Smitten with Croissants

by Ellen Jacobson

  Amélie smiles at me. “It looks lovely. Très chic.”

  Twisting my hair into a knot, I look at her uncertainly. “I’m not sure it’s chic.”

  “Oh, yes, it’s very chic,” she says. “You have a natural sense of style. Madame Toussaint was saying as much the other day.”

  “Pierre’s mother thinks I’m stylish?”

  “Yes. That surprises you?” She places a bowl of potatoes in front of me to peel. “You need to believe in yourself more, chérie.”

  I take a sip of my pastis, then get to work on the potatoes.

  Jean-Paul looks at me thoughtfully. “How did you react when Pierre told you that you were beautiful?”

  I snort. “Beautiful? Me? Pierre? None of those things go together in a sentence.”

  “But he thinks you’re beautiful. He told me that.”

  “Well, he never said that to me.” I take another sip of my drink, savoring the intense licorice flavor.

  “Hmm . . . I thought he had,” Jean-Paul says.

  While the three of us work quietly preparing the ingredients for our dinner, I think back to the night of the charity ball. Pierre had tried to kiss me in front of everyone. When I tried to stop him, he said something about there being nothing wrong with kissing a beautiful woman in public. Am I remembering that right? Did he call me beautiful?

  “Okay, I’ll show you how to make the Béarnaise sauce now,” Amélie says.

  While she demonstrates how to emulsify egg yolks and butter with vinegar, Jean-Paul inquires about whether Pierre asked me to be on the Board of Trustees for his charity yet.

  I nearly drop the sprig of tarragon I’m holding. “Excuse me?”

  “Yes, he was going to ask you once he got the paperwork back from his lawyer.”

  “Paperwork . . . lawyer . . .” I splutter, feeling my face grow warm as I remember the prenuptial fiasco.

  Amélie takes the herbs out of my hand. “Pierre was very impressed with the charity work you did in the States. Imagine, helping former gang members like that by covering up their tattoos.”

  “Pierre said that you take symbols of hate and turn them into something else,” Jean-Paul says. “How exactly do you do that?”

  I shrug. “It just takes some creativity, I guess. I talk with the guys, ask them for their ideas, and draw some designs for them to consider. Then I get to work.”

  “But it’s not work, is it?” Jean-Paul asks. “You do it for free.”

  “Well, sure. These guys are trying to make a fresh start in life. All it takes on my part is time. It’s really no big deal.”

  Amélie shakes her head. “It is a big deal. Not everyone would work with people like that.”

  “Everyone needs a second chance,” I say.

  Jean-Paul seasons some steaks, then places them on a hot cast iron grill. “Pierre said that you do more than tattoo cover-ups. You also work with communities and raise money to help ex-convicts get a fresh start.”

  “You know, I need to go make a call.” I tug at my collar while I inch toward the door. “Can you let me know when dinner is ready?”

  Amélie calls after me. “Remember what you said about everyone deserving a second chance? Maybe you should call Pierre.”

  14

  Yellow-Bellied Marmots

  Birds chirping outside my bedroom window wake me the next morning. A light breeze makes the lace curtains flutter, and sunlight dances around the room. Stretching my arms above my head, I’m tempted to crawl back under the covers, but my stomach has other ideas, namely to be fed.

  I’m surprised at how hungry I am, especially after the huge dinner I had. The French have managed to take a simple meal of steak and fries and elevate it to an art form. Add in red wine, salad, and chocolate mousse for dessert, and you can see why people who visit Paris never want to leave.

  Do I want to leave Paris, especially after everything that’s happened with Pierre? I’m really going to need to figure out the answer to that question. Last night, Amélie made me promise that I would stay and work at the art gallery until the end of summer. After that, the tourist season will wind down and the tattoo photography exhibition will be over. Then, I’ll be free to leave Paris . . . if that’s what I really want.

  My stomach growls so loudly that the birds on the windowsill startle and fly away. When I check the time on my phone, I’m surprised that it’s after ten. I can’t remember the last time I slept in so late. No wonder I’m hungry.

