Paris Ever After

by K. S. R. Burns

  As for Manu, well, I knew the moment we met he was a person I could count on, one hundred percent. I didn’t know what it would grow into and still find it a little incredible.

  Maybe it’s my imagination. Maybe it’s some rebound thing. Maybe.

  I help myself to a second biscuit and try to think of something, anything, else. It’s ironic. I originally left Phoenix in a dishonest—some might say cowardly and selfish—fashion. Yet nothing bad happened. In fact, I was rewarded with new, wonderful people in my life. And I got to live in Paris for an entire summer, stay in a sort-of castle, and cook a meal in the kitchen of my dreams. So maybe my sin wasn’t so horrible after all.

  After the eggs and the tomatoes and all the biscuits are gone Monsieur loosely folds his cotton napkin, places it to the left of his plate, and leans back in his chair. “Un excellent repas,” he says, and sighs.

  I feel my chest swell. Something I created in the kitchen has been called “an excellent meal.”

  twenty-three

  I wake with no idea where I am or how I got here. The white cotton coverlet resting on my cheek, the wildly ornate armoire standing opposite the bed—these objects look like nothing I recall seeing before.

  But when I sit up, I remember.

  William. Samantha. The blue baby pajamas.

  I cover my face with my hands.

  Today is Monday. William arrived in Paris last Wednesday. In that short time my life has been thrown into chaos. I’m left with only one choice: rebuild, from scratch. It feels like a huge task, but I have to do it, and quickly.

  Catherine will be here in just a few months.

  I’m about to hop out of bed when my phone rings. I lunge for it. Finally, Manu is responding to my messages.

  But no. The call is from a Paris number, however, so I answer. Who knows? Maybe Manu lost his phone and is borrowing one to call me. Or he bought a new phone. Or he’s calling from a client’s landline. I yearn to tell him about the latest developments—Hervé’s departure, Madame and Monsieur’s kindness, that delicious kitchen.

  I yearn to hear his gravelly voice.

  “Manu? Is that you?”

  “Allô? Madame Brodie?”

  Well, it’s a Frenchman. Just not my Frenchman. “Oui?” I say, not sure my language skills are up to this.

  “I call you, madame, to say, uhh—” He hesitates, and I realize my caller is the deskman from the Hôtel du Cheval Blanc. Speaking in English. How thoughtful. “I call to tell you Monsieur William Brodie, he departed this morning,” he says all in a rush. “For the airport.”

  Just when I thought my opinion of William couldn’t sink any lower. He’s turning out to be a real wimp.

  “Thank you,” I say. “I appreciate your letting me know. What time did he leave?”

  But my informant has hung up. Does no one say goodbye anymore? Still, he probably doesn’t relish talking on the phone in English any more than I do in French.

  I set the phone on the nightstand. Calling William is the last thing I feel like doing first thing in the morning. And I’m sure he’d love to avoid our whole tawdry scene and run home to his little Samantha. Too bad. That’s not how this is going to work.

  I hurry to the bathroom, pee, wash my face, brush my teeth, and touch my toes ten times (this is getting harder all the time). I’m a little out of breath when I return to the bedroom and call William.

  Who surprises me by picking up right away. “Hey.”

  “What the hell, Will? Were you planning to sneak out of Paris without letting me know?” I pace in tight circles around the room, shivering even though it’s not cold. Last night Madame and Monsieur brought me a pair of portable electric heaters, because I’m a “desert flower,” they said, and the weather is turning brisk.

  “You said we were done,” he mutters.

  “We are. But I need to tell you something.”

  “What?” His voice is hoarse. I bet he spent the better part of the night on the phone dealing with Samantha. He’s probably worn out from having to deal with women and their impossible-to-calibrate emotions.

  But this is no longer my problem.

  “Listen, Will. It doesn’t matter to me if you want to scuttle back to Phoenix to your little girlfriend. Go right ahead. Knock yourself out. I just want you to know that I’ll be there myself in a few days. Then we can settle the details of our—” I pause to swallow, “split.”

  The word stuck in my throat like a fishbone. But I’m glad I was the one to say it first.

