Falling for Emma: An inspirational romance about learning to live again (Bistro La Bohème Series Book 2)

by Alix Nichols

  Falling for Emma

  (Bistro La Bohème Series)

  Alix Nichols

  Other books in the Bistro La Bohème Series:

  You’re the One

  Winter’s Gift

  What If It’s Love?

  Under My Skin

  Amanda’s Guide to Love

  The Devil’s Own Chloe

  Find You in Paris

  Copyright © 2015 Alix Nichols

  SAYN PRESS

  All Rights Reserved.

  Editing provided by Write Divas (http://writedivas.com/)

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or otherwise, without written permission from the author.

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  Details can be found at the end of the book.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Epilogue

  Bonus Chapters

  About the Author

  There are darknesses in life and there are lights, and you are one of the lights, the light of all lights.

  —Bram Stoker

  Chapter One

  Emma

  “I’m in love with my sister’s boyfriend,” Emma said in one breath.

  She didn’t dare look up at Manu, keeping her gaze on the ancient fan-shaped steps they were climbing.

  “Wow.” Manu turned around to glance at her. “Cyril, right? The musician?”

  She nodded.

  “OK.” He returned his attention to the corkscrew staircase. “So what’s your question? You said on the phone you needed to ask me something.”

  She remained silent for a long moment, struggling to put years of hope, shame, secrecy and self-loathing into a question. They continued climbing the north tower of the Notre Dame Cathedral, their steps synchronized and their breathing increasingly pained. When they reached the walkway leading to the open gallery, Emma was too hot inside her jacket and out of breath. But she’d come up with a question.

  “Does it make me a contemptible person?”

  Manu pointed at one of the formidable stone monsters watching over Paris, its pensive mug propped on its elbows. “Meet Stryge the Immortal, chimera extraordinaire. Isn’t he gorgeous?”

  She surveyed the winged creature. “He is…in a creepy half-human, half-demon sort of way.”

  “Chimeras are the guardian demons of the cathedral. Notre Dame wouldn’t be the same without them.”

  Emma pointed to the less intimidating gargoyles perched atop both towers. “I think I prefer those. They’re less intimidating.”

  They stayed at the chimera gallery long enough to feast their eyes on the intricate iron lacework of Eiffel’s Grande Dame, the gilded dome of the Hotel des Invalides, the white cupolas of the Sacré Coeur and all the other magnificent vistas the gallery offered. A native Parisian, Emma had enjoyed these views countless times, but the beauty of her city never failed to move her.

  “Ready for the second leg?” Manu asked.

  She consented with a nod.

  “Emma,” he said as they ascended the south tower to the upper viewing platform, “I’m not sure I’m the right person to answer your question.”

  “You’re the most spiritually inclined friend I’ve got.” She gave him a pleading look. “Manu, it’s either you or a shrink. I prefer you.”

  “How about a priest?”

  “I don’t know any. My parents are chemistry teachers that don’t believe in ‘spirits.’”

  “Do you?”

  She hesitated. “I don’t know… But you do! You’re a Buddhist monk, for goodness’ sake!”

  “Please.” He shook his head. “Dabbling in Buddhism doesn’t qualify me as a man of the cloth.”

  “If ‘dabbling’ is how you describe your daily practice and your two-year stay in a Sichuan monastery, then fine, you’re no monk.”

  Emma tightened her grip on the handrail as she scrambled up the steep staircase. Manu didn’t seem to struggle as much as she did. She smiled to herself. Must be his daily meditation practice. Who knew it could build muscle and stamina?

  “To answer your question,” Manu said, turning around, “you’re not a contemptible person.”

  She gave him a long stare, unsure how to ask her other question.

  He raised his index finger. “That is not to say your feelings for Cyril aren’t morally dubious or that you shouldn’t fight them.”

  She swallowed, processing his words.

  “Can you go away for a while?” he asked. “Chances are, you’ll forget him in a few weeks.”

  “Been there, done that.” She paused to take off her jacket and catch her breath. “When you met me in Sichuan three years ago, what do you think I was doing there?”

  “Really?” He gave her a sympathetic look. “When I suggested you go away for a while, I only meant a vacation in Europe. But, wow. You actually spent a whole year in China just to get someone out of your system.”

  “And I’m prepared to do it again. I’d go even further than China, to some island at the other end of the world.”

  His lips quirked. “I hear Samoa is fun.”

  “Samoa it is then.” She sagged against the wall. “Only I don’t think it would help. He’s stuck too deep in my heart.”

  Emma let out a long breath, relieved to have finally spoken of her feelings, shared her secret with someone. She should’ve done it earlier. Manu was the perfect agony uncle—compassionate, wise and kind. He wouldn’t judge her. He might not understand her, but he wouldn’t judge.

  “Is Cyril in love with your sister?” he asked.

  “Yes.” She smirked. “You wouldn’t be asking this if you’d seen Geraldine. She’s… sparkling.”

