Then guilt stabs me, like a fork in a rare steak. I don’t mean to have such heartless thoughts, but this is the first time in my life that I’m outside a ten-mile radius of my clingy mother and teachers and appointments and homework.
I can become a Parisian—for real. Yesterday I hadn’t wanted to leave and now here I am. Like a strange miracle. And I’m stuck in my favorite Paris shop. What are the chances of that? I laugh at myself reflected in the window glass. Pretty good chance, I guess, since I’ve been La Patisserie’s best customer the past week.
Ending up in a pastry shop isn’t a big Part-the-Red-Sea-miracle, but it’s still incredibly fortuitous. Maybe I’ll learn how to bake something new for my friends. I like to throw afternoon “tea” parties and experiment with new recipes. I make a mean chicken salad and I own a killer strawberry lime slush recipe. The secret is the ratio of sugar and limejuice, as well as how delicately you puree the fresh strawberries.
I pick up my phone to telephone my mother, but realize it’s still super early in the morning in New York. I still have time to catch her before my French teacher does. And before I can do anything else today, I need a debit machine. My skirt and jacket are shriveled with dried lemon filling and clean clothes are high on my priority list.
I also wonder if I should find the American Embassy to get a new passport? It took me two months to get the first one. I have no idea if it can be replaced in a day. The crumpled piece of paper with the phone numbers for Educational Tours is staring at me from the nightstand.
My freedom in Paris is fast fading, like the last runner in a marathon. I probably shouldn’t go downstairs to bake with the Duprés. It’ll just make me frustrated when I get dragged away. Not that I’m planning on hanging out with Jean-Paul, of course. Learning how to make a pastry or two is strictly an educational arrangement.
Stubbornness kicks in. I’m not going to spend my last day in Paris wearing clothes with dried on food. First thing is to figure out how I’m going to get to a clothing store in a borrowed nightgown. Mrs. Dupré and I are not the same size by a long shot. I turn on my newly charged cell phone and punch the speed dial number for home.
It rings and rings without any answer. I look at my watch again and count backward six hours. Mom should be home. What if someone from the tour called her and she collapsed into hysterics when she learned I’m missing? My mother might be anal about rules and standards, but she’s also high-strung, and I can’t help worrying about her. I should have called this morning right after my accident, but it was the middle of the night and I didn’t want to wake her.
Quickly, I dial Mathew’s number even though it’s early on a Saturday morning for him. His mother answers. A live person at last, someone I know. Sort of. I’ve never had a real conversation with Mathew’s parents. I never know what to say to them. When I go to Mathew’s apartment, his mother and father are usually having drinks with their television and newspaper, only talking when absolutely necessary. Like, “Pass me the sports section, Jane,” or “I can’t get the remote to work, Harry.”
I think Mrs. Perotti was, like, forty-five when she gave birth to Mathew so when I say he has older parents, I mean old. Having ancient parents does have its advantages, though. Mathew often gets free rein to do whatever he wants because his parents are too occupied being retired.
It’s not because they want to be “cool” parents, but because they’re just too tired. They rarely ask him where he’s going or what he’s doing, and they don’t care if he takes girls into his bedroom. My mom had a fit when she found out and told me I’d be grounded for the rest of my life if I ever do it again, even if all we did was sit on the floor and look at his CD collection. Well, that’s not exactly true, either. We did a lot of kissing, and Mathew wanted to shut the door and do more than just kissing, but I felt really weird with his parents in the next room watching the History Channel.
“Oh, hi, Mrs. Perotti,” I say now, trying to sound light and happy, as if getting stuck in Paris is totally no big deal. “It’s Chloe calling from Paris—Bon-jour!”
“Chloe—you mean Chloe Dillard?” Her voice even sounds old-lady-ish. “Did I hear you right? You’re still in Paris? I thought Mathew said you were coming home today.”
“With the flight and time difference, I’ll actually be home Monday. At the moment I’m a little stuck. See, I had an accident—”
“Oh my, what happened?”
