Crazy 4U

by Cach, Lisa

  Eliza figured Maijet had had her share of encounters with Americans who couldn't resist the novelty of that bed. She poked her head into the space, and was brought back for a moment to the forts she and her friends had built as children, all blankets and furniture and cozy dark spaces. It had a certain womblike allure.

  Maijet made a few more comments on the amenities and then left, and Eliza immediately went to the window and pushed it open. She stuck her head out and looked down at the street, and the cars parked half on the sidewalks. The houses opposite were just as tall as this one, presenting a solid wall of whitewash dotted with windows. She could see an elderly couple in one window, drinking tea or coffee at a small kitchen table. A motorist drove by below, the sound of the engine rumbling up between the buildings, and then dying away to quiet once again.

  Her stomach gave an echoing rumble. A glance at her watch told her it was only four p.m.

  "Well, Eliza," she said to herself, turning to look at the room. "Are you going to stay in here with your energy bar, or are you going to go get yourself a proper meal?"

  A high-pitched yowl from her stomach gave her her answer.

  This time as she wandered the streets around the square she felt considerably more affection for the shop-lined lanes, and dawdled in front of the windows. Supermarkets, clothing shops, and drugstores were interspersed with shops selling lace, tapestries, jewelry, antiques, and chocolate. A large portion of the town, her guidebook told her, was blocked to cars, and the cobbled streets were the domain of pedestrians only.

  By the time she passed her fourth chocolate shop, with its display of chocolate computers and golf balls, hedgehogs and seashells, she began to wonder why that man had had such a fit about his box of chocolates. It wasn't as if there was any shortage of the stuff. Really, any one of these shops could have packed him up just as nice a box, couldn't they?

  A pair of chocolate dentures grinned at her from the window.

  She remembered the white chocolate piece with the candied violet on top.

  All right, so perhaps his chocolates had been special. Still, he could have let her pay for them.

  Her stomach prodded her to start paying attention to the menus posted by restaurant doors. Everything looked good to her starving insides, up until she peeked in the windows and saw the other customers. There were not so many at this early hour, but those who were there were in pairs or groups.

  She hated to eat alone at a restaurant. It wasn't like going to a movie alone, where no one could see you. What was there to do while waiting for her food? What should she look at while eating? She knew no one would actually care about her presence, yet it felt like such a conspicuous thing to do.

  She wandered on, telling herself that she would check out a few more restaurants before deciding. In the back of her mind lurked the reassuring presence of her energy bar.

  "One balanced meal, Eliza," Sister Agnes said in her head. "You can manage that, can't you? Vegetables, grains, protein..."

  Yes, yes, I know, Eliza silently answered. Just give me a few more minutes. You don't want me eating fish and chips, do you? I have to find just the right place.

  She came to the window of yet another chocolate shop, the display in this one finer than many of the others she had seen, the emphasis on the truffles—filled chocolates—rather than on chocolate motorcycles and bell towers. She was admiring the pale blue ballotins with their silver ribbons when she saw the breasts.

  White breasts, perhaps a C-cup, with swirled brown nipples. They sat innocently on a bed of silver paper in an open pale blue box, looking as if they had belonged to a

  princess in another life, they were so haughty, so unconcerned with their surroundings. Eliza blinked at them, surprised beyond thought.

  When thought returned, it brought an impish sense of mischief with it. Those white chocolate breasts would be the perfect gift for Melanie. Melanie, who worked in the maternity ward and spent a great deal of her time teaching new mothers how to nurse their babies. Melanie, who was obsessed with nipple shapes and regularly peppered her conversation with analyses of the breasts of women who walked by. Melanie, who had abandoned Eliza to complete this trip alone so she could take care of that worthless boyfriend.

  Eliza squinted at the shop beyond the display and saw an elderly woman behind the counter. Even better—no one but the shopkeeper to see her make such a purchase. The sign on the door said the shop was still open, so she mustered her courage and went in.

  "Bonjour," the elderly woman said, smiling warmly at her.

  "Bonjour," Eliza replied, thankful for the bit of high school French she still remembered. "Comment ca va?"

