Rising from the table, I pick up the crutches and start my trip back down the street to La Patisserie, hoping no one is paying attention to a girl in a ruined salmon-colored skirt and blouse.
Then I realize that I am being watched. A chill crawls along my neck as I dart my eyes up and down the street, trying to figure out who’s studying me.
A guy wearing a white canvas hat, faded jeans and a brown blazer throws his cigarette to the ground, stamps on it, and approaches me from the open door of a taxi.
“Mademoiselle Dillard?” he asks in a perfect English accent, grasping my elbow.
I jerk my arm back. “Who are you?”
A wallet comes out of his back pocket, from which he extracts a business card. “Robert sent me.”
He’s talking like James Bond even though he looks like a graduate student in need of a shave and double coffee after pulling an all-nighter.
I take the corner of the card and try to focus my attention on the printed words.
Educational Tours Company
(ETC. We specialize in the details!)
Gerald Polk, Tour Guide
45 Rue de Jardin
Paris, France
+33 (1) 46 67 88 93
I guess he’s legit. There’s even a cartoonish picture of a bus full of giddy students hanging out the windows like they’re having a fabulous time. I try not to laugh at the incongruity.
“You missed your bus, Chloe Dillard.”
“Um, yeah.” I lean on my crutches and point downward. “I sort of sprained my ankle.”
“You’ve seen a doctor?” He pulls out a green cellophane pack of menthol-light cigarettes and taps it against his palm. I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone to look so bored while asking questions.
“The doctor is the one that gave me the bandage. Or rather, the nurse.” I give him a pretty smile, wondering what he’s going to do. I don’t like the look of that waiting taxicab.
“Okay. Here’s the deal,” he goes on, ignoring my sprained foot. “The rest of the group is in Loire and won’t be back until your flight to La Guardia Monday morning.”
“Yeah, I figured that out already.”
“We’re liable for you, you know,” he says in an accusing tone. “So we got a hotel for you tonight and tomorrow, then a shuttle to de Gaulle International at five a.m.”
“Where’s Robert?”
He stares at me like I’m stupid. “Loire Valley,” he tells me, enunciating each syllable.
“Well, I just thought, maybe, he might have, you know, come back for me. Made sure I was alright,” I say, even as I remember Sera yelling for Robert on the other end of the phone.
“He did. That’s why I’m here. I’m between tours. My next one starts Monday. This was supposed to be my day off.”
I understand now. Gerald Polk is being pissy because he had to deal with some stray girl. “So ask for time and a half,” I say flippantly.
He gives a snort, but a smile flickers at the corners of his mouth. Then he extends one arm like I’m supposed to take it. “Your taxi is waiting.”
I glance down the street toward La Patisserie, but I can’t see it from here. My eyes smart like I’m about to start crying. Just like that, I’m rescued and Paris is finished? I won’t see Jean-Paul again? My days of smelling the sweet dough of a chocolate beignet or stuffing a lemon tart with real whipped cream into my mouth are over? I’ll never get a chance to bake a cake with Madame Dupré? That makes me sadder than anything else.
“Miss Dillard, do you understand the grief you have caused?” Gerald Polk acts like some stuffy fifty-year old in his blazer and frayed jeans.
I haven’t moved toward the curb yet, and he wants to lecture me. I suppose I deserve it. A little bit. I nod dutifully, but he’s not finished.
“I’m sure you can’t even begin to comprehend the magnitude of the paperwork,” he goes on. “Not to mention the headache for your teacher as well as the threats from your mother.”
My mother has been calling Robert and this Polk guy? “Okay, already,” I mutter. This guy is getting truly anal, but I do feel a little sorry for him.
Now he’s ticking the items off on his fingers. “The manpower to search for you . . . the interviews of witnesses, maps . . . ”
Witnesses? Oh, probably Sera. Maybe he and Robert are worried about getting sued or losing their jobs.
“I’m sorry,” I repeat for the tenth time. “It was an accident. I wasn’t trying to miss the bus. I wasn’t trying to get stuck.” To elicit sympathy, I hobble around on my crutches. “I practically broke my foot. See?”
