Paris Cravings: A Paris & Pastry Novel

by Kimberley Montpetit

  I determine to call Mathew back and act like nothing is wrong. Let him explain things first. I’ll be the perfect understanding girlfriend.

  “You know, Lainey,” I say. “You might have totally misinterpreted the whole thing.”

  I look out the window again. Where are Jean-Paul and Mireille? I can’t see them any longer. Is he walking her home? Oh, Lord they don’t sleep together, do they? I’m suddenly not sure I can bear that—but how insane have I become? I hardly know him, and he certainly doesn’t belong to me.

  I just think that Jean-Paul should, you know, wait until he’s sure he has the perfect girl. Like when he gets married. Many years from now. How does he know Mireille is the one?

  I pick at the dried cream on my jacket piping with my fingernail, wishing I could change into comfy pajamas and curl into a ball on the bed. I just think everybody should wait and make your husband or wife your one-and-only. Think of the hundreds of problems it would eliminate. Thinking about sex messes up my head. You could hook up with a guy just because you can’t keep your hands off each other, and then find out later you’re totally wrong for each other. And then you have all those awful memories stuck in your head forever.

  When I’m making out with Mathew, I can’t think straight. At that moment the physical stuff is all I want, but when I pull away and stop and we go do something else, it’s as if my brain reattaches to my neck again.

  “I know what I saw,” Lainey says slowly, but there is now uncertainty in her voice.

  “Maybe Parvati saw you across the mall and took the opportunity to make me crazy. She knew you’d run home and call me.”

  “That’s true,” Lainey admits. I picture her biting at her braces, trying to think of some way to convince me I should get angry with Mathew. The strange thing is, that would have been my normal reaction. But at the moment I feel calm, as if Paris has put a spell on me. Everything will work out; I have to trust Mathew and Mathew has to trust me. That’s one of the biggest issues we need to talk about when I get home. But first, I have to start with myself.

  Mathew could be angry with me for all the thoughts I’ve been having about Jean-Paul.

  “I can’t start accusing Mathew of cheating,” I say, even though my voice quivers. “Not until I know the facts. Lots of situations can look really bad until you know the truth. Maybe he won that stage role he was trying out for and she was just congratulating him. Excitement can do things to people.”

  Yeah, and maybe I can win the 800 in a concrete suit.

  “If I see anything else suspicious, Chloe, I’ll report to you.”

  “Um, thanks, Lainey. That’s what best friend’s little sisters are for.” Forcing myself to quit worrying, I say, “Hey, I got to learn how to make tarts and beignets today.”

  “That’s nice,” Lainey says, lukewarm now.

  She has no idea how fascinating pastries are. The nuances of the cream, the curlicues of icing done just so with a little flick of your wrist. A girl has to experience it first hand. You just don’t know until you’ve personally mixed and rolled and baked and decorated.

  I say goodbye and wrack my brain to come up with a good way to start a conversation with Mathew when I call him back. It’s a talk I didn’t want to have right now. We’d agreed we’d figure things out when I got home.

  A door closes, and I hear Jean-Paul’s voice in the hallway.

  I latch the bedroom window, close the curtains, and drop onto the comforter of the bed. He’s home! He isn’t out with Mireille any longer. He isn’t in a back seat, or making out in the park, or at her house in her bedroom. He isn’t touching her. He isn’t kissing her. He’s here, on the other side of the bedroom wall.

  I grab Elise’s pillow and wrap it around my head, hoping I can erase the picture of Jean-Paul and Mireille from my memory. Before I left on this trip I’d decided that I loved Mathew and wanted to stay his girlfriend when I got back home. That we’d talk it all out and work on getting back to where we used to be. Parvati was just so pretty and talented and we’d all gotten to be such good friends, that that night was just a one-time thing, a bad mistake, but not permanent.

  I shake my head, knowing deep in my heart that all of my noble intentions had been decided before Mathew and I ever had a chance to have a true, heart-to-heart talk about our relationship. Before I met Jean-Paul. I squeeze my eyes shut, wondering if I’m falling for this French guy with the chocolate eyes. He’s like a force field and I’m the magnet. When he looks at me I get positively breathless, but I know I shouldn’t be feeling this way. It’s not like Jean-Paul is even available! He’s off limits. Completely.

