Smitten with Croissants

by Ellen Jacobson

  “Escargot is French for snails,” I explained. “They’re served in garlic butter. You like garlic bread, Dad. Maybe you’d like escargot too.”

  He folded his arms across his chest. “Only an idiot would eat a common garden pest, garlic butter or no garlic butter. I bet they serve those es… es … snails at that fancy country club where you used to be a waitress. It’s exactly the type of thing rich people would pay top dollar for.”

  “Well, then I must be an idiot because I plan on ordering a big plate of them when I get to Paris.” While I sounded defiant when I uttered this, inwardly I was shuddering. The thought of eating snails makes me queasy, but there was no way I was going to let my parents know that.

  The sound of high heels clicking on the deck interrupts my thoughts. “There you are,” Celeste says as she walks toward me. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

  I cock my head to one side. “What’s up?”

  “Let’s talk tattoos,” she says. “It’s on my bucket list, but I can’t decide what to get, let alone where to get it. At my age, I have my fair share of wrinkles. Can you tattoo over wrinkles? What about saggy skin? Am I too old to get a tat? That’s what you say, right? Tats?”

  “You’re never to old to get a tat,” I say with a smile. “Did you know that Judi Dench got her first one at eighty-one? And you’re way younger than she is.”

  “Ooh . . . I love Judi Dench.” Celeste squeezes my arm. “You’ve convinced me. Let’s do it.”

  “What? Here on the cruise ship?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  “Uh . . . well . . . you probably need some sort of special license.”

  “If the captain can marry people at sea, I’m sure a little old tattoo wouldn’t be a problem. Come on, we can get set up back in my suite.”

  I grin at her enthusiasm. “Unfortunately, I didn’t bring my equipment with me. You need a special machine and needles, not to mention ink. Besides, you should really think about it carefully before you go ahead. It’s not something you can undo easily.”

  “Nope, my mind is made up. When I know what I want, I go for it. Just like I did with my Ernie when I first laid eyes on him.” Celeste rests her hands on the railing, closes her eyes, and breathes in the sea air deeply. “I wish he could be here now. He would have loved to go on a cruise.”

  “Why didn’t you ever take one with him?”

  “Well, when we first got married, we were completely broke. Besides, cruises weren’t really a thing back then like they are now. Later, when we had more money, we didn’t have the time. Or rather, we didn’t make the time. That’s what’s nice about seeing you young people having adventures now before you get married and settle down.”

  I chew my lip. “It almost didn’t work out that way for me.”

  Celeste turns her head and looks at me. “What do you mean?”

  “When I was twenty, I almost settled down. Thankfully, it didn’t work out.”

  “You were engaged?”

  “More than engaged. I was married.”

  “Really? For how long?”

  “Less than twenty-four hours.”

  She raises her eyebrows. “That’s a short marriage. What happened?”

  “His parents happened,” I say bitterly. “They were dead set against me from day one. I wasn’t good enough for their precious boy.”

  “But they must have come around in the end. The two of you got married.”

  “No, they completely freaked out when he told them that he wanted to propose to me, so we ended up eloping. When they found out what we had done, they hit the roof. They threatened to disown him.”

  “Were they serious?” Celeste asks. “I can’t imagine any parents wanting to cut off contact with their child.”

  “They had threatened to disown him before, when we were dating, but we never thought they would go through with it . . .” My voice cracks as I recall the phone conversation with them. Then I straighten my shoulders and continue. “The family lawyer tracked us down hours after our wedding ceremony and insisted on a private conversation with my husband. After about an hour, the lawyer handed me a letter.”

  “The lawyer? What happened to your husband?”

  “He left.” I snap my fingers. “One minute we were happy newlyweds, looking forward to our honeymoon. The next minute, he had vanished, and I was all alone.”

  “What did the letter say?”

  “A whole bunch of legal mumbo-jumbo which boiled down to one thing—my marriage was over. My husband chose his family fortune over me.”

