Paris Cravings: A Paris & Pastry Novel

by Kimberley Montpetit

  “The berries with all that sugary dust sprinkled over them are so beautiful,” I say, observing the shop and the cases all filled. “Tarts for royalty.”

  Jean-Paul reaches over to engulf me in a bear hug, laughing at all my oohing and aahing. “You are like a kid. That’s one thing I like about you, Chloe.”

  I lift my face, staring into his eyes, and he bends down to kiss me, softly, and it’s so romantic my legs begin to melt underneath me.

  The strange thing is—I want to do it all over again tomorrow. The baking, the stirring, the melting, the crimping, the doilies, and yet, it’s truly over now. My stolen time is gone.

  Jean-Paul’s arms around my waist tighten and just as he starts to kiss me again there’s a gasp behind us. I twist around as Jean-Paul sucks in his breath. We’ve been caught red-handed by his mother.

  Madame Dupré launches into a volley of French and dang, I wish I knew more of that gorgeous language. Goals for the summer: Study my French books. Buy a set of language CDs. Get a tutor.

  Jean-Paul’s mother grasps our arms and pulls us apart for a moment, staring at first me, and then her son. Her head slowly shakes as if she can’t believe her eyes. Frankly, neither can I. She tsks her tongue, then nods, and gives me a wicked smile. Impulsively, I reach out to give her a hug, laughing. There’s more French chattering in my ear, but I just go with the flow, not even trying to translate or hunt for my dictionary.

  Untying my apron, I shake it out with a flurry of flour over the wide trash bin before hanging it up on the hook. Tears rush to my eyes. I’ve barely gotten to know this little shop and yet I’m going to miss it so much. Who knew a little La Patisserie on a side street in Paris could have changed my life so drastically?

  As if sensing my distress, Madame Dupré walks over and puts a protective arm around my waist. Maybe she understands more than she lets on. Just like I’m beginning to understand more French than I can actually get out of my mouth.

  So I’m standing there in the kitchen weeping, being comforted by Jean-Paul’s mother as his own dark brown eyes are fixed on my face and I’m homesick for them already. I’m also scared to death because I’m facing the biggest decision I’ve ever made in my personal life. Breaking up—with my very first boyfriend. Just the thought of it makes me queasy. I thought I’d be in love with Mathew Perotti forever.

  Twelve Days Earlier

  Mathew called as I was finishing packing for France—the day after The Worst Night of My Life.

  “Hi, babe,” he said in that husky, endearing way.

  I found myself melting and ordered myself to lock up my emotions.

  “Hang up!” Sera hissed from the bed where she was painting her toenails.

  “Don’t hang up,” he said quickly as if he’d heard her. “You gotta let me explain.”

  I glanced at Sera and she folded her arms across her chest, shaking her head in that know-it-all way she has.

  I tried to ignore my best friend. I wanted to scream at Mathew now that I didn’t have Parvati for an audience, but nothing came out. I knew I should hang up, but I couldn’t. We’d been together for too long and I felt like I should give him a chance, especially since he was the one to call me.

  “What you saw—at my place—it wasn’t what you think.”

  “What am I supposed to think? Looked like she was practically undressing for you.”

  “She just showed up, and wanted to—to talk—and I don’t think we should break up over this. It just seems stupid.” Was he sounding repentant? His voice went lower. “My mom told me I shouldn’t let you go so easily.”

  “I guess she’s trying to get you to see quality rather than quantity.”

  “How many times do you want me to say I’m sorry, Chloe? Can’t you cut me some slack?”

  “What do you want, Mathew? Maybe that’s what you need to figure out.” I was proud of myself for sounding so smart even though I hurt so bad my stomach ached.

  “If I promise not to do it again, Chloe, will you come back?”

  I swallowed hard and squeezed my eyes shut. He was starting to get to me. Could I throw away most of our last school year together for one stupid night? “Doesn’t Parvati want to hook up with you? Isn’t that the whole point of last night?”