  Do these feelings mean I’m not ready to go back to the way things were with Mathew? When Parvati started hanging out with us, everything changed. I felt it, Mathew felt it, and we all pretended it wasn’t there. I’m trying to hold onto all the old feelings, but I’ve changed after all these months. Mathew’s changed. I’ve changed just after being on this trip. Is it even possible to go back to the way we were? I’m not sure. I thought so before I left for Paris. Now . . . perhaps I need to have my head examined. I’m flip-flopping every other minute. Maybe I’m developing a split personality.

  One Month Earlier

  Sera thoughtfully chewed an egg roll as we sat at our favorite Chinese restaurant, Who’s on First on Second Avenue. “What do wives do when they suspect their husbands of cheating?”

  I shrugged. “Clean out the bank account? Max out the charge cards?”

  “Think, Chloe!” Sera wiped her mouth with a napkin. “They hire a detective to watch their husband and take video and catch them ‘in the act.’”

  “But I’m not Mathew’s wife.”

  “Thank you, God!” Sera cried, throwing her hands to the ceiling. “At least you have some semblance of sensibility still. What I’m suggesting is that we use a few of the same tactics as suspicious wives. Tomorrow we spy on Mathew. Can you get hold of his cell phone and check out the numbers listed on his incoming calls?”

  “I never thought about that. You are so devious.”

  “Nope, just practical. By tomorrow night we’ll know the truth.”

  I felt sick to my stomach. The whole plan seemed so sneaky and deceptive and whatever I learn will be so—final.

  Was I ready to know the truth of what Mathew did with his free time or who he called besides me on his phone? Did I really want to know if he there was something going on with Parvati other than the silly talk or the peculiar vibes when they were together? Ignorance suddenly seemed like bliss, and I really, really wanted to trust both of them.

  There was a chance he was totally innocent and I’d been a bad girlfriend getting so paranoid and suspicious. There was no REAL evidence that Mathew was falling for her. Or even liked her more than the fact that she was my friend.

  Sera reached over and squeezed my hand. “Be strong. The truth will set you free.”

  I gave her a smart-ass smirk. “I think you’ve attended too many Vacation Bible schools, Sera.”

  “Nope.” She took a big bite of her egg roll. “Sunday school 101.”

  I want to bake in the shop, roll dough next to Jean-Paul and watch his fingers fly as he cuts out tart shells. I want to eat a croissant and drink chocolate with Madame Dupré and practice my French. I want to run outside and see Paris again. I only have a little more than twenty-four hours until I get into a taxi that will take me to the airport for the second time—and try not to jump out.

  I push myself off the bed, testing my ankle. Even with the tumble on the floor after seeing the kiss under the lamp post, it’s amazing how quickly I’m healing. Must be all those magical French pastries I’ve been eating, combined with what was fortunately a minor sprain.

  Now I really have to use the bathroom. And I’m desperate for that toothbrush. I was up so early I just did a quick swipe and spit before I left the hotel because I planned to return after I visited the pastry shop, before Robert even knew I’d ducked out—and my meals today have been mostly
sugar. I’m going to end up with ten cavities at my next check-up.

  I crack open the bedroom door just as Jean-Paul steps out of his bedroom wearing only a pair of shorts. His chest is bare and muscular and broad—better than even my imagination could have conjured.

  “Oh,” I say, quickly putting my hands over my face, trying not to peek. “Sorry.”

  “Hey,” he says softly. “Bonjour.”

  My legs go wobbly. “Bonjour,” I whisper back and start beating a hasty retreat to Elise’s bedroom.

  “No, no, don’t go.”

  I put a hand against my mouth so he won’t get a whiff of any bad breath I might have lingering. I should have been faster finding some toothpaste before he got back. I hang behind the bedroom door, opening it a crack.

  “What’s wrong?” There’s a tiny frown between his eyes.

  I shake my head and shrug my shoulders. I will not open my mouth. Period.

