Remembering Everly (Lost & Found #2)

by J. L. Berg

“Funny. And yes,” she answered. “But I still like to smell good.” She came racing back to the door, smelling like vanilla and some sort of flower. I crinkled my nose, a little overwhelmed by the smell as we grabbed our purses and headed out.

  One of the handsome doormen was more than delighted to hail us a taxi and we were just as happy to sit there and watch him do it. I’d never been much of a man-ogler, having spent the entirety of my adult life in committed relationships, and part of me still felt guilty for standing here doing it now.

  But this was the whole point of this vacation. Trying new things, discovering the real me. Maybe the real Everly wasn’t meant for long-term relationships and was best suited for something more casual. Perhaps ogling men all day long was exactly what I needed.

  Just then I spotted a man walking down the street in a pair of Converse and a button-down shirt, carrying an antique camera, and my heart stopped. His deep laughter was accompanied by a beautiful female’s as she tugged on his arm and they happily fled down an alleyway.

  It wasn’t him. Just another ghost.

  Even now, he still haunted me. Even without the suit and the fancy clothes.

  Would it ever stop? Did I want it to?

  “Come on,” I said, feeling frustrated as a taxi pulled up in front of our hotel. “Let’s get going. I don’t want to be late.”

  The cooking school was outside the tourist areas of Paris and took a decent cab ride to get there. I was surprised by how quickly the scenery changed outside our taxi window as we left the pristine shops and historical landmarks behind and drove through the more lived-in areas of the city. It wasn’t that we were entering a ghetto or someplace seedy; our surroundings just felt less grand and opulent. I guessed it would be like if a child stepped behind the scenes at Disney World and those illusions were shattered. Life in Paris wasn’t everything I thought it was, based on my narrow view from my touristy hotel windows. People actually lived here, and not the way I’d envisioned—perched above a high-end retailer with beautiful flower boxes and cute little balconies. There were actual apartment buildings and skyscrapers—busy freeways and graffiti. Suddenly, Paris was just like any other city I’d been to. Loud, boisterous, and compact.

  “Starting to rethink your move?” Sarah smirked, nudging my shoulder as we pulled up to the curb of the rather understated building that housed the cooking school.

  “Shut up,” I laughed. “It was the red wine talking.”

  “I know. Now come on, let’s go make lunch, or rather…you make lunch, and I’ll stand there and look pretty for our sexy chef.”

  “How do you know he’s going to be sexy—how do you even know it’s going to be a guy?” I asked with a grin as I waited for her to pay the driver. We had been taking turns on paying for things, figuring it would all even out at the end. It was her turn to ante up for the cab fare.

  “I guess I was just hoping our luck with French men would continue.”

  Unfortunately for Sarah, her luck ran out the minute we were escorted inside and introduced to our chef for the day—who was most definitely not male.

  Chef Corrine was an up-and-coming chef in the cooking world. She was also so damn beautiful, it nearly hurt to look at her. After a brief introduction, I was beginning to have serious regrets about my previous makeup and hair choices, and instantly wanted to run back to the hotel for a few more minutes of primping, just so I could feel like I had a fighting chance standing next to her.

  “Dear Lord,” Sarah whispered next to me.

  “I know. It’s like staring into the damn sun,” I hissed back. We followed Corrine into the first kitchen, where we would assemble the bulk of our meal. No one should look that good in a chef uniform.

  It was explained to us that Chef Corrine would assist us with the side dish and main course and Chef Jacques, one of the owners and a pastry chef to the stars, would step in and help us with dessert.

  I was nearly panting with excitement.

  We were each given an apron with the school logo and name on the front. They’d even gone the extra step and had each of our names embroidered underneath. That, of course, required several pictures of each of us, pointing and laughing at our names, which would later be posted to social media. It was fantastic. I couldn’t wait to bring home my official apron and wear it to cook my own meals.

  Wherever home might end up being.

  New thought. Definitely new thought.

