An Autumn in Paris

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An Autumn in Paris Page 4

by Alix Nichols


  He spreads his hands apologetically. “I can’t stay long, but I promise to come back for dinner later this week.”

  Will he come alone or with a date? I wonder, before chastising myself for such frivolous thoughts.

  He orders a drink, and asks me a few more practical questions. Before I know it, Liviu is telling him about how Baloo was terrified of the leash when we adopted him in summer.

  “He’d freeze up as soon as I’d collar him.” Liviu recounts, “The only way to take him out was to pick him up and carry him.”

  “Would he walk outside?” Thomas asks.

  “He’d go to potty, and then just sit there and refuse to budge.”

  “This kind behavior is common in rescue dogs,” Thomas says. “Baloo had likely never worn a collar before, or maybe he had very negative experiences with it. How did you get him to accept it?”

  Excited to be asked, Liviu tells him about all the tricks and techniques we’d tried, and which ones worked in the end.

  I sit back and watch the two of them as they talk.

  If Thomas is annoyed with Liviu’s tales and eager to get out, he’s doing a fantastic job of hiding it. Not only does his handsome, open face express a genuine interest, but he also asks lots of questions, offers tips, and laughs wholeheartedly at the funny parts.

  The hero of Liviu’s anecdotes has now finished his treat and is napping at my feet. His ears perk up every time his name is mentioned. Which is to say, most of the time.

  “So, I’m assuming he’s called Baloo after the bear in The Jungle Book,” Thomas says at one point.

  “Correct,” Liviu says. “Mami picked the name. He has a surname, too, which was my choice. It’s Radu—my father’s family name.”

  “I see.”

  “My family name is Fieraru, same as my mom’s,” Liviu explains. “My dad died in an accident before I was born, so he didn’t get a chance to meet me.”

  Thomas nods, his expression earnest.

  I know he’s thinking, Yeah, right. One more product of unprotected sex leading to a teenage pregnancy. One more child unwanted by his father and lied to by his mother. Because she feels responsible. And because she doesn’t have the guts to tell him the bitter truth.

  To Thomas’s credit, he does nothing to betray those all-too-understandable thoughts. No questioning Liviu’s statement, no condescending smiles, not even an inadvertent glance in my direction.

  Well done, Dr. Brousse.

  Long after we’ve finished our drinks, Thomas finally tells us he has to go.

  “Thanks for your invaluable pointers,” he says to me, before turning to Liviu. “It was a real pleasure meeting you. I’ll see you around.”

  And then he bows his head to me and walks out.

  As I watch him exit the bistro, I can’t help wondering what plans the hunky vet has for dinner tonight. Is he meeting friends or a girlfriend? Or a wife? He isn’t wearing a wedding band. And he did ask Corinne to order him a single menu when I was at his clinic.

  Then again, there could be a gazillion reasons for that.

  Maybe he lost his wedding band. Maybe his wife is traveling for work. Maybe his fiancée is a doctor or a nurse and works the night shift. Maybe she’s on a diet, so she doesn’t eat anything in the evening. Or maybe he’s in a long-distance relationship with a Victoria’s Secret model.

  Yeah, that’s the kind of woman I picture on his arm. A tall, glamorous beauty in her early twenties. Someone with flawless skin and flowy hair.

  Not an under-groomed single mom who’s turning thirty next month, works as a concierge, and struggles to make ends meet.

  For the last time, Dana, Thomas is out of your league!

  You can admire him from a distance, but please, for your own sake, don’t get carried away. Don’t let that admiration, and the undeniable attraction you’re feeling for him fool you into hoping he’d ever consider asking you out.

  Nico and Kevin, on the other hand, were in my league.

  If Nico hadn’t taken to beating me, or if Kevin were kinder to Liviu, I swear I would’ve held on to them, despite my lackluster desire or total absence of admiration.

  7

  As Manon and I head for the ladies’ locker room, I ask her if she knows why Jeanne has stopped attending the Zumba class. Manon says she doesn’t know but will ask.

