Paris Cravings: A Paris & Pastry Novel

by Kimberley Montpetit

  A menu for a traditional French breakfast is posted on the wall as well as the full array of all the pastries I remember. The whole place is identical, as if this shop was picked up from its Paris foundation and dropped here.

  I don’t leave the house for the rest of the day because I don’t want to miss the woman’s phone call. Then I realize that I don’t even know her name. Well, I guess I’ll recognize her voice.

  Hours go by and the phone doesn’t ring, of course. It may take days or weeks. Or perhaps she was merely getting rid of me and had thrown away the application, knowing I had no experience.

  To fill the time, I try on all my new school clothes and Sera and I decide what we’re going to wear the first day. Then we get a pizza delivered so we won’t have to leave. Mom’s out delivering a newly drafted manuscript and meeting her editor. She was thrilled to get some personal attention since her last book had beat the sales figures of her previous book.

  At nine-thirty that night Sera and I finally break down and do the dishes—and the telephone rings.

  “Chloe Dillard, please,” a woman’s voice says, and the French accent is instantly recognizable.

  “Yes, this is me. This is Chloe, I mean.”

  “Are you still interested in a job at the pastry shop?”

  “Oui, oui, oui!”

  “I know it’s short notice, but is there any chance you can start tomorrow?”

  “Of course. What time?”

  “What days do you have classes because I could use as many hours as you can spare. We’ve been very busy with the launch.”

  “School doesn’t begin for another week. I’d love to work part-time until then.”

  “Perfect. I’ll see you at six in the morning? Is that too early?”

  “Nope, I’ll be there.”

  Sera is hovering as I hang up. “Well?”

  “I got the job!”

  “That’s great, Chloe. You’ll be perfect. Me, I’d hate being stuck in a little shop handing cream puffs to endless customers. No, thank you.”

  But for me, it is perfect. And I do love it.

  On the first day, Yvonne Burnham, the owner, tells me a little about her life story. “I’ve worked in my family’s pastry shop since I was old enough to sweep floors,” she said, rolling out dough with the same kind of rolling pin I’d used in Madame Dupre’s kitchen. The sight of it makes my eyes smart, but I blink them back and focus on Yvonne.

  Expertly, she flips the dough and flours her special cutting board. “But while I was at college, I met an American, married him, and we moved to New York several years ago. Now we live across the river in Brooklyn in a small fixer-upper while my husband goes to law school.”

  “What made you start up the pastry shop?” I ask her, leaning against the counter to observe her deft hands and talent at bringing raw dough into perfect, crimped circles.

  “I missed the traditional French pastry shop so much I decided to open my own. We scraped and saved and sunk all our savings into it, but I’ve never been happier. Now that my youngest child has started first grade I’ve got time to dedicate to the shop.”

  I love her story and her passion for the pastries, as well as bringing a little bit of Paris right here to New York. Almost instantly Yvonne becomes like an older sister to me. We talk non-stop while we work, and my French gets better every day. Madame Sauvant would be totally bewildered at my sudden progress if I were to walk into her classroom again.

  Of course, all the baking is finished before I arrive in the mornings, but I help Yvonne set out the trays in their glass cases and lay the doilies and make sure the hot chocolate and coffee machines are percolating. Then I stock the coolers with cold drinks and take-out sandwiches for the lunch crowd.

  Our specialty, of course, is petit dejeuner, breakfast. Croissants and fruit and chocolate with an assortment of jams and butter, direct from Paris’ finest confectioners and dairy cows—mingled with the usual array of pastries and desserts.

  By the fourth day I’m begging Yvonne to let me help in the kitchens with baking.

  “I could be the Mistress of Chocolate Melting or something. I even know how to do it.”

  She laughs and then grows thoughtful. “Now that’s a story you’ll have to explain to me.”

  She knows about my addiction to La Patisserie back in June and all my favorite pastries, but I haven’t told her anything about Madame Dupré or Jean-Paul yet. I feel shy, and sort of embarrassed. Like Yvonne will view my experience as naïve and silly. Jean-Paul is too special, and I’ve kept him a secret from everyone but Sera. And even Sera only knows pieces of the story.