  Much of the prep work had been done ahead of time to make the process go more quickly, but Corrine did leave some of the more fun aspects of cooking for us to do. Our side dish for the day was a cheesy Italian risotto and my mouth literally watered as she pulled out the various cheeses we were going to use.

  Even if Paris had diminished slightly on our ride here, becoming more of a normal city and less of a fairytale, nothing could take away the love affair I had with its cheeses.

  Or bread.

  Or food in general.

  I could probably just eat cheese, bread, and red wine in this country and be perfectly happy for the rest of my life. I’d weigh about eight thousand pounds, but I’d be really happy about it.

  Sarah kept her promise and mostly stood there and watched, enjoying the free wine that came with our lesson. I, on the other hand, became completely engrossed in everything Corrine said, feeling like I was in my element for the very first time.

  “You’re really very good at this,” Corrine mentioned as we transferred the risotto into a display dish.

  “Thank you,” I answered with a faint blush that slowly crept up my cheeks. “I love to cook at home.”

  “Have you ever considered attending a school?” she asked in her thick French accent.

  I shook my head and then stopped myself. “A few times, but not seriously.”

  “You should. I think you would do very well.”

  A goofy, lopsided grin appeared on my face as I caught Sarah staring at me from across the counter. She gave me a wink as I continued to work alongside Corrine, feeling the jitters of something big welling up inside me.

  The possibility of more.

  The rest of the day was nothing short of amazing. From the risotto, we moved on to braised lamb, and then we were taught how to make the French favorites—macaroons. Sarah actually dirtied up her apron for the sweets and helped make the beautiful lemon yellow cookies. Having the handsome older man in the room didn’t hurt, either.

  Playing host to many of these private cooking events daily, the cooking school had everything down to a science. Once our cookies were pulled out of the oven, we were seated on a beautiful terrace and everything we’d made throughout our two hour class was served on beautiful plates with root vegetables and sprigs of rosemary.

  “Wow, did you do that?” Sarah asked, looking down at the plate.

  I shook my head, laughing. “You really weren’t paying attention, were you? No, they made up the plate while we were in the dessert room.”

  “They handed me wine. What was a girl to do?” she shrugged.

  We dove in, pairing the risotto with the perfectly cooked lamb.

  “Dear lord, I’m never going to fit into a tutu again,” Sarah moaned, as one of my own followed hers.

  “Guess your understudy will have to take over permanently,” I joked, knowing she was still slightly bitter over the woman taking her part while she was on this impromptu vacation with me.

  “Don’t ruin this for me.”

  We finished up, nearly licking our plates clean, just as our cookies arrived. Our eyes widened as a special dessert was also presented. The chef had made a chocolate torte in our honor, with a tiny sugar decoration on top.

  “Our poor little cookies look very sad next to this,” Sarah laughed.

  I joined her, picking up a tiny macaroon and setting it on the plate with the elaborate dessert. “I bet they both taste amazing, though.”

  “Only one way to find out!”

  We dug in and ended up polishing off the entire basket of cookies as w
ell. Sitting back in our chairs with a final glass of wine, we made jokes about needing to be rolled out of the school in wheelbarrows as they took our plates away.

  “Thank you for coming with me,” I finally said as I took my last sip of wine.

  “Thank you for asking.”

  “I have one favor, though,” I added.

  “Anything.”

  “Can we stop somewhere on our way back to the hotel? There’s something I really want to get before I go home.”

  “Oh! Is it Chanel?” she asked, her eyes wide with excitement.

  I laughed, wine nearly coming out of my nose.

  “No. It’s definitely not Chanel. I want to get a tattoo.”

  * * *

  “This damn thing itches like a motherfucker!” I whined, turning in the bathroom to sneak another peek at the little bird resting on the other side of my shoulder.

  No longer stuck in that cage. She was finally free.

  Now I just needed to work on me.

  “Well, don’t scratch it!” Sarah yelled from the bedroom as I pivoted back around to face the mirror properly. It was late.