  Since I joined them two years ago, we’ve been the most assiduous students in this class along with three middle-aged concierges who work in the 9th arrondissement and hail from the same region of Portugal. Jeanne started calling them “the headband set” when we began attending the class, and the name stuck.

  While I shower, I have a smile on my face as I think about them. A fixture in my gym’s Zumba class, they disdain the boring tees and leggings that the other students wear. They sport bright pink tracksuits and yellow terry-cloth headbands—hence the moniker.

  My thoughts are still with them as I dress. Those ladies are a riot. When they’re away on vacation, which they spend in their native Portugal, the class just isn’t the same. There’s no one to channel their inner Jane Fonda. No one to cheer and high-five at the end of every routine. And, worst of all, no one to unconditionally support every instructor and sub we get, including the bush-league ones.

  Besides knowing the ins and outs of being a concierge in Paris, they’ve helped me solve some administrative hurdles and become a member of the concierge trade union.

  Alcinda, the gang leader, strides up to Manon who is on her way to the shower stalls.

  “So, how is my sister’s friend’s daughter doing?” she asks Manon.

  Ooh, poor Manon.

  She and Jeanne recently hired the girl because La Bohème needed an extra pair of hands, but they might not renew her contract. What makes firing her emotionally difficult isn’t just the fact that she’s Alcinda’s protégée. The girl is adorable. Sweet and smiley, she should’ve made for a good server.

  The problem is she’s all thumbs, feet included, seeing how often she trips and falls down carrying stuff.

  “I’ll be blunt,” Manon says. “I don’t think waiting tables is her thing.”

  “Why the hell not?” Alcinda lifts her chin. “She’s great with people.”

  “She totally is. She’d make a fantastic receptionist or host in a big restaurant, which has that position.”

  Alcinda puts her hands on her hips. “But not a waiter?”

  “A waiter’s job is mostly physical. Cleaning, bussing dishes, serving food… If you aren’t good at those things, you can’t wait tables.”

  “Give her time, she’ll learn.”

  “We are giving her time, but… it’s more than just clumsiness.” Manon wrinkles her face. “I’ll give you an example. Last night she was supposed to clean the courtyard before closing.”

  “Did she forget to do it?”

  “No, she did clean.” Manon rubs her nose. “But we had a half dozen cardboard boxes piled outside. Nothing heavy, just napkins and such. You’d think she’d take them inside, especially since it was beginning to rain? Nope. She swept around them and left them there. Because nobody told her to move them inside.”

  Alcinda repeats that good judgment comes with practice.

  I sidle along the wall and slip from the locker room. Officially, it’s to buy a bottle of water from the vending machine because I’m thirsty. In reality, it’s to avoid being asked to take a side in an argument where I’m sympathetic to both parties.

  Guess who’s at the vending machine?

  Yep. Thomas. Freshly showered and smelling like paradise for bad girls. Plenty of lovely muscle on display. All man.

  As we greet each other he surveys me… appreciatively?

  Nah, it can’t be. It’s just my imagination.

  This is the third time I’ve seen him since Monday. Both previous times I was cleaning in front of the building, and he was on his way to the clinic with his gym bag slung across his shoulder. Both times, he stopped to have a proper conversation, instead
of just dropping a meaningless “Ça va.”

  If I had any illusions about myself, I’d think he liked me.

  Bowing his head lightly, Thomas lets me get my bottle first.

  “You work out a lot,” I say, waiting for the machine to release my purchase. “Every morning, yes?”

  He spreads his arms apologetically.

  “And then again after work?”

  “Only four times a week,” he says.

  “Only,” I repeat, stressing the word. “Wow. I only do Zumba twice a week.”

  “It’s better than nothing.”

  “I’ve been wanting to do more, like Manon. She works out daily. In June I’d resolved to jog every Sunday morning in addition to the Zumba class.”

  “And?”

  “In July, we had a heat wave, and they said on TV to avoid exercise.”

  He frowns and scratches his jaw. “Did they?”