  “How serious are you?” Yvonne asks me now.

  I think she believes me when I bring in samples of my chicken puff pastries as well as the strawberry tarts I’d taught myself how to bake since getting home from France.

  “If you really want to try, I’ll be glad for the early morning help. The hardest part of the day is getting the huge assortment baked and assembled fresh by opening. I’ve been by myself so far, but I have somebody else starting tomorrow, so the work will go much faster and I can offer more variety to my customers. I need you at four a.m. though,” she warns me.

  “That’ll be perfect, actually,” I tell her. “I can come before school.”

  “It might work better, anyway; having you work after school will not be terribly practical. I close around three in the afternoon since I’m mostly a breakfast and bakery establishment.”

  “I’ll go to bed earlier. I’ve put a hold on my social life, anyway.” Which makes me think briefly about Mathew and Parvati. They actually make a great couple. Who would have thought a guy from Texas and a girl from India would be a perfect match? I hear Mathew even eats curry and rice now. As predicted, they both got leads in West Side Story and spend most of their time at the theatre. But I hardly ever think about them. I’m too busy looking for a job, scrapbooking my Paris photographs, shopping with Sera, practicing recipes, or helping Mom with her new book edits. We read out loud to each other at night. And on Sundays, after we’re done chatting at the cemetery, we wander around the headstones and make up stories about the people buried there.

  “You are a very wise young woman,” Yvonne says with a smile, briefly putting her arm around me. “I think you were made for this job, but I hope you will also focus on your studies.”

  So that’s how my new life and career as a pastry maker extraordinaire began.

  The next day I’m up at three o’clock in the morning to catch a bus to La Patisserie, and I make it on time even though my mother thinks I’ve gone crazy to get up that early.

  I try the front door to the shop, but it’s locked so I follow the sidewalk around to the back. I sprint ahead because it does feel like the middle of the night, and you never know who might be lurking. The back door appears to be unlocked, but it won’t open for some reason. I pull and pull, but the door is stuck. Then I start worrying that I’ve broken it by twisting it so much. Then I worry I’ll get fired on my first day of training in the kitchens.

  After staring at the door for awhile, I realize that it’s not locked from the inside because it doesn’t look like there’s any dead bolt.

  A feeling of déjà vu sweeps over me as I remember that day I got stuck behind the doors of La Patisserie in Paris and missed my bus. A prickling sensation runs along my neck.

  I slap my hand against my forehead, feeling stupid. I’ve been pulling the door in the wrong direction. It pushes inward instead of swinging outward. Guess I didn’t get enough sleep, or it’s the darkness. Only a dim pool of orange light from a streetlight shines back here.

  My heart starts hammering inside my chest. I’ve been standing out here trying to get the door open, but it’s probably only been a couple of minutes. At least no one is around, and I breathe a sigh of relief when I finally let myself in.

  Immediately, I’m standing in a dim hallway. A note is taped next to the light switch. Please lock the door behind you, Chloe. Don’t w
ant people walking in off the street after you arrive. Merci!

  After following Yvonne’s orders, I retrieve my white apron hanging on the hook where I’ve been leaving it each afternoon at closing time. I walk down the short hallway to the kitchens, tying the strings around my waist. Already I can smell the wonderful aroma of fruit and sugar and chocolate, the distinct yeasty odor of rising dough and baking croissants.

  I turn the corner to enter the kitchen and all at once my head spins in a hundred different directions as I collide hard with someone coming from the opposite direction.

  Someone carrying a large tray of cream puffs and lemon tarts. I yelp, throw my hands up, and the next thing I know I’m lying on the floor surrounded by a sea of whipped cream and broken tart shells.

  Pain shoots right up my backside. I’ll bet my derrière’s going to be black and blue in the morning. If I’d been wearing heels instead of my sneakers I might have twisted my ankle, but I think I’m still good for my first college cross-country practice this afternoon—if I don’t fall asleep before practice starts.