  “Chloe, you are one of the funniest girls I’ve ever met.”

  Is that good or bad? Helplessly, I shrug again.

  “You can talk to me.”

  Not until I brush my teeth.

  “We’re not on speaking terms any longer?” he asks, cocking his head with a puzzled expression.

  “No—I mean yes. We’re speaking. I’m just . . .”

  He holds up his hands, trying not to laugh. “I should know better than to ask. Did the clothes fit okay? Do you want to go with me somewhere right now, or are you too tired?”

  I swallow, wondering if I heard him right. “I’m never too tired to go—” I stop, realizing what I was about to say out loud.

  “Maman and I go to a late Mass on Saturday nights. You know, church.”

  I love that he thinks his mother and church are so important. He says it without laughing or rolling his eyes or making a joke like other teenage boys, or even college-aged guys. Jean-Paul just gets better and better.

  “What about Mireille?” I have visions of all of us kneeling piously in the Notre Dame cathedral—with Mireille and Jean-Paul secretly holding hands. I don’t think I’m strong enough to watch them touch and kiss in front of me.

  “Her family is driving out of the city to visit her grandmother. She’ll be gone until Monday morning.”

  A little ping goes off in my heart. Mireille gone. How lucky is that? For twenty-four hours even. Oh, I’d love to spend tonight with you, Jean-Paul. And tomorrow. My eyes go wide and I stick my hand over my mouth, hoping I haven’t spoken the words out loud.

  “So, no then?” he asks, and I realize that I haven’t answered.

  “I’d love to go do something—anything,” I finally stutter.

  He smiles again. “Wonderful. Race you to the shower.”

  Is he serious? I give an uncertain giggle.

  He gives me another grin and a wink. “I need to clean myself up after the kitchen work and hanging out at the park. I’ll be quick. I know girls need a little longer to get ready. I mean, I do know about girls—after all, you are going to be wearing my sister’s old dress.”

  He dashes into the bathroom, shuts the door, and I find myself sagging against the wall, my brain flying into orbit. What did he just say?

  I’d known all along that Elise was Jean-Paul’s sister, but it’s the first time he’s acknowledged her existence out loud.

  I knew this room wasn’t merely a bedroom belonging to an older sister who’d gone off to college. It’s furnished for a younger girl, but she must be as tall as I am since the dress wasn’t too short, although the darling sweater was a bit snug around the chest.

  My eyes roam across the well-thumbed books, the frilly dressing table, the snapshots pinned in the corner under the sloping eaves. I trace the letters of her name with my fingers. She looks like a darling girl.

  So I go hunting. I look in the closet. It’s loaded with her clothes, of course. I pull open the top dresser drawer, but make a silent promise that I won’t touch anything. Inside are a few odds and ends, a photo album, trinkets, school mementos.

  Elise probably went to visit a friend for a couple of days, or a grandmother like Mireille, but it’s odd that Jean-Paul hadn’t mentioned her until now.

  Something is nagging at me. Something significant. Then I realize—except for a few snapshots pinned to the wall, there are no personal, or current belongings lying about the room. No hairbrushes, ribbons, socks stuffed under the bed, schoolbooks, dirty clothes in a hamper, nothing. The room is neat and orderly. Too empty. Is she just a clean freak?

  A knock comes at the door. “Your turn!” Jean-Paul calls out.

  I gather up the clothes and duck into the bathroom. I find a towel and toothpaste and scrub at my teeth twice, both before and after my shower. Then I try to fluff my hair and fix my makeup without any of my own stuff, because the bathroom is empty of any girl shampoo or makeup or shaving paraphernalia. Another strange thing.

  After I tie the belt around my waist and shrug into the sweater, I casually walk downstairs, as if I haven’t been snooping under beds or thinking any dire, suspicious thoughts.

  “You look great,” Jean-Paul bursts out, then he flushes and laughs at himself.

  “I hope it’s okay that I’m wearing her stuff.”

  “I could lend you some money and we can go shopping. You could get another skirt.” Then Jean-Paul shuts his mouth and stands, suddenly very intent on straightening the stacks of canned goods in the pantry at the other end of the kitchen.