  There’s another silence, during which I pause my pacing to gaze out the window. Outside, a pigeon lands on the balcony and struts self-importantly around the table legs. In summer this must be a lovely place to have breakfast or just to hang out with a cup of tea and a book. But my next summer will likely be spent indoors, cowering from the Phoenix heat. And I won’t have time to sit around and read and drink tea. I’ll be a single mother. With a job. I hope. Maybe eventually I can start to do something with food, but first I’ll probably have to go back to the library. If I’m lucky. Otherwise it’s human resources for me.

  “You don’t need to worry.” His voice is so faint I barely hear him.

  “Worry? What do you mean?”

  “I’ll pay support. For the baby. For the girl.” His voice cracks on the word “girl,” and he pauses to cough. “I’ll do the right thing.”

  I can hardly believe I just heard what I just heard. “The right thing? You are unbelievable! You think you can screw another woman? Make a baby with her? And still get full credit for being a ‘good guy’ who steps up to his responsibilities? Well, I have news for you, Will. You can’t have it both ways.”

  Bile starts to rise up into my mouth. Not morning sickness. Anger. This has been one of William’s problems all along, I now realize. He wants the rewards of being generous without actually being generous.

  “Anyway, I’m not worried,” I add in a calmer voice. “I’m sure you’ll pay your fair share.” At least I assume he will. The William I thought I knew seems to have shape-shifted into a different person entirely. They say, though, you never really know a person until you divorce them.

  After the call, I return to bed and pull the white coverlet over my head. Since yesterday morning, I’ve been bracing myself for a final showdown with William. It didn’t matter where—at a café or on a street corner or even in an airport departures hall. I was ready to let him have it, face to face. Now cheating William has cheated me of that too. But I guess it doesn’t matter anymore. In the long run, splitting up with William could be the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I’ll get to raise Catherine the way I want.

  Besides, in a way, the final showdown with William already happened—yesterday morning when I showed him the blue baby pajamas. His reaction told me all I needed to know.

  “Bonjour, Mademoiselle!”

  It’s Madame, out in the hallway. “I am sent to announce breakfast,” she calls through the door. Her voice is merry.

  “OK!” I leap out of bed. “I mean, bonjour, Madame. Thank you. I’ll be down in a minute.”

  “Dans la cuisine.” She almost sings these last words, and I think how French is the very best language to use for summoning people to the table.

  I throw on jeans and a sweater, dash off a text to Manu (“Will be at your place in time for deliveries, see you then”), run my fingers through my hair, and hurry downstairs.

  Where the kitchen looks even more dazzling in the daytime.

  Someone, probably Madame, arranged some late-summer roses from the garden in a yellow Provençal clay pot. Piano music (Chopin) wafts from one of the ubiquitous intercoms. Sunshine pours through the tall east-facing windows, flooding the space with morning light and showing that Hervé’s wife, a woman I sort of feel sorry for, kept a super-clean workspace. I’m glad that before going to bed last night I washed up all the dishes from our late supper and put everything away.

  “Mademoiselle, bonjour.” Monsieur looks up from the breakfast t
able set with green and yellow plates sprigged with red cherries. “I must apologize. There is no coffee.” He holds up the box with the five tea bags and shakes it.

  Before I can assure him I prefer tea anyway, Madame chimes in. “But this morning we have gone out for viennoiseries. We took a little bit of everything. I hope you will find something to like.”

  She waves her dainty hands over a large white ceramic platter piled high with miniature croissants, chaussons aux pommes, brioches, pains au chocolat, pains aux raisins, and chouquettes.

  “Wow. That looks amazing.”

  I wasn’t at all hungry when I first woke up, but now the aromas of yeast, butter, sugar, and chocolate kick my body into a state of high anticipation.

  “Let me do the tea,” I add.

  Monsieur leaps to his feet. “Mais non. Be seated, chère Mademoiselle. This morning it is we who wait upon you.”

  He winks, pulls out a chair, and holds it for me until I obey.