  “Does he have any feelings for you?”

  She shook her head, her expression resigned.

  “OK. Does Geraldine love him back?”

  “I…I don’t know.” Emma sat down on a cold step and hugged her knees. “Gerrie and I never discuss personal matters. Besides, no one ever knows what she’s thinking or feeling…or if she’s even capable of feeling.”

  “Has something significant happened or changed recently?”

  She looked up at him. “Why are you asking?”

  “In the three years we’ve known each other, you haven’t said a word about this. Why now?”

  She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I think he’s going to propose to Geraldine.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “It’s a hunch. But my hunches are uncommonly reliable.”

  “I can help you let go of it, Emma. You can use the power of your mind to silence regret and sadness. You can train your heart to accept their happiness with equanimity.”

  “But they won’t be happy together!” Emma shouted before clapping her hand to her mouth.
“They can’t be happy together,” she repeated quietly.

  “Why not?” He sat down a few steps below her.

  “I can’t explain it… You see, Geraldine already dumped Cyril once, when she met a guy who she thought was even cooler than him.”

  He stroked his chin. “Then come out. Tell him how you feel.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You can.”

  She furrowed her brow. “It would be awful.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s doomed. He’s crazy about her.”

  “Still, you should tell him.”

  She chewed at her lower lip, hesitating. “If I do, I’d ruin any chance of a normal relationship with my sister and my future brother-in-law.”

  “There’s a risk. But your love for him…it won’t go away by itself, not even after they’re married. It’ll stay, turn ugly and corrode your heart.”

  “I know.”

  “Then don’t let it.”

  “How?”

  “By telling him. Tell Geraldine, too. Put it out there, and then go Samoa, if you need to.”

  “They’ll despise me.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t think so, but even if they do, you’ll get over it.”

  “If you were in my shoes, would you tell a nearly engaged man you loved him? Would it be Buddhistically kosher?”

  He smiled. “The Buddha said, ‘If one acts or speaks with a pure state of mind, then happiness follows like a shadow that remains behind without departing.’”

  “Pretty,” Emma gave him a lopsided smile. “But that’s the thing: I’m not sure how pure my state of mind is.”

  Manu stood and offered her his hand. “Come on. There can’t be more than fifty steps left till the top.”

  She let him pull her up.

  When they reached the top, he filled his lungs with air, looked around and then turned to her. “You wanted the Buddhist view on your dilemma, right? Here it is: to love another being isn’t a crime or a sin. It’s not what you feel but what you do with it, how you act on those feelings that can cause suffering… Or set you free.”

  Three months later…

  Chapter Two

  Cyril

  Cyril Tellier swigged his beer.

  His third one, to be exact.

  To be even more exact, he was downing his third beer before noon.

  It wasn’t like he had better things to do on this balmy September morning, considering the circumstances.

  “I worry about you, buddy.” Adrien’s voice brimmed with sympathy. “You’ve been through a lot.”

  Cyril pictured his friend’s kind eyes peering at him in concern.

  “Life’s been a first-class bitch,” he agreed. “But as long as I’m capable of drinking craft beer as fine as this, I’ll hold on to it. You have no reason to worry.”

  Adrien snorted but didn’t comment.

  Cyril extended his hand in front of him and fumbled for his glass, his fingers catching nothing but air. Then he heard something slide across the table. Had to be his tumbler inching toward his hand with a little help from Adrien.

  Good man.

  There. Cyril felt a cold, smooth surface touch the back of his hand. He grabbed the glass and carefully lifted it to his mouth. His nostrils caught the bittersweet smell. Then the foam coated his lips. He took a long, appreciative sip, savoring the passage of the delicious liquid over his tongue and down his throat, and delighting at how it quenched his thirst and cooled his whole body.

  The brew he’d favored for years without knowing why now offered a new sensory discovery every single time. It was still the same smoked malt but infinitely richer in subtle smells, tastes, and aftertastes—things he hadn’t noticed before the accident. In his previous life. A life so different and so far away that he sometimes wondered if he’d dreamed it up.

  “So,” he finally said, interrupting the awkward silence. “Why did you bring me here? What’s so special about this café?”

  “Several things.” Adrien perked up, obviously happy Cyril had asked that question. “For one, it’s an easy walk from your new apartment.”

  I’ll be the judge of what’s easy.

  “Remember our itinerary?” Adrien asked. “Two right turns, then about twenty meters down rue Cadet, and you’re at the entrance of La Bohème on your right. It doesn’t get more straightforward than that.”

  “Easy,” Cyril said, doing his best to conceal his sarcasm.

  “Second reason,” Adrien continued. “The food here is amazing—the best you can get in a Paris bistro. And on top of that, Jeanne—one of the waiters—is a friend. She’ll take care of you.”

  “Perfect.” Cyril smirked. “So next time I send my soup to the floor and my ravioli across the room, I won’t need to call Mom or Gerrie.”