  Before setting my phone back on the nightstand, I check my texts, emails, and voice messages. Nothing from Pierre. Did he check his phone as well this morning to see if I had tried to contact him? Amélie had told me that I should give him a second chance and reach out to him, but I can’t. Not yet. What would I say? There’s so much I need to figure out first, on my own, starting with whether I want to make a life in Paris long-term. Besides, don’t second chances work both ways? Does he want to give me one too?

  The sound of my stomach growling drowns out my thoughts about Pierre. Giving in to hunger, I get dressed and head into the kitchen. While the coffee brews, I read the note Jean-Paul left for me on the table. “There’s more to life than work. Go enjoy all that Paris has to offer.”

  Underneath the note is a large envelope with my name scrawled on it. When I open it, I find a walking map of the city and a guidebook, along with complimentary tickets to the Eiffel Tower and a boat ride on the Seine. I smile. Jean-Paul knows that, despite having lived in Paris for a few months, I’ve actually seen very little of the city. When I haven’t been working, I’ve been sleeping. And when I haven’t been sleeping, I’ve been working. Today, things are going to change. It’s time to experience the City of Lights like a tourist.

  After a quick breakfast of yogurt and fruit—I promise my stomach I’ll feed it more later—I grab my map and head to my first stop, the Arc de Triomphe. When I get there, I’m struck by the grandeur of the memorial arch that honors soldiers who fought and died for France. I pause for a moment at the eternal flame near the tomb of an unknown soldier from World War I and give a moment of silent thanks for people who make the ultimate sacrifice serving their country.

  Next, I stroll down the famed Avenue des Champs-Élysées toward the Place de la Concorde. The trees which line the avenue remind me of rectangular lollipops, the luxury clothing shops remind me of Giselle and her friends, and the cafes remind me that it’s almost lunchtime. Waiters try to entice me to sit at one of the outdoor tables and enjoy a meal, but given my financial situation, I’m going to have to settle for a sandwich from a food stand instead.

  An Egyptian obelisk stands at the center of the Place de la Concorde. Munching on a crusty baguette filled with ham and cheese, I examine the hieroglyphics on the large granite column. The Toussaint family owns a hotel in Cairo, a place I’ve always wanted to visit. Seeing the pyramids, exploring the Egyptian Museum, and shopping in a souq—these are all things on my bucket list. Maybe traveling to Egypt is what I should do next with my life. Obviously, I could never afford to stay at Pierre’s family’s hotel there, but I’m sure there are nice hostels in my price range.

  The Louvre isn’t far from the Place de la Concorde, but I decide to skip a return visit. It would remind me too much of Pierre. Instead, I walk down to the Seine and board one of the hop on and off tourist boats. The next hour passes by quickly. I learn a few interesting tidbits along the way, including the fact that there’s only one stop sign in the entire city. I wonder if that’s why the traffic is so crazy here. If I were a billionaire like Pierre, I’d definitely have a chauffeur drive me around everywhere. That would be a perk of being rich that I’d definitely enjoy.

  As the boat nears the Eiffel Tower, I snap a few pictures of the most recognizable landmark in Paris. The line for tickets snakes around the block. Thankfully, the ticket Jean-Paul gave me gives me VIP access to the elevators to the top. I suppose one of the perks of being a concierge is getting complimentary tickets like these, and it was sweet of him to pass
it along to me.

  The elevator takes me to the second level. The views of Paris are amazing from here, and I even dare to walk out on the glass floor, which is eighteen stories above street level. Looking down, I experience a bit of vertigo, but nothing like I would have felt in the past. Skydiving seems to have cured me of not only a fear of flying but also a fear of heights.

  Next, I board another elevator for the top of the tower. The views are even more stunning. I lean against the railing and try to make out famous landmarks.

  “Hello, Mia,” I hear an American woman say behind me. I turn around in dread, expecting to see one of the snobby ladies from the country club back home. Instead, I find myself face to face with Pierre’s mother. She’s impeccably dressed as ever—a sheath dress with an abstract floral print, pink stilettos, and amethysts dangling from her ears.

