Back inside my bedroom, I pulled open my closet door and selected a long, white sundress with a pair of strappy sandals and a few bangle bracelets. Arranging my tresses in a loose bun and sweeping on some ruby red lipstick, I packed my books into my duffel bag and grabbed a quartet of fresh figs for an express breakfast.
Bouncing down the stairs, I resolved to keep my perspective as sunny as the sky and not fret so much over pesky little problems. As my heels clicked on the cobblestone sidewalk, the rich voice of my not-so-secret admirer filled my ears.
“Mademoiselle, won’t you just stop for a minute? You are si belle! So beautiful! And exotic! Just let me paint you!” His tone sounded more urgent than usual, and I wondered why he was so hooked on the idea of painting me. True, I was tall and kind of pretty, but I was no supermodel. And Paris was teeming with young fashion models who would clamor to oblige his request and pose for a portraiture. Why did he keep fixating on me and trying to twist my arm?
Shaking my head a cold and clear “NO” as I did each time he approached me, I kept walking towards the metro station to catch my train to the university. As I reached the steps of the station, I could still hear him calling out to me:
“You can’t keep running, Mademoiselle! One of these days I will get you!”
Chapter 2
Certain that I had bombed my exam, I arrived at noon for another draining shift at Collette’s Pastry Shop. The grunt task of the moment was to concoct raspberry paste for the 10-tier birthday cake that was being specially prepared for a socialite’s teenage daughter. Collette wouldn’t reveal the identity of her client, but I envisioned the mystery person as a Louboutin-wearing frequenter of the Cannes Film Festival, some privileged movie star who dined on escargots in white wine sauce and drank bottles of Dom Perignon like tap water. As I stirred a ladle around a massive bowl of bright pink paste that resembled Play Doh, I thought momentarily of Xavier’s offer. Working in a down to earth, independent bookstore was so much more my style than laboring for rich people willing to drop 500 Euros on a birthday cake. But my relationship with Xavier was tense enough, and I didn’t need to see him any more than I already did at home.
Yves muttered something incoherent from a few steps away, and I surmised that he had somehow bungled the cake batter. The way he slammed his wooden spoon on the counter and threw his hands up in the air could only mean that the perfectionist pastry artist had made a serious boo-boo. Ignoring the temperamental baker, I kept stirring my Play Doh until the chirp of Collette’s voice beckoned me to the storefront.
“Isabelle, we need you over here!”
I arched an eyebrow, wondering who she meant by “we.” She was the only person working the counter, so I guess referring to herself in the plural form was just one more way to make her feel omnipotent. Queens---and dictators---are known to refer to themselves similarly.
“Be right there!” I called, taking my place behind the counter.
“Serve the customers,” she instructed. “I need to go talk to Yves.”
I nodded my head courteously and squared my shoulders, prepared to face the public. Maybe it wasn’t the smartest idea to wear my lovely white maxi dress to work, but I wanted to feel chic. As I fastened a protective apron around my waist, a customer glided through the door. Dressed in casual attire of a chartreuse boat neck top and snug black denims, the young woman was attractive in an unassuming way.
“Bonjour. How may I help you?”
“Bonjour Mademoiselle. Je voudrais un flan de caramel,” she politely issued her order in French for a caramel flan.
“Tout de suite. Coming right up.” I selected the creamiest flan from beneath the glass and offered her a spoon.
“Merci beaucoup.” She took the dessert and held it in her hands tentatively, as though she didn’t really want to eat it.
“Is something wrong?” I inquired, wondering if the flan smelled funny for her not to be touching it. As much as Yves irritated me, I had to admit that he was a master baker, and the thought of his flan being anything but magnifique was preposterous.
“Are you the girl who lives in the apartments across the street?” The young woman asked as she blatantly ignored my own question.
Taken aback and still shaken from the unknown intruder the night before, I replied, “Um, why do you ask?”
“My brother is an artist. He keeps trying to get your attention but says that you are ignoring him,” she explained as I instantly knew the order of caramel flan was just a ruse to get to talk to me.
