by Alix Nichols
“No problem, I’ll fix it,” Sam says with the blissful confidence of a five-year-old.
I scratch my head, wondering if it’s advisable to be honest in this situation.
Uma rinses half of the cherries she bought at the market. “Sam wants to be an engineer when he grows up.”
“Since when?” I turn to Sam. “Last I heard you wanted to be a hole-set like me and a spy.”
Sam places his remote on the table, letting the helicopter hit the floor with a thud.
I grimace. “Ouch.”
“When I grow up, I’ll be”—he begins to count on his fingers—“a hole-set, engineer, spy, and dancer.”
I crouch next to him. “All at the same time?”
He nods.
“Why not a singer, too, while you’re at it?”
“No.” He shakes his head vigorously. “That would be too much. Even I need to sleep.”
“I see.” I purse my lips to keep from cracking up. “So, why a dancer?”
He gives me a duh look. “Because I’m really good at dancing. Uma says I’m the best dancer she’s ever seen.”
I glance at Uma who’s setting a big bowl of cherries on the table.
“What?” she says with a shrug. “He is.”
For the next ten minutes, the three of us eat the cherries. “Savor” would be a better word, considering how good they are, each little fruit chock-full of color and flavor.
Just like the woman who bought them.
Shit.
I peel my gaze off Uma and remind myself of all the reasons I shouldn’t let this kind of thought anywhere near my mind.
This is Uma’s first ever stay away from her family, from her country, from everything she knows. She’s my teammate Noah’s best friend and almost fiancée. He hasn’t said as much, but from what I gather, there’s always been an unspoken understanding between them. The only reason he’s never declared his feelings or touched her is the respect he has both for her and for the Hindu customs, which demand self-restraint.
Noah placed her in my house knowing she’d be safe here, and he trusts me fully.
I’m disgusted with myself for having these thoughts about Uma. Thankfully, they’re just thoughts. It is fully within my power not to act on them. The ethics of seducing an employee aside, hell will freeze over before I betray a friend’s trust like that.
Who I should be thinking about is Sophie, the American woman I met last week. She’s gorgeous, a pagan goddess doubling as a Victoria’s Secret model. On top of that, she’s smart, available, and—most importantly—slated to return stateside by Christmas. For a man looking to get back in the dating game without rushing into a long-term relationship, Sophie is an ideal choice.
She really is.
It beats me why I didn’t hit on her hand when I drove her home from the double date at the Moose with Noah and Uma. Must be because I’m terribly out of practice or no longer sure what’s OK and what’s too much for a first date. Even less so when it’s a double date.
Next week when work is less intense, I’ll ask her out on a proper one-on-one date.
And I’ll do more than occasionally nodding and smiling.
TWO
Uma
“Whether you enrolled as a hobbyist or you want to be a professional embroiderer, you’ve come to the right place.”
The speaker drinks from his glass and surveys the small crowd of new graduates and fresh recruits gathered in the auditorium of Ecole Lesage.
Monsieur Bloom, a longtime teacher at the school, is so visibly proud of the establishment that his enthusiasm is infectious. I glance at the beaming women around me. When the school reopens in a few weeks after the August break, all of us will spend countless hours sewing beads and sequins onto framed scraps of silk, learning tambour embroidery and Lunéville hook, and all kinds of fancy stitches.
I know I’ll love every moment of it.
“You’re really looking forward to your course, huh?” Noah whispers, giving me a nudge. “I’m happy for you.”
“I’m happy for myself,” I say.
He smiles. “I talked to Maman on the phone yesterday. She sends her greetings and says she wishes she could be here today.”
“I wish she were here, too. This is all thanks to her.” A rush of gratitude fills my heart. “I’ll never be able to pay her back for what she’s done for me—for what she’s still doing for me.”
He shakes his head. “Don’t be silly. Maman loves you like the daughter she’s always dreamed of. Making you happy makes her happy.”
“I know. And I love her, too.”
“Dear students and guests,” Monsieur Bloom says. “Maison Lesage works with Yves Saint-Laurent, Christian Lacroix, Louis Vuitton, Christian Dior, and Chanel. Fashion designers give us a theme and a general idea, but it is our masters who trace the patterns and embroider them. What we do here is not just craft, it’s art.”
The crowd nods.
My love affair with embroidery started in my early teens when I saw Sequins at the European Film Festival in Kathmandu. Noah’s mom Marguerite, aka my French “fairy godmother,” dragged Noah and me there every afternoon. Her aim was to improve our “general culture” through exposure to the best of contemporary cinematography.
Noah, who would’ve preferred to watch the Olympics on TV, got seriously bored with the artsy movies the festival showcased. So did I, with most of it, except Sequins. Every single scene of that film in which the master embroiderer and her young apprentice put together fabric, thread, beads, feathers, and sequins to create a piece of exquisite beauty took my breath away.
For two hours I watched, mesmerized, leaning forward in my seat between Marguerite and Noah. The credits rolled, and people began to stand up and move toward the exit. I sat there, spellbound until Marguerite cleared her throat and Noah tugged on my sleeve.
That night excitement made it impossible to sleep.
