by A. Gardner
"Billie." I try pulling her back to reality. I'm losing her fast. "So that's why you hate Sam? Because he dumped you for someone else?"
"No." She looks at me, her expression now blank. She narrows her eyes, hardening her stare and glaring at me as if I've dug up a grave that needn't be disturbed. I take a deep breath, suddenly unaware of chattering all around me. The noise is blurred out. "He called my manager. He told her that I was stalking him, and I was making him uncomfortable. I was fired. Worse than that. My employer shared that little tidbit with just about every agency, TV station, salon, and spa in town. Do you know where I work now?"
I slowly shake my head.
"I work in the cosmetics department at my local Tesco," she states. "From celebrity stylist to grocer just like that."
"I'm sorry."
"That's it!" she shouts. I jump in my seat, confused to see that she's smiling. I place a hand on my heart and gulp down the rest of my water pretending it really is vodka. "I knew I recognized someone." She leans back looking pleased with herself.
"Yeah…me."
"Yeah, of course I saw you at the manor but there was another girl. Your height. Dark hair like yours. I knew I'd seen her somewhere before."
"Um…"
"I thought I saw her sulking in the reception room." She chuckles to herself.
"Who?" I ask, getting impatient.
"The ballerina."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Billie swirls her glass of water and glances down at her heels. A hint of glitter sparkles on her eyelids, and she presses her lips together like she just put on a fresh coat of lipstick. Billie's date comes back into the pub smelling like cigarettes and aftershave. Billie reluctantly looks up.
I concentrate, remembering the only other person at Dovington Manor I know of who dances. Used to dance. Cira is lean. Cira has dark hair like mine, and she is thin enough to pass as a prima.
"Are you talking about Cira?" I ask Billie. "She's part of the catering staff."
"That name does sound familiar. Sorry, you two look alike." Billie shrugs.
"Let's get out of here, yeah?" Billie's date acknowledges me with a discreet wink and a once-over of my not-as-sexy attire.
"Fine," she agrees, standing up with the help of the barstool next to her. She takes a few steps forward. Her date doesn't seem worried that she might topple over.
"Wait a second." I help her to the door of the pub, briskly brushing pass strangers. "How do you know Cira?"
"We went to the ballet once," she laughs. "Sam and me. Her hair looked much different back then."
Billie's date grabs her hand, leading her toward his car. I watch her fall forward into the passenger's seat. At first glance, it looks like she's attempting to drive the two of them home. The roads are opposite here, remember?
A crisp breeze blows by, and I glance up at the darkened hilltop near the beach. I can't see Dovington Manor, but I know it's there. I take in the saltwater air, wondering if Cira's secret is more serious than I thought it was. Is she another one of Sam's heartbroken lovers? I rub the spot on my chest where my diamond pendant used to sit. The more I learn about the sort of man that Sam was, the sicker I feel about happily accepting his diamond trinket. I can't believe I had the audacity to show it off too.
It's Sam's mark.
The mark of a sleazebag.
But if all that is true then Cira has a lot more than a broken dance career to worry about.
What if she did it?
She could be locked up for murder.
"No," I say out loud. "She's too dainty for that."
Whatever happened tonight at the manor, I'm sure there's some kind of logical explanation for all of it. I spend a few minutes trying to clear my thoughts. My eyelids feel heavy, and before I know it I can barely keep them open. The thought enters my head. I'm exhausted. And suddenly my feet are throbbing, and my back is sore from leaning over a counter all day.
I trudge back inside, hoping Marta left the door unlocked…and that she decided to sleep on the floor or sofa or foot of the bed. Fat chance.
I walk past the barman and up the hidden staircase to the Inn. There are six rooms in the upstairs hallway. Well, six doors that I assume are rooms. One of them is cracked open, and a light is glowing inside. I peek through the opening and see Marta reading her romance novel in a candy red armchair. Her frizzed, auburn locks are down, and she's wearing sweatpants that say #1 Chef in bold yellow letters. They are the sort of pants I would give to Bree or Cole as a gag gift, but she seems to be taking them rather seriously.
