Smitten with Croissants

by Ellen Jacobson

“I’ve known a lot of guys like you,” I say. “Maybe they’re not as rich as you are, but they’re rich enough, and each and every single one has been a jerk.”

  Pierre’s shoulders slump. “Is that what you really think of me?”

  “I don’t know what to think anymore, to be honest.” I chew on my lip. “When I first met you, you were a waiter. I thought you were just a normal guy, trying to make a living. I liked you. We had fun together. Then I got to Paris and discovered that you’re not just some ordinary guy, you’re the heir to the Toussaint fortune. And that’s when things changed.”

  “How did things change? I was the same guy you met on the cruise ship.”

  I put my hands on my hips. “No, you weren’t. You tried to buy me off. You tried to control me. The free room at the hotel. The job at the art gallery. You wanted to prove how much better you were than me. How little old me from Small Town, USA could never survive in Paris without you.”

  “If that’s what you thought, why did you accept my help?”

  I’m at a loss for words. Why did I accept his help? I didn’t want to. Isabelle, Ginny, and Celeste all convinced me that I was reading too much into everything. That he was just being nice. That he was just being my friend. Was that why I said yes to his assistance?

  When I don’t respond, he mutters, “She was right. You’re a gold digger, just like the rest of them.”

  “She? Who? Your mother?”

  Pierre furrows his brow. “My mother?”

  “I’ve seen how she looks at me. Like I’m something you find on your shoe. Like I’m beneath her.”

  “You don’t know my mother very well,” he says.

  “I know enough. I’ve dealt with women like her before. They don’t want their sons to marry girls from the wrong side of the tracks. My mother-in-law was just like her.”

  “Your mother-in-law. Yeah, let’s get back to the original topic. Why didn’t you tell me you were married before? Was that because you ran out on your husband? Did you abandon him?” He narrows his eyes. “Who else did you abandon?”

  I throw my hands up in the air. “I didn’t abandon anyone.”

  “Sure. And why should I believe you?” He starts to walk away from me, then doubles back. Jabbing his finger into my chest, he says, “I’m glad I found out about the real you before it was too late.”

  “You mean before you asked me to marry you?”

  “Marry you? Talk about delusional. Why do you think I wanted to marry you?”

  “Stefan mentioned something about wedding bells. I saw the prenuptial agreement your lawyer brought to the airport for you to sign.”

  He arches an eyebrow. “A prenuptial? Trust me, that’s not what he was there to discuss with me. You do realize that lawyers have more than one client, don’t you? Honestly, did you really think I was going to propose to you? That talk about wedding bells had to do with a friend of ours who is going to propose to his girlfriend. It had absolutely nothing to do with you. Nothing.”

  I feel my face grow warm. The lawyer was flustered when he was picking up the papers. He probably put the prenuptial agreement back into the wrong folder. It didn’t have anything to do with Pierre. How could I have been so stupid?

  “What he brought for me to look at was something entirely different.” Pierre gives me a scathing look. “Something that’s completely irrelevant now.”

  As he strides away from me, I feel my chest tightening. Unzipping the top of my jumpsuit so that I can breathe, I think about what’s happened today. I don’t think I’m afraid of flying anymore, but I am afraid of something far worse—losing Pierre.

  13

  Going Blue

  After Pierre storms off, Stefan graciously offers to drive me back to the hotel. The ride back is quiet. At first, Stefan tries to engage me in conversation, but when my responses continue to consist of one-word answers, he gives up.

  I go to my suite at the hotel and pack my bags. I have no idea where I’m going to sleep tonight, but I know it won’t be here. I’m tempted to tuck a few bottles of the begonia-scented shampoo and conditioner in my purse, but I resist. I don’t want to be beholden to Pierre any longer, not even for floral-scented hair.

  Gathering up the last of my personal belongings, I take one last look at my home for the past few months. The large claw-foot bathtub, the comfortable king-size bed, the marmot painting over the fireplace, and the Louis the Sixteenth furniture in the living room all try to tempt me to stay. I need to get out of here quickly before I succumb to temptation. I’ve gotten way too accustomed to living in luxurious surroundings. This isn’t who I am. I’m a simple girl, used to sleeping on a futon in a studio apartment.