  "Ca va bien, merci. You are American?" the woman asked, her English heavily accented.

  Eliza smiled self-consciously. "Yes." Apparently her French pronunciation left something to be desired.

  "My grandson, he lives in America."

  "Oh? Where?"

  "He travels from coast to coast, California to Georgia. Perhaps you have met him? His name is Sebastian, Sebastian St. Germain."

  Eliza gave a little laugh. "No, sorry. America is a big place, and I don't live in either California or Georgia."

  "My Sebastian, he 'gets around.' That is the phrase, yes?" the woman said, smiling. "So maybe one day you will see him in America. Or maybe you will meet him here—he is home to visit. He is a handsome boy."

  "Oh, ah, that's nice." Eliza smiled, but felt a twinge of worry. The woman was not trying to set them up, was she?

  "Now, what can I do for you, cherie? You are looking for something for yourself or a friend?"

  "A friend, actually..." She went on to explain about Melanie and the breasts.

  The old woman seemed amused by the idea, and began taking out boxes of breasts to display on the counter for her. In addition to the white chocolate, there were milk and dark, as well as a variety of sizes. One box held a dozen miniature bosoms, while another had a set of breasts whose size made Eliza's chest ache in sympathy.

  "They all have soft centers," the woman explained. "It would not be good to have hard breasts, eh?"

  Eliza grinned, feeling like a naughty coconspirator in some teenage prank.

  "Camille, qu'est-ce que tu faites la-bas?" an elderly man asked, appearing in the doorway that led to the back of the shop.

  Eliza slowly translated in her head, What are you doing? The man was shorter and stockier than the woman, bald with tufts of white hair over his enormous, slightly pointed ears, and he had a huge nose. He would have looked like the troll under the bridge, except for twinkling blue eyes that made him look more mischievous than frightening.

  "Ah! Tu vends mes poitrines! Bon, bon."

  You're selling my... Eliza silently translated. Selling his what?

  "Philippe, go back to the kitchens," the woman said. "This nice young lady and I are almost finished." And then, in a stage whisper to Eliza, "That is Philippe, my husband. He gets very excited when someone buys his breasts."

  "Good day, mademoiselle," Philippe said, ignoring his wife and coming up to the counter, his eyes skipping happily over Eliza and his chocolate bosoms. "You like my art, yes?'

  "Er, yes. You have made them look... quite realistic."

  "Eh?"

  "Real. They look very real."

  He beamed at her, ignoring Camille's urgent whisperings for him to go back to the kitchens. "I make more than just les poitrines," he said. "You want to see?"

  Camille looked concerned at her husband's offer, her eyebrows drawing together. Eliza guessed the woman worried that she would be bored, or impatient with the delay. She was embarrassed by Philippe's attention, but he seemed so genuinely eager to show off his treasures, she did not know how to beg off. "I would love to see your other, er... artworks," she said.

  He clapped his hands together, then hunched down behind the counter and began pulling pale blue boxes out of the bottoms of some of the refrigerated display cases, reaching up to set them on the counter, crying out ha
lf-intelligible names as he did so."Les Amoureux, Le Grand Homme, Le Reve des Jeunes Hommes..."

  "Philippe, the young lady does not have time to see everything," Camille said in a strained voice, casting apologetic little smiles to Eliza. "Philippe?"

  "L'Ange, La Couche..."

  "Philippe!"

  Philippe's gnomish head appeared above the counter. "Oui?" He gave his wife a bright smile, then straightened, beckoning Eliza to come closer.

  "This one is 'The Angel,' " he said, taking a box from the top of a stack. He lifted off the lid and tilted the box so that Eliza could see. "Beautiful, yes?"

  Inside, resting on a bed of silver paper, lay the full figure of a white chocolate woman, naked except for a sheet that draped over her shoulders and down her sides like the folded wings of an angel. She was, in every detail, anatomically correct. Eliza's lips parted, her eyes widening as she took in the carefully molded cleft in the angel's crotch.