  The room turns warm and a prickling feeling runs up my neck. “Listen, Jean-Paul, I’m not taking—or borrowing your money. I’ll survive until I meet up with my group. I can sleep in my underwear or something.” Oops. What made me say that? “Of course, I’ll be here all night, since my flight isn’t until tomorrow night. I mean—I hope that’s okay. I could still get a hotel or something.” I don’t tell him the little fact about no cash or euros, no way to get any, and my credit card has hit its limit.

  Jean Paul closes the pantry, leaning back against the doors to study me. He’s got an expression on his face that I can’t decipher. Gazing at me, thinking about something. I’d describe his eyes as tender, but why? What’s going on in his mind?

  “Your maman—elle est très gentille,” I say, to fill the sudden silence.

  “She is nice, isn’t she?” Jean-Paul agrees. “Did she work you hard?”

  “Nope. I loved it. All of it.”

  “If you stick around,” he says with a gleam in his eye. “We will work you even harder.”

  “I can’t wait. I mean, I would adore that. If only I could stay longer, of course.” As soon as I say the words, I know deep down that if I had the money, I would stay. For days. Or a couple of weeks. In a heartbeat.

  He lifts an eyebrow as if amused by my eagerness. “And your ankle?”

  “Much, much better.”

  “So you had a good evening?”

  “The best. And how was yours?” I make my tone light and ever so innocent-sounding, but I’m dying to know more. After all, I’d seen the kiss in the back alley.

  “Fine.” It’s obvious he isn’t going to elaborate about Mireille and I certainly saw more than I wanted to through the window. “Shall we go?”

  Madame Dupré came downstairs at that point, and we headed out into the late evening after Jean-Paul locked up the doors.

  “You sure you don’t mind?” he asks me. “We are very—devout. Is that the right word?”

  I nod and he asks, “Is that a good thing?” He looks sort of worried, as though I might think he’s strange to be religious.

  I reach out and lightly touch his arm. “My mother and I go to church at home. We always end with a trip to the cemetery afterward.”

  Now I wonder if he’s thinking I’m weird.

  “The cemetery?” Something emotional and poignant flashes in his eyes, and he quickly looks away.

  It’s been four years since my dad died and I don’t walk around crying and in mourning all the time. At least not anymore. But I’ve
also learned that there are certain types of people who do not like to talk about death and cemeteries. It makes them uncomfortable, as though I’m morbid. I wonder if Jean-Paul is one of those people.

  He changes the subject before I can explain any further. Taking his mother’s arm in his, we head down the street. “Tomorrow is Sunday. The shop is closed. Which means we will have all day to ourselves. I want to take you to see the city I know and love, Chloe. How does that sound?”

  I can hardly breathe. “Absolutely perfect.” A day to ourselves. No working, no Mireille, no tour people hunting me. Not even Sera around. It sounds like bliss.

  We look at each other and smile and I suddenly wonder if Mathew would be upset with me for spending a couple of hours with Jean-Paul. Of course, this isn’t a date. We’re just going sightseeing. I mean, Jean-Paul has a girlfriend himself, so we’re now on an even playing field. I’m just a tourist and he’s just a kid who knows the city.

  I should have returned Mathew’s phone call from earlier, but I’m not in the mood. I can listen to his message later. It’ll still be there. Right now I don’t want to worry about texts and voicemails and relationships, whether it’s Mathew or my mother. I plan on enjoying my last day in Paris.

  Later, Mathew can tell me all about his secret audition and what, exactly, he’s been doing the past few days every time we’ve missed each other’s call.

  He and I have a lot of catching up to do, but my last hours in France are slipping through my fingers and I can’t give them up, or get them back again.

  Plus, I’m touring Paris with a fabulously hot escort.

  Okay, delete that part.

  With a very nice, gentlemanly boy.

  Two Weeks Earlier

  Mathew called after my shower and a dinner of microwave lasagna. “Hey, babe.” My resolve melted under the sound of his voice. Even when he wasn’t singing behind me in the bass section, or whispering stuff in my ear. He always makes me tremble and weak-kneed.