"Cooled off then?" Marta looks up and promptly sets her book down on her lap. I glance around the room. There is one bed, an armchair, and a padded bench underneath a tiny window. The room is cozy and as small as my studio apartment back in Paris.
"As much as I can be for the evening," I calmly respond.
"Good." She looks at the bed.
"I assume you're taking the bed?"
"Why do you assume that?" she responds.
Because you're a sous chef, and I'm just an intern.
"I don't know," I lie.
"Take the bed." Her surrender catches me off guard.
"Is this a test?" I reply.
"I'm trying to be nice." She lifts her chin and eyes a wooden wardrobe in the corner. "Unless you would rather take the floor?" She stands up, retrieving a stack of thick blankets. She grabs the padding from the bench underneath the window and sets in on the floor. Marta then covers it with a fluffy cream comforter followed by a fleece blanket the color of the ocean.
"The bed will do." My hand touches the small of my back—a place that usually aches when I'm overly stressed. My back has never been the same since I injured it last year. That moment in time feels like it was decades ago, but I still cringe whenever my mind replays the abrupt cracking noise my body made before I hit the floor.
Marta doesn't know about my back problems, but I'll accept her gracious gesture.
"Night."
"Night, Marta."
* * *
Monday morning—week two of my internship—is the best and worst morning of my entire Parisian adventure. It's the best because I get the morning off to recover from my hellish commute back to Paris, but it's the worst because I overslept and missed out on ordering my first official French breakfast at the bistro down the street. Dandre told me to order crepes with crème fouettée followed by a stroll next door for some giunduja gelato, a thick, creamy scoop of chocolate hazelnut.
I scramble to get dressed, grabbing my fanciest pair of heels, thick tights, and a skirt to match. I don't want to stand out on the street. Even jeans feel too casual here when I walk from Le Croissant to my studio apartment slash closet with a bed. I make sure a change of pants and flats are in my purse for the afternoon and head out the door. With one quick glance, I can scan my entire apartment to make sure I'm not forgetting anything. My keys jingle in my hand, and I lock the door behind me. I jog down the staircase in my building. The elevator has been out of order since I got here.
I walk down the sidewalk, scooters buzzing by me. I hang on tight to the hem of my skirt as a spring breeze blows against my calves. My heels click on the stone path, and somewhere across the street someone whistles. I glance around as a trio of men grin and keep walking. My cheeks feel warm, but the cool city air stops me from blushing. I smile. I love being around so many crowds of people. When I'm nothing more than a tiny dot among millions, it makes my problems feel just as small.
The air smells like sweet bread. My stomach growls, and I see Le Croissant in the distance. It looks so magical from far away, but I imagine the chaos inside with the espresso machine constantly sizzling and Michel scolding Dandre for eating too much product. I take a deep breath, contemplating eating my lunch at a bistro just across the street in full view of the bakery. My stomach growls again as I think of all the French food that Bree will eventually ask me about. Did you try cèpes? Did you eat crepes? Does French butter taste better?
&nbs
p; I'll kick myself if I leave Paris without good answers. I head for the nearest bistro, fully intending to eat an entire plate of pasta without feeling an ounce of guilt. I chuckle to myself as I think about the questions Cole will ask when I get back to Georgia. Well, he'll probably only ask one. What's the French toast like?
I stop just outside my lunch spot when I see Destin and Dandre walking toward me. Destin brushes the excess flour off of his shirt and Dandre looks puzzled as he glances down and notices that he forget to take off his whites.
Destin looks at the bistro, and his eyes fixate on me. He grins and nudges his cousin. Dandre's belly bounces slightly when he lets out a joyous chortle. I cross my arms and try not to laugh when Destin takes an opportune second to smooth his hair and polish his silver earrings with his fingers.
"You survived." Destin gives me a tight squeeze. I adjust to his French accent. It is a little confusing to hear after a weekend of the King's English.
"Bonjour," Dandre greets me. He pulls me in for an even bigger hug than his cousin. It feels like hugging a warm marshmallow.