  Mathew’s voice was low. “Yeah. I think she’s been sort of hoping we’d break up so she and I could . . . but I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

  My intuition was right.

  “I’ve been faithful to you on the big stuff. The stuff that matters. Believe me, I love you.”

  From my bed, Sera started ticking off a list of Mathew’s failings on her fingers.

  “Okay, already!” I snapped at her.

  “What?” said Mathew.

  “Sera’s here,” I explained.

  “Maybe Sera is our problem, Chloe. Ever thought of that? She’s never liked me. Listen, I want to talk to you in private. Meet me somewhere, okay? We owe it to us to at least talk.”

  I was tempted. There was so much we were going to do together. We were planning out our whole lives. It was true that I still had feelings for him. I wasn’t sure I could throw our relationship away so fast. Didn’t someone you love deserve a second chance?

  “Okay, we’ll talk after my trip,” I said finally.

  I could heart attack his bedroom with pink and red notes. I could meet him alone like he’s always wanted to. Let him get to second base. One thing was for sure—I’d have to be careful never to give Parvati a chance to get her claws into my boyfriend again.

  Madame Dupré takes my hands in hers and then kisses both my cheeks. I’m going to miss her. And the kitchens. And the pastries. But there are no words for how much I will miss Jean-Paul.

  We promise to email, but I know how easily that can disintegrate. Two different continents, six time zones apart. I worry about Mireille being such a part of the family like I’m sure Jean-Paul worries about Mathew.

  “I don’t know if I’ll ever get a chance to come back.”

  “Forever is a long time, Chloe,” Jean-Paul says softly as we wait for the taxi to arrive. “We will work hard. We will save our money, no?”

  “I guess I just think about having to put myself through college and how much it costs. Mom says we may have to sublet the apartment and find a cheaper place in Queens.”

  “Don’t think about those things,” he tells me. “Think about the trip we will make to the Loire Valley. I will personally take you to da Vinci’s house by the King’s palace myself.”

  “Okay, it’s a deal,” I say, and we shake on it, grinning like little kids at each other. How can I have any doubts when his eyes melt into mine like that?

  A yellow cab pulls up and honks and we run out to the street in the pale morning light. Paris is barely waking up, a slight mist hovering over the city. I love it. I don’t want to leave, and my heart is literally aching.

  The taxi door slams and we speed off, hitting all the green lights, until we catch the freeway toward the airport on the other side of town.

  Too fast—everything is happening too fast.

  “Are you going to jump out on me?” Jean-Paul jokes. “I know you have a particular aversion to taxis.”

  I squeeze his fingers and bump his arm with my shoulder. “You better lock the doors or you might be racing me back to the shop.”

  We linger at the airport windows together, tightly holding hands, leaning into each other as the other students goof around with their iPods and text messages and carry-on luggage.

  “This is for you, Chloe,” Jean-Paul says, pulling out a small white box tied up with a rainbow of ribbons.

  I open the box and inside there is a heart-shaped tart layered with perfect red raspberries and a dollop of pure white cream.

  “A souvenir for you, but this one I want you to eat on the plane while you think of me.”

  “I can’t embalm it and keep it forever?”

  He purses his lips and shakes his head. “Maman’s Whipped Cream Delight
cannot go to waste. Besides, there will be other tarts I will make you in the future.”

  Pain rips at my heart as Jean-Paul and I kiss for the last time, fingertips touching as we slowly, finally, break apart. Tears slip down my face and I’m so glad the rest of my group has already boarded and aren’t in the waiting area any longer so they can’t see what a mess I am.

  I walk down the ramp, show my boarding pass and the missing passport that I found after rummaging through every pocket and crevice of my luggage. Jean-Paul was right. It had been there all along. Secretly, I almost wished I wouldn’t find it so that I would have to stay another day, but I also know how unfair that would be to my group and my teacher, and especially to my mom.