  “Servez-vous.” Madame watches until I have placed a croissant on my plate and then selects a chausson aux pommes for herself. Good idea. I take a chausson, too, which are basically turnovers made with puff pastry, shaped like the toe of a bedroom slipper, and filled with apple compote.

  In Phoenix I’ll be eating oat bran or shredded wheat for breakfast. So I may as well live it up while I can.

  Madame smiles at me, looking years younger than last night, when she seemed ready to drop in her tracks. At the time I thought she might be suffering from some chronic illness, but Monsieur was right, she was just tired. “We have arrived at a grand decision.” She reaches across the table to squeeze my forearm. Her fingers are cool and smooth. “We think you should stay here with us until you depart France. We would be delighted to welcome you as our guest. And it is only for a few days.”

  I put down my chausson. My mother drilled me in how to respond to wildly generous invitations like this one: “Thank you so much, but no, I can’t.” But these simple words will not come.

  “We feel you need more consistency in your life. More security,” Monsieur adds when I still just sit there. I want to blurt out, “You can say that again,” but such language sounds way too American. Too breezy. He leans forward and peers into my face. I blush.

  Finally, I succeed in channeling Amy 2.0. “That’s a wonderful offer,” I tell them. “Are you sure?”

  Monsieur tsks. “Mademoiselle! We are most positive.”

  I look from him to Madame. They are both smiling. “Well, thank you. That is so, so generous.”

  “Splendid!” says Madame, lightly clapping her hands.

  Voilà. The universe provides, Kat would say. I eat my chausson and help myself to a couple chouquettes, little morsels of choux pastry and pearl sugar—another item you won’t find in Phoenix. Madame nibbles on a brioche. Monsieur carries the teapot to the table and places it on an iron trivet.

  “Excellent! Now, shall I be mother?” he says, the way Margaret does. I manage to not giggle, and when we’ve all taken a sip, I say out loud what I’ve been thinking. Because that’s the sort of thing Amy 2.0 does.

  “I have an idea. Let me cook for you. While I’m here.” I gaze with lust at the brass knobs and shining doors of the periwinkle-blue La Cornue range. The thing is a work of art. “I would love to. Very much.”

  Madame’s and Monsieur’s eyebrows rise in unison.

  “You are obviously a gifted chef de cuisine,” Madame murmurs after a glance at her husband.

  He winks at her. “Agreed. Without a doubt. I must add—” He smiles at us both. “We are hopeless in the kitchen. But, Mademoiselle! You are meant to be our guest!”

  “A guest who loves to cook!” I laugh aloud for the first time in what feels like weeks. “It’s kind of my thing. Seriously. I even write a food blog. And it would be a perfect way for me to pay you back. For letting me stay here.”

  “No need to pay us back.” Madame presses her lips together and shakes her head, and I remember how Hervé rejected my expressions of thanks in the same way. Perhaps, in France, trying to repay favors detracts from the generosity of the gift. I don’t know. All I know is that with the people I grew up with in Phoenix, it was always tit for tat, quid pro quo, an eye for an eye. There’s no such thing as a free lunch, Dad liked to crack. He had a million hackneyed sayings, many of them true.

  I return to the subject of food. “What are your favorite things to eat? I love to try out new dishes.”

  Monsieur chuckles. “We are not difficult. Surprise us.”

  Madame and Monsieur take their time over breakfast, chatting about an exhibition of Impressionist paintings coming to the Petit Palais. “It is a pity you are departing so soon,” Madame tells me. “I think you would enjoy it.”

  It’s like being with Margaret. She, too, likes to converse about cultural things, or fashion, or food, or history. In my family, despite my mother’s penchant for classical music, conversations were mainly about chores that needed to be done around the house. But perhaps my parents would’ve found topics to explore with Madame. My mother would have enjoyed these yummy viennoiseries, that much is for sure. She’s where I got my passion for food, for better or for worse.

  I insist on doing the tidying up. In a kitchen as glorious as this, even dishwashing is a treat. Before Monsieur escorts her from the room, Madame informs me they’ll be lunching elsewhere, but they’re very much looking forward to dining at home this evening and enjoying whatever it is I prepare.