  I’m having a hard time reconciling her fashionable Parisian attire with her flat American accent. Shouldn’t she have a posh British accent like Pierre?

  “Madame Toussaint,” I splutter.

  “Please, call me Gladys.”

  “Gladys? That’s not a very French name,” I blurt out.

  “That’s probably because I’m not French,” she says, her eyes crinkling with amusement. “I’m American. Born and bred in North Dakota.”

  * * *

  I blink rapidly, trying to recover my power of speech. The elegant woman standing in front of me is Gladys of North Dakota. Or, as they would say in France, Gladys de Dakota du Nord.

  “Okay, let me see if I have this straight,” I say. “You’re originally from one of those rectangular states in the middle of the country.”

  She smiles, an expression I’m not used to seeing on her. “Yes, the rectangular state near the Canadian border.”

  “But, how . . . how . . .” My voice trails off. I don’t even know where to begin. How did Gladys end up in France? How did she end up married to Pierre’s father? Is it really so cold in North Dakota that people have to plug their cars in?

  “My dad had a block heater on one of his cars,” she says. “He’d plug it in before he started it in the winter. It helped.”

  “Oh, I guess I asked those questions out loud.” Pierre’s mother nods, and I press my fingers to my temples. I really need to get better at keeping my internal monologues inside my head where they belong. This whole talking out loud thing keeps getting me in trouble.

  “Why don’t we have a drink and I’ll answer the rest of your questions?”

  As she points at the entrance to the Bar à Champagne, I look around expecting her poodle to come barreling around the corner any minute and growl at me. “Where’s your dog?”

  “Lyonette? She’s at home, tuckered out from playing in the park earlier.”

  “I suppose she’s from North Dakota too.”

  “No, she’s from the south of France. I adopted her from a dog rescue organization near Carcossonne. It’s the same place we’re raising money for with the photography exhibition that you’re working on.”

  “She’s a rescue dog?”

  “Yes, poor thing was abused, then abandoned by her previous owner. She’s come a long way since we’ve had her, but she still gets skittish at times. And when she gets overexcited, she sometimes plays too roughly. Like she did with you that day in the art gallery. I still feel terrible about how she ripped your blouse.”

  I chew on my lip. Not only have I made assumptions about Pierre’s mother that weren’t right, I’ve also misjudged her dog. Lyonette isn’t some snooty, high-strung poodle. She’s been abused and abandoned, and is having to learn how to trust humans again.

  “Come on, you look like you could use that drink,” Gladys says.

  I follow her into the bar and wince when I see the prices. “I’m not really thirsty.”

  “Nonsense. You can’t pass up bubbles at the top of the Eiffel Tower.” She orders two glasses of pink champagne, paying for them before I can protest. “It’s my treat.”

  “Really,” I say. “I can buy my own drink.”

  I unzip my backpack and pull my wallet out. She shakes her head, the stern look on her face reminding me that this isn’t just Gladys from North Dakota. This is also Madame Toussaint, the directrice d’Hôtel de la Marmotte. “Pierre told me that you feel uncomfortable when people buy things for you.”

  “He did?”

  “I used to feel the same way with Pierre’s father. When we first started dating, he was constantly showering me with gifts.” Her expression softens. “He swept into my life, and swept me off my feet.”

  “How did you meet? Was it in North Dakota?”

  “No, by the time we met, I was living in Montana, working at a hotel near Yellowstone National Park.”

  “The hotel was owned by the Toussaint family?”

  “It is now. That’s why he was there, to acquire it. Initially, he traveled back and forth from France, but once the deal was complete, he moved to Montana to take over the day-to-day management of the hotel.” She takes a sip of her champagne, then fiddles with her wedding band. “That was a wonderful time in our lives. We’d both work hard during the week, then the three of us would go hiking in the park on the weekends.”

  “The three of you? Pierre was there too?”