  Dead silence fills La Patisserie, and I have the strangest feeling time has suddenly stopped. Seconds later a male voice hovers over my face. “Pardone, pardone. Je suis désolé. Are you hurt?”

  I shake my head. I don’t think so. But there’s definitely sticky stuff, cream or pudding or something all over my face and hair, and I’m having a hard time seeing through my newly glued eyelashes.

  Finally my sight comes back into focus, zeroing in on a boy about nineteen years old looking straight at me with dark brown Hershey’s syrup eyes.

  He holds up his hand. “How many fingers?” he asks.

  I grin like an idiot. “Um, two? Or three?”

  Putting a hand to my head, I feel the gooey cream and sauce and pastry crust slathered all over me like butter on hot French bread. I let out a little groan, dizzy, my head spinning.

  “I’m pretty sure I’ve got a concussion,” I say. “Because Yvonne has suddenly turned into the best piece of eye-candy I’ve ever seen in my life.”

  I hear his deep laugh and try to raise myself amidst the crush of cream puffs, but I only get as far as one elbow. I smile up at him, my heart soaring into my throat. “And may I ask who you are, pastry boy?”

  “Mais oui, mademoiselle. Je m’apelle Jean-Paul Dupré. Yvonne’s nephew.”

  I’m trying to breathe, but all I can hear is my heart in my ears. “Where are you from?”

  I can tell he’s trying not to grin. “Why, the magical old city of Paris.”

  “But of course! But what are you doing here in New York?”

  “Baking éclairs at the moment.” His teasing smile is sly and to die for.

  “Okay, dumb question. Are you visiting? When did you get here?”

  Calmly, he shakes his head. “Nope, I’ll be here all school year. Foreign exchange student.”

  Oh, Lord, how perfect. How utterly, insanely perfect. I must be dreaming. I want to pinch myself, but I’m covered in whipped cream and chocolate. Just as I think I’ve been caught between two worlds, he gives me that incredible Jean-Paul smile, perfect white teeth and all.

  “What a coincidence,” I add, tears mixed with relief and happiness and excitement smarting my eyelids. “I was in Paris two months ago. Did we meet by chance?”

  He shakes his head, laughing silently now. “Oh, Chloe, you funny, beautiful girl.”

  The way he says my name makes shivers run up and down my spine. I’m drowning in his fudge sauce eyes and my heart is about to explode with pure joy, and I think I’ve forgotten who I am.

  He’s looking into my eyes like nobody has ever looked at me before. Is it possible to fall in love at first sight? I didn’t think so, but that was before I went to Paris. And at this moment I’m more convinced than ever. He’s more gorgeous, and more sweet than I even remember.

  Jean-Paul watches me as though he can read my mind, but instead of that knowledge making me nervous, I feel completely calm, and yet thrilled. I see my own thoughts reflected in his face through those incredible warm pools of brown.

  “You’ve got Whipped Cream Delight on your nose,” he tells me, leaning closer.

  I give a laugh. “So do you.”

  “We must be a match then.”

  Even his voice makes me melt, just like the warm chocolate spooned inside éclairs. Turns out there’s chocolate sauce all over my apron and whipped cream running through my hair. No problem. That’s what soap and water are for.

  He laughs and extends his hand. “Allow me to help you to your feet, Miss Dillard.”

  I take his hand and a powerful, crazy jolt runs right up my arm and spreads all through me, from my toes to my fingers, to the top of my head. It’s wild. I’ve never felt anything like it before. My old boyfriend, Mathew, seems like a forgotten dream now, and I wonder what I ever saw in him.

  I’m swimming in dark brown Hershey’s chocolate syrup. And I like it. A lot. I want more. I want to dive right into this guy’s heart. I want to find out what all this means and what Jean-Paul is doing right here, right now, with me.

  “Merci,” I whisper as he pulls me to my feet.

  His eyes hold mine, and my heart skip three beats. “De rien,” he says quietly, studying me, holding my hands tightly in his like he’s never going to let me go. Even though I’m on my feet, neither of us are moving an inch.

