Smitten with Croissants

by Ellen Jacobson

  He shoots off rapid-fire French at Pierre, half of which I follow.

  “It has a kick to it,” Pierre explains. “Like a white Russian.”

  “Oh, it has liquor in it,” I say.

  “Which color do you prefer?” Pierre asks.

  “Green,” I say. “No blue. No, I mean green. No—”

  Pierre smiles and takes the tray from the waiter. “Why don’t we try them both?”

  As I sink into one of the couches scattered around the room, Pierre sets the tray on the coffee table. He sits next to me, then offers me a glass of blue milk. He watches me intently while I sample it. “What do you think?”

  “It’s good, but I think I need to sample the green to be sure.” After a few more sips of each color, I say, “They’re both good.”

  “I prefer the green. I’m surprised you don’t have a favorite. You usually have an opinion about everything.”

  “Well, not everything.”

  He cocks his head to one side. “Really? What can’t you make up your mind about?”

  I set my glass down on the table. No more milk for me. The alcohol is going to my head and I’m afraid if I have any more, I’ll babble out something I’ll regret, like “You. I can’t make up my mind about you. You’ve got a geeky quality that I love, but you’re also rich. And rich guys can’t be trusted.”

  “You seem to have a problem with my background,” he says.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You just said that rich guys can’t be trusted.”

  My face grows warm. “I said that out loud?”

  “Yes. Your enunciation was crystal clear. You don’t trust me because of the family I was born into. But it’s not like I chose my parents. Did you choose yours?”

  “Well, of course not.”

  “Would you change your background if you could?”

  “No, not at all,” I say firmly. “Sure, my parents can be annoying, and they don’t understand why I want to work in the art world, but they gave me the values and work ethic that I have today.”

  “Amélie talks about your work ethic all the time.”

  “All the time? How often do you see her?”

  “I go to their place once a week for dinner. Jean-Paul and Amélie are like second parents to me.” He strokes his chin. “You should come one night.”

  “You can’t invite me to dinner at someone else’s place.”

  “That’s true. I should invite you to dinner at my place.”

  “Oh, you want me to come to your mansion?”

  “I don’t live in a mansion. I live in an apartment, just like normal people.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “Normal people? Let me ask you something. Do you have a doorman at your apartment building?” He nods, looking abashed. “Okay, then, not exactly like normal people.”

  The silence gets awkward and I’m glad when a waiter comes by bearing a tray of canapés.

  “Oh, mousse de saumon,” Pierre says. “They’re my favorite. You have to try it.”

  He hands me a small slice of rye bread spread with a spread of smoked salmon, sour cream, and lemon juice. I devour it in two bites. He smiles and hands me another. This one I scarf down in just one bite.

  Pierre’s eyes light up. “Ah, I see escargot over there.”

  As he waves the waiter over, I gulp. It’s going to take a lot of blue and green milk before I work up the courage to eat snails.

  Fortunately, by the time the waiter comes over, he’s out of escargot. I breathe a sigh of relief. Before Pierre can search out another waiter with a tray loaded up with slimy garden pests, I distract him by pointing out an adorable toddler dressed up as Yoda. His mother is crouched on the floor, taking pictures as he walks toward her. When he tumbles to the ground and starts bawling, she rushes over and soothes him.

  “Oh, poor thing,” I say.

  Pierre presses his fingers against the bridge of his nose and breathes rapidly, almost as though he’s hyperventilating.

  “Don’t worry. He’ll be fine. Toddlers fall all the time. It’s part of learning to walk.” When the boy’s mother tickles his belly, and he giggles, I say, “See, all better.”

  “It’s not better,” Pierre says, his voice cracking. “It will never be better.”

  I place my hand on Pierre’s arm and give him a gentle squeeze. “Hey, what’s going on?”

  He takes a few deep breaths, then says softly, “I’m sorry. They reminded me of something, that’s all.”

  “Who? The mom and her son? What do they remind you of?”