“Nothing serious, but I missed my tour bus and well, I just wanted to talk to Matthew. Have you heard anything? Like from my mom?”
I have no idea why I’m asking her that. Our mothers do not chat.
“Heard what?”
I’m feeling stupid now.
Mrs. Perotti lets out a little gasp. “Oh, yes, Mathew said he tried to call you, but your phone was off. I don’t understand why you would miss your flight, Chloe.” Her voice becomes very pointed. “You haven’t run away from home, have you?”
“Of course not,” I protest, but the words sound hollow to my own ears. How did she guess? And I haven’t missed my flight yet.
“I’m listening,” Mrs. Perotti says, as if she just tuned in.
“I just missed the bus. Not the flight. And I broke my ankle.” Breaking my ankle is a huge exaggeration, but I can’t help wanting to elicit sympathy. I rotate my toes and realize that my foot is actually feeling a bit better.
Mrs. Perotti starts making worried noises. “How did that happen? Have you seen a doctor?”
“A very nice family has been helping me. I’m completely fine and I’m going to come home as soon as I can. Um, could you get Mathew for me? I’d like to talk to him.”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible. He’s still in bed.”
“Oh.” I don’t know what to say. Mathew’s mother doesn’t offer to wake him up for me, and it feels like I’ll be whining if I ask. “Um, you don’t think he might be waking up?”
“Poor baby was absolutely exhausted. He’s full-time now for his Uncle Mario.”
Poor baby? Mathew is six feet three inches tall and a hundred and ninety pounds.
“Full-time?” I echo. I don’t recall Mathew telling me his Saturday job changed to full-time work. Being gone ten days suddenly feels like a month.
I place a hand to my chest. My heart is squeezing like it’s got cramps. I know I’m jumping to conclusions, but I can’t help thinking about Parvati and how much Mathew has seen her the last ten days. For months now, that girl—an old friend of mine—has been turning into a professional flirt in tight sweaters.
I’ve left Mrs. Perotti hanging. “I just called home and my mom isn’t answering,” I say, trying to breathe normally.
“Perhaps she’s out with friends?”
“Um, I don’t think so.” As soon as I say the words, I realize how long it’s been since my mother went out with a friend. She mostly stays home, watches soaps (research) and writes a few pages on her current novel or WIP (work-in progress).
Guilt needles my conscience again. My mother gave up attending the RWA—Romance Writers of America—national summer conference in San Francisco so I could go to France. She might have lost a little bit of her sense of humor at the same time we lost my dad, but I really do have a great mother. I probably need to tell her that more often.
“Call your mother again,” Mrs. Perotti suggests. “She’ll feel better after she hears your voice and knows you’re alright. Now you take care of that foot, dear.”
I punch the Off button and depression slaps me like a wet towel. I needed to hear Mathew’s voice and know that he still wants to have our talk when I get home. I need to know that he hasn’t changed his mind about staying together. I hate Mrs. Perotti for not waking him up. Couldn’t she tell I needed to talk to him?
My phone rings and I jump, flipping it open again. “Mom!”
She’s crying so much I can hardly understand a word. “Chloe, where are you? I’m so worried! I’ve been calling the tour company, the Embassy, everyone I could think of!�
��
“I’m okay, Mom,” I quickly insert, but she’s not finished.
“I get a phone call telling me my daughter missed her bus and they have no idea where she is! She’s just—not there! Forgotten in Paris! Alone halfway around the world!”
“Mom—” I try to tell her that Paris is not halfway around the world. I think Zimbabwe in Africa would be the halfway point, but I don’t think she wants to hear that.
She keeps wailing. “Every horrible scenario flashed before my eyes.”
“Mother!” It suddenly occurs to me that I also have horrible scenarios flashing before my eyes. About Mathew and Parvati.
“Chloe, you have to come home this instant!”
Like I can hail a cab and be there in thirty minutes. Her crying gets me crying. I wipe my nose with the back of my hand because there isn’t a single box of tissues in this bedroom. I hop into the bathroom on my good foot and yank off a piece of toilet paper, still holding the phone to my ear.
