Smitten with Croissants

by Ellen Jacobson

  I step closer to examine the dolls, shuddering when I see the pins stuck through some of them. It’s not much different from getting inked—tiny needles being inserted into your skin. Can I really go through with getting a tattoo? Even if it’s the world-renowned Dominic de Santis who would be doing it? How many people can say that they have a Dominic de Santis tat on their body? It doesn’t get any more prestigious than that.

  Why are you being so indecisive? Get a grip. This is a huge career opportunity for you. I take a deep breath and push open the door.

  “Are you Mia?” a young woman with pink dreadlocks asks. “Madame Vernier said you would be helping out tonight.”

  When she holds out her hand to shake mine, I admire the watercolor-style tattoo that wraps around her forearm. Pastel flowers are interspersed with tropical birds. “The subtle shifts in color are amazing,” I say.

  “Thanks,” she says. “One of the tattoo artists here did it for me.”

  “Do you work here?”

  She nods. “I’m an apprentice.”

  “I remember my apprenticeship,” I say. “Those two years just flew by.”

  “I’m going to start working on skin next week.”

  “That’s so exciting.” She gives me a faint smile while she fidgets with her large silver earrings. “Don’t worry, you’ll be fine. They wouldn’t let you near skin if they didn’t think you could do it.”

  “I hope you’re right.” After pulling her dreadlocks back into a colorful hair tie, she says, “Come on, let me introduce you to Dominic.”

  She leads me over to a small seating area at the back of the tattoo parlor. Dominic is sitting on a red velvet couch, sipping on a glass of sparkling water. After introductions, he motions for me to sit next to him.

  “I was very happy when Madame Vernier arranged for you to be here,” he says.

  His Italian accent reminds me of Lorenzo, the guy who Isabelle and I rented an apartment from in Ravenna. But that’s where the similarity ends. While Lorenzo looks like a male model, Dominic is the spitting image of my Uncle Joe. Short, balding, and wearing a polyester leisure suit straight from the 1970s. Uncle Joe wears leisure suits to all of our family gatherings. It’s a look he adopted in the previous century and hasn’t deviated from since. Dominic’s leisure suit, on the other hand, screams quirky vintage, clearly meant to be an ironic fashion statement.

  After offering me a glass of water, he gets down to business. “The photographer will be here soon. I’d like you to coordinate with him. It’s essential that he understand the process of tatouage so that he can truly capture the essence of what we do. Because you are a tattoo artist, you will be able to explain things to him.”

  I bite my lip. He just called me a tattoo artist. Without a doubt tattoos are an art form, but am I an artist? Until today, I had always referred to myself as a tattoo artist. But now I’m sitting in the presence of Dominic de Santis, a man whose designs are legendary and whose skill at applying tattoos is unparalleled.

  As if he can read my mind, he tells me that he’s seen my portfolio. “I admire how you take paintings by the Old Masters and reinterpret them as tattoos. I was particularly intrigued by your take on Johannes Vermeer’s The Girl with the Pearl Earring. Replacing the pearl with a skull and weaving a subtle pattern of insects into the dress the girl is wearing was genius.”

  “Really?” I stammer.

  “You apprenticed under Henry Tusk, didn’t you?” I nod. “He taught you well.”

  I take a sip of my water, stalling for time. I have no idea how to respond without babbling like an idiot. Dominic de Santis knows my work and he likes it. The bubbles tickle my nose. As I stifle a sneeze, I realize that there’s only one thing I can say.

  “Can I have your babies?”

  I’m kidding. Of course, I don’t say that. Although, the idea of plump little babies wearing polyester leisure suits makes me giggle. If I ever decide to make a career change, that’s going to be it—designing retro babywear.

  What I do say is, “Tattoo me.”

  And I mean it. I’m ready to get my first tattoo. Needles or no needles. I am going to overcome my fear.

  Dominic looks taken aback. I guess it did come out like some sort of weird command.

  “Madame Vernier said that you were going to do a small tattoo on me for the photographs,” I say, the stammer back in my voice.