  “They remind me of my mother.” Pierre drains the contents of his glass. “Of my birth mother. Today is the anniversary of the day when she abandoned me and my father. I was that boy’s age. Seeing how sweet his maman is with him . . .”

  He picks up another glass of milk, considers it, then sets it back on the tray. He slumps back into the couch and stares vacantly into space.

  I’m at a loss. What do you say when someone tells you that their mother left him? Turns out, I don’t need to say anything. Pierre twists his body around to face me, then tells me everything. He barely pauses to catch a breath. I learn how devastated his father was. He didn’t know how to deal with raising a small child. So there were nannies and boarding school. His father kept his distance, engrossing himself in his work, acquiring hotels across the globe.

  “Things got better when my father met my mother,” Pierre says.

  I furrow my brow. “Met your mother? You mean she came back?”

  “No, my birth mother died shortly after she left us, in a tragic accident. The woman I’m talking about is technically my stepmother, but I think of her as my mother. They got married when I was eight years old. My father refers to her as his lioness. She’s fierce. She’ll do anything to protect us.”

  “I’d love to meet her.”

  “Would you?” Pierre chuckles softly. “Then come with me to the charity ball on Saturday night.”

  I shake my head. “A charity ball? That really doesn’t sound like my cup of tea.”

  “But it’s for a good cause. We’re raising money for orphanages in Africa.”

  “I’d rather make a donation than get dressed up and make small talk with people I don’t know.”

  “Do it for me.”

  His hazel eyes are twinkling again, and I’m almost tempted to say yes. But I have too many unpleasant memories of going to charity balls at the country club with my ex. His family and friends looked at me with disdain, making it clear that they thought I came from the wrong side of the tracks.

  Pierre grabs my hands and caresses them. “Please, do it for me. I have to give a speech and I’m nervous about it. If you’re by my side, I’ll—”

  “You? Nervous? You practically reek of self-confidence.”

  “I guess I’m a good actor. Maybe they should cast me in the next Star Wars film.”

  I grin. “I’d love to see you wear a Wookie costume.”

  “I bet you would. All that fur. A total turn-on.” He gives me a smile that makes my toes curl, then turns more serious. “I took a year off after college and spent it working in Africa at an orphanage. The experience was . . .” He struggles to find the words to express the impact it had on him. Finally, he says, “Actually, it doesn’t matter what I got out of the experience. What matters is helping children who have lost their parents. I set up this charity to raise money for orphanages across Africa. This is our inaugural fundraiser. Hence, the speech. Hence, my nerves. Hence, I want you by my side.”

  “That’s a lot of ‘hences,’” I joke, trying to lighten the mood.

  “So, hence, you’re coming?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  He leans in, and I panic that he’s going to kiss me in public. When his phone buzzes, I scoot off the couch and perch on a chair, the coffee table creating a barrier between the two of us. He laughs at my reaction.

  I watch as he has a one-sided conversation with the person on the other end of the l
ine. His responses are mostly variations of “oui” and “non.” After hanging up, he taps on his phone pensively for a moment, then turns to me. “I’m so sorry, I have to go. Some urgent family business has come up. Let me get you a taxi to take you back to the hotel.”

  I wave him away. “No need. I can take the Métro.”

  He glances at his watch. “Are you sure?”

  “I’ll be fine. Go.”

  He leans down and gives me a kiss on the cheek, then rushes off. I slouch back in the chair and sip on my blue milk. I’ve certainly learned a lot about Pierre this afternoon. His mother abandoning him, the charity work he does in Africa, and the fact that he thinks green milk tastes better than blue. But there are a few things I still need to find out about—the injury that meant he couldn’t play rugby anymore, why he worked as a waiter on the cruise ship rather than at one of his family’s hotels, and, perhaps most importantly, what the tattoo on his back looks like.

  8

  Toilet Paper Mishaps

  On the way to the charity ball, Pierre talks to his father on the phone. I know that he’s disappointed his dad can’t make it tonight, but he understands that the grand opening of a new Toussaint hotel in Thailand takes precedence.

