Smitten with Croissants

by Ellen Jacobson

  He grins, then points at my plate. “Go on, try the cassoulet, and then we can compare notes.”

  First, I take a picture on my phone and post it to my social media accounts, making sure to tag Auberge du Canard and adding the hashtag, “reservations required.” Then I groan as I sample the rich, hearty stew. Despite the fact that it’s four days old, it’s utterly delicious. The beans are soft, the sausages are subtly spiced, the duck is juicy, and the mutton is tender.

  Pierre dabs his mouth with a white linen napkin. “Well?”

  “It’s okay.”

  “Liar.”

  “I am not a liar.”

  “Hmm. Let’s see, if I recall correctly, you told me that Solo was the best Star Wars film. That was clearly a lie. Everyone knows that Return of the Jedi is the best one.”

  “You’re delusional,” I say before taking another bite of the cassoulet, carefully managing to get a bit of everything onto my fork.

  He leans forward, his hazel eyes flickering in the candlelight. “Admit it, you loved the scene when Luke and Leia rode speeder bikes in the forest on Endor.”

  “Sure,” I say between mouthfuls.

  “Aha!”

  “Aha, nothing.” I set my fork down. “Is that why you like marmots so much? Because they look like Ewoks?”

  He plucks a piece of crusty baguette from the bread basket. “Hmm . . . I never thought about it that way. I think it’s more that I like Ewoks because they remind me of marmots.”

  “What’s the deal with the marmots, anyway? Your family has a hotel named after them and you have a secret tattoo of a marmot on your back.”

  “Secret being the operative word. There are only a few people who know about my tattoos—you, Amélie, Jean-Paul, Dominic de Santis, and, well, never mind. The important thing is that I want to keep it that way.”

  I chew a piece of bread thoughtfully. Who else knows about his tattoos? Who else has seen Pierre without his shirt on? Obviously the person who did his elephant tattoo. When he goes to the gym to work out—and Pierre definitely works out—the guys in the changing room would have seen them. But is there someone else? An old girlfriend, perhaps? Did he get his original elephant tattoo for her? Who is she?

  I feel my jaw tightening and it isn’t because I’m chewing too hard. The bread isn’t that crusty. The thought of another woman seeing Pierre without his shirt on is, well, it’s giving me an uncomfortable feeling inside. Something I haven’t felt for a long time—jealousy.

  “So what’s the big deal about having tattoos?” I ask. “You’re a grown man. You can do whatever you like. They don’t have a stigma like they used to.”

  Pierre runs his hands through his hair. “It’s complicated. Let’s just say that my mother would be disappointed.”

  “It’s impossible to go through life without disappointing your mom at some point,” I say. “But imagine how much more disappointed she’ll be when she finds out about your tattoos and the fact that you didn’t tell her about them. Something like that won’t stay secret forever.”

  “I agree,” he says. “That’s one of the reasons I got the marmot tattoo. When she sees that, she’ll—”

  I never get to find out what his mother will do because I hear a loud squeal behind me. It’s so piercing that I’m surprised the crystal chandelier doesn’t crack. I turn, expecting to see a very large guinea pig behind me. Instead, I’m confronted by a woman so stunning that if she isn’t already a professional model, it’s only because she made a conscious career choice to do voiceover work for documentaries about guinea pigs instead of modeling.

  Pierre greets her, kissing one cheek, then the other. As he goes to pull away, she snakes her perfectly manicured hand through his hair and pulls him toward her, kissing him lightly on the lips. He pulls back, glances at me, and has the decency to look embarrassed.

  He introduces us—apparently Pierre went to boarding school with this Giselle chick’s brother—then asks who she’s dining with.

  Giselle points breezily at a large table by the window. I recognize several of the occupants from celebrity magazines. The men look like they played polo earlier, and the women look like they spent the afternoon shopping at exclusive boutiques. “You know, the usual crowd. You should come join us.”

  “I can’t. I’m here with Mia,” he says coolly.

  I feel my jaw tightening again. I can’t? That’s his response?

  Briefly allowing her eyes to graze over me, Giselle responds. “I understand.”

