognize, asking me for the address to Jean-Paul’s pastry shop so Robert can send Gerald to find me. I never called back after I pretended there was fake static on the line. I’ll see Sera soon enough on the plane.

After my strange conversation with Sera’s little sister, I’m wondering how many times Parvati and Mathew have “accidentally” bumped into each other when Lainey wasn’t around to take notes. I wonder if they call each other at night. He promised not to see her after that fateful night, but a promise probably didn’t stop them from talking. Did they discuss me?

I wonder if Mathew has already made a decision, but won’t say anything until I get back home. Does Parvati know—and I don’t? The thought makes me cringe.

The worst part is not trusting him. And wondering if I can ever trust him again. Girls are attracted to Mathew, he’s just that kind of guy. Like I’m attracted to Jean-Paul, but I’m not going to flirt with him or try to steal him from Mireille.

Mireille
.

The connection hits me unnervingly. I’m sure Jean-Paul’s girlfriend wonders what we do and say when she’s not around.

I
am Parvati to Mireille. She probably despises me the same way I can’t stand Parvati. The revelation is unsettling. I never want to be a Parvati to anybody else.

“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop on your phone calls,” Jean-Paul goes on, pulling me back to the present.

“That’s okay. I probably talk too loud.”

“Your mother—she is very excitable, yes?”

“
Oui, oui, oui
!” I say with a laugh.

“And what of your—boyfriend?” Jean-Paul asks. He sounds as if he’s having a hard time saying the word. “Are you very close?”

Nervously, I begin tearing a paper napkin into tiny little shreds. “You’re very direct, Jean-Paul!”

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes. “Please, forget I said anything.”

“I don’t really mind. Some awful things happened before I came to France. My best friend Sera thinks I should break up with him. The whole trip I keep thinking,
je déteste
Parvati! And yet, Parvati is—was—my friend, too. I don’t know anything anymore!”

“She is the other girl?”

I glance down the street so I don’t have to look into his eyes, knowing I might drown in his sincere empathy. “This trip has made me realize that I need to make some decisions. Decisions I didn’t think I wanted to carry through, but I think I have to. Even if it hurts.”

He doesn’t say anything, just nods sympathetically, and I get the distinct feeling he’s distracted by something else on his mind.

I’m so done talking about me, and since we’re on the subject of boyfriends and girlfriends I take the plunge. “Jean-Paul, tell me about Mireille. Have you known her long?”

“Our families are friends for our whole lives. We got more serious the past few months . . . ” his voice trails away.

“She comes back tomorrow, right?”

“Actually, no. She telephoned this mornng. Her family decided to stay a second night.”

I’m so relieved I have to physically stop myself from saying it out loud. I have nothing against Mireille personally, but she’s part of my confusion. Besides, she’s so beautiful and French and I feel like an awkward, uncultured American when I’m in the same room with her.

“When do you go to college—or are you?”

“But of course. This fall. Mireille and I—it’s always been expected that we will go to school together, graduate, get married, all those things. Maybe run the shop when
Maman
retires.”

An image of Jean-Paul and Mireille in their cozy, happy life here in Paris making éclairs together pops into my mind.

“That’s nice,” I manage to choke out.

“Is it?” His eyes look into mine, and this time he doesn’t glance away.

There’s something in those dark chocolate eyes that makes me tremble. “
Isn’t
it nice?” I ask quietly, wondering what he’s thinking. Disturbed by the intensity of his expression.

He stares down at his hands wrapped around his drink. “I confess that I am feeling guilty.”

“What are you talking about? Because you took me sightseeing? ”

He leans forward, talking fast, spilling out his thoughts in a sudden, unexpected jumble. “I have guilt because I’m not sure Mireille and I are a good match after all. We are becoming too different. Our interests, the things we like to do. I want to go abroad and study history and different cultures, maybe do culinary school in Italy, Greece, I don’t know . . . Mireille wants to stay here, get a flat near the Sorbonne, and never leave Paris.”

“You mean you don’t want to make pastries anymore?”

“
Mais oui!
Pastries—
and
much more. Cakes and perhaps the best French food in a fine restaurant. But lately I have this feeling Mireille has other plans, and she doesn’t know how to tell me. I don’t want to be apart for years during graduate school. That would be very difficult.”

“No kidding.” I finish my
limonade,
unable to believe what I’m hearing. My own thoughts are coming out of his mouth.