  While they chat, I amuse myself pushing buttons on the console next to me. The only other time I’ve been in a limousine was at my senior prom. Actually, it wasn’t so much a limo as it was a converted hearse. While it did have a mini-bar, it was seriously grim compared to this sleek town car.

  As he says goodbye to his dad, Pierre squeezes my hand. “I’m glad you came tonight. Isabelle thought you might try to get out of it.”

  “Isabelle? When did you speak to her?”

  “I texted her yesterday.”

  I furrow my brow. “Why exactly?”

  “I needed some info.”

  “Info about what?”

  He leans over and playfully tugs my earlobe. “About you.”

  “Whoa. Wait, a minute. You’re texting my friend to get information about me?” I pull out my phone and dial her number.

  “That won’t do you any good,” Pierre says, glancing at his watch. “She just started her shift.”

  “How come you know her work schedule?”

  “I know lots of things. For example, I know about the volunteer work you did back home, and I know all about this guy Isabelle just met. To be honest, I’m not so sure about him.”

  I hold up my hands, at a loss for where to start. What else has Isabelle told him, and how come I don’t know about this guy she met?

  “I think it’s pretty amazing what you did,” Pierre says. “Not everyone would volunteer to work with guys like that. That’s pretty brave.”

  “Everyone needs a second chance,” I say quietly. “Isabelle shouldn’t have told you about that. It’s not something I like to tell people about.”

  “Don’t worry, it will be our little secret.”

  “Well, I hope you’re better at keeping secrets than Isabelle is.”

  As we pull up to the hotel where the charity ball is being held—also a Toussaint property—I take a deep breath. I watch as a glamorous couple gets out of the car in front of us. The woman’s evening dress is haute couture, the diamonds dangling from her ears are the size of golf balls, and her hair and makeup are runway ready.

  My dress is off-the-rack. Seriously off-the-rack. I literally found it on the floor in a second-hand shop. After steaming the wrinkles out and strategically placing a rhinestone broach over a stain, it was as good as new. Just not as good as haute couture.

  My jewelry consists of a necklace my parents gave me for my eighteenth birthday. It might not be encrusted with diamonds, but its value is priceless to me. My hair and makeup, on the other hand, might just pass muster. Amélie helped me get ready, putting my hair into an elegant updo and giving my face an evening look that’s chic and timeless.

  After Monsieur and Madame Glamour pose for the photographers, our car advances to the entryway. I start to open the passenger door, but Pierre tells me to wait while the chauffeur walks around to my door. I feel like I’m in a fairy tale when he helps me out of the car.

  Pierre takes over after that, tucking my hand through his arm and escorting me across the red carpet to the hotel entrance. As we pause for photographs, I whisper, “The volunteer work I do is nothing compared to this.”

  He puts his arm around me and draws me toward him. In hushed tones, he says, “In all honesty, this is just an excuse for people to get dressed up, show off, and feel good about themselves because they donated money to a good cause. Most of them are oblivious to the harsh realities that the orphans they’re supporting have to deal with.”

  “But you’re raising money.”

  “Yes, but it costs a lot to put on an event like this. Besides, money isn’t everything.”

  As we make our way inside, I think about what he’s said. If push came to shove, would Pierre really think that money isn’t everything? Looking around at the wealth and opulence surrounding me, I’m not so sure.

  * * *

  “You sure you’ll be okay on your own?” Pierre asks.

  We’re standing at the front of the ballroom, and the hotel staff wants to test Pierre’s microphone. “I’ll be fine,” I say. “It’s not like I’m the shy, retiring type.”

  He grins. “No, you certainly aren’t.”

  Actually, I am feeling a little nervous about mingling with this crowd, but there’s no way I’m going to let Pierre know that. He has a speech to give, and the last thing he needs to worry about is me. “Go shake your money-maker,” I say.

  “I’ll find you as soon as it’s over,” he says over his shoulder as he’s whisked away.