“The guy who paints every day on the street corner is your brother?” I confirmed as she nodded. My eyes narrowed, analyzing her appearance as I pondered whether she was trustworthy. She certainly was a lovely woman with her lemonade blond hair and mint shaded eyes. Her figure was long and lithe, like mine (minus my little kangaroo pouch from all the sweets I’d been scarfing). But could I trust her?
“We are from Toulouse. He was a very famous painter in the south of France, and now he’s trying to make it in Paris. Portrait painting is his specialty. He just wants to have one session with you---because you are so beautiful,” the woman said persuasively as I nonetheless questioned her authenticity.
“And what is your brother’s name? And your name?”
“Oh, I’m so sorry! How rude!” She immediately extended her hand. “I’m Chérie, and my brother is Patric.”
Cautiously, I shook her hand. “Hi Chérie. I’m Isabelle.”
“Enchantée.”
“Nice to meet you too,” I replied tensely as my mother’s parting words to me at the airport in Barbados replayed in my head: You’re going to be in a big city, ma petite, and you can’t trust anyone. Not even a woman. Always be careful. And like I said, don’t trust anyone. Not even a woman!
“So what do you say? Would you finally talk to my brother and let him paint your picture?” Chérie persisted as I shook my head in refusal.
“I don’t think so. I’m not a model. I came to Paris to study, not pose for portraits.”
“Then maybe you will just have a cup of coffee with him? Just talk? Then, if you like, you can go to his studio and see some of his other work. I think you will be very impressed.” Chérie blew a wisp of blond hair out of her eyes as she favored me with a charming smile.
“I’m not sure. I’m very flattered, but…”
At that moment, Collette came raging into the room, so I didn’t have to say ‘no’ to Chérie any longer. She glanced briefly at our customer and then fixed a rigid stare on me.
“I hope you are not delaying our busy customers with your chatter, Isabelle,” she said rudely.
“No, she wasn’t at all,” Chérie defended as I smiled at her gratefully. “I was actually talking to her. But I do need to go now.” Lowering her voice to a level meant only for me, she added, “Just one cup of coffee. You won’t regret it.”
***
That evening, I practically tip-toed past Patric’s usual post on the corner, hoping to avoid him and slide back to my apartment building unnoticed. Surprisingly, though, he was nowhere to be seen as I ducked for cover and arrived at the doorstep of my apartment. I glanced across the street, shrugging my shoulders and assuming he had packed up for the night. It was peculiar, though, as Patric had been a permanent fixture on the street day and night since I arrived in Paris. My ponderings about Patric crashed to a halt as my nostrils perceived the rank odor of a lit cigarette.
Sure enough, Xavier was standing on the balcony, puffing away and staring up at the moon. I cleared my throat before I spoke, not wanting to startle him as he appeared deep in thought. “When’s your birthday?” I ventured out of the blue.
“Pardon?” He asked, his dark eyes glazed with confusion.
“I want to get you the Patch for your birthday so you’ll quit smoking!” I infused as much humor as I could into my statement, but I was dead serious.
“Oh, well that’s too bad. My birthday just passed in July.” He pressed the cigarette between his lips and savore
d another puff as I shook my head in disgust. “Does it really bother you that much?”
“Yes! Obviously! I’ve even been thinking about finding another apartment…” I trailed off, waiting to see how he would respond and if the stiff-willed man would bend just a little.
“Another apartment? Don’t do that, Isabelle. I think we get along very well other than for my smoking habit.” He dangled the cigarette between his fingers as his facial muscles tightened.
“Your smoking habit is just the tip of the iceberg. How about the fact that you think I’m a big fool who belongs in clown school and has a sneeze that could wake the dead?! To use your words,” I emphasized bitingly.
“Ah, I’m sorry, forget about what I said last night! You woke me out of my sleep and I didn’t mean to be rude. You’re a very smart girl---sorry, woman,” he corrected as my eyes flashed. “That’s why I want you to work at the bookstore. We could use an employee who actually reads books rather than tabloid magazines.”