He lifts an eyebrow, then purses his lips. “I see.”
“Everything is under control. I even looked up the Embassy for a new passport.”
“You lost your passport?” His voice rises and he slaps his forehead.
“I don’t know for sure. I just can’t remember where it is.”
“Damn it,” he mutters, flipping out his cell phone and punching in a text. Probably Robert. Or FBI headquarters. My stomach feels queasy. “You’re going to cost me my whole day if I have to call our contacts at the Embassy for an emergency passport.”
Swiftly, I arrange my face into a grave expression so he knows I’m taking this very seriously.
“Get in the taxi and I’ll figure this out as we drive. I’ve got a reservation for you at a hotel about five miles from here. They’re giving me a good price at the last minute.”
Five miles? That’s clear across Paris! Without warning, now my eyes do fill with stinging, hot tears. I want to call Sera back. Maybe my mother. I’ll never be able to sneak back to La Patisserie. I want to call the Duprés but I don’t have their number. Why didn’t I write it down when I was looking up the Embassy in the phone book?
“Right this minute?” I ask.
“Pardon?”
“Get in the taxi, I mean.”
“Yeah. That’s what I’ve been saying.” His patience is just about gone.
“It’s just—I’d like to say goodbye to the people at—” I halt, instinctively knowing that I don’t want to give away where I’ve been all morning. Does this guy know? Did Robert tell him exactly which La Patisserie I’ve been at?
Gerald Polk is watching me. Waiting. Then he goes to the taxi door and jerks it open.
I don’t want to appear like I’m begging to stay at the Duprés. But I am. Begging that is. Why can’t guys read minds? Or at least the expressions on our faces? Can’t he see the agony I’m in?
“What if I need to see Doctor La—I mean the doctor again?” I don’t say his name in case this tour guy doesn’t know where I’ve been. I want to keep it that way if I can.
He barks out a laugh. “We have our own doctors, Chloe. No more jerking me around. We have a lot to do to replace your passport. That’s going to take hours, maybe even tomorrow, too. And I have plans tonight.”
I make a face at him, but he’s leaning into the taxi’s open window and giving directions in rapid-fire French to the driver, so he doesn’t see me.
There’s nothing else I can do. I hobble across the sidewalk and slide into the seat, dragging my crutches and stuffing them down along the floor. Gingerly I test out my foot. Ice packs and resting has done wonders. Maybe it’s not really a sprain at all, just a pulled muscle. I guess I’ve run so much track the last few years I’m stronger than I realize.
“Did you leave anything behind?” Gerald asks me.
I shake my head tightly, because my personal possessions are actually with me. Crusty skirt, jacket, handbag—check. The only thing I’ve left behind is my heart, my taste buds, and my hopes for a last day in Paris by myself. I think of something else and try not to cry harder. The identity of Elise will remain a mystery, and Jean-Paul will never know what happened to me. He’ll never know that I wanted to say goodbye and wasn’t given a chance.
“Don’t look so down,” Gerald tells me. “The tour is basically finished. You’re not missing that much. All those castles start looki
ng the same after awhile.”
This guy knows nothing. Nothing!
I stare out the window as the taxi pulls into traffic and heads down the next block, easing up behind a bus as the light turns red. I don’t even know the address myself. I won’t be able to write a thank you note to Jean-Paul for taking me to the hospital, for feeding me, for fixing my shoe. It’ll seem like I’m just a rude American girl out for free éclairs.
Except I left my pastry box upstairs. The unfairness of it all wells up in my throat. As I stare out the window, a sudden thought stabs my brain. Hello, I’m a New York girl! I know how to hire a taxi to get to the airport. I know the flight number. Well, at least I know the time the flight leaves. There can’t be that many international flights from Paris to JFK at 8:05 a.m. I don’t have to obey some guy I’ve never met before in my life.
I have people who want to shelter me. I’m safe. Everyone knows where I am; my mother, my boyfriend. At least my boyfriend’s mother. The only person I haven’t talked to is Madame Sauvant, but she knows the scoop because Robert is running this operation long distance.