  Not that he’d asked Gerrie for help with anything lately. She’d made it crystal clear she didn’t want to be his “nurse.”

  He doubted she still wanted to be his girlfriend.

  “I’m sure your mom and Geraldine are always happy to give you a hand,” Adrien said a little too cheerfully. “But you can be autonomous here with Jeanne around to keep an eye on you.”

  Right. Of course. If by “autonomous,” one understood switching from dependence on people in your inner circle to people outside it. But Adrien had meant well. And when Cyril needed him most, Adrien had left his wife and infant back in Bordeaux and cancelled important tournaments. He had basically put his life on hold to be by Cyril’s side in those dark first weeks after the accident. And now he traveled to Paris every Thursday, covering hundreds of kilometers each way, just to spend some time with him.

  Shame warmed Cyril’s ears. A bit of indulgence was the least his friend deserved for his dedication. “I appreciate—”

  “Speak of the devil.” Adrien interrupted him. “Hi, Jeanne. How have you been?”

  Cyril heard what sounded like cheek kisses, pats, and chairs moving.

  “I’m great, but La Bohème isn’t the same without you and Fritz,” a throaty female voice said.

  “She’s referring to my computer chess program,” Adrien explained to Cyril. “I used to play here against Fritz every afternoon.”

  “You’re Cyril, right?” Jeanne asked. “Adrien tells me you’ve moved to rue Buffault. You should know that none of the bistros on your street are as good as this one.”

  Cyril smiled. “I don’t doubt it. Your judgment is obviously unbiased.”

  “Don’t be a smartass,” Jeanne said. “Besides, I wasn’t finished. You see, half of the staff at La Bohème are fans of your music. I own both your albums. Rob, whom you’ll meet soon enough, adores The Stray Dog and fully identifies with the dog in question.” She lowered her voice. “A word of advice—if you hold your eardrums and your mental health dear, don’t ask him to sing it. Or anything. Ever.”

  “I don’t know about my mental health, but I hold my eardrums very dear indeed. I will never ask anyone who’s called Rob to sing,” Cyril said.

  “Good.” Jeanne chuckled. “What I’m trying to say is you’re one of our favorite musicians and a friend of Adrien’s, to boot. You’re guaranteed special treatment here that you won’t get elsewhere in the neighborhood.”

  Cyril nodded. “I see.”

  And nearly clapped his hand to his mouth.

  How much longer until he would stop saying “I see” all the time? Sounded stupid coming from him.

  “And what’s up with you, Adrien?” Jeanne asked, thankfully turning her attention back to his pal. “How’s Natalie and baby Lucas?”

  “They’re doing great. Nat says hi.”

  “Hi back. Will you guys be ordering lunch later? Today’s special is bouillabaisse. Claude’s bouillabaisse is better than what they serve in Marseilles, if I say so myself.”

  “I seem to recall you’re from Nîmes, not Marseilles,” Adrien said.

  “And so what?” Jeanne countered. “It’s still better than what they serve in Marseilles.”

/>   Cyril’s mouth quirked.

  “I’ll leave you to mull over it,” she said. “Duty calls.”

  Adrien touched Cyril’s arm. “Do you have any plans for lunch?”

  “Nope.” He had no lunch plans until Sunday, when his mom would come by to help him clean and cook. She visited every Sunday and Wednesday, spending almost the entire day at his place. She knew he could afford a cleaner—along with a cook, if he wanted—but she wouldn’t hear of it. He suspected her overflowing solicitude was her way of coping with what had happened to her son.

  “Want to try out the famous bouillabaisse?” Adrien asked.

  “On one condition.” Cyril turned to Adrien. “Can you describe this place? I’d like to have an idea of my surroundings.”

  “It’s a regular neighborhood bistro, nothing fancy. The one impressive feature is the bar—antique wood and copper and a floor-to-ceiling wall rack with every wine you can think of.”

  “Sounds right up my alley. Anything else worth mentioning?”

  “Hmm. Let me see. The waiters wear white shirts, black pants, and black aprons.”

  Cyril nodded slowly and then tilted his head to the side. “Ties?”

  “No ties.”

  “Aha. Interesting.” Cyril pressed his index finger to his mouth. “Very interesting.”

  God, it was frustrating to no longer be able to read people’s facial expressions. Unless they laughed out loud, he had no way of knowing if he was being funny or a bore.

  Adrien didn’t laugh. One could only hope he was smiling.

  Suddenly, a wave of melancholy came over Cyril, turning the corners of his mouth down. “Just three months ago I was giving concerts, preparing a new album, and scouting for the perfect engagement ring.”

  “And now you’re eating the best bouillabaisse in this country with your oldest friend.”

  “You make it sound so… normal. Like nothing’s wrong with me.”

  “I’m not trying to make light. It’s just… I know it’s cliché, but you have to focus on the positive stuff.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like music, for one. You don’t need your eyes for it.”

  Cyril sighed. “I’m too full of bitterness.”