  For the next seven hours I just want a small corner of the airplane so I can think and sleep and daydream, but Sera starts jabbering away, demanding details as we buckle up. Of course, I can’t give her a single update because Robert is giving me countless glares over the back of his seat—after he spent a few minutes yelling at me. Well, not exactly yelling in front of an entire plane load of passengers, but it was stern and tense and awkward. He really needs to get a life.

  “I’m here, I’m fine,” I keep repeating. “My mother knew where I was. The American Embassy emergency line knew where I was.” Maybe he wants me to grovel and apologize until I’m blue in the face, but I won’t give him that satisfaction.

  The guys from my class whistle approval and give me high five’s for the biggest hooky prank in the history of our school, and I secretly smile, and then I secretly cry because I’ve just said goodbye to Jean-Paul, and knowing the tricks that fate can play, I know I may never see him again.

  The past forty-eight hours are unexplainable and unforgettable. Each part of Jean-Paul’s face, his mouth and eyes are etched into my mind. I’ve memorized him because I know that I may have to wait a long time before I ever see him again.

  I leave Paris trying to believe, and trying to have courage for what I have to do when I get home.

  As I buckle my seat belt, it feels as though I’ve made a very long journey this past week. I’m not the same person I used to be. I’ve gone through two endings this week, one with Mathew and one with Jean-Paul.

  The girl I used to be would have wanted to write and call every day and be sappy and gaga and make Jean-Paul sick of me. I mean, who wants a clinging, neurotic girlfriend an ocean away? Besides, I don’t have a phone any longer.

  There’s email, and trust. I’m okay with that. I truly am. And it feels good.

  I’ve come a long ways. Much more than three thousand miles.

  To: Jean-Paul_Dupré@francezero.net

  From: SDillard@yahoo.net

  Hi!

  Yep, my mom’s new book is about to come out. We shopped for dresses and I’m taking a half day off from the preschool to help her. I’m sure it’ll be our usual mother/daughter bonding experience, ha!

  What happened with that summer culinary course you were applying for down in Nice? Are you nervous about living with your father for a few weeks? Wish I could come help at the shop—but I guess your mom has Mireille while you’re gone. :(

  Yeah, cross-country is starting next week and I’ve been running super early before it gets too hot. New York is a fog of heat. Everybody’s walking around like we’re in a zombie movie.

  Tell me more stories about your customers. I loved that last one about the woman feeding her poodle a lemon tart. Makes my mouth pucker. Which makes me think of you, of course.

  And I’m saving my pennies, but it’s so sloooooooooooooow. At this rate, I’ll be 80 before I can get back to Paris. Ugh! I’ll just keep up with my facials and Botox so you’ll still recognize me!

  xoxoxo,

  Chloe

  Postmaster@mail.francezero.net

  Delivery status notification: Failure

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  Jean-Paul_Dupré@francezero.net

  End of Summer

  I stand on the sidewalk and stare. Are my eyes playing tricks on me? How did a French La Patisserie suddenly appear between SoHo and Greenwich Village?

  I pinch my arms, knowing that I haven’t been transported back to Paris, even though that’s where I’ve wanted to be all summer.

  The doors are wide open and I sniff the familiar sugary, buttery, chocolaty smell of the shop. A flood of memories almost knocks me over.

  Shivers run down my neck even though it’s ninety-five degrees and I’m going to pop out in heat blisters any second. It takes me about two second to decide. I’m going to get a job here.

  I want to be the woman behind the counter in the snowy white apron filling the cardboard box with divinely delicious pastries for the customers, and then wrapping it up in strings of colored ribbons.

  Even more than that, I want to learn how to make all those incredible, decadent, and gorgeous desserts. Oh, the sprinkled powder sugar, the swirls of icing, and the perfect crimped tart crusts. Somebody give me a bowl of dough and a rolling pin! I’ve been having major withdrawals.

  Why didn’t I think of this sooner? Why wasn’t I paying attention when this shop went in? But I haven’t been shopping all summer. No money until now.

  Instead of sitting in a preschool with thirty hot, whining kids and trying to come up with new games for them when there’s hardly any shade and not even a baby pool within a mile of us, I could have been baking tart shells and spooning sauce into the middle of chocolate éclairs.