  “I swear they did.”

  “It’s October now.”

  “I know.” I turn my head to the side, avoiding his eyes. “But my resolve is gone.”

  “Why don’t you exercise with Manon? She could keep you motivated.”

  “Not possible. She jogs early in the morning, before work.”

  “So?” His shrugs. “Don’t tell me you’re not a morning person. It wouldn’t be credible. I’ve seen you out and about at seven too many times.”

  “I’d have to get up at five to jog with Manon at seven. She lives all the way in Montmartre.”

  A slight frown creases his brow, and he gives me a funny look as if something I said doesn’t compute.

  I frown back to convey I’m not getting what it is he isn’t getting, but then he blinks and his expression changes. “I exercise too much, I know.”

  “You definitely do.”

  He smiles a sad little smile.

  It occurs to me that my interest in Thomas is making me live up to the stereotype of a nosy Parisian concierge. Nosy and opinionated. It is not my place to discuss how Dr. Thomas Brousse manages his time.

  Bad Dana. “I’m overstepping. Your exercising habits are none of my business.”

  “It helps me cope,” he says.

  Cope? With what? Oh, no!

  “I’m not sick or anything,” he adds quickly. “I just… lost someone not so long ago.”

  I clap a hand to my mouth. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” he says. “She’s still alive. The police think she’s fine.”

  “But not you?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  Your place, Dana! “I understand. You don’t have to explain anything.”

  He nods a thank you.

  We each raise our bottles and drink.

  “I ran into Liviu the other day on his way home from school,” Thomas says. “We had the most entertaining conversation.”

  “About Baloo?”

  “About R2-D2 and artificial intelligence.”

  “Oh, God.” I roll my eyes. “He’s obsessed with the subject.”

  “He’s great fun to talk to.”

  I blush, mighty pleased. “Thank you.”

  “In the middle of our chat, I discovered something shocking.”

  “About school?” Panic knots my stomach. “Is he in trouble? He never tells me anything anymore—”

  Thomas lifts his palm. “Don’t worry, it’s not about school.”

  “What is it then?”

  “How shall I put it?” He scratches his head. “Liviu is twelve. It’s time.”

  “For what?”

  Could he mean The Talk?

  I brace myself. He’d be right, of course. It’s time I sit down and talk about sex with Liviu. As a responsible parent, it’s my duty to do that. It’s my duty to find out what he’s already gleaned from friends and to warn him how distorted and damaging Internet porn is.

  I’ve been thinking about it, preparing myself. I could quote Pope Francis who has said that sex is a gift from God when there’s love… Trouble is I’m not ready to acknowledge that my little boy will soon be a teenager. I’m so not ready.

  “Bond,” Thomas says.

  I blink rapidly, confused.

  “James Bond.” He grins. “At twelve years of age, Liviu hasn’t seen any James Bond movies. Not one.”

  “Is that… bad?”

  “Yes. Watching a Bond movie is the modern boy’s rite of passage. Liviu needs it.”

  “But those movies aren’t for children, are they?”

  “Your son is a preteen now, Dana.”

  I sigh. “Tell me about it.”

  “If you want to know, he’s seen bits on his phone, and he’s watched the trailer for the latest one. Multiple times. He’d love to see the whole thing.”

  “He hasn’t said anything about that to me.”

  “Because he expects you to disapprove.”

  Ready to concede defeat, I advance my last argument. “What about inappropriate scenes?”

  Thomas tucks in his lips to stifle a smile. “You can always cover his eyes and ears.”

  “He hates it when I do that.”

  Thomas squints at me. “You don’t actually do that, do you?”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Oh, good.” He lets out an exaggerated sigh of relief. “As it happens, I was planning on watching the newest at Le Grand Rex on Saturday night. Will you and Liviu tag along? I’ll get the tickets.”

  The unexpected offer gives me pause.

  “And your partner, too, of course,” he adds. “Manon.”

  Huh?

  Oh, God. He thinks Manon and I are together.

  Why in hell would he think that?