  I understand? What’s that supposed to mean? I feel like there’s all sorts of subtext going on here that only someone who has been educated in posh British boarding schools and hangs out with European aristocrats would understand.

  She squeezes his arm. “You’ll be back in Paris this weekend, right? We’re going skydiving on Saturday. You should come. It’ll be a blast.”

  Pierre pauses for a beat, then says, “Mia is afraid of flying.”

  Now, I’m utterly confused. I’m pretty sure she wasn’t inviting me skydiving.

  Giselle purses her lips for a moment, then gives me a brittle smile. “Such a shame you won’t be able to join us.” As if dismissing me, she turns to face Pierre. Her fingers trail down his arm. “But we’ll see you there, won’t we? We haven’t done an accelerated free fall together in ages.”

  The way she says “accelerated free fall” makes me see red. She’s making skydiving sound sexy. How is that even possible?

  I drop my fork on my plate, and the noise startles the two of them. “Don’t worry, Giselle. I’ll be there too. I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Jumping out of a plane? Sounds fabulous.”

  11

  The Countdown Timer

  Friday morning rolls around and I’m pacing back and forth in the art gallery at Hôtel de la Marmotte while I periodically check my phone. I’ve set a timer that is counting down the hours, minutes, and seconds until I have to jump out of a plane. Right now, my appointment with death is twenty-six hours, thirteen minutes, and forty seconds away.

  To be fair, that’s just a guesstimate. While I know that we have to be at the airport early tomorrow morning, I have no idea how long it’s going to take to strap a parachute on, get on the plane, fly up to the right altitude, and then make my leap of doom.

  I stop pacing and put my hand to my chest. Jump out of a plane? What was I thinking? I’m too young to die. There’s so much I still want to accomplish before my time on this planet is up—open my own combination art gallery and tattoo shop, adopt a cat, and buy a custom-made lightsaber.

  My heart flutters, forcing me to acknowledge something I’ve been trying to suppress. “Be honest with yourself, Mia,” it says. “There’s one other thing you want to check off your list. You want to kiss Pierre again.”

  True, heart, so true. Ever since that night at the charity ball when his mother and her poodle interrupted us, we haven’t so much as held hands. Initially, that was due to the fact that I had been avoiding Pierre, but things changed for me the night we went to dinner at Auberge du Canard in Carcassonne. After meeting in the lobby of his family’s hotel, we strolled through the heart of the picturesque walled city, enjoying the balmy weather.

  As we walked through the narrow, winding streets, Pierre regaled me with historical tidbits about the area. But his eyes really lit up when he talked about the local rugby team and how their emblem features an image of the ancient city.

  Then our conversation turned to Pierre’s charity work. I was surprised when he asked my advice about grassroots fundraising. He told me that he felt uneasy about hosting extravagant fundraisers, especially when a significant portion of the money raised went to putting on the fundraiser itself, rather than to the orphanages. I wondered if I had misjudged him. Maybe you could be insanely wealthy and still be a good guy.

  When I stumbled on the cobblestones, Pierre briefly grabbed my elbow and steadied me. Then he abruptly dropped his hand. At the time, I chalked it up to him knowing that I didn’t appro
ve of public displays of affection.

  When we were at the restaurant and he reached across the table, I thought he was going to squeeze my hand. Turns out he just wanted some salt for his appetizer of wild mushrooms sautéed in fresh herbs.

  By the time our cassoulet arrived, I was itching for him to touch me, even if it was to casually brush his fingers against mine. Then, of course, you know what happened—Giselle arrived on the scene, reminding me of Pierre’s true nature. A spoiled billionaire who was out on some sort of pity date with me. The rest of the evening was awkward, the conversation was stilted, and I was glad when it was over.

  But still, I wanted to kiss him. And I still do. What does that say about me? That I don’t care that Pierre is a rich jerk? That I care about Pierre despite the fact that he’s a rich jerk? Or that I just want to put Giselle in her place?

  Truthfully, it’s probably the latter. Girls like Giselle deserve to know that just because you look like a supermodel doesn’t mean you can have everything you want.

