Wanderlust

by Lauren Blakely

  Re: Inquiry

  The subject line had intrigued me. Sure, it might very well have been an inquiry about trying a BRAND-NEW EXCITING SUPPLEMENT THAT REVERSES THE AGING PROCESS. Heck, I’m all for anything that actually does reverse aging. Whoever said one should grow old gracefully clearly never woke up one morning after her thirtieth birthday surprised to see—shudder—lines on her neck.

  In any case, I clicked it open, stat, and found something better than the fountain of youth.

  Would you be interested in relocating to Paris to oversee the fragrance lab at L’Artisan?

  I nearly dropped the phone, and trust me, I have steady hands.

  I replied so quickly I was sure I’d lose any negotiating power on account of overeagerness, but I was equally sure I didn’t care.

  Hell to the yes.

  Though I phrased my reply more professionally.

  Two months later, I’m here, heading to my first meeting on French soil. Maybe I’m not Belle twirling with her basket in her blue aproned frock across the countryside. I’m me in jeans and boots, navigating my way through a major metropolis on the way to see Marisol. We planned to meet the translator L’Artisan hired for me—a lovely lady named Annalise who studied science at university, so she’s perfect for the job, Marisol had said.

  As I wander along a side street, window shopping at all the boutiques, my phone rings.

  “Hello,” I say cheerily when I answer, and Marisol asks me how I’m doing.

  “Well,” I tell her, then ask the same of her.

  In French.

  Yay me.

  She answers, then slides into English. “I hope your first day here is good so far. I wanted to let you know we must cancel the meeting with Annalise. She’s the translator we hired for you, but she’s no longer available.”

  “Oh no.”

  “It’s okay,” she says reassuringly. “She’s pregnant, and her doctor put her on bed rest due to some complications. She’s going to be fine, but she cannot do on-site work, naturally.”

  “Of course,” I say, instantly understanding.

  “Capstone also assures me they should be able to find someone quickly for you. We want your transition to be as seamless as possible. We can have your translator help you with anything you need to make this easy.”

  “I appreciate all you do,” I tell her.

  “We’re so thrilled to have you. I can still meet you for coffee, if you’d like? I’m nearby. Or I can send you to a fantastic bakery that’s not too far from where we were going to meet.”

  “A bakery sounds perfect.” I don’t want to inconvenience her just for the sake of being social, especially since I want to start on the best foot possible.

  She gives me the address, and I repeat it.

  “I will update you soon. Now, go have a croissant, sit by the river, and enjoy your morning.”

  L’Artisan has been treating me like a rock star. I suppose an advanced degree in organic chemistry will do that for you, as well as eight years’ experience as second-in-command at the fragrance chemistry lab at a major US cosmetics firm. That’s why L’Artisan convinced its parent company to relocate me to Paris. To introduce our efficient style to their niche products. But I need this position just as much as the company needs me. Back home, I’d stalled out in my job. I was second, not first, and there was no room for advancement. The head of the lab was going exactly nowhere. That made it even easier to say yes to the new job.

  I end the call, tuck the phone into the small purse slung over my chest, and cross the street. I repeat the address that Marisol gave me out loud, but I’m not entirely sure where I am, other than heading closer to Notre Dame. I plug the address into my GPS and realize the bakery is a block away. Easy as pie.

  Or eclair, I should say.

  As I cross the street, I spot an older woman tugging a small, wheeled shopping basket behind her. A baguette pokes out the top of the basket, and I want to take a photo of it. So I do, raising my cell phone and clicking. Then I notice something at the corner of the street—a man locking up his bike. He wears a helmet. From my vantage point, perhaps fifty feet away, I can tell he’s handsome. Tall and trim, he wears dark, fitted slacks, and a light blue button-down shirt. The combination is somehow both casual and sharply dressed. He has that European look about him. Well, duh. I’m in freaking Europe. But what I really mean is—he looks like he belongs here. He has a certain ease about him. A comfort in his body and in his surroundings, in his style as a man who rides a bicycle in France. He owns this city, he knows it, and yet he doesn’t flaunt it. That’s what his easy stride and casual smile tell me, even from a distance.

  When he takes off his helmet, I catch a glimpse of a chiseled jaw, and as he puts the helmet on the handlebars, I check out a rear end that would make angels weep.

  I sigh happily, enjoying the Parisian view. Thank you very much, Europe, for sculpting some fine asses on your men. I’m just going to let myself savor the sight as he turns toward the door of the bakery.

  Okay, savoring done. Time to savor some carbs.

  I reach the bakery and open the door. The scent of fresh bread calls out to me, warm, doughy, and delicious.

  I enter and inhale the lovely aromas, then take my spot in line and ogle the display case. There are apricot tarts, raspberry cakes, caramel eclairs, and bread, bread, bread. My mouth waters.

  I stare at all the luscious food that’s so darn enticing I barely realize the man with the cute butt and fine jaw is standing in front of me.

  When it’s his turn, he says hello to the woman at the register.

  An involuntary shiver runs down my spine.

  He said that in English.

  And not just any English.

  But British.

  4

  Griffin

  * * *

  I’d have kicked a rubbish bin in frustration if I were that type of guy. Instead, I gave myself fifteen minutes of drown-my-sorrows time. For the first seven, I leaned against the barricade at the river, sighed heavily, and stared glumly into the water. Then for three minutes, I opened my wallet, unfolded the piece of paper I keep in it, and reread the words imprinted on my memory.

  3. Visit Indonesia. Run a marathon there. Travel across the country, then everywhere.

  So, yeah. That’s been tabled. It wasn’t even my dream, but I annexed it when I had to. Adopted it, if you will, when the dream’s owner died.

  Then, for the final five minutes, I wandered. Contemplating.

  Travel everywhere. Love the idea, but I haven’t saved quite enough yet to pull it off. I need to scrape together a little more, and with the bonus gone, I need more work.

  Only I don’t have more work yet.

  But here’s the thing. Bread can solve nearly every crummy situation. Nearly. That’s why I’m here at the bakery. Marie is behind the counter, wearing an orange apron that’s covered in