  “Oh, yes. Pierre had been attending boarding school in Britain, but his father thought having him spend time in the States would be a good opportunity for him. He arranged for a private tutor for him so that he could keep up with his studies, but, between you and me, I think Pierre learned almost as much through his time exploring the outdoors and nature.”

  She asks the waiter to bring us some more champagne. “Would you like some caviar too?”

  I wrinkle my nose. “Fish eggs?”

  “Never had it?”

  I shake my head.

  “I’ll order some. If you don’t think about the fact that its salmon roe, I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised at how good it tastes.”

  “Really?”

  “Absolutely. I remember the first time Pierre tried caviar. I think he was nine or ten at the time. He wasn’t convinced either, but now he loves it.”

  “Tell me more about what he was like as a kid,” I say.

  She spoons caviar onto a toast point and hands it to me. “The first time he saw a yellow-bellied marmot, he was so excited. He became obsessed with them, begging his father to get him one as a pet. He kept trying to explain to Pierre that they were wild animals who needed to live freely in nature. Pierre was despondent. So, I made him his own stuffed marmot.”

  “What are we talking about? Taxidermy? I guess that’s the type of thing you do in North Dakota and Montana during the long winters.”

  She laughs. “No, I sewed one for him out of felt. He loved it. He would take it everywhere with him. He even tried to take it into the tub with him at bath time until we explained that Frank didn’t like to swim.”

  “Frank?”

  “Yes, Frank the Marmot. Don’t ask me where he got the name Frank from.” She glances at the plate in front of me. “You haven’t tried your caviar yet. Go on, give it a chance.”

  I slowly lift the toast point to my mouth and nibble the edge of it. I feel tiny ocean-flavored bubbles pop on my tongue. It tastes slightly salty, slightly fishy, and a hundred percent delicious. “You’re right, it is good.”

  “I’m not right about everything, but when it comes to caviar, I do know what I’m talking about.” She hands me another toast point, which I quickly devour. “I knew someone like you would love the taste of fish eggs.”

  The taste of caviar turns sour in my mouth. “Someone like me? You think I’m a gold digger, don’t you?”

  Gladys frowns. “A gold digger? Not at all. Some of the more obnoxious people in Pierre’s circle might call a woman a gold-digger if they thought she was after his money. But that’d be the last thing I’d ever say about anyone. Especially not after what I experienced after I married Pierre’s father.”

  I lean forwar
d. “What happened?”

  “Listen, I’m a girl like you. I grew up in a small town. My parents worked hard, but we didn’t have a lot of money growing up. I couldn’t have told you the difference between a fish fork and a salad fork. And I certainly had never eaten fish eggs before.” She pauses to sample the caviar, sighing in appreciation. “Anyway, after I married Pierre’s father, we moved back to France. That’s when I discovered that many members of Parisian high society considered me to be some sort of upstart country bumpkin who was only after his money.”

  “Oh, my gosh, that’s awful. What did you do?”

  She narrows her eyes. “I adapted. I learned how to speak French fluently, doing my best to lose all traces of my American accent. In fact, I rarely speak English these days. This is the first time in a long time.”

  “That can’t have been easy.”

  She shrugs. “I was determined to be the perfect French wife. The clothes, the hair and make-up; things like that were easy. But getting people to accept me, that took time.” When she fixes her gaze on me, I notice that her eyes are hazel, just like Pierre’s. “So, you see, I’d be the last person to accuse you of being a gold-digger. No, that’s not what I was worried about with you.”

  “What were you worried about?” I ask, not sure that I want to know the answer.

  “My close friends call me a lioness. I’ll do anything to protect the people I love. Pierre had been terribly hurt by another woman, and I didn’t want to see that happen to him again.”

  “Let me guess, Giselle?”

  She taps the side of her nose. “Correct. She’s a piece of work. A liar and a cheater. I kept telling Pierre that he shouldn’t trust her, but he didn’t believe me. You know Giselle was married before, don’t you?”

  I shake my head.

  “Pierre didn’t, either. Turns out she had met some guy when she was traveling in Brazil, took a fancy to him, and married him. I guess he was gorgeous, but dumb as a rock.”