  My heart flutters, then softly says, “Are you sure you’re being honest with yourself, Mia? Is this really about Giselle? Or is this about protecting yourself?”

  * * *

  Twenty-one hours, twelve minutes, and two seconds until things go splat on the ground. Things being me. I need to know more about what I’m getting myself into.

  I ask Amélie if I can take a break. She says yes, provided that I return with an espresso for her and a chocolate croissant for me. She’s getting tired of my pacing back and forth and the constant checking of my phone. She’s hoping a sugar buzz will soothe my frazzled nerves. I’m not sure she understands how sugar works on the nervous system, but a croissant does sound good.

  As I walk toward the concierge desk, I pause to watch the daily parade of ducks. Bellboys, waiters, and desk clerks make a procession down the grand staircase to the large reflection pool in the center of the lobby. Each of them carries a yellow rubber ducky nestled on a small red velvet cushion. With great ceremony, they lower their ducks into the water, carefully holding onto them so that they can’t drift away. Then the front desk manager strikes a gong. All the hotel guests wait in hushed anticipation while the lights on the bottom of the pool are illuminated and the fountain in the center of the pool starts to bubble. The hotel manager strikes his gong a second time, and the ducks are released to float aimlessly around the pool. Everyone applauds, chattering among themselves about how delightfully quirky Hôtel de la Marmotte is.

  Pierre catches my eye as he hands his velvet cushion to a fellow bellboy. He starts to walk toward me, but his mother calls his name. Giving me an apologetic look, he turns and follows her into her office.

  I watch the duckies for a few moments, trying to reconcile the odd touches at the hotel, such as the duck parade and the oil painting of a marmot on a Harley Davidson at the entrance to the restaurant, with Pierre’s mother. She seems so formal, so aloof, so serious, so not fun. Yet, according to Pierre, this hotel is her baby. She purchased the building, oversaw the renovation, and turned it into one of the hottest boutique hotels in Paris, if not in all of Europe.

  I shrug and continue on my way. The woman hasn’t said one single solitary word to me since I started working here. It’s not like we’re suddenly going to become best friends and she’s going to spill all her hotelier secrets to me. Everything about the Hôtel de la Marmotte is probably a dry, commercial decision on her part, carefully calculated to attract more guests and bring in more money to the Toussaint empire.

  When I reach the concierge desk, Jean-Paul nods at me. While he assists a woman with tickets to the Moulin Rouge, I pick up a skydiving brochure from a rack by the hotel entrance. The pictures on the front, of people smiling while they’re hurtling toward the ground, would lead you to believe that jumping out of a plane from ten thousand feet in the air is the ultimate thrill.

  It’s not like I read the dictionary regularly, but I’m pretty sure that the word “thrill” means a feeling of excitement and pleasure. Obviously, whoever designed this brochure has no clue about the English language. Skydiving isn’t thrilling; it’s terrifying. I grab a pen from the desk, cross out “ultimate thrill” and replace it with “ultimate terror.” Truth in advertising is important.

  “What are you doing, Mia?” Jean-Paul asks. When I show him the brochure, he smiles. “I heard you’re going skydiving. I have to say that I was surprised. I thought you were afraid of flying.”

  “I am.”

  He cocks his head to one side. “I don’t understand.”

  “Yeah, that makes two of us.” I fiddle with the brochure in my hand. “What do you know about this Giselle chick?”

  “Ah, now I think I understand,” Jean-Paul says. “Pierre told me that Giselle was at Auberge du Canard when the two of you were there. She is very fond of skydiving. I suppose she’ll be there tomorrow?”

  I nod, picturing Giselle looking like a James Bond girl in a form-fitting jumpsuit, the zipper pulled down to expose a lacy bra, high-heeled boots, and designer goggles perched on her head. She’ll fawn all over Pierre, then the two of them will gracefully jump out of the plane. After performing acrobatic maneuvers in the air, they’ll glide to the ground, land effortlessly, then embrace passionately.

  “Did the two of them used to date?” I blurt out.

  “You don’t need to worry about Giselle,” Jean-Paul says.

  “Who says I’m worried?”