"Hey, guys," I respond. "Lunch break?" Dandre squints, tilting his head.
"Oui," Destin answers. "Lunch." He looks at Dandre. "Déjeuner."
"Ohhh." Dandre nods. "Yes," he proudly states.
"Come with us," Destin suggests.
I glance at the bistro and look back at Le Croissant. I hear Michel's voice in my head telling me not to socialize with my kitchen mates outside of work. A really lame rule.
"I don't know if that's such a good idea," I answer. "What about Mr. Rolph's rule? He was very specific. Interns aren't allowed to hang with the brigade after hours." Destin pauses for a minute and processes my words.
"Come on," he urges me again. "In Paris, rules are like British tea cakes. Dry. Bland. And nobody cares." He looks at the bistro, which boasts a special of sausage cassoulet on its sign, and scoffs. "Cassoulet? No. No."
Destin makes up my mind for me when he grabs my hand and leads me farther down the street. Dandre trails behind us. We stop when we reach the front of a shop with the name Fromagerie on the front window. There is a line out the door.
"A long line is good." Destin nods and steps past the line of customers who are waiting impatiently. I follow him, a little embarrassed when he bypasses the wait and strolls straight up to the girl at the counter. My eyes go wide as I stare at the various selections of cheeses behind the glass, and the pungent smell hits me all at once. I'm the only one who looks bothered by it.
I've never seen so many types of cheeses all together in one place. So many colors with different levels of thickness to choose from. The woman behind the counter blushes and quickly grabs a baguette. She fills a paper sack with an assortment of cheeses and hands it to Destin. The man standing first in line scowls at us on our way out.
"Uh, did she just give you that for free?" I ask curiously. Dandre grabs the sack and examines the cheese selection. He nods in approval.
"She is a friend," Destin explains. "We visit her shop every week. Come." He walks faster, much like a native Parisian. We cut through an alley and come out onto a market street where foot traffic takes up the center of the road. I smile, dazzled by the colorful produce stands and smell of fresh-cut flowers in the breeze. Tall buildings are huddled together so tightly that they look like they are one continuous stone wall.
Destin stops again, handing some change to a woman in an orange jacket in exchange for a handful of vine-ripened tomatoes. Dandre snags the tomatoes and gently places them in the paper sack. He calls to Destin and runs to a booth of sweets.
"Dandre," Destin mutters. "Bonbons again?"
"Don't we sell plenty of sugary things at Le Croissant?" I watch Dandre scoop a handful of sugar-covered gummies into a bag. They remind me of the sugary gummy candies I see at the grocery store back home. My favorites in middle school were the aqua blue gummy sharks. I haven't had one of those since…well, the last time I bought them while I was out with my childhood friend, Evie. I hid them in my closet when I got home. My mom didn't approve of sugar. She still doesn't. The exception to the rule was when Grandma Liz came over.
"He came here as a boy, and…." Destin searches for the right word. "Eh, he dreams of it."
"He's obsessed?" I guess.
"Oui," Destin agrees. "Obsessed with pâtes de fruit."
Dandre pays for his sweets and doesn't waste a second digging into the bag and popping a pink-colored gummy in his mouth. I imagine it tastes like strawberry or maybe even watermelon. The three of us continue walking until we reach the edge of the market.
Destin looks up and down the street before he runs across like it's no big deal. I anxiously follow, nervous that if a car comes it might not stop. If I didn't have Dandre and Destin with me, I would be so lost. Destin walks quickly to a nearby park. My heart leaps as I think of laying our spread out on a checkered picnic blanket and eating our lunch staring up at the Eiffel tower.
The park isn't next to the Eiffel tower, but I think we are close to it. The lawns extend all the way to a serene duck pond, and the grass is a rich green. We pass a few beds of violet-colored tulips. I raise my eyebrows, seeing a sign that says Pelouse interdite. I'm not sure what it means, but I don't see anyone lying out on the green with glasses of French wine or a cheese spread like ours. The sign must be a polite warning to steer clear of the lawn.