  Like, ten o’clock at night late. And I’d somehow allowed myself to be talked into going out to a nightclub.

  “What fun is being single if you don’t have a little fun?” Sarah had said, pulling out a sexy black dress I’d shoved in my suitcase at the last minute.

  A last-minute decision I was really starting to regret.

  “You’re not single,” I’d reminded her, throwing my arms across my chest in protest.

  “But I’m not dead, either. Now get dressed. We’re too young to be going to bed this early—in Paris of all places!”

  And that was why I was currently in the bathroom, applying mascara, rather than cozied up in my warm flannel pajamas reading.

  With makeup finished and a quick fluff of my hair, I stepped out of the bathroom to a barrage of catcalls and other obscene noises.

  “You’re obnoxious.”

  “Just trying to prepare you for what you’ll hear when we leave this room,” Sarah laughed. “Come on! The doorman—you know the one with the hot ass?”

  I gave her a vacant stare.

  “Right. They all have nice butts. Anyway, one of them was telling me about a club that isn’t too far from here. I want to check it out.”

  “Lead the way.”

  “You could try to sound excited,” she said, pinching my elbow.

  I just sent a glare in her direction.

  “Who knows, maybe you’ll find some French action to bring back with you?”

  My eyes widened as I stopped in the middle of the hallway. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “What?”

  “That’s why we’re doing this? To get me a piece of ass?”

  “Well,” her eyes batted in feigned innocence. “Not entirely, but if the opportunity presented itself, I wouldn’t want you to feel like you had to turn it down. I’d be more than glad to disappear for the night. I’m sure I could find a sofa or a nice chair in the lobby to sleep in for a few hours.”

  “Oh my God,” I said, my hands flying up in the air like a mad woman as I began to pace erratically up and down the hallway. I sincerely hoped the walls around us were either thick or the rooms were empty because I was not even attempting to be quiet as I had my mini meltdown on the fourth floor.

  “I can’t handle this right now. I am so not prepared. Do you even know when the last time was that I picked up a guy?” I asked her, using air quotes to prove my point.

  “Are you afraid your lady parts are shriveled up down there? Because I remember some of the things you said you did with August…and let me assure you,” she said with a mischievous grin. “You are definitely not dead.”

  “Dear lord, let’s just go,” I replied, trying not to let my mind wander back.

  No cab fare was needed on this excursion, since the club was within walking distance—although several blocks in I was beginning to regret our decision to walk as my feet began to ache in my five-inch heels.

  There was a long line of people waiting outside for bouncer approval, and the music could be heard nearly a block away. It reminded me of my earlier days, hanging out in clubs with no clue what I was doing in life.

  That wasn’t much different from now, actually.

  We got in line amidst the glares and womanly comparisons of outfits and hair and waited our turn. We apparently had something going for us because when we got to the front, we passed the bouncer test and got the wave to go in. Looking over at Sarah, I raised an eyebrow wondering how we managed to make it through. She simply smiled and shrugged her shoulders. “I gave him a flirty wink. He must have liked it.”

  “Did you show him some boob, too?” I asked, wondering why we’d made it in and the half-naked girls in front of us had been ushered away.

  She just rolled her eyes as we dodged and weaved our way through all the people toward the bar. The music was reverberating through my chest, a constant mixture of top forty hits I recognized and foreign music that seemed to please the locals.

  We bought drinks and managed to find a small table by sheer dumb luck, and began one of my favorite activities in a place like this—people watching. The club wasn’t so different from the ones I’d been to in the States. People were divided into large and small groups, all huddled together, laughing and smiling. Couples clung together on the dance floor, nearly making love with their clothes on. I tried not stare—or let my jealousy show.

  “Okay, let’s play,” Sarah said, waggling her eyebrows.

  “Oh come on! Seriously? You get me all dressed up, drag me out at this late hour and this is what you want to do?”

  “Well, if I can’t talk you into picking up men, then yes,” she said, her bottom lip jutted out for effect. “This is what I want to do.”