  My French would have gotten much better, too. Ah, c’est la vie.

  I can’t rewind and go back, but I can make it happen right now. Plus I’m taking French again this fall and soon I really will speak like a native. I’m practically itching to run in and eat a beignet or two.

  I turn to Sera whose shopping bags are weighing down her arms. A dribble of sweat creeps from her hairline in the stifling August afternoon. “I’m going to get an application, Sera.”

  “You’re kidding, right? I’ll bet you have to be French to work here, Chloe. Or have a chef’s degree.”

  “I don’t care. At least I’m going to try. I have to.”

  I hand her my shopping bag, overloading her, but she gives me a tentative smile and tells me to just hurry. I have the best friend.

  “Pardon, Madame,” I say to the woman behind the counter when she finishes up with her last customer.

  “Oui, mademoiselle!” Her face lights up. “Parlez-vous français?” Then she launches into a torrent of French and totally loses me.

  I smile sheepishly. “Un peau. Just a little.”

  She laughs and switches to English, only she still has a gorgeous French accent. “I get carried away when somebody speaks French. I automatically think they’re fluent. But your accent is fairly good. Are you taking a French class?”

  “Bien sûr!” I say proudly, even though my French is totally wimpy. “I did in high school and I plan to keep going when college begins in a couple of weeks.”

  “Très bien. Keep going with your studies. Perhaps someday you will go to France yourself.”

  “I am. I mean, I did. That’s why I came in here. When I saw the sign I couldn’t believe it. My favorite place in Paris was La Patisserie. J’adore la pâtisseries.”

  Okay I’m gushing, but still, it’s the truth.

  “When were you in France?”

  “In June. With my class. It was—absolutely wonderful.” What can I say? I’ve come to the conclusion that no adjective can ever fully describe Paris.

  “Ah, bon,” she says, and smiles at me. “Maintenant, can I help you with a pastry order?”

  “Mais oui, s’il vous plait. Two chocolate éclairs to go. Well, and some of that lemon cake. Um, could I add a raspberry tart as well? For my mother, of course. And could I—is it possible to get an application? Are you hiring by any chance?”

  I wait for the inevitable no, thinking I’ll just die if I can’t work here. All my emails to Jean-Paul bouncing back as undeliverable have left me positively bere
ft. What could have happened? Where is he? I thought he was going to be in Nice for the month of August, but I haven’t heard from him. I’ve tried not to panic, but it’s been hard not to weep thinking about that magical night with Jean-Paul. I must have truly just been a one-time fling. Perhaps he got back together with Mireille. It seems obvious now.

  The woman gives a small, tinkling laugh. “Are you serious, young lady?”

  Blinking back the water in my eyes, I cry, “Oui!” I’m so earnest I wonder if I sound pathetic.

  “I never thought a teenager would want to work in a pastry shop.”

  “Please give me a chance. I’ve dreamed about making pastries, honestly. And I did get to do a little pastry-making when I was in Paris in June. It’s a long story.”

  She studies me for a moment. “Perhaps you can tell me that long story sometime. Because I do believe you are serious.” She moves down the counter, before turning back to me, “Here is an application. Fill it out and leave it with me and I’ll telephone you when I’ve had a chance to look it over. I do need a little bit of help as we’ve just opened this week.”

  “I promise I’ll work hard.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone so excited about the pastry business. I thought I was the only ardent lover. Besides my family in Paris, of course. Our La Patisserie shops in Paris have been in our family for generations.”

  I take the application, motioning for Sera to come in from where she’s still waiting on the sidewalk. We each purchase an éclair, a fruit tart, and a cold soda and sit down, gorging ourselves on the scrumptious pastries. After we’re finished, I ink in all the empty lines and spaces on the application. My hand is shaking I’m so excited and nervous.

  Sighing, I look around the little shop. It’s perfect. A-do-ra-ble as the French would say. The shop back in Paris was much older, the floors worn, of course, but this one is bright and shiny and brand new.