  I scoot out the door before I change my mind. It makes an oddly satisfying clicking noise as it closes behind me. The sound of something ending. Something that never should have started.

  Once I’m in the elevator, I take a deep breath. The next thing I’m planning to do is going to be much harder. I have to tell Amélie that I can’t work at the art gallery anymore.

  As I walk through the lobby, I smile at the rubber duckies floating in the reflecting pool. Visions of Pierre carrying a velvet pillow as part of the daily duck parade flash through my head. He looked so goofy in that bellboy uniform of his, but it didn’t seem to faze him. He seemed genuinely happy to wear it, performing the most mundane tasks for hotel guests. To look at him, you’d never realize that his family owned the hotel. He was at ease with all the rest of the staff, making them feel like he was just one of the gang.

  Shaking my head, I push open the door to the art gallery. Amélie is at the sales counter with some customers. She raises her eyebrows when she sees my bags and motions for me to wait. While she rings up their purchase, I stroll around looking at the artwork on display. There’s a new collection of miniature paintings in the corner—each one depicting a field mouse next to a different kind of flower. It’s the type of thing my mom would love. I snap a photo with my phone. Considering how much they’re selling for, it’s the closest she’s going to get to having one.

  “What’s going on?” Amélie says after she escorts the customers out of the gallery. “Why do you have your bags?”

  “I’m leaving Hôtel de la Marmotte,” I say.

  “Oh, have you found an apartment?” She knows that I’ve been looking for one in what little spare time I’ve had. But finding something halfway decent in my price range had been a challenge, and Pierre kept insisting it wasn’t a problem for me to stay at the hotel, so my search had been half-hearted at best.

  “Not exactly.” I feel my eyes welling up, and I pull a tissue out of my purse.

  “Then why are you leaving?”

  I dab my eyes and sniffle. “Because I have to.”

  Amélie leads me over to the seating area by the window, then walks briskly to the door and flips the sign from “ouvert” to “fermé.”

  “No, you can’t close the gallery on my account,” I protest.

  “Nonsense. You’re upset.” She sits next to me and pats my knee. “Tell me what’s happened.”

  I spill my guts, telling her how I had mistakenly thought Pierre was going to propose to me. “I made a fool out of myself.”

  “No, not a fool, cherié. It is not foolish to be in love.”

  “But, I’m not in love.”

  She smiles gently at me. “Are you sure about that?”

  “Absolutely. I could never love Pierre and . . .” I crumple up the tissue in my hand as my voice trails off.

  “And what?”

  I walk over to the trash can and throw the tissue away. Turning back to Amélie, I say firmly, “And Pierre could never love me.”

  Amélie stands and smooths down her skirt. She looks as elegant as ever—the epitome of a chic Parisian woman. I’m still wearing my skydiving jumpsuit, my hair is a tangled mess, and one of my sneakers is untied. The contrast between the two of us couldn’t be starker.

  This is just one of the many reasons why Pierre a
nd I aren’t suited for each other. I lack the poise and fashion sense that women like Amélie, Giselle, and Pierre’s mother have. Pierre needs someone who he can proudly display on his arm at charity balls.

  “Now, I suppose the next thing you were planning on telling me is that you can’t work here anymore.” When I start to protest, she says, “Let me speak. I have seen girls like you before. Girls who don’t believe in themselves.”

  “That’s not true. I believe in myself.”

  “You think the only reason you got this job is because Pierre told me to hire you, non?” When I nod my head, she says, “You are wrong. I considered you for the job because Pierre sent me your resume and suggested that you might be a good fit.”

  I spread my hands. “Exactly.”

  “But it is I,” Amélie taps her chest, “moi, who hired you, not Pierre. I am the one who read your articles in Art Girl Moderne and recognized how knowledgeable you were about art. I am the one who spoke with the gentleman you did your apprenticeship with.”

  “You talked to Henry Tusk?”