Finally, the explanation of where I am and the whole ankle / bus thing starts to kick in. My mother gets it, although she doesn’t like it. I guess I can’t blame her, but I am still alive, and I’ll be home in less than forty-eight hours. I’m not worried, why should she be?
“The thing is, Mom,” I say slowly, when she’s calmed down to an occasional hiccup. “I have to buy some clothes because mine got sort of wrecked, and my suitcase is on the bus. I’m sorry it’s going to cost more money—”
“You’re out of money?” she breaks in.
“I’ll get a job when I get home. Promise, cross my heart! There’s enough money in the account, right?”
A moment of silence. “Um, Chloe, I went online and checked our bank accounts like you showed me. It seems we don’t have much left at all.”
I sink onto the lid of the toilet, wondering what we’ll do if there’s a real emergency. My mother avoids words like “Budget” and “Bills” and “Balance.” Once a month we organize all the monthly bills on the kitchen table, complete with a book of stamps and return address labels, rock out to music while eating chocolate chip cookies, and get it done together.
Mom adds, “Actually, darling, your cell phone won’t work after next week. I’m turning off the service for the rest of the summer. I can’t afford it until this next book gets approved by Marsella.”
That stops me. No phone? No communication with my friends, or with Mathew? Being broke sucks. I guess I really do need to get a summer job when I get back.
“But we still have five days left so use up all your minutes!” Mom adds cheerfully. Now she gets a sense of humor.
“I just hope my passport is in my bags,” I say, thinking out loud as I hobble back to the bedroom and spot my purse on the quilt. Wrong thing to say.
“Somebody stole your passport, too? When did that happen? Were you robbed? Are you hurt?”
“Mom, I wasn’t robbed! I’m sure it’s fine. Forget it.” But I truly can’t remember the last time I saw my passport. I kept thinking it would show up again. I can picture my new yellow bathing suit in the right corner under my socks. I hope that’s not lost. I know it’s selfish to think about bikinis when money and passports are much higher up the worry scale, but suddenly I want to go to the beach with Jean-Paul wearing my new swimsuit and see if I can create that look in his eyes again. Shivers run down my arms and I fall backward on the bed, my face growing hot. I am a terrible person. How can I think those things when all I want to do is talk to Mathew? Maybe Jean-Paul just makes me miss Mathew.
Maybe I’m just too tired to think straight.
Maybe—
“You need to find that passport, Chloe,” my mother’s voice demands in my ear. She’s sounding very in control now. “Call the Embassy, call the police—”
“Mom, stop, already. I just remembered I put it in my zippered makeup bag in my carry-on,” I say, telling her a straight-out lie. “I’ll get it when my group gets back.”
Of course, the tour group is supposed to come back into Paris just in time to sleep and get up again at the crack of dawn for our flight. Tonight’s hotel is somewhere in the Loire Valley and I think that valley is a really big place. Like hundreds of miles or something. Will I have to find my own way to the airport at five o’clock in the morning on Monday? I’m going to need a wad of money to make it through the next day and a half on my own. Food, clothes, airport cab fare. Maybe I’m in bigger trouble than I thought if the bank account is nearly empty.
“If you say so.” My mother speaks slowly, as if trying to figure out whether she can trust me or not. “But where are you right now? Where are you sleeping tonight?”
I pause, wondering how much to tell her. “Some very nice people in the La Patisserie shop helped me all day today. I’m totally and completely good. Soon I’ll be reuniting with the tour group.” Quickly, I change the subject before she can argue again. “Put on some music, Mother, eat some chocolate, and everything will be fine, I promise.”
“If only Jerry were here . . .”
“Don’t think about him,” I warn her.
She sniffs and I know she’s dying to call him even though we made a pact that she wouldn’t. “Choose your man carefully,” she tells me. “That’s all I have to say.”
“Work on your rewrites. Don’t you have a deadline? Like next week?”
“You’re such a drill sergeant.”