I tilted my head to one side, this time touched rather than offended that Xavier wanted me to work at the bookstore. So it wasn’t just because he wanted to help. He genuinely thought I would be a good addition to the place. Still, it was an idea that would never work, as I’m sure we’d be pummeling each other with hard cover books if we spent any more waking hours together.
“That’s really sweet. Thanks,” I said, softening my tone.
“But you won’t consider it?” He asked rhetorically as I shook my head. “What if I stopped smoking on the balcony and started smoking on the sidewalk?” He proposed with a full-lipped grin.
“Maybe,” I replied teasingly while he appraised me from head to toe, as though noticing my dress for the first time.
“You look very pretty tonight,” he commented before abruptly putting out his cigarette and heading towards the door. “I’m going to bed early. It’s been a long day. Maybe see you at breakfast.”
“Okay, good night,” I replied, perplexed by his sudden departure.
Slowly, I walked back to my room and turned on my bedside lamp with the earnest intention of studying. But my eyes simply wouldn’t focus on the pages, and my brain wouldn’t process any of the information. It was too early in the semester for me to be suffering from burn-out. I slapped my wrist, annoyed at myself for being distracted. I had yet another exam to study for plus a research paper to write. It was going to be a long night. Instead of my usual calming glass of wine, I decided I needed a heaping dose of caffeine. So I hurried to the kitchen cabinets, furious to find that we were all out of coffee. Damn it, Xavier, I thought. Did the man do nothing else but burn through cigarettes and chug down black coffee?
It was only 9 pm, not nearly as ungodly an hour as it had been when I witnessed the cream puff crime. Maybe it would be safe if I ran down to a café and grabbed a quick cup of java. If I didn’t, there was no way I was going to plow through my law textbooks and start researching my paper. Grabbing my purse, I cruised down the stairs with visions of a double espresso dancing in my weary head.
A few doors down and I was inside a classically European café, complete with an array of French pastries---gag! Just the sight reminded me of being at work---along with steaming, fizzing cappuccino machines and, of course, tables full of people getting their nicotine fix. Sigh. Xavier was right. Paris was a city that embraced smokers, and I just had to learn to live with it. Holding my breath as I walked to the counter to place my order, I felt a pair of eyes penetrate my back. Prickly hairs immediately stood out on the nape of my neck as I felt instinctively that I was being watched. Quelling my suspicions, I gave my double espresso order to the barista. As I made my way down the line to collect my coffee, I still felt strongly that someone was staring at me. But I didn’t want to turn around and give into the unexplainable fear that was crawling its way up my spine.
Holding the delicate espresso cup between two hands, I took a sobering sip and strode towards a corner table. As I sat down and licked the thin layer of foam off the top of the cup, I found myself under the intense perusal of Patric, who looked arrestingly handsome in the candlelit cafe.
“Bon soir, Mademoiselle. Are you ready to finally have coffee with me?”
Chapter 3
Scorching espresso burned my tongue as I met the artist’s disconcerting gaze. Something in his stare made me feel hunted as he didn’t blink at all. But something even stronger in his eyes made me feel reeled in like a rainbow bass trapped on a fish hook. The man was indisputably gorgeous. With eyes deeper than the double espresso in my cup and lips more luscious than all the pastries of Paris combined, he was an intoxicating vision. I guesstimated that he must be somewhere in his early 30’s. Feeling a blister form on my injured tongue, I set my cup down and lowered my gaze along with it, breaking eye contact after what felt like an hour-long staring contest.
“May I join you?” He asked incongruously, as he had already snatched a seat across from me and was gesturing to a barista to take his order.
“Um, I guess so,” I replied slowly, my tongue and the roof of my mouth on fire. Another kind of flame fanned its way through my body as well as he grinned at me.
“Good. I’ve been wanting to meet you for the longest time. But you kept running away from me. I hope I didn’t scare you.” His manner was gentle and calm in bold contrast to the manic stalking behavior he had displayed on the street.
“Maybe a little,” I admitted, feeling my heart palpitate and knowing it was too soon for the caffeine to take effect.