  He points at the brochure I’m holding. I seem to have torn it into tiny pieces. Half of them are still clenched in my hand. The other half are scattered on the desk. “You’re clearly anxious about something.”

  “I’m worried about dying.”

  “Skydiving is perfectly safe,” Jean-Paul says.

  “But what if I forget to pull the parachute in time? What if the cord breaks? What if my parachute has a giant tear in it? What if—”

  Jean-Paul holds up his hand. “You don’t need to worry about any of that. For your first skydive, you’ll be doing a tandem.”

  “A what?”

  “A tandem. You’ll be harnessed to someone else. All you’ll have to do is enjoy the ride down.”

  “Harnessed to someone else? That sounds weird.”

  Jean-Paul pulls another brochure off the rack and opens it up. “See how this woman is wearing a full-body harness? It’s connected to her instructor’s harness. He has the parachute on his back.”

  “What if the instructor forgets to deploy the parachute?”

  “Pierre won’t forget. He’s very experienced.”

  “Pierre?”

  “Yes, he’s planning on doing the tandem dive with you. He’s a certified skydiving instructor.”

  Well, of course he is. In addition to running a charity for African orphanages, working as a bellboy, and filling in for his father at meetings, he also teaches people about how to hurtle themselves to death from a plane. Next, I’ll find out that he also does brain surgery in his spare time.

  Jean-Paul pats my hand. “I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but I’ve never seen Pierre like this with any girl before.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like . . .” He scratches his head, trying to think of the word in English. “Smitten. Yes, that’s what it is. He’s smitten with you.”

  I smile. Smitten is such an old-fashioned term. Cute, but old-fashioned. Then my expression sobers. “I doubt that Pierre is smitten with me.”

  “No, he definitely is,” Jean-Paul says. “I know that he met with his lawyer yesterday to discuss a matter related to you.”

  My stomach clenches. “His lawyer? Why in the world would he do that?”

  “I’ve said too much.” Jean-Paul shakes his head. “It’s best if Pierre explains the rest.”

  He refuses to divulge any more information, no matter how persistently I question him. Eventually, I give up.

  After walking over to the cafe and ordering an espresso for Amélie, I glance at my phone. Nineteen hours, thirty-two mi
nutes, and twenty seconds until I do a tandem skydive with Pierre. I’ve never been more terrified in my life.

  * * *

  It’s Saturday morning. Four hours, two minutes, and thirty-six seconds to go, and I still haven’t come up with a way to get out of skydiving.

  While I wait outside the hotel for Pierre to pick me up, I think about my options. My best idea so far has been to buy a life-size dummy—like the ones they use in automobile crash tests—dress it up like me, sneak it aboard the plane, strap a parachute on it, then jettison it once we reach the jump altitude. But when I talked it over with Isabelle, she pointed out a few flaws with my plan.

  First, a crash test dummy can’t pull a ripcord. When no one sees the parachute unfurl, they’ll assume the worst. An ambulance will race over, sirens blaring, expecting to find my dead body. Instead, they’ll see the dummy’s head with a blonde wig on it, and plastic arms and legs scattered about.

  Second, Pierre and I are supposed to tandem skydive. Do I really think he won’t notice when a crash test dummy is strapped to him instead of me? We’ve been up close and personal before, kissing at the charity ball. He’s bound to notice that something isn’t quite right. And, if he can’t spot the difference between me and a plastic mannequin, I have bigger problems than jumping out of a plane.

  Third, crash dummies don’t come cheap. My credit card is already maxed out. I can barely afford to buy an espresso, let alone make a purchase that large.

  I tap my foot anxiously while I wait for Pierre’s car to pull up. Think, Mia, think. There has to be a way to get out of this.

  Fake an illness? No, Pierre would probably see through that one. I’ve already told him how I used to pretend to have a stomachache when I wanted to get out of selling Girl Scout cookies door-to-door. I loved being a Girl Scout. Selling cookies, not so much.

  My phone informs me that the hours, minutes, and seconds are ticking away. Do I have enough time to get a coffee before Pierre gets here? More importantly, do I have enough money? I rummage in my backpack, but only find sixty-five cents. That’s definitely not enough. And we all know that my credit card—