  “Ah, yes, that was the original plan. But I have another model lined up. You are more valuable to me coordinating with the photographer since you know about tatouage.” Dominic sets his glass down on the coffee table. “My assistant should be finished prepping the workstation and getting the model ready. Come, I will introduce you.”

  I follow Dominic into an adjacent room. A man is lying on a table face down. My eyes travel from his form-fitting jeans, up to his muscular back, and then to the sandy-brown hair on his head. While the assistant wipes the model’s right shoulder blade with alcohol, I notice a tattoo on the base of the man’s neck.

  As I lean closer to examine it, Dominic says, “The shading of the elephant’s ear is exquisite, don’t you think?”

  “The use of gray tones is stunning,” I say. “Is it one of yours?”

  “I wish I could take credit,” he says. “But, alas, I cannot.”

  “What kind of tattoo are you doing today?” I ask.

  While Dominic washes his hands, the assistant shows me the design.

  My jaw drops. “Is that what I think it is? A yellow-bellied marmot?”

  The man lying on the table turns his head and looks at me. His hazel eyes sparkle in the overhead lights.

  “Pierre . . . you’re the model?”

  “I guess you don’t have to work on the catalog after all tonight, Mia,” he says. Then he winks at me.

  10

  Planes, Trains, and Babbling Idiots

  “So let me get this straight. You got Pierre to strip down for you?” Ginny asks.

  Isabelle chimes in. “Exactly how naked was he?”

  I’m stretched out on my bed, video chatting with my two friends. After the session at the tattoo parlor finished, I texted the two of them a picture of Pierre’s back so that they could see the elephant tattoo on the base of his neck, as well as the new marmot tattoo inked by Dominic de Santis. Within seconds, they both texted back, wanting to get the full scoop.

  “He wasn’t naked,” I say. “He only had his shirt off.”

  “So, half-naked,” Isabelle says.

  I roll my eyes. “Stop using the word ‘naked.’ You’re making it sound dirty. It was purely professional. He was getting a tattoo and I was—”

  “Drooling over his half-naked body,” Isabelle says.

  “I wasn’t drooling,” I say. “I was . . .”

  “Salivating?” Isabelle suggests.

  “Isn’t that just another word for drooling?” I ask.

  Isabelle shakes her head. “No, drooling is when saliva drips out of your mouth.”

  Ginny shudders. “Please don’t talk about drooling. I just had a cat drool all over me. It’s disgusting.”

  “Where are you, anyway?” I ask her. “That doesn’t look like Boston in the background.”

  “I’m in Florida, visiting my mom,” Ginny says.

  “Is Preston with you?” I ask.

  “Hang on a minute. We can talk about Ginny and Preston later. But first, I want to hear more about Pierre getting naked for Mia,” Isabelle teases. “He looks pretty hot in that picture.”

  I prop up the pillow underneath my head. “Doesn’t Dominic do fabulous work? I’m in awe of how he’s incorporating Pierre’s scar into the tattoo. See how he’s turning it into the rock that the marmot is perched on? I can’t wait to see how the tattoo looks once it’s completed.”

  “How did Pierre get that scar, anyway?” Isabelle asks.

  “I’m not sure,” I say. “It wasn’t exactly the time or place to ask him.”

  “But you are going to ask him, right?” Isabelle asks
before taking a sip from her wineglass.

  “What are you drinking?” I ask.

  “Riesling.” She holds up the glass so that we can get a better view. “In the Rhine and Moselle regions, this is what you traditionally serve Riesling in. It’s called a Roemer glass. See the green stem and how it looks coiled?”

  Ginny interrupts. “Isabelle, as much as I’d love to talk about the historical origins of the glass you’re drinking out of, you do realize that Mia’s trying to change the subject by getting you to talk about wine instead of Pierre, right?”

  Isabelle laughs. “Very sneaky, Mia. Let’s get back to your sexy Frenchman. When are you going to see him next?”

  “Well, as I was leaving Voodoo Hoodoo, I got a call from Amélie. She’s sending me to one of the Toussaint hotels in Carcassonne tomorrow so that I can set up an art display at their gift store.”