I kept replaying the movie in my head and picturing myself adding one tiny stitch after another to silk organza stretched taut on a frame. There was no doubt in my head I could do that for hours every day. What better way to use my hands and my imagination than creating a magical play of textures, colors, and shapes from which beautiful flowers and fantastical birds are born?
The first thing I did when I got up at dawn was draw a pattern on a page torn out of an old math workbook. I had decided what I wanted to do with my life when I grew up.
Just like the women in the movie, I would embroider for an haute couture house.
After school, I told Aama and Baba about my newfound calling and begged them to buy me some supplies—the cheapest ones, anything they could afford. They did, bless their kind hearts. They were quite happy with the embroidery part of my dream. They still are.
Unlike driving a bus or tightrope dancing—my dreams as a kid—embroidery is a perfectly respectable and safe occupation for a young Hindu woman.
It’s the haute couture part with all its unsavory implications that bothers my parents. Working on indecent gowns that reveal too much skin. Being involved—even remotely—with worldly designers, indecorous models, debauched fashion photographers, and decadent runway shows.
Not that I’ve had a chance to do any of it yet.
Before I enrolled in Ecole Lesage and came to Paris to do the training and get my certificate—all thanks to a grant from Marguerite’s foundation—I had done quite a bit of stitching for a big sari outfitter in Kathmandu. It was fun, but there was no wiggle room. I was required to stick to the traditional styles and use the patterns I was given. At night, I traced my own patterns. Except, I never had time to embroider them.
“Our school is only twenty-five years old, but Maison Lesage was founded back in 1858,” Monsieur Bloom says. “You are part of the Lesage legend now.”
My chest swells with pride. Even if my training hasn’t started yet, I’m already living a dream, and it feels amazing.
The audience begins to clap, but Monsieur Bloom raises his
hand. “I’m almost done. Let me wish our graduates good luck, and say welcome to our new students! I look forward to working with you in September.”
He nods and steps away from the podium, and we give him a round of applause.
Another faculty member motions to the door on my left. “Everyone is invited to step into the courtyard for refreshments and mingling.”
In the courtyard, the sari I’ve embroidered myself and am wearing for the occasion immediately attracts an admirer—a very tall Swedish woman with bright blue eyes. She asks me about the patterns on my gown. I ask her about the needlework on her clutch. We discuss the school and discover with delight that both of us will be taking the same Professional Couture Embroidery course.
When Noah joins us and hands me a champagne flute, the woman holds out her hand. “I’m Freja.”
“Noah,” he says, shaking her hand.
Freja grins. “You’re the first Frenchman I’ve seen since I got here last week who’s taller than me.”
“Go to a water polo game,” Noah says, smiling. “I promise you’ll see more.”
An image of Zach in his Speedo flashes in my mind. Not that I’ve ever seen him like that… live. But I’ve made up for it by watching every YouTube video I could find of his games.
And that is utterly and unforgivably inappropriate. Disturbing, too.
If I am to have such carnal fantasies about a man, the man in question shouldn’t be Zach. It should be Noah.
“Are you an athlete?” Freja asks him.
“Yes.”
She nods in appreciation. “Well, I hope your girlfriend and I can hang out, maybe even travel around France a bit before our butts are fused to our chairs come September.”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” I say at the same time as Noah says, “She isn’t my girlfriend.”
Heat creeps up my face. I glance at Noah whose ears are flaming red.
Freja looks from me to him, her expression dubious. “OK. Sorry.”
“No worries,” I say quickly. “I’ll be happy to explore Paris with you, but traveling won’t be possible—I work part time as a nanny.”
“Good for you,” Freja says. “I need to find a part-time job, too.”
We exchange phone numbers, and she moves on to another group.
“Who’s home with Sam?” Noah asks.
“Zach.”
“How’s the little fellow doing? Still keen to be a dancer, spy, hole-set, and engineer?”
“A dancer, spy, and hole-set—yes,” I say. “But he recently decided to sacrifice the adventure-filled career of the international spy to be a lawyer like his grandpa and grandma.”
“What triggered the change of heart?”
“Last weekend Zach and Sam went down to Arles to visit Zach’s parents. Sam returned a man transformed.”
“Oh, boy.”
I chuckle. “Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask…” I feign nonchalance the best I can. “What’s the deal with Zach’s ex, Colette?”
Noah shifts uncomfortably. “What do you mean?”
“How come she only calls a couple of times a week, never takes Sam to stay with her, and never comes to see him? She lives in Paris, right?”
“She does visit… on occasion,” he says, looking miserable.
I shouldn’t have asked.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s none of my business.”
He gives me a weak smile. “It’s not my story to tell. Why don’t you ask Zach?”
I look down at my feet, ashamed of myself. “I won’t. It really is none of my business. Forget I ever mentioned it, OK?”
Noah’s smile widens. “Done.”
Oh, how I admire this man.
He’s a good friend to Zach and the best friend I could ever dream of. His looks ensured he was the hottest high schooler at the lycée Français in Kathmandu. The two or three girls he dated while in Nepal used to burst with pride to be seen on his arm.