“Je regrette. I’m so sorry. I’ve just never seen a woman like you, and I’ve been dying to paint your portrait.” His speech was smooth…and rehearsed? Or was that just his natural charm?
“But I’m not a model.”
“Well you should be. Look at your skin. Pure milk chocolate. And you have the body of a ballet dancer. You are every artist’s dream subject.” He captured my gaze again as the compliments flowed from him like water from a fountain. “I’m Patric, by the way.”
He reached across the table, clasping my hand in his and lightly touching the top of it to his lips. “Isabelle,” I whispered shakily before reining my nerves in and speaking more assertively. “You know, today your sister came to the bakery where I work. She tried to convince me to have coffee with you.”
“And now we find ourselves sitting across from each other here in this café. It must be fate,” Patric drawled as I nodded uncertainly. “My studio is right next door to your bakery if you’d like to see my work sometime.”
“Thank you. Maybe I will.” I was no longer scared of Patric in the context that he would hurt me…physically. But I was wary of him in a different way, a way that made me fear that burning my tongue was just the beginning of the pain he could inflict.
We spent the next two hours exchanging personal stories and learning about each other over continuous cups of espresso that I knew would keep me wired until dawn. My books and paper forgotten, I found myself enraptured listening to his rags to riches tale of growing up in the mountains of southern France, painting more than 300 canvasses before actually selling one, and finally making enough profits to be able to move to Paris. In turn, Patric intently listened to my memories of girlhood in Barbados and my homesickness trying to adapt to urban life.
“I know what you mean. Paris is an intimidating city for me too, and I’m French. I can imagine how you feel, Isabelle.” His eyes glowed with compassion.
Patric’s solicitousness encouraged me to open up even more, as no one had listened to me so patiently since I had flown away from my island like a questing nomad. “So now you understand why I was a little scared when you kept calling out to me. I’m new around here.” I smiled shyly, inwardly angry at myself for melting so completely under Patric’s tutelage. I hadn’t confided so much in a man since my ex-boyfriend from Barbados bulldozed my heart when I learned he was cheating...with 3 other girls! Loneliness had plagued me more than I realized since losing William, and now my emotions were gushing uncont
rollably.
“I understand. This city has its dangers. Actually, just the other night I saw a robbery at Collette’s Pastry Shop.” Patric poured the last drop of espresso down his throat as my eyebrows lifted in surprise.
“You saw that?! So did I!”
“Yes, I was looking out the window and noticed someone leaving the shop carrying some sort of bag,” Patric said nonchalantly.
“I was there when it happened! Right afterwards, I went into the shop and found that a tray of cream puffs, of all things, had been stolen. I called the police and told my boss…and my roommate. But no one takes me seriously! Now I know I’m not crazy if you saw it too!” I said excitedly, feeling my bond with the stranger deepen.
“Yes, I reported the incident to the police as well and got the same reaction,” Patric mused, frowning.
“I guess everyone just thinks it’s a joke. But it really happened!”
“Yes it did,” Patric concurred. “Now let’s change the subject. Tell me another story about you, Isabelle.”
As Patric spoke, the lights dimmed inside the café and I suddenly became aware of the time. “I think they’re trying to get us out of here and close up for the night!” I peered at the other tables, which had somehow become vacant during my endless conversation with Patric.
“Then let’s continue this conversation. Soon. Take my card.” Patric retrieved a business card from his wallet and placed it in my palm. Embellished with the image of a sweeping paintbrush and Patric’s full contact information, the business card looked polished and professional.
Like a gentleman, Patric stood up when I did and escorted me to the front door of my apartment. Kissing my hand again, he inclined his head towards mine as though he were also going to claim my lips. But instead, he gently let go of my hand and disappeared into the shadows. Vaguely, I could discern his image crossing the street and entering an apartment complex that sat atop a women’s clothing store. Floating up to my apartment, I hardly noticed Xavier sitting at the kitchen table eating a midnight snack.
Sweet as Pie Crimes Page 8