Destin keeps walking until he reaches a grove of trees ripening with blossoms. They look like cherry blossoms—varying shades of red and pink. He sits under the tree and Dandre follows him like it's an everyday ritual. I glance around. A few other people had a similar idea. I carefully hang onto the hem of my skirt as I sit with bent knees.
Dandre lays our food out on top of the paper sack, munching his gummy candies in between breaths. Destin watches him wolf down a few sweets and glances up at the overcast sky. He shakes his head. Another cool breeze rushes by us, and I rub my hands together. The weather here changes from sunny to jacket weather pretty quickly. I'm glad I wore tights.
With great force, Destin cuts our baguette with a plastic knife. He then proceeds to spread a dollop of the creamy looking cheese in a plastic container onto his bread. It looks like goat cheese mixed with herbs. He slices a tiny tomato in half and takes a bite of his concoction. He looks up at the blossoming tree above us as he does, slowing falling back onto his elbows.
Dandre grabs two pieces of baguette and sandwiches two pieces of harder cheese in between. His first bite is followed by a giant crunch. He chews quickly, then pops a whole vine tomato in his mouth like it's a jumbo grape. I look down at my choices, grab a baguette, a random sample of cheese, and take a bite. The bread tastes sweeter than I expected, and it's a nice contrast from the tanginess of the cheese. I grab the plastic knife and stab a tomato, cutting it in half. I place it on my baguette and take another bite. It's simple. It's homegrown. Perfection.
Though I still want to try a cassoulet. I don't care what Destin says.
"You guys do this every day?" I ask. Destin pulls himself out of deep thought to look at me. He rubs his eyes, taking a deep breath and looking down at his baguette.
"When it doesn't rain," he answers.
"I like it," I comment. "I feel like I can think here." I take another bite and so does Destin. Dandre moves on to his third slice of baguette. Destin watches him and can't help but smirk.
"He's in love with it," Destin jokes, pointing at the way Dandre is eyeing the cheese on his sandwich. Dandre shrugs.
"There's nothing wrong with that." I study what's left of our spread and decide which cheese to try next. "What about you, Destin? Why did you want to work for Chef Gautier?"
"Jean Pierre?" He shakes his head. "No. No." His tattooed knuckles brush against his chin. "I work for Le Croissant. My father worked there."
"He was a pastry chef?"
"Front counter," he corrects me. "He would come home and talk about the food like it was his first born son. So, I decided to remind him that I a
m number one. That's when I decided to go to pastry school."
Dandre chuckles, taking another bite of his gummy candies.
"Number one," Dandre repeats lowly.
"So, what's Dandre's story?" I ask, watching him shake his bag of sweets. He frowns as he looks in the bag, which now seems significantly lighter. "Besides his obvious obsession with sweets."
"He did not go to pastry school," Destin says. Dandre looks up at him, puzzled. "When we were young, he was called the pastry thief of the seventh arrondissement." He chuckles so hard he lets out a hoarse cough. "Voleur. Thief."
Dandre hangs his head jokingly and laughs along with his cousin. He nods and nudges me.
"Jean Pierre catches me," Dandre says, his English lacking the finesse of Destin's. He laughs even louder, his face turning cherry red. "He was so mad."
Dandre can barely force the words out of his mouth. He covers his face and takes a deep breath. The thought of Jean Pierre throwing a fit in front of a chubby little boy is enough to make anyone chuckle. Dandre attempts to calm himself down, but the two of them start laughing again as soon as their eyes connect.
"Okay, you two are definitely related." I crack a smile. My brother Mark and I used to laugh that way together. "I can hear the resemblance."
CHAPTER TWELVE
After changing my clothes, I walk back into the kitchen at Le Croissant. Michel looks up at me and nods when I pass his office. Marta must not have said anything about my outburst at the inn. I'm shocked to see that Marta, who hasn't had much sleep either, is busy arranging strawberry pistachio tarts to put on display. She works quickly, and there is flour all over her uniform as if she's been here since early this morning.