According to Marguerite, Noah was in love with me while he was in high school. And according to her, he still is. She’s hinted countless times how happy she’d be to see us together. Even my parents might forget about the “heaven-sent” Brahmin who has asked for my hand if the alternative is Noah. I should be thrilled about all of this. And I’m sure I will be as soon as I get over that lustful thing I feel for Zach.
There are a gazillion excellent reasons why I should.
Zach is my employer. He’s Noah’s teammate and friend. Unlike Noah who speaks Nepali better than I speak French, Zach has never been to my country and knows nothing about my culture. He’s a divorced single dad, whom my parents would never approve of.
And, as if all of that wasn’t enough, he’s interested in another woman—Noah’s foxy landlady Sophie. He’s about to take her out on a date.
The reason I know this is because he’s asked me to babysit Sam when he does.
THREE
Zach
The whole idea of Uma joining Sam and me for our weekly swimming pool session had nothing to do with me wanting to see her legs.
Nothing at all.
At home, both Uma’s and my bedrooms have an en suite bathroom. Uma always comes down to breakfast fully dressed. Respectful of her modesty, I do the same. Once or twice, I’ve bumped into her late at night in the second-floor hallway, both of us rushing to Sam’s room because he made a suspicious sound. She wore an oversized long-sleeved T-shirt and pajama pants.
In mid-July.
As for her daytime T-shirt and jeans “uniform,” she favors shirts that hang loose and low over her hips.
Naturally, my imagination has been running wild.
Not that I lust after her, or anything like that. It would be pointless with someone as off-limits as Uma, and I have no time or inclination for pointless pursuits. What goes on here is just normal, male curiosity about the shape of the young woman I see every day.
Nothing more.
Add to that the unfortunate circumstance that it’s been ages since I had time for a relationship—even a short-term one—so it’ll come as no surprise that I keep speculating about Uma’s legs.
As well as other parts…
Right. Off-limits, remember?
Anyway, now that Sam has two nannies—Mathilde for mornings and Uma for afternoons and an occasional evening—I’m free to pursue the beautiful Sophie whom Noah set me up with.
And I will. Soon.
“Papa, you’re not even trying to catch the ball!” Sam shouts, breaking me from my thoughts.
Shit.
I’m supposed to be teaching him to shoot. My son is floating a few meters away, decked out in full gear including a water polo cap, goggles, and yellow inflatable armbands. Uma is doing cheat laps at the other end of the pool. She swims crosswise, admittedly because her poor swimming skills won’t allow her to do proper laps down the length of the pool. I suspect she also wants to stay out of our hair… and firing range.
“I’m sorry, buddy,” I say to Sam. “Try again.”
He nods and throws his junior-sized ball.
I catch it.
We go on practicing until Sam declares he’s tired and needs a break ten minutes later.
I swim to him. “You’re doing great. Your precision has improved a lot since last month!”
“Can I try to shoot, too?” Uma calls out from across the pool.
It’s just the three of us here, which is a true luxury and unusual even at this small-town pool on a weekday morning.
“You want to teach her?” I ask Sam.
He nods with enthusiasm.
We swim toward Uma who’s still refusing to venture from the shallow end.
“First, we’ll practice on firm ground,” Sam says, going all bossy.
Uma climbs out of the pool.
Sam shinnies up the ladder behind her.
I follow, feasting my eyes on her body.
Uma is wearing a navy blue one-piece, no doubt the thickest and most conservatively cut she could find on the market
. It stretches over her small breasts, effectively flattening them to a mere hint. The high neckline of her garment reaches her throat, and its legs are cut so low, the swimsuit looks like a prewar vintage piece.
Still, it reveals parts of her body I’ve never seen.
Her legs are slender and very nicely shaped with slim ankles and smooth, lithe thighs. She has lovely, narrow hips that taper to a thin waist. Her butt is adorable. It’s compact and curved just so, each cheek about the size of the ball I’m gripping in my hand right now. If I were holding one of her butt cheeks instead, it would fit just as snugly.
Shit. Where did that come from?
I hand the ball to Sam.
He motions me to stand by the wall. “You’ll be the goalie.”
“Oui, monsieur.”
He turns to Uma. “It’s easy. Just grab the ball and throw like this.”
He pretends to throw with one hand and passes her the ball. She takes her first shot.
“No!” Sam cries out in frustration. “Not with both hands and not from the chest! Didn’t you see how I did it?”
“Sorry,” she says. “My attention must’ve slipped.”
Was it because she was staring at me?
I doubt it. She’s supposed to be into Noah. It’s just my sick imagination.
“OK,” Sam says. “Maybe Papa can explain it better. I’ll be the goalie.”
He marches to the wall where I’m standing and motions with his head for me to take his place by Uma’s side.
Nice show of leadership, I note with pride, bumping his fist. Way to go, kid!
As I plant myself next to Uma, she hands me the ball. It’s too small for me, but since the size of Uma’s hands is somewhere between Sam’s and mine, this ball is perfect for her.
“What you need to do,” I say, “is to spread your pinky and thumb wide for a good grip. Like this.”
She nods, eyes on my hand.
I rotate it so she can see better what I’m doing. “Use your middle finger to adjust the position of the ball and let it sit in your hand, nice and snug.”