  “Perfect,” I reply. It gives me all day to work on my three main tasks: start to organize my return to Phoenix, plan and shop for tonight’s meal, and help Manu with the lunch deliveries.

  Plus one other (very big, very important) item that has been in the back of my mind all morning: I’m going to come clean with Manu. I have to. Because you should tell people how you feel about them when you have the chance, before it’s too late and you regret it forever.

  It’s a step many people fail to take. I have, tons of times. I never told my mother I loved her—she died so suddenly. With Dad there was plenty of warning, but I was always too shy. I did tell Kat, over and over during those last weeks. But for her it didn’t count because my love could never be the kind of love she wanted and needed. I don’t want to make this mistake with Manu. If I did, I’d never forgive myself.

  As I’m getting out my phone, it pings.

  A text. From Manu. Finally. And—also—perfect timing.

  However, the note makes no sense.

  Meet me at Duroc Métro.

  I type my reply:

  What?

  I’m starting to thumb out a second text (“When? Why? What’s at Duroc?”), but halfway through I stop and call him directly because the old-fashioned ways are best sometimes. I’m listening to the whirring ringtone when a second text arrives.

  Aussitôt que possible.

  As soon as possible.

  I think for a minute. It’s nearly ten a.m. Manu and I normally leave from his place around eleven to pick up the lunches. At this time of the morning he should be busy answering emails and fielding phone calls from his IT clients. He shouldn’t even be in the vicinity of Duroc.

  Anyway, he’s not answering my call. He’s obviously determined to be mysterious. But at least with Manu, you don’t have to worry that a surprise will be the bad kind. And now we’re going to meet. Just like that. I couldn’t have planned it better if I had planned it.

  Catherine wriggles with joy as I hurry out the front door, across the courtyard, into and out of the wisteria tunnel, and through the secret garden beyond. When Hervé first brought me to this place, and I still believed he was a scion of the estate, I pictured him as a small boy playing hide-and-seek in the hydrangea hedge or bumping his trike over the cobblestone courtyard. I imagined what a wonderful childhood he must have had and thought how I must provide Catherine with the same. Or something similar. Somehow.

  Fifteen minutes later I emerge from the Métro tunnel, where the first thing I see is
Manu standing at the top of the steps, smiling.

  “Bon. Te voilà.”

  Yes, here I am. “Manu. Hey.” I pause to catch my breath. “I have something to tell you.”

  “Yes?” He studies me. “I have something to tell you.”

  “You do?” Here I was all set to blurt out my announcement before losing my nerve, but now I look around for Sophie’s pale face and enormous eyes.

  “Aimée.” His eyes are especially blue in the horizontal morning light. And he looks, finally, more rested than he has in days. “I need to talk to you about Sophie.”

  Of course he does. She’s not here, but the sense of her hangs over our heads like the thickest, murkiest San Francisco fog.

  “OK. Talk.” May as well get it over with.

  But he shakes his head. “Not here. Come. I also have something I want to show you.”

  “Show me?”

  He winks. “You will see. It’s not far.”

  Before I can argue, he sets off down a side street, giving me no choice but to follow. When I say, “Qu’est-ce qui se passe?” in the hopes that asking, “What’s up?” in French will elicit a response, Manu waggles his eyebrows like Groucho Marx.

  Fifty yards later I try again. “Hey. Aren’t we forgetting the lunch deliveries?”

  Manu glances at me and smirks. “No. I ask a friend to take over for me.”

  He must know how maddening his behavior is. If he’s decided he’s going to be with Sophie, he needs to own it and just tell me. And then, no matter what he says, I’ll tell him how I feel—I have to, no matter what.

  Amy 2.0 would do no less.

  Since Manu is the one with the upper hand for the moment, I decide to let him keep it for a while and enjoy walking down a Paris street at his side. For maybe the last time. The day is spectacular—sunny and cool. Pedestrians flow around us, most of them gazing into their phones. Margaret and Hervé may deplore public cell phone usage, but they must be the only ones. In Paris, it seems all the people are on their phones all the time. Maybe it’s the same everywhere, but in cities where people are on foot a lot, it’s more noticeable.