  “Where’s Carcassonne?” Isabelle asks.

  “It’s in southwestern France, about fifty miles east of Toulouse.”

  Ginny gets a dreamy look in her eye. “I would love to go to Carcassonne. Did you know that the area has been occupied since Neolithic times? It was also strategically important to the Romans.”

  “You’re such a history nerd,” I joke.

  “And you’re a Star Wars nerd,” she retorts.

  Isabelle pipes up. “Just for the record, I don’t have any nerdish qualities whatsoever.”

  “Yeah, that’s a serious character flaw,” I say.

  She rolls her eyes. “I just googled Carcassonne. The place looks like it came straight out of a fairy tale. There’s a castle with turrets and a drawbridge.”

  “That’s the walled medieval city,” Ginny says. “It’s a UNESCO World Heritage Site.”

  “It’s so romantic,” Isabelle says. “You think you’d be happy being sent on a business trip there, Mia. All expenses paid, right?”

  “Uh-huh,” I say flatly.

  After a beat, Isabelle says. “Oh, my gosh, I know what’s going on. Pierre is going to be there too, isn’t he?”

  I nod. “His father asked him to attend a meeting on his behalf at the hotel.”

  “I thought he was a bellboy,” Ginny says.

  “He is. But while his father is away in Thailand, Pierre has to fill in for him at certain management events. Just my luck one of them happens to be in Carcassonne at the same exact time I’ll be there.”

  “Good, that will give you an opportunity to ask him how he got that scar,” Ginny says. “And if you’re lucky, maybe he’ll take off his shirt again so that you can examine it more closely.”

  “Do you think he has scars anyplace else?” Isabelle asks.

  “Looks like I’m losing cell phone reception,” I say, making a crackling sound with a crumpled up piece of paper. Then I quickly hang up before they start talking about Pierre removing any other of his clothing items.

  * * *

  There are times when I’m glad I’m afraid of flying, and this is one of them. Pierre needed to be in Carcassonne early, so he flew there on the company’s private plane. A pretty flight attendant probably served him mimosas while he nibbled on freshly baked croissants. When he landed, a chauffeur was likely there waiting for him, ready to carry his bags to a plush town car.

  Me, on the other hand, I’m currently sitting on a crowded train sipping a cup of cold coffee and eating a stale pastry. The only person who is going to be waiting for me when I arrive at the train station in Toulouse is the clerk at the car rental desk. He’ll hand me the keys to a compact-size sedan, which I’ll use to drive myself to Carcassonne.

  The upside of my decidedly less luxurious travel arrangements is that I don’t have to sit next to Pierre, look at Pierre, or speak to Pierre.

  If I sit next to him, I’m going to be distracted by the smell of his sandalwood and bergamot cologne. Naturally, the smell of Pierre’s cologne is going to compel me to glance at his jawline to see if he’s freshly shaven or if he has a sexy five o’clock shadow going on.

  Once I glance at his jawline, then my gaze will be drawn upward to his hazel eyes. But because his eyes are so mesmerizing, I’ll quickly look away, and find myself staring at his suit jacket. I might glimpse one of his cufflinks. I’ll probably be momentarily distracted wondering how much they cost, but then my mind will quickly turn to the shirt they’re attached to. And we all know that that shirt is hiding broad shoulders, a sculpted chest, a muscular back, and two tattoos. You know exactly what will happen next. To get my mind off of what lies underneath that shirt, I’ll start speaking to Pierre.

  Speaking? Hah. More like babbling like an idiot. Something along the line of, “How did you get that scar on your back? Do you mind if I see it again? What’s the deal with the marmot tattoo? Do you mind if I have another look at it? Can I touch it? It’s purely professional interest on my part, I swear.”

  I shake my head, imagining his reaction to my babbling. His hazel eyes would twinkle, and he’d give me a cocky grin.

  See how terribly wrong things could have gone if I had flown on the plane with Pierre? It’s a good thing I’m on a crowded train, drinking cold coffee, and eating stale pastry. Better for everyone.

  * * *

  Pierre pokes his head into the gift shop later that afternoon. “There you are.”