  “Okay, fine. But I’m not sure it will work in a foreign country. We’ve never even tried it outside of San Francisco,” I warned.

  “I guess there’s only one way to find out,” she grinned, holding her vodka tonic up in the air for a celebratory toast. Thrusting my drink toward hers, I joined in with a laugh as we set our sights on the crowd.

  Ever since we’d become friends, we’d had this little game we would play when out in clubs or parties. Given that we were both avid people watchers, it gave us something to talk about, rather than just sit next to each other silently sipping drinks like losers.

  Instead, we were losers who invented weird story lines about the people we watched and laughed over the ridiculous fantasies we created. I didn’t say it was a great game—but it gave us something to do during social events when both of us were feeling slightly less than social.

  Sarah might act like the social butterfly of the century, but when push came to shove, she was actually quite the introvert. Weighed down by years of self-loathing and constant body images issues, she’d come a long way, but it was still difficult for her to be the first to make an introduction or walk into a room of unknowns. She could be social if surrounded by people she knew, but she tended to stick close to home and those she knew—those who made her feel safe.

  “I get to pick first!” she said loudly, over the sound of the music. “What about those two?” She pointed to a couple huddled in a corner booth. The woman was much older than the man, probably by decades, but both were stunning. Their efforts at being discreet were failing miserably as I noticed his hand sneak up her inner thigh. I felt my cheeks redden as I turned away.

  “Wealthy cougar?” I guessed as I swiveled the tiny straw around in my drink.

  Sarah gave me a less than enthused look. Her eyes slanted downward as she tried not to smile through her frown.

  “That was pathetic. Try again.”

  “I told you this might not work in France,” I shrugged. “Cultural differences.”

  “You’re not trying!”

  “Fine. How about this?” She’s a former trophy wife, but obviously things have started to go sout
h as things tend to do after a certain age—even with exceptional maintenance.” I coughed, emphasizing my meaning of ‘maintenance’.

  Sarah grinned, “Yes, go on.”

  “Her billionaire husband has lost interest in her, choosing to upgrade to something…newer, let’s just say. She’s angry, vengeful. She’s done nothing but primp and keep herself in pristine shape for him! She’s even had her vagina retightened for him!”

  “Wait…hold up,” Sarah said, waving her hands around as she tried not to spit out her drink. “You can do that?”

  “Why do I know these perverted things, and you don’t?” I asked, laughing. “Yes, you can do that. We live in a world where almost anything is possible. Why wouldn’t that be one of them? You can also have your hymen repaired,” I added with a wink.

  “Why? Seriously? So people are going in and having their hymens reconstructed so they can be born-again virgins? That’s a thing?”

  I shrugged my shoulders.

  “Okay, moving on. Your trophy wife.”

  “Right. So rather than leave him, she decides to beat him at his own game. She’ll cheat on him! Because who needs maturity when you have money, right? That’s when Don Juan Sexy Pants enters the scene. She finds him on Tinder…or whatever the equivalent is here in France and well, let’s just say, Mrs. Trophy Wife will be having a grand old time tonight.”

  I took a sip of my drink and looked up at her, waiting. “How was that?” I finally asked.

  “I’m sorry, I’m still stuck on vaginal surgery. I don’t think I heard anything past that,” she confessed as I burst into laughter.

  “My turn!” I announced, searching around the club for our next victim. I found him at the bar, waiting to order. He appeared to be alone as he leaned against the sleek wood, tapping his fingers as the bartender all but ignored him.

  “Him,” I said, singling him out with my index finger.

  “I hate when you pick a loner. They’re always so difficult.”

  I just grinned and sat back in my chair, waiting and watching as she sized him up. He was attractive, wearing dark pants that hugged him in all the right places. A tight knit shirt made it achingly apparent that he didn’t have more than an ounce of body fat on his six-foot-plus frame, which was making me seriously regret all the bread and cheese I’d consumed since arriving in Paris.