  “What happened?” I whispered. “I emailed you. Everything bounced back to me. I thought you had changed your mind, or decided to stay with Mireille—”

  “Oh, Chloe,” he says softly. “I’m so sorry. I’ve been trying to find you all summer. After you left in the middle of the night, I realized the next day that I never got your email address. And then our computer went down. And Maman and I had to stop our service. We have financial troubles just like you and your mother do.”

  “But there are internet cafés . . .” my voice trails off as my stomach clenches.

  “Maman made me promise to give Mireille a chance.” He stops and shakes his head as though trying to clear his mind of painful thoughts. “This has been very difficult for her, even as much as she liked you. She said it would not work. To go on with my life plan as before. I’m all my maman has left. When I finally broke it off with Mireille for good and I got to a café, there was no email from you. I thought you had not written to me. I thought you had changed your mind about me.”

  I shake my head, not trusting myself to speak. From a distance, I hear Yvonne calling us from inside the store.

  “Are you okay?” he asks, bending over me with those dark syrup eyes, and when I nod, he tells me, “I couldn’t stand the thought of you changing your mind. I couldn’t believe it. So I applied for a visa, ready to search New York City to find you. And here you are, the very first place I look.”

  “It’s the pastries,” I whisper. “They brought us together. Both times.”

  “You forgive me? You understand?” His voice is so earnest, so worried, and I’m drowning in those chocolate brown eyes.

  I finally nod, dazed that he’d come all the way here to find me. “I’m more than okay, more than good, Jean-Paul Dupré.” In fact, my life just went Wow. With explosions and fireworks. “I started to think I’d imagined you,” I begin to tell him, and my voice chokes up.

  “I thought the same thing about you, ma chérie, Chloe,” he says gently. “You are still the silliest, funniest, and most beautiful girl I’ve ever known—and you’ve got whipped cream on your mouth.” There’s a tender smile on Jean-Paul’s face as he comes closer and closer. A spectacular fizzy rush rises straight up my stomach as he slowly, softly, kisses the whip cream right off my lips. Then Jean-Paul kisses me more deeply, his arms tightening around me as my own arms encircle his neck. His lips—his mouth—the whipped cream—tastes absolutely heavenly. I want to cry and laugh as a million emotions swim inside my head and heart—and I know that I want to stay right here for the rest of my life.

  Something big is definitely hap
pening. I’m spinning and whirling and flipping upside down and then right side up again. I’m falling and flying at the same time, like I’ve been transported straight back to the shimmering lights of Paris on a dark, crisp night.

  Maybe it sounds crazy because I’m still getting to know this amazing and special guy, but I think I’m finally figuring out exactly what kind of boy I deserve. I want to work every day next to Jean-Paul in the kitchens making pastries and bumping into each other at the stove. Whipped cream and water fights while we do dishes. Then we’ll sit in a café over a cup of chocolat and a beignet, and hang out at Central Park and ride a Ferris wheel at midnight and talk and talk and talk.

  Can life really turn on a dime—a missed bus—or a stuck pastry shop door?

  Can my destiny really find me?

  I’m so ready to find out.

  The End

  If you enjoyed Paris Cravings, PLEASE consider posting a review on Amazon or Goodreads - or both! Reviews help the author as well as other readers who are looking for deliciously romantic novels like Paris Cravings. Thank you so much!

  Look for Paris & Pastry Novellas coming in April, July, and October of 2014. Next year a spooky, thrilling paranormal romance set in the French Quarter of New Orleans!

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  Warmest wishes,

  ~Kimberley Montpetit

  Kimberley Montpetit once spent all her souvenir money at the La Patisserie shops when she was in Paris—on the arm of her adorable husband. The author grew up in San Francisco, another swoon-worthy city, but currently lives in a small town along the Rio Grande with her big, messy family.

  Kimberley reads a book a day to fill up her heart and soul with words. Then she fills her stomach with chocolate chip cookies while she revises. But it can be any baked goodies; brownies, éclairs, donuts, tarts, pie, she’s not picky!