  “Oh, sweetie, you poor thing.” Celeste squeezes my hand. “I can’t imagine why anyone would choose money over you. Why wouldn’t his parents have approved of you? It makes no sense.”

  I take a deep breath. “Oh, it’s the usual story—a girl from the wrong side of the tracks. They assumed I was a gold digger, just out for their son’s money. What they didn’t realize was that I was marrying him despite his money, and his parents, and all of their country club connections.”

  “It sounds like you’re better off without him and his family. Money isn’t everything.” Celeste gets a faraway look in her eyes. “There was a guy who was sweet on me once. He was loaded, but I never could have been with him.”

  “Because he was rich?”

  She laughs. “No, I didn’t mind the money. It was how he made his money. Not exactly on the up-and-up, if you know what I mean. But it all worked out in the end. I met my Ernie a few years later, and he turned out to be the love of my life. He was the guy I was meant to be with all along. You’ll see. The same thing will happen to you. You’ll meet a good man who will stand up for you against anything, and anyone.”

  I shake my head firmly. “I don’t ever plan on falling in love again, let alone getting married. Once was enough.”

  “Was your marriage annulled? If so, it’s like you get a do-over.”

  “Just because you get an annulment doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.” I clench my fists. “What kind of stupid rule is that, anyway? If you’re going to put on a white dress and have a minister marry you, you’re married. Even if it only lasts for less than twenty-four hours. If I ever get a tattoo, it would say…” My voice trails off as I feel my nails digging into the palms of my hands.

  “Say what?” Celeste asks.

  “Never mind,” I say, slowly unclenching my fists. “It’s not like I’m going to get a tattoo, anyway. They’re too permanent.”

  Celeste furrows her brow. “That’s odd, considering you’re a tattoo artist.”

  I grin. “That’s me . . . odd. Anyway, let’s talk about your tattoo. There are all different kinds of styles to choose from. I can show you some pictures.”

  She nods. “That sounds like a good idea. I know that I want it to say ‘floss’ but I’m not sure what style to do it in.”

  “Floss? That’s cute. Is it a nickname? What Ernie called you?”

  Celeste looks at me blankly. “Nickname? No, ‘floss’ as in ‘floss your teeth.’ I figure it would be a good reminder.”

  “You want to tattoo a reminder about…dental hygiene on your body?” I stammer. “Wouldn’t it be easier to tape a note on the mirror?”

  “No, don’t be silly. I’d never notice that. But something tattooed, well, I’d see that every day when I get out of the shower.”

  “You sure you don’t want something like a flower or a rose, maybe? Or a cat? Cats are really popular.”

  “No, dear. I’m going to go with ‘floss.’ It’s far more practical than a tattoo of a cat.”

  I rub my temples. This is possibly the strangest tattoo that I’ve ever heard, and I’ve heard some real doozies. “Did you have any other ideas?”

  “Well, sometimes I forget to take my blood pressure pills and there’s the issue with my dishwasher—”

  Before she can tell me what kind of dishwasher-related tattoo she’s considering, we’re interrupted by a commotion on the deck below us. I lean over the railing and see a wom
an jabbing her finger at a waiter while complaining at the top of her lungs about the fact that her strawberry daiquiri tastes like . . . wait for it . . . strawberries.

  I’ve dealt with her type before when I was a waitress at the country club. I’m impressed with how the waiter is managing to keep his cool. If this happened to me, I would have told the obnoxious lady exactly where to go. The kind of place that’s hot all year round, if you get my drift. Keeping my mouth shut was never my strong suit. Probably explains why my waitressing gig only lasted three days. Longer than my marriage, so there is that.

  The woman shoves the glass into the waiter’s hands, sloshing its contents everywhere. As she storms off, I call out, “Hey, aren’t you going to clean that up, lady?”

  I gasp as the waiter looks up. It’s the same guy from earlier in the evening. The one with the sandy-brown hair that’s softer than kitten fur. I feel my face grow warm as he locks his hazel eyes with mine.

  “Who’s that?” Celeste whispers. “He’s cute.”

  “I have no idea,” I say softly.

