Paris Cravings: A Paris & Pastry Novel (6 page)

Mrs. Dupré hands me a piece of paper. Sure enough, Robert’s name and the phone number of the Educational Tour company are jotted on it. I guess it was only a matter of time. My little Paris adventure is over,
finis
. And I barely had time to enjoy it.

Jean-Paul watches as I fold the paper up into little squares. Even he looks a little disappointed. Maybe he’s thinking it was nice to play hooky from ringing up purchases all day. Well, I don’t have to call Robert right this second, do I? I plan to phone my mother first, Sera second on whoever’s phone she borrowed—the number should be in my incoming call log, Mathew third. Robert can wait. After all, he’s three hours away in the Loire Valley now. Sera can relay a message to him from me.

Jean-Paul holds the crutches, escorting me as I hop the narrow flight of stairs to the apartment above the shop. The stairs open into a living room and I can smell the lingering scent of yeast and, I’m almost sure, fried garlic and tomato.

Braided rugs are strewn across the floor and cut glass lamps throw circles of yellow light from the end tables, since the room is a bit shadowy with only two small windows. Against one wall is a bookcase filled with uneven stacks of books and stereo equipment. A clock chimes somewhere down the hall and a table with four wooden chairs sits in a window nook.

“My
maman
has a fondness for Mozart and Debussy,” Jean-Paul tells me, referring to the classical music which is softly playing. “We fight over listening to that or CDs of the Beatles or Queen.”

I look at him in amazement. “My dad used to crank up the stereo whenever Queen came on and we’d rock out together.”

Madame Dupré comes up the stairs and beckons for me to follow her down the short hallway to a guestroom. There is old-fashioned crown molding and lace curtains hanging at the window. Across the bed, a thick quilt in a deeper maroon color has a splash of flowers directly in the center.

I know almost nothing about Jean-Paul and his mother, but for some reason it doesn’t seem to matter. Call it gut instinct. I feel safe and I want to stay right here and take a nap under that downy quilt for about twelve hours, but it feels like I’m taking advantage of them after the hospital and everything.

“I don’t want to intrude,” I tell Jean-Paul. “I can stay at a hotel until I find my group.”

“No, you’re not,” Jean-Paul says quickly. His mother turns to him for a translation and then she launches into a torrent of French and Jean-Paul nods and mutters several
oui, oui’s
very fast. It sounds like “way-way-way” run together like one word. “
Maman
would be much happier if you would stay,” he tells me when they finish speaking. “At least until we figure out what is happening with the tour group and your flight. It wouldn’t be good to be alone in a strange hotel by yourself.”

A wave of relief sweeps over me because I do want to stay here with them, I just don’t want to appear too eager.

“Lie down and rest your foot until we get through the lunch crowd. Please stay, Chloe?”

Any resolve I had to not be a burden melts like butter on a hot stove. The way Jean-Paul speaks my name, so gently, makes me want to cry. I brush at my eyes, and smile to hide the tears. I guess I’m just an emotional wreck.

Jean-Paul disappears and Madame Dupré lays out an extra quilt, showing me how to work the heater in case I get chilled—all in hand signals and lots of nodding. It
has
surprised me how chilly Paris is in early June. Robert, our guide, says that’s because it’s so far north and it won’t warm up until later in the month.

Madame Dupré shows me where the tiny bathroom is tucked around the corner, and gives me an extra toothbrush. Like I’m spending the night. Which I guess I am—at least until this evening—if Robert doesn’t get to me first.

“
Dormez bien
,” she says, and presses my hands together in her warm, plump ones.

Sleep well
. I’m touched by her obvious tenderness, and feel myself tearing up again. There’s nothing like spraining your ankle, going to the hospital, and finishing off the morning with a breakdown.

Hopping around on my good foot, I glance at my pale face in the mirror, wondering where the blush and lip gloss I put on that morning disappeared to. I start to strip off my skirt and jacket, which are gross from the dried-on whipped cream, when a knock comes at the door.

Jean-Paul is standing there with a charger for my cell phone. He shows me how to plug it in, but the only problem is I can’t call my mother at the same time it’s charging because the style of phone I have slides inside a little pocket to charge and can’t be opened at the same time.

In an hour I’ll call, I silently promise her. At this point, my mother doesn’t even know I’m stuck or got left behind. I’m sure Robert wouldn’t worry her unnecessarily. If she tries to call, she’ll probably figure I didn’t hear the ring or that I turned it off during the castle tour. The problem is, we’re too used to talking to each other every five minutes.

The thought of having a conversation with mother, who is sure to panic when she learns what’s happened to me, feels like an intrusion on an odd, yet idyllic day. I don’t want to discuss my “situation” or work out the details of finding the tour group. Most of all I don’t want to share Jean-Paul with anybody yet, not even Sera.

I glance around the bedroom, savoring the feeling of being tucked away in my own secret hideaway, removed from the ordinary world.

Another knock comes at the door while I’m looking down through the window at the street below. An elderly couple are fighting over their poodle who is peeing against a lamppost.

“Sorry to intrude again,” Jean-Paul says formally. “I’ve brought lunch. Soup and a baguette.”