  An image of Manon and me walking out of my building early in the morning flashes in my mind. Manon had an overnight bag on her shoulder. We were holding hands when Thomas collided with us. No wonder he thinks we’re an item.

  Suddenly, several things fall into place, starting with his easy, friendly manner around me.

  Under normal circumstances, a man like him would avoid getting too buddy-buddy with a woman like me. He wouldn’t want to give her the wrong idea.

  Except, Thomas has been feeling relaxed and safe, knowing that I already have someone.

  And that I’m not even into men.

  8

  Liviu and I are waiting for Thomas at the loge. It makes sense to go to Le Grand Rex together, since our building is halfway between his and the movie theater. And because he has the tickets… which he bought.

  At the gym, after I’d managed to smile away the realization that Thomas thinks I’m gay, I firmly declined his offer.

  My first line of defense was to say that Liviu should wait another year before being introduced to Her Majesty’s unsinkable agent. But Thomas had a tactical advantage—the intel that Liviu was dying to see a Bond movie.

  My second line of defense was to propose I get Liviu’s and my tickets, and we join him in front of the main entrance. Pressing his hand to his chest, eyes crinkling up, Thomas said he couldn’t allow it. How would he sleep at night? How would he live with himself knowing that his initiative pushed me into an unplanned splurging of twenty euros?

  Despite my earlier turmoil, he made me laugh, and then, somehow, he talked me into saying yes to his offer.

  When I told Liviu we were going to see the new Bond with Thomas, he jumped up and down with glee, forgetting to act like a moody preteen for a moment.

  My big little boy.

  This time next week, he’ll be on the plane to Romania. I’m sending him to Mami’s, where he’ll spend his school holiday. Then both will fly back to Paris. Mami will meet her potential employers, Amanda and Kes, and their kids. If the meeting goes well, they’ll do a week’s trial to see how it goes. And if that goes well, she’ll become their live-in nanny.

  The intercom buzzer sounds.

  I let Thomas into the hallway and open the door to the loge.

  He looks around.

  “Wanna see my room?” Liviu points to the bac
k room.

  Thomas smiles apologetically and points to his wristwatch. “You wouldn’t want to miss the beginning.”

  We still have thirty minutes until the show starts. Le Grand Rex is only a seven minutes’ walk from here, but I side with Thomas that we should go. We’ll have to stand in line to get in, even with the tickets already purchased. It’s better to arrive too early than too late.

  Baloo chooses that very moment to gag on something and puke on the floor.

  “Merde!” I bite out, frustrated.

  Luckily, the mess has landed on the tiles just outside the wool rug I bought during the summer sales.

  “Was he sick this morning? Last night? Was he acting off? Do you have a rectal thermometer?” He crouches and feels the tips of Baloo’s ears. “No fever.”

  I point to the little puddle of vomit. “See all those dog food pellets? He must’ve eaten his dinner too fast, without chewing, and gulped too much water at once. It’s happened before.”

  Thomas agrees with my diagnosis.

  Liviu looks from me to Thomas, and then back at me, panic in his eyes.

  OK, Dana, time to get bossy.

  I infuse my voice with authority and conviction. “We’re going to clean this up. We’ll make it on time. Don’t you worry.”

  Liviu nods once and runs to the broom closet by the door.

  “When he’s not at school, it’s his job to take care of the dog,” I explain to Thomas.

  Liviu returns with rags, detergent and paper towels, and starts to mop up the mess. He’s wearing his Darth Vader mask.

  I head to the kitchenette to get a bucket of water and a plastic bag.

  “Why the mask?” Thomas asks.

  “For the odor,” Liviu says.

  “I see.”

  When I return, the floor looks clean. Liviu drops the dirty rag and paper towels into the bag, wipes a couple more times with water, and then goes to the sink to wash his hands.

  He comes back, holding the mask in his hands. “I figured that since my Darth Vader mask looks so much like a gas mask, there was a chance it would also work like a gas mask.”

  He cocks his head and gives Thomas a lopsided smile.

 

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