  “I think you better find out,” she says. “Because I’m pretty sure he just winked at you.”

  2

  Sweaty Hands and Rutabagas

  A few days later, I’m lounging in a deck chair, a stack of glossy magazines and an iced tea on the table next to me. We’re about a third of the way through our transatlantic crossing, and I’m already bored out of my mind. Not being able to see anything on the horizon other than endless water isn’t helping my mood either. I almost wish I had flown instead . . . almost.

  “I’m fed up with magazines trying to tell me what to do and what I should look like,” I mutter, flipping through an article dedicated to the latest weight loss fads. “Rutamentals? A diet based on rutabagas, guaranteed to help you lose those unwanted pounds? That sounds disgusting. I’m happy with my curves, thank you very much.”

  After flinging that magazine on the deck, I pick up another one and thumb through it. “Five steps to getting a boyfriend…ridiculous. How about five steps to making sure you don’t get a boyfriend? That would be more far more useful.”

  I take a sip of my tea while I ponder what my anti-boyfriend steps would be. “Let’s see, first, you have to avoid eye contact at all costs. Guys have been known to hypnotize you with their eyes. It’s like a superpower. Whether they’re baby blues, or deep, dark eyes framed with long eyelashes, or a pair of hazel eyes which are mischievously winking at you—”

  I pause as a woman walking past looks sharply at me. Oops. I guess I’ve been talking out loud to myself. I do that sometimes. Sure, it might be a little weird, but I don’t care what anyone thinks of me, least of all some snobby lady whose first word as a child was probably “tsk-tsk.”

  After a few moments, I realize that I’m not talking out loud anymore. Instead, all I’m doing is thinking about hazel eyes. Hazel eyes with a twinkle in them. Or, to be more specific, a cute French waiter with broad shoulders, hair you want to run your fingers through, and mesmerizing hazel eyes that just happen to be winking at me.

  I mentally shake myself. Why in the world am I thinking about him? I haven’t even seen the guy since the first night of the cruise. I don’t even know his name. I don’t want to know his name. I don’t want to know anything about him.

  This brings me to step number two—when you find yourself thinking about a guy, distract yourself with . . . well, with anything. I tend to think about the state of my cuticles.

  After deciding I should apply some cuticle remover later, I grab the health and fitness magazine back off the deck and try to engross myself in diet recipes. Who knew you could puree cooked rutabaga and tofu, put it in the freezer for a few hours, and then pass it off as ice cream to unsuspecting dinner guests?

  I glance up and see Isabelle effortlessly jogging toward me like a gazelle, her long ponytail swinging back and forth. She’s smiling blissfully—the endorphins from her runner’s high have clearly kicked in. Ginny is trailing behind her, shuffling from side to side like a duck waddling toward a pond. She’s grimacing while she gasps for breath. Definitely no endorphins happening there.

  Isabelle gives me a quick wave as she passes. Ginny tries to do likewise, but as she reaches her arm out, her hand gets caught in a life ring mounted on the railing. While trying to extract it, she trips over the stack of magazines on the deck, flies into me, and knocks me to the ground.

  “Permettez-moi, mademoiselle.”

  I look up and see Mr. Hazel Eyes holding out his hand to help me up.

  I’m torn. What if his hands are sweaty and gross? How disappointing would that be? Cute guys shouldn’t have gross, sweaty hands—although in my experience they usually do. I’m confident that statistics will back me up on this. But, on the other hand, what if his hands are pleasantly dry? Don’t I owe it to science to find out if he’s a statistical anomaly?

  “Mademoiselle?”

  Science wins. I place my hand in his and gasp. Not only are they dry, they’re emitting some sort of weird energy particles that are causing my entire body to tingle from the tips of my fingers—which he’s lightly caressing—down to the soles of my feet. The whole tingling thing is another one of those superpowers that the opposite sex use on us to make us swoon.

  As he helps me to my feet, I wonder what these energy particles are. Could this be related to the legendary Force from Star Wars?

  I quickly pull my hand away, avert my eyes, and try to distract myself by thinking about rutabaga and tofu ice cream.

