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

by Alix Nichols

  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 s
uddenly 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.

  You have to do this, Chloe.

  You have to break him. You must do all it takes to cool him down… before it’s too late.

  “Chloe,” he says, looking at me with so much tenderness my chest clenches. “I—”

  “Let’s pretend this never happened,” I interrupt him.

  His expression darkens. “Why?”

  “Because…”

  Damn it, Hugo. How could I possibly explain this to you?

  “Because I can’t,” I finally say and turn away to resume plastering.

  Hugo follows suit.

  An hour later, we pack up and leave without having said another word to each other.

  * * *

  Eight

  I’m wearing leggings and a loose T-shirt. So are Jeanne, Manon, and Diane. Our gazes are riveted to a plump blonde in flare jazz pants and a form-hugging top who’s up on a podium by the mirrored wall. She fumbles with her music equipment. Two dozen other women of various ages and shapes are scattered throughout the available space, all staring at the blonde and waiting.

  I’m still not entirely clear on how Jeanne and Manon managed to talk me into joining them for their Zumba class this morning. They’ve been taking it since September at the gym that recently opened next door.

  They love it.

  Manon is on a mission to lose weight so she can fit into the designer jeans she bought on sale. Too bad because her curves are beautiful. It’s a shame they can’t be transferred onto my scrawny frame rather than just melting away. What a waste! Manon also claims that as a headwaiter, her appearance needs to convey more authority. How the disappearance of love handles can increase a person’s perceived authority is beyond me.

  But Manon seems convinced.

  Jeanne, with her unbelievable body, doesn’t need or want to lose any weight. But she happens to enjoy Zumba.

  Diane, who got up exceptionally early this morning and didn’t know what to do with herself, is just along for the ride.

  As for me, I’m not a huge fan of gyms and working out. Besides, losing weight is the last thing on my mind, what with being stuck in XS since puberty. I don’t particularly love dancing, either.

  Why I am here, then?

  Oh come on, Chloe, you know why—to postpone facing Hugo after last night’s mishap.

  I spent a good part of the night replaying it in my head and asking myself unanswerable questions. How will he react when he sees me in the morning? Can we both manage to act like nothing happened? Will we be able to go back to how comfortable we were around each other before?

  Can we salvage our friendship?

  Will he want to?

  Because I sure as hell do.

  Now that I might lose it, I realize just how much I cherish it. In the seven years between my moving to Paris and Hugo’s following suit, we only saw each other a few times when I visited Claire and Diane in Nîmes or when Hugo visited Jeanne in Paris. We’ve messaged on Facebook sometimes, but nothing meaningful or regular. Yet I never doubted he was still my friend. Had I been in any kind of trouble, he would’ve jumped on the first northbound train to be by my side as soon as he could.

  I would’ve done the same for him.

  But I’d never asked him to come over, not even on that “total meltdown” week five years ago. It would’ve been too risky, considering my Midas touch.

  Ah, the story of my life.

  The good news is I’ve become an ace at keeping my dear ones at a big enough distance to prevent them from caring more than necessary—and yet close enough so they don’t give up on me.

  Because if they do, I’ll give up on myself.

  “OK, ladies,” our unlikely Zumba instructor says in a high-pitched, overly eager voice. “My name’s Tiff. Let’s roll!”

  She pauses and looks expectantly at the women in front of her.

  We stare back.

  I look to Jeanne for guidance.r />
  “She’s subbing for our regular instructor,” Jeanne whispers. “I’m not sure what she wants us to do.”

  Tiff turns her profile to us, cupping her hand around her ear. “I can’t hear you.”

  Several women shift uncomfortably and look at one another.

  “Are you ready to roll?” Tiff calls out rally-style.

  The response is an uncomfortable silence until someone to my left shouts, “Yes!”

  “Good! Thank you,” Tiff yells back. “That’s what I want to hear.”

  I turn discreetly, curious to see the kind soul who dared to express such un-Parisian level of enthusiasm. The uncommonly upbeat citoyenne is a stout middle-aged brunette. She sports a bright yellow, terry cloth headband that looks like something right out of the eighties.

  The brunette grins, looking genuinely pleased.

  Tiff half squats, spreads her knees, moves them close together, and then draws them apart again.

  “Mobile knees,” she explains. “It’s the key. I teach African Zumba, so you need to forget your stiff-backed salsa moves, OK?”

  As if I had any salsa moves, stiff-backed or otherwise.

  The headband-wearing brunette shouts, “OK!”

  “As I said,” Tiff continues, “I don’t want to see any Latin moves today. I want to see you shake it the African way. My way!”

  Her ruddy complexion and flimsy blond hair is such a stark contrast to her profession of faith that I can’t help smiling.

  Two black women in the front row giggle and give her a benevolent, “Oui!”

  With that, she turns the music up, and the class begins.

  The four of us and all other women in the room spend the next hour energetically wiggling and shaking various body parts to the best of our ability. We also jump, clap, punch the air, tap our feet and, shedding the last remains of dignity, do the Gangnam Style horse-riding move until our leg muscles beg for mercy.

  We also giggle a lot, especially when Tiff explains her “trademark” shower wave.

  “Picture yourself facing the shower column,” she says, standing sideways. “Now turn the shower on and let the water hit your face.”

  We dutifully turn our profiles to her and tilt our heads up.

  “Only the face!” Tiff glares. “Keep the rest of your body out of the way!”