  I set down the picture I was in the process of hanging, and watch as he walks toward me. Man, he looks so much better wearing a suit than his bellboy uniform.

  As he bends down and kisses me on my cheeks, I breathe in the scent of his cologne.

  “Do you have a cold?” he asks, offering me the crisp white pocket square from his suit jacket.

  “No, why?”

  “You’re sniffling.”

  “Sniffling? No, I’m not sniffling. I’m sniffing.”

  “Sniffing what?”

  Realizing how weird it would be to admit that I was sniffing his neck—that cologne of his is intoxicating—I fake sneeze. “No, you’re right, I’m sniffling.”

  “But you said you were sniffing.”

  “Don’t you think they should make a law against having words sound practically the same? Sniffling with the letter ‘l’ and ‘sniffing’ without one. It really makes communication complicated.” Then I fake cough.

  “Okay, I’m officially confused. Do you have a cold?” He grins. “Or do you have a cod? See what I did there with the missing ‘l’?”

  I laugh. “I most certainly do not have a fish. But I might be coming down with something.”

  Yeah, I’m coming down with something for sure. A serious case of falling for a guy who is all wrong for me.

  “That’s a shame,” he says. “I have reservations at Auberge du Canard tonight and I was hoping you would join me.”

  I pause mid-fake sniffle. Auberge du Canard has won all sorts of awards, been featured on television, and consistently makes the top ten best restaurant lists. Not that any of that matters to me. But what does matter is that if I dine at Auberge du Canard, I can rub it in the faces of everyone at the country club back home.

  One of the members—the creepy guy who tried to entice me with an art scholarship—visited southern France last year. Eating at Auberge du Canard was at the top of his list of things to do. But, despite tipping the maître d’ an obscene amount of money, he couldn’t get a reservation. He was furious. Imagine if I post pictures of me eating there on social media. His head would explode from envy.

  “I think it’s just allergies,” I say.

  “Great. Meet you in the lobby at seven.”

  I try to return his pocket square to him—I haven’t needed it for my fake cold—but he tells me to keep it.

  Lightly pressing it against my face, I watch as he chats with the manager of the gift shop about her twin boys. It amazes me how at ease he looks no matter what role he’s playing—waiter, bellboy, or hotel executive. Then I wonder what kind of role he’s playing with me—flirtatious billionaire or something more serious.

  * * *

&nbs
p; You know what they say about revenge dining—it’s best served bubbling hot. Which is good, as that’s exactly how the cassoulet at Auberge du Canard is served.

  As the waiter places a rustic, wide-mouthed earthenware bowl on the center of the table, my mouth waters at the smell of the bean stew.

  “Cassoulet is traditionally simmered for four days,” Pierre informs me. “Each day, the cook slowly simmers it, then allows it to cool overnight. As it cools, a crust forms on top. The next morning, you pierce the crust, then cook it again. Let it cool overnight, pierce the crust, cool it again, and so on. This allows the beans to absorb the flavors from the meat while retaining their shape.”

  “Serving a four-old day dish. I wonder if you could get away with that in the States,” I muse.

  Pierre shakes his head. “This attitude is why fast-food restaurants are so popular in America.”

  “Hey, I’m not turning my nose up at cassoulet,” I say. “No need to be a snob.”

  “You think I’m a snob?”

  I hold up my hands. “No comment.”

  “If appreciating good food makes me a snob, then I’m happy to be one.” Pierre nods at the waiter to serve the cassoulet. As he ladles it onto my plate, Pierre describes the ingredients. “Those are the finest pork sausages from Toulouse. There are also duck legs, mutton, and of course, white beans. All simmered with rosemary and thyme.”

  “You forgot the duck confit.”

  “Ah, I see you already know about cassoulet.”

  “You can’t really go wrong when you cook something with a lot of fat. That’s what duck confit is, isn’t it?”

  “That’s true, but French fat is far superior to American fat.”

  “Says someone who has probably never eaten fries at McDonald’s. I’m not sure why we call them French fries, cause they’re one hundred percent American. We took potatoes and perfected them.”