“Merci beaucoup
,” I tell him, realizing I’m starving. The soup is steaming in its bowl with chunks of meat and vegetables. It smells delicious.

Our hands brush ever so slightly as I take the tray, but I manage not to spill anything. I also try not to think about the touch of his skin against mine and concentrate on the view instead. Of course, it’s Paris-perfect, but I’m trembling and trying to think of something casual to say.

Like a gentleman, Jean-Paul hasn’t followed me inside, but waits at the open door. He’s got an empty pastry box in his hands. “Please fill this with all the pastries you desire.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that—”

He shakes his head, his brown eyes widening. “Remember? You lost all your pastries this morning. They were not—salvageable.”

I giggle over the way he says the last word, broken into wrong syllables and fumbling over the middle part. “But the cream was very good,” I tell him, fidgeting with the door handle as I remember how he tasted the whipped cream from my chin, and teased me. I’m afraid he’ll think I’m a big flirt, but it feels like I’m sharing a joke with an old friend. An old friend of four hours? How very strange.

“
Mais oui
,” he says, with a wink. “
Maman’s
specialty.”

“
Oui
,” I repeat, biting my lips.

“The customers are ringing. See you in an hour,” Jean-Paul tells me.

I let out my breath. A girl could go swimming in those chocolate pools of divine deliciousness. And then drown with a smile on her face.

A hundred thoughts race through my mind, but a thrill runs up my spine, crowding out all the problems and complications of the last few hours.
I’m away from everyone I know
. And they have no idea where to find me. All those Educational Tour rules, chaperones watching every move we make—gone with the bus. It’s thrilling and scary all at once.

I glance out the window framed with lace curtains and watch white, scudding clouds move across the skies of Paris. The biggest question running through my mind isn’t about finding my group, or if I might miss my plane. Now I’m wondering if I’m truly stuck in Paris—or did I conveniently run away from home?

Six Months Earlier

I stuck a finger in Chapter Thirty-Five of
Pride and Prejudice
as the bus nose-dived through a pot hole in the Natural History Museum parking lot. Why couldn’t I have been born in a time when men were gentlemanly and possessed good conversation? I’m also pretty sure Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy had more honor and integrity in his little finger than most of the male population at Eleanor Roosevelt High.

Words floated over the seat. The group behind me was laughing so loud they were practically snorting. Suddenly, Parvati Eswana was talking really close, but so low it was hard to pick up. My entire body went on high alert.

“—what’d you do?” Mathew asked, sitting backward with his feet hanging over the edge.

I tugged on the edge of his shirt, but he didn’t notice.

“What could I do?” Parvati murmured back. “I had to save face and go in the closet with him.”

“So what happened?” Does my boyfriend seem just a tad too eager to know her sordid story?

“Well, everybody was already half-way there,” Parvati went on in her clipped British accent. “You know, undressed—”

“The girls, too?”

“Mostly the boys.” Parvati gave a small, embarrassed laugh behind her hand. “Stacy had her top off, even though she was still wearing her Victoria Secret Wonder Bra. The bottle skipped her the next three rounds and the boys were all groaning.”

Mathew cleared his throat. “No kidding.”

I gave him a quick, hard look. Was my boyfriend having a hard time breathing?

“So did she—did her bra ever come off?”

Good grief, was he panting now? Hel-
lo
! Doesn’t Mathew see right through this chick? Boys are so dumb when it comes to girls. I’ll bet it’s because Mathew is too nice to hurt Parvati’s feelings and tell her to shove off. Even still, I felt a little sick. Hormones, I told myself. Mom says flirting is part of a boy’s genetic makeup. Like women crave chocolate every month. They just can’t help themselves, even when they already have a girlfriend—or the other girl is obviously trying to get under their skin. Or maybe it’s Parvati who’s needling me. I don’t want to believe it, but I’m having a hard time brushing my feelings away.

“Nope,” Parvati said. “That’s when the bottle stopped between me and—”she moved closer. “—Ramon.”

“You went into the closet with
that
dude?” Mathew glanced at Ramon, who was plugged into his iPod. My boyfriend almost sounded jealous—no, maybe this is what Mathew sounded like when he was shocked. Scandalously shocked.

It could happen.

“He started groping me and I was like, ‘Get your hands off! I’m not in here for you to cop a feel.’ That kid can’t look me straight in the eye anymore.”

The seat bounced as Matthew shifted his legs. I closed my book and turned around to face them both.

Parvati purred, “Let me try some of your cookie.”

“Sure,” Mathew said, extending his hand.

Parvati took a small nibble, her hair brushing his arm. I wanted to yank that silky, shimmering, too perfect hair out of her head, but I tried to control myself and think mature thoughts instead.

“You can have the whole thing if you want,” Mathew offered.

“Oh, no, sweets will make you fat,” Parvati said. “I have lots of self-control.”

I thought about the stack of cookies I’d just polished off and sank lower into my seat. I’d pay good money to have self-control like Parvati. But at least I don’t have to maintain a size two for the big screen like she does. I almost felt sorry for her.

The smell of cinnamon and sugar wakes me up. And chocolate—the powerful aroma of melting dark chocolate. My mouth is watering as I roll over, trying to remember where I am. The quilt is soft against my cheek and afternoon sunlight slants through the window.