  "She is a work of art," Philippe declared proudly, setting the box back down and taking another from the stack. "And here, 'The Bed.' "

  This work of "art" was of both milk and dark chocolate, and depicted two lovers under the covers, the raised knees of the woman making tents of the chocolate bedspread, her face turned to the side as her lover pressed his face into her neck.

  Eliza felt her face grow hot at the explicitness of the scene, so cheerfully displayed by this sprightly old man. Her embarrassment grew even deeper as she realized that the sculpture was having an arousing effect on her. The positioning, the flex of the accurately sculpted muscles, it made her body respond despite herself.

  "Ah, you like it, I can see in your face," Philippe said.

  "What does she like, Grandpère?" a distressingly familiar male voice asked.

  Eliza lifted her eyes and looked into the face of her nemesis. "You!" she whispered. There he stood, big as life, although she knew that fate could not be so cruel as to have dropped him in the same shop where she had come to buy chocolate breasts. Fate would not have sprung him on her at such a vulnerable moment, not the second time in one day. No, this was not happening.

  "Yes, me." He peered over Philippe's shoulder at the chocolate bed scene and began to laugh.

  "Eh, why do you laugh?" Philippe asked, indignant. "It is true art. The mademoiselle, she can appreciate it."

  "Can she, now? Don't turn your back on her, or else you might find your lovers missing their heads and arms."

  "Sebastian," Camille said, her expression censorious. "You are not helping." She nudged him in the side, then whispered, "Elle est embarrassé."

  Eliza listened to the exchange while trying not to look at anyone. She stood stiff and silent in front of the counter covered in breasts, the pornographic angel, and those little chocolate figures making good use of the missionary position, and wondered helplessly when this all would end, or if somebody could possibly do her a favor and shoot her.

  "I must show her my 'Big Man,'" Philippe said, reaching for another box.

  "Grandpère, no," Sebastian said, his laughter dying down. "I think she has seen enough, eh? Let her leave with La Couche in her mind. It is your finest work."

  "You think so?"

  "Of course I do, and you saw how she liked it."

  "Bien. I will save my "Big Man' for next time."

  Heaven forbid there should be one, Eliza said to herself.

  "Sebastian," Camille said, "would you help the mademoiselle to make her choice? She was choosing breasts." And then to Eliza, "What good luck that my grandson came back in time for you to meet him, yes?"

  Brilliant luck, Eliza thought.

  "The young lady and I have already met." Sebastian said. "On the train from Brussels."

  "No! Vraiment?" Camille exclaimed.

  Eliza met Camille's startled gaze. "We sat across from each other, but never exchanged names," she explained, "so I had no way to recognize your grandson's name when you told me."

  Camille smiled naughtily, and with a touch of pride. "My Sebastian, he gets around, like I said."

  Eliza caught the surprised look Sebastian gave his grandmother, but Camille carried on as if oblivious, the twinkle in her eyes matching that of her husband. "So, this is my grandson, Sebastian St. Germain. He is handsome, like I said, yes? He owns two restaurants in America, and has no wife."

  Where was a gunman when you needed one? Why couldn't someone come put her out of her misery? Eliza watched Sebastian's eyebrows draw down in annoyance at his grandmother's broad hint. Obviously he did not consider her a likely candidate for the role of Madame St. Germain.

  "Half-own two restaurants," he corrected his grandmother.

  Eliza extended her hand across the counter, trying to keep her face neutral, her eyes on the top button of his shirt. "Eliza Mandish."

  His warm hand enveloped her own, his grip firm yet considerate of her smaller bones. He held her hand longer than he should have, making her empty stomach flip like a fish on the ground. Startled, she met his eyes, and was caught there by the intense, searching look he gave her.

  It felt like an eternity until he finally broke contact, both of hand and eyes, leaving Eliza feeling thoroughly confused.

  "You were looking at breasts?" he asked briskly, as if nothing had passed between them.

  "Yes..." she said. "For that friend I told you about."

  It was all too much. Much too much. She couldn't handle this amount of embarrassment. She felt herself dissociating from her body, and watched from a distance as her hands and mouth finished the transaction, all emotion shoved into a tight little box to be opened later, when she could be destroyed by it in private.