  “He spoke very highly about your dedication and eagerness to learn. I also spoke with your manager at the last tattoo parlor you were employed at. He told me what a hard worker you are. You always went above and beyond what was required. Both of them also mentioned something which is very important to me—your artistic talent.”

  Staring at the marble floor, I feel overwhelmed by what Amélie has said. “They think I’m talented?” I ask softly.

  “Yes, cherié. So, now you understand why I hired you? Not because of Pierre. And I made a good decision, non? You work hard, you are good with customers, and you have done an excellent job organizing the tattoo photography exhibition. So, you will continue to work for me.”

  When I raise my eyes, Amélie is giving me a look that reminds me of my second-grade teacher, Mrs. Murphy. “Oui, madame. I’ll continue to work here.”

  “But I do think you need some time away from all this.” Amélie waves her arms around the gallery. “Take a few days off.” She pulls her purse out from underneath the counter and hands me a set of keys. “You can stay with Jean-Paul and me.”

  “But, I can’t,” I say. “What about the exhibition? We have so much to do to be ready on time.”

  She tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear and makes soothing noises. I nearly break down at the gesture. It reminds me of how my mother would comfort me when I was upset. “Mia, everything will be fine with the exhibition. You’ve worked so hard on it. There isn’t anything else that needs to be done that I or someone else can’t handle.”

  “But I want it to be perfect,” I say.

  “It will be,” she reassures me. After writing down the address to her and Jean-Paul’s apartment, she ushers me out the door.

  * * *

  After I arrive at Amélie and Jean-Paul’s, I instantly feel some of my stress melt away. As stunning as the suite at Hôtel de la Marmotte was, I prefer the homeyness of this apartment. The decor is stylish, but it’s also comfortable. Deep couches you want to sink into, leather armchairs next to a cozy fireplace, and a large dining table that looks like it has been in the family for generations.

  I set my bags down in the guest room, then lie on the bed. I didn’t sleep a wink the previous night because I kept tossing, turning, and staring at the skydiving countdown timer on my phone. A nap would do me good, but I’m not sure I’ll be able to fall asleep. Thoughts of how angry Pierre was with me keep flashing in my head. So what if he didn’t know I had been married before? It’s not like he didn’t keep plenty of secrets from me either. In fact, there are still things I don’t know about him, like how he got that scar on his back, what his relationship with Giselle is, and why he’s obsessed with marmots.

  I feel my eyes grow heavy. Turning on my side, I pull a blanket over me and drift off to sleep. At least I think I’m falling asleep. Maybe I’m already asleep. I really hope this all is just a bad dream. I pray that when I wake up, I’ll find myself on my futon in my old apartment back home.

  * * *

  “Wake up, cherié.” I feel someone tap my shoulder. “Mia, we’re going to have dinner soon. Time to get up.”

  I rub my eyes. This can’t be my apartment. Instead of framed Star Wars posters on the walls, there’s floral wallpaper. And this isn’t a futon I’m lying on. It’s a queen-size bed with a wrought iron headboard. The white chest of drawers looks antique, not like it came from a flat pack. Where am I?

  “Cherié, are you okay?”

  I sit up, propping a pillow behind my back. Someone just called me cherié. I know exactly where I am—Paris. It wasn’t a dream. It all happened. From meeting Pierre on the cruise ship, getting a job at the art gallery, staying at the suite at Hôtel Marmot, going to a fancy charity ball, kissing Pierre, to jumping out of a plane with him.

  I run my hands through the snarls in my hair, then smile faintly at Amélie. “I’m okay. Nothing a shower wouldn’t help.”

  She opens up an armoire and hands me a stack of fluffy towels. “The bathroom is down the hall. Come join us when you’re ready. We’ll have an apéritif, then I thought you might want to help us make dinner. I remember you saying how much you wanted to learn how to cook steak frites properly.”

  I open my suitcase to pull out my toiletry bag. Lying next to it is a plastic bag. Ooh, I forgot I had bought hair dye. Time to say goodbye to the old Mia and hello to a new and improved Mia.