  The waiter furrows his brow. “Vous allez bien?”

  “I’m fine, thanks,” I say.

  “I am very glad to hear that,” he responds in perfect English, spoken with a swoon-worthy British accent. He scoops up the magazines strewn across the deck. As he hands the stack to me, he points at the headline promising five easy steps to get a man in your life. “Is this how you got your boyfriend?”

  “Me? Boyfriend?” I stammer, clutching the magazines against my chest. “What boyfriend?”

  His only response is a lazy grin.

  “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

  He nods slowly. “Hmm . . . no boyfriend. Interesting.”

  I scowl. This topic of conversation is far from interesting. Time to set Mr. Hazel Eyes straight. I shuffle through the magazines, find the article I’m looking for, then thrust it at him. “This is why I bought this—because of this photo shoot.”

  He cocks his head to one side. “Wedding dresses? That is interesting.”

  I feel my face grow warm. “No, it’s not about the dresses. It’s about the tattoos. See how each of the brides has a tattoo? They were done by Dominic de Santis. He’s the go-to guy when celebrities are looking to get some ink. He’s an incredible artist.”

  “I’d love to get something like that one day.” He points at a close-up picture of one of the brides’ hands.

  I quirk an eyebrow and say with a slight smirk, “A bouquet or a diamond solitaire engagement ring?”

  “No, the tribal tattoo on her wrist. But, I’m afraid my employer wouldn’t approve.”

  “But you already have a tattoo?”

  He frowns. “How do you know that?”

  “Um . . . I saw it the other night when you were cleaning up the plate I dropped.”

  He rubs his hand on the back of his neck, worry creasing his brow. “I didn’t think anyone could see it.”

  “I don’t think anyone can normally,” I say. “It was the way you were positioned underneath me. Your shirt was pulled back and I could see some black ink.”

  I feel flustered as I remember that tantalizing bit of ink. What does the rest of his tattoo look like? How far down his back does it go? What does his back look like?

  I mentally shake myself and continue, “Most people wouldn’t have noticed. If they did, they probably thought it was dirt. Not that anyone would think you have dirt on your neck. I mean, that would be strange. Why would you have dirt on your neck? No, I’m sure no one could
see it. The only reason I noticed was because—”

  Someone clears their throat, interrupting my train of thought, which is probably a good thing because I was starting to babble.

  “Uh, excuse me. I could use a little help down here.”

  I glance down and see Ginny lying on the deck, her hand pressed against her ankle.

  “Oh, my gosh. I’m so sorry,” I quickly say as I bend down next to her. “Are you okay?”

  “I think I twisted my ankle.”

  “I’ll summon the doctor,” Mr. Hazel Eyes says in a smooth, professional tone.

  “No, that’s not necessary,” Ginny says firmly. “Just help me up. I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

  After the two of us assist her to her feet, and she reassures us that she’s fine, the waiter—whose name I still don’t know—excuses himself to take a drink order from a nearby couple.

  Ginny nearly collapses as she tries to put her weight on her ankle.

  “Maybe we should see that doctor,” I say.

  “I think you’re right,” Ginny says. “Where did your friend go?”

  “My friend?” I say. “He’s not my friend. He’s just a . . . a . . . um . . . waiter.”

  Ginny smiles. “Okay, maybe he’s not your friend. But he’s definitely not just a waiter. Unless, waiters usually wink at you like that.”

  * * *

  Ginny slings her arm around my shoulders, and I help her hobble to the doctor’s office. Actually, I’m not sure that I’m any help given how much shorter I am than her. Because Ginny has to lean down at an awkward angle for me to support her, I worry that the two of us are going to topple over again and land on the floor.

  Fortunately, we reach the elevator without an incident and the doors glide open as soon as I press the button. Unfortunately, Mr. and Mrs. Smoochy Face are inside the elevator car, locked in a tight embrace while they make gooey eyes at each other, and completely blocking our way.

  I clear my throat to get their attention, but they’re oblivious.