I even think I can walk again. Not run. But at least walk.
Gazing through the car window at the crosswalk and the blinking red light, a smile begins to twitch at my lips. Then it turns green and the Walk command lights up. I start counting down from twenty seconds. Eighteen. Sixteen.
In the front seat, Gerald fusses with the radio, humming off-key while the taxi driver shakes his fist at the windshield. Vehicles jam the road in front of us and detour signs line the intersection.
I love detours.
I’m going to take one. Right now. My heart speeds up as the light turns green. The bus in front of us belches a cloud of black smoke and slowly rumbles forward.
The taxi driver honks the horn and taps the gas then the brake repeatedly. There’s a roaring in my ears as I contemplate what I’m about to do—leap out of a moving vehicle and try not to splat on the pavement like Mrs. Dupré’s Whipped Cream Delight.
Twelve seconds.
I grit my teeth and throw open the door.
Five Months Earlier
Mathew started to kiss me again, looking relieved that our fight about the cafeteria mistletoe was over. “You’re so tempting, Chloe,” he murmured against my mouth. “ You know I want you. Isn’t it time we really showed each other how much we belong together?”
I squirmed inside. I’d hoped this wouldn’t come up tonight. “You know I love you. I show it all the time.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I don’t feel comfortable,” I finally said, thinking how lame that sounded even if it was true.
His warm breath tickled my ear as he whispered, “We’ve already talked about getting married after we graduate, so why do we have to wait to have sex?”
I gave a little shrug. “I have this thing about honeymoons. Or at least Senior Prom.”
I didn’t want to do it the night of Prom either, but at least it gave me time to come up with new stall tactics.
Leaning into my body, he stared at me. “But if we know we’re going to be together what does it matter . . . I know you feel it, too.”
Yes, I wanted to, but at the same time I didn’t. It was so confusing! Sometimes I was tempted to go further, to just give in. I even wondered if sex would seal our relationship. I mean, how could he look at any other girl if we were doing it? Maybe if I let him, he’d know how I really felt about him. Maybe he and Parvati would stop having this weird chemistry between them. We all hung out together during lunchtime and sometimes he’d drop in when Parvati was at my house. Something crackled in the air between them. I often wondered if there was something actually there or if I was just paranoid.
There were days I convinced myself to give in, but then I’d get resentful. Was I asking so much to want to wait until we were closer to getting married—until I knew he was completely committed to me?
“You’re killing me, Chloe.” His hand brushed against the front of my blouse and I flinched without meaning to.
“Cut it out,” I told him, glancing around to see if anybody was watching. “I don’t want it to happen just whenever,” I added.
“Okay, I’m stopping, but I promise—when it happens, it will be special.”
“I just want to know we’ll be together forever, Mathew. Having sex is so final, it’s giving everything. Something I can never take back.”
He gave a huge sigh, his eyes on my face. “You know I’m here. Just tell me when.”
A drop of sweat runs down my back. I hated these conversations. If he loved me he wouldn’t pressure me. He’d care about my feelings. We talk about the same subject, but our minds go in completely opposite directions. Sometimes I wanted to scream.
He folded his arms across his chest. “Let’s go eat. I’m tired of arguing.”
So it was my fault again. Like if I just let him do what he wanted everything would be fine. Except, my gut told me, that it wouldn’t be. Not really. I wanted to trust him completely and I didn’t for some reason. A reason I hadn’t figured out yet.
As we merged back onto the sidewalk and headed toward Antonio’s Pizzeria, I wondered if our relationship was being tested. If I was being tested. I had to figure out what I really wanted in a boyfriend. For now, maybe I should wear turtlenecks so he didn’t get turned on so much. Then again, May wasn’t exactly the month to be deciding on a winter wardrobe. Okay, I could get rid of the tank tops, spaghetti straps, and bare midriffs. Keep all skin covered.