  After mixing up the solution, applying it to my hair, and wrapping it in a plastic cap, I perch on the edge of the bathtub and check my phone. Pierre hasn’t called or texted. No surprise there. I don’t expect I’ll ever be hearing from him again. I do have a cryptic voicemail from Celeste, though.

  I dial her number, hoping her message doesn’t mean what I think it means.

  When she answers the phone, she sounds chirpy, but I have no idea what she’s saying.

  “That’s how you say hello in Greek, dear,” she explains.

  “It sounds like a really hard language to pronounce,” I say. “The only thing I can say in Greek is ‘baklava.’”

  “That’s a good start,” Celeste says. “My niece, Olivia, makes wonderful baklava. She had a great teacher. I think I told you about Xander, didn’t I?”

  “The guy that owns the taverna on the island where you’re staying?”

  “Uh-huh. He showed her his family’s secret baklava recipe. I know you rave about the croissants in Paris, but seriously, the baklava here is to die for. Honey-soaked pastry with nuts. Absolutely delicious. Ginny had some when she was here. She loved it.”

  “Maybe someday I’ll get to Greece,” I say. “But right now, I have a lot going on in Paris.”

  “And how is Pierre?”

  “Hang on a minute.” I set the phone down and check my hair. A little bit of dye is dripping down my neck. After dabbing it off with a tissue, I pick the phone back up. “Remember the photography exhibition I was telling you about? The opening night is next week. Tons to do for it.”

  “That’s nice, dear, but I didn’t ask you about work. I asked you about Pierre.”

  “Um, well, honestly, things aren’t great.”

  “Don’t tell me you broke up.”

  “Broke up? That’s a good question. It’s not like we were seriously dating. Can you break up with someone if you’ve only been out with them a few times?” Then I furrow my brow. Exactly how many times did Pierre and I go out? Was it a few times or less than that? I press the phone to my head with my shoulder while I count on my fingers.

  First, there was the Star Wars convention. I’m not sure that qualifies as a date. It might have simply been two friends attending an event where they can geek out over spaceships, lightsabers, and alien life forms. I suspect that the people Pierre normally hangs out with aren’t sci-fi fans.

  Second, there was the charity ball. That had to have been our first official date. I’m not the kind of girl to drag a guy out to a patio and make-out with him unless
we’re dating.

  Third up was the dinner at Auberge du Canard. Was that a date? Or was that just a dinner between two colleagues who happened to be in the same city at the same time for work? Giselle’s sudden appearance at the restaurant and Pierre’s reaction to her makes it hard to categorize that one.

  When I get to my ring finger, I sigh. The fourth pseudo-date Pierre and I had was today when we went skydiving. And we all know how that ended.

  “Earth to Mia,” Celeste says. “Something’s obviously happened between the two of you.”

  “It did,” I say simply. “And I promise to tell you all about it later. But right now, I have to go wash my hair.”

  Celeste hums a familiar-sounding show tune, then chuckles. “Are you going to wash that man right out of your hair too?”

  “Uh, no. Just hair dye.”

  “Sometimes, I forget how young you are. I don’t suppose you ever saw South Pacific. One day, I’ll have to tell you about the time I was in an off-Broadway production of it. Anyway, go wash your hair.”

  “Hey before you hang up, Celeste, you need to explain your voicemail to me. Did you really get a tattoo on your—”

  Darn it. My phone’s died. I remind myself to dig the charger out of my backpack later, then get busy washing the hair dye . . . not to mention that Frenchman . . . right out of my hair.

  * * *

  When I walk into the kitchen, I catch Jean-Paul and Amélie mid-kiss. It’s both awkward and sweet. I don’t mean that they’re awkward. They’re adorable. Married for so long and still obviously in love. That part is sweet. I’m the one that feels awkward, interrupting their affectionate moment.

  Before I can tiptoe out, Amélie spots me. She motions at the kitchen table. “Come sit and have an apéritif while I finish chopping the vegetables. Jean-Paul, go get her a drink.”

  Jean-Paul pours some pastis into a glass, then adds water, which changes the color of the anise-flavored liqueur from yellow to a milky-white. When he hands the glass to me, he does a double take. “Your hair is blue.”