  I try talking to a few people, but not even the waiters passing out champagne will give me the time of day. Maybe I have lipstick smudged on my teeth? Maybe there’s a stain on my dress that I didn’t notice? Maybe they’re all just a bunch of snobs.

  Feeling my eyes well up, I do what women have done since the invention of modern plumbing. Rush to the ladies’ room to hide.

  It takes me a while to find it, not helped by the fact that everyone pretends that they can’t understand me when I ask them to point in the right direction. I may not be fluent in French, but I know enough to be able to ask where latoilette is. I even mimed what I was looking for, pointing at the general direction of my bladder, without any success.

  Eventually, I stumble across the ladies’ room. Although it does take me a while to figure out that’s what it is. That’s because the place is bigger than my parents’ entire house. I have to wander through several rooms before I find the one containing toilet stalls. I don’t need to go to the bathroom, but I do need the privacy it offers to regroup and get a hold of myself.

  I perch on the edge of the toilet and stare at the door. Unlike many of the restrooms I’m used to, this one doesn’t have things scrawled on it, like “Mandy loves Steve,” “I like writing on walls,” and “Believe in yourself.”

  Thank goodness for cell phones. You can text your friends for moral support even while hiding out in the ladies’ room in an opulent hotel in Paris. I open my evening bag and pull mine out, then utter a curse. A fancy place like this doesn’t have cell phone coverage? Unbelievable.

  I wipe away a tear forming at the corner of my eye. Get a hold of yourself, Mia. You need to go out there and support Pierre. You can do it.

  Another tear threatens to fall down my cheek and ruin my makeup. As I go to pull a piece of toilet paper off to dab at it, I hear a low growl. Lyonette, the hotel director’s poodle, tunnels her way under the door, then grabs the end of the toilet paper from my hand and yanks hard.

  Of course, they have high-quality toilet paper at this hotel. If you yanked at the toilet paper at my apartment back home, the roll purchased on sale at the local dollar store, it’d tear off easily. No, this stuff is industrial strength, while having a soft, luxurious feel—yeah, I don’t know how they do that either.


  “Hey, hang on a minute,” I say to Lyonette. “Toilet paper is for humans, not dogs.”

  The dog gives me some serious side eye. Then she barks sharply at me. Her meaning is clear. “This toilet paper isn’t meant for humans like you. Your derriere isn’t worthy.”

  She tunnels back under the door, the toilet paper unwinding behind her. I push the door open to chase after her and run straight into the woman I least want to see—Lyonette’s owner. Go figure. She’s surrounded by a posse of glamorous women, all staring at me like I’m an alien from one of the Star Wars movie.

  In between giving me disdainful looks, they take turns commenting on my appearance. They’re speaking in French, probably assuming that the barbarian in front of them can’t understand. But I do. Let’s just say their comments aren’t flattering.

  I bite my tongue. You have no idea how hard this is, but the last thing I need is to lose my temper in front of the director, and then lose my job. Funny how not too long ago I would have walked away from the job and Pierre, but now . . . something’s changed.

  The director gives me an appraising look, but says nothing. After a beat, she summons Lyonette, then turns on her heel and walks out of the room, her posse following in her wake.

  Two good things have come out of this incident. First, it’s reminded me not to give a hoot what other people think of me. And, second, that stupid dog pranced out of the ladies’ room with toilet paper stuck to her paw. Imagine how embarrassed she’s going to be when she realizes it.

  * * *

  As he finishes his speech, Pierre locks eyes with me. I’m standing at the back of the ballroom, but I can see him winking from here. Making a fist pump in the air, I yell, “Whoot-whoot.” He did such an amazing job. Eloquent, self-effacing, and inspiring, all wrapped up in one delectable package.

  As I let out another “whoot-whoot,” Lyonette rushes over and alternates between growling and barking at me. If she didn’t look like she was about to fly at me in a rabid rage, I’d almost think the toilet paper stuck to her paw was comical.