Maybe I should find a guy for Sera to go out with and we could double-date. Having someone like Sera with another boy around would definitely mean the temptation of kissing too much would drop. Mathew wouldn’t be able to back me into a corner to cop a feel.
I wanted to go back to the time when just being together was enough, before the desire of getting more and more physical became the subject of every single conversation.
But those days were long gone.
Before the taxi can shoot forward, I slam the car door shut and hobble as fast as I can through the crosswalk. When I get to the other side, I only have one second to spare. Attendez now blinks red.
I’m limping a little and slowing down, but the taxi is sandwiched in traffic, which forces the cab driver to follow the detour signs with obedience.
I’m already walking down the opposite side of the street trying to look casual, but my heart is pounding like crazy, and my palms are sweaty. I’ve just jumped out of a car! I’ve run away! It’s surreal. And exciting. I want to tell Jean-Paul all about it—I mean I want to tell Mathew.
I catch a glimpse of Mr. Polk’s face as he frantically rolls down his window and yells over the beeping traffic, “Chloe, what the hell are you doing?”
I love how his voice fades away as the taxi honks its horn several times. As if I don’t know he’s still there. As if I jumped out accidentally and want him to wait so I can jump back in. I glance over my shoulder and watch as the taxicab is forced to turn the corner because there’s no place to pull over and traffic is bumper to bumper with the road construction and detour signs.
“Don’t go anywhere! We’ll pick you up around the next block—” Gerald manages to screech before the car disappears down a one-way street.
I stare at the empty spot where he used to be, shivering with delight. It’s luck, I tell myself. No, it’s destiny. But he’s coming back. And soon.
Walking faster, but careful of my ankle, I duck into a clothing store and drop down behind a rack of dresses. When the taxi doubles back to get me, I won’t even be on the street any longer.
I’m about to congratulate myself when I hear the sound of high heels clicking across the hardwood floor. Slowly I raise my eyes.
A woman lifts two pencil thin eyebrows and sticks her hands on her hips as though daring me to thumb through her designer stock.
“Bonjour?” I whisper, saying the polite greeting Robert taught us to use whenever we enter a shop or café.
She lets loose a stream of French.
I draw my finger across my throat and hoarsely whisper while pointing to the door, “Mon copain!”
She whips her head to the glass door and then back again, puzzled now.
“Mon copain!” I repeat in a frightened voice, blaming a non-existent abusive boyfriend for wanting to hide out under her sale rack.
Her face turns soft with understanding. “Ah, oui.”
There’s a flutter in my belly. Like the thrill you feel when the roller coaster drops and you feel weightless, then scream with the sheer delight of being alive and rushing through the air. I can’t believe I pulled it off. I ran away from Gerald Polk and Educational Tours. I’m free. And nobody can find me until I show up at the airport.
The dress shop woman frowns. I guess I’m looking too happy for a girl trying to escape her horrible boyfriend. I turn my expression back to a frightened look and crawl to the plate glass window, peering furtively up and down the street. The woman follows, staring through the window along with me. I can smell her French perfume and feel the hem of her soft dress against my arm.
No sign of the taxi. No Gerald Polk hanging out a car window screaming into a cell phone. There’s no doubt he’ll be back searching every shop along this street to find me. But this is a very long avenue with about a million shops. Odds are with me, but I cross my fingers just in case.
On the way back to La Patisserie, I stop every few moments to hide out in a grocer’s or a beauty salon or a magazine booth, but I manage to get back without a sign of the taxi or any Educational Tour guys. Inside the pastry shop, there’s a line of customers buying their desserts for dinner.
I sit down at one of the small tables, trying to get a grip on my financial problems, and keeping one eye out for taxis. It’s more difficult than I first thought because taxis come in several colors, not just yellow like New York.
Late afternoon sun slants through the window, brushing the tile floor like melted butter. A bus roars up to the curb and a slew of people disembark while a second crowd pushes to get on. I watch Jean-Paul lay out tissue paper and assemble boxes while his mother rings the purchases up on the register.
Paris Cravings: A Paris & Pastry Novel Page 7