“I’m partial to three meals a day,” I tell her, and when I laugh she actually laughs with me. “I’ll call you later this afternoon. Your afternoon. Night for me.” I make a mental note not to forget. I might get very busy today.
I hang up and stare at the swirls of plaster on the ceiling. I consider trying to get through to someone’s phone in my tour group, but decide against it. I’ve had enough excitable females for the moment. Besides, there may not be good reception at Château de Chenonceau in the middle of the river.
I glance around the room, taking in the details for the first time. The window seat is covered in fluffy, embroidered pillows and the furniture is definitely girlish. A bulletin board hangs on the far wall, plastered with snapshots. A girl about twelve kicks a soccer ball. She’s playing the flute at a school concert; next, a birthday party with a group of friends making faces at the camera. The same girl sits in the middle, sticking out her tongue. A dimple appears in the corners of her mouth and Hershey chocolate eyes seem to stare right at me. I sit up quickly.
Under the sloping eaves a mirror reflects the view of the room, and directly above the mirror, there’s a display of cutout letters, shiny with glue and glitter taped to the wall.
E-L-I-S-E.
A tremor runs down my arms. These sheets, this blanket, this pillow—they belong to a girl named Elise, but who is she? Where is she? Why didn’t Jean-Paul mention her?
I hop out to the hallway again. Inside the bathroom I find my sandals sitting in a neat little pile on top of a fluffy bath towel. Someone has repaired the broken heel. It’s finished off so expertly, I can hardly tell it was ever broken. I’m pretty sure Jean-Paul fixed it for me.
I test my bare foot by resting it lightly on the floor. It’s not nearly as sore as it was at the hospital. The swelling has gone down, too, due to the major ice pack I napped with. I rewrap the gauze the nurse gave me at the hospital so I don’t accidentally twist it again.
Hopping around on crutches, I figure I’d better plan for the worst and be prepared like a good Girl Scout should. I open drawers in a roll-top desk in the Duprés’ dining room and find a telephone book. I spend almost half an hour studying the pages along with my trusty French/English dictionary, but have no luck at all finding the American Embassy number.
I picture my luggage arriving at La Guardia airport without me and Mom finding the passport inside my underwear. She could mail it to me, but how long would that take? Probably much longer than a day.
I know I should be homesick, torn up over my mother’s worry, but there’s really nothing to be sad about. She’s fine; I’m f
ine. I’ll just buy a new ticket and get home a couple of days later if I have to, although it might cost me my clothes allowance for the next five years.
What did I have to look forward to in New York? Sweltering heat, pounding the pavement for a job—and Mathew and I having that scheduled “talk” about our relationship.
I squirm every time I think about that little chore. I thought Paris would help me chill out, and then go home to a better future with Mathew. I wanted Paris to give me amnesia, to help me forget and forgive all the recent bad history.
I haven’t made any decisions. I haven’t written out my notes for our relationship talk. I still love Mathew, but I’m not sure how he feels about me. We’ve communicated by cell phone during the trip, but we haven’t really talked. How can you have a heart-to-heart with texting? I hate the fact that I’m having a hard time trusting him. But do I trust myself?
Paris got a lot more exciting once I lost my French class to the Loire Valley, even if I’m paying for it with a flimsy ankle. The thrill of this beautiful old city seems to wrap around me. I stand up from the table in the Duprés’ dining room and bump my hips in a little dance, humming out loud for background music.
Hanging onto the bookcase so I don’t fall, I give another one-footed hip grind—and someone behind me gives a little cough.
I whirl around on my good foot. Jean-Paul is at the top of the stairs wearing a white chef’s apron. There’s a spot of flour on his cheek, and he’s watching me dance.
I feel my face turn bright red at the very moment I spin out of control. Jean-Paul dashes forward, reaching out to keep me from falling. Our fingers catch and my heart actually forgets to beat.
His hand—it’s so warm—so perfect—so incredible in mine. A strange jolt races through my fingers and right up my arm, sizzling the hair on the back of my neck.
Paris Cravings: A Paris & Pastry Novel Page 5