  She took the first pair of breasts he held up for her, and left the shop five minutes later with a bag full of milk chocolate D-cups. The door closed behind her with a thunk, and she could only pray it signaled the end to a bad, incomprehensible nightmare of a day.

  Chapter Three

  "That is the type of girl you should be dating," Camille said in French the moment the shop door shut behind Eliza.

  "I beg your pardon?" Sebastian said, taken off-guard.

  "She's a nice girl, a good girl, not like those others you usually choose."

  "You've only met one or two of the women I've dated."

  "And what does that tell me?" she asked. "It tells me that even you know they are not fit to bring home. Your mother and I, we talk. I know it is the party girls that you spend your time with, the ones who will never make a good wife."

  "Robert and Lydie both have children—don't tell me you are expecting me to produce great-grandchildren for you now, too."

  Philippe spoke from where he was putting away the last of his boxes. "It is the quiet girls who are the wildest in bed. The ones in the short skirts and tight blouses, sometimes they are all show, all surface, there is nothing left to discover. But the quiet ones, let them loose, and..." He finished the statement with a suggestive chuckle. "They are tigers underneath."

  Sebastian looked at his grandmother, at her innocent, butter-wouldn't-melt smile, and suddenly had a new, unwelcome perspective on Grandfather's chocolate sculptures.

  "Ah, but we should not interfere, Philippe," Camille said, shrugging her shoulders and beginning to close up the shop for the night. "Maybe he is not ready yet to live life as a man, instead of as a little boy who cannot decide which candy to choose. Maybe he is afraid to have a home and a loving woman who is happy to see him at the end of the day. That is why he only chooses the unsuitable ones."

  Sebastian blinked at them. What had gotten into his grandparents? His grandmother had always shown an interest in his romantic life, always made hints about when he would marry, but never had she made a direct attack upon his choices. And Grandfather! The old man had always seemed to gain a vicarious thrill from his exploits with beautiful women.

  "I have never been afraid of commitment," Sebastian protested, sensing a hint of dishonesty in himself even as he said it. "And I happen to like the women I date. They are intell
igent, sophisticated, ambitious women any man would be proud to be seen with."

  "Underfed, over-groomed, and coldhearted," his grandfather countered. "I would not want such a one in my bed on a cold winter night."

  "I don't live in Norway. I don't need a woman for warmth."

  "Don't you?" his grandmother asked, then lifted her hand and gently brushed back the tuft of white hair above one of Philippe's ears.

  "For being such a smart boy, he is not so smart about women," Philippe said. He picked up Camille's hand and kissed it.

  "It is not working," Sebastian declared to the two. "I'm not going to date that little nun just to please you." They ignored him, communing silently with each other with their eyes. "Aah!" He threw up his hands. "I am going for a walk."

  "You would have beautiful children together," he heard his grandmother say as the door closed behind him.

  He gritted his teeth and marched up the cobbled street, blind to the other pedestrians. What had they seen in his little nun?

  His nun. My god, look what they had done to him already. She was a chocolate-thieving Puritan afraid of her own body, and he had no interest in her whatsoever.

  Her face came to mind, scarlet from neck to hairline as Grandfather displayed his erotic art, and a guffaw escaped the control of his bad mood. And why the hell had she been buying chocolate breasts for her friend?

  For no reason he glanced in the window of the restaurant he was passing, and did a double take. Perhaps it was the distinctive St. Germain blue of the paper bag on the table right against the window that had caught his eye, he did not know, but there sat his nun, a look of disconsolation on her pretty face.

  Sebastian glanced at the name of the restaurant and grimaced. A vegetarian pita restaurant. Perhaps she was trying to punish herself. Puritans were big on that.

  She noticed him watching her at that moment, and immediately stiffened up, her slouch going ramrod straight. He could not exactly place the look in her eyes, but horror was a definite component. She fiddled with the neckline of her dress, then dropped her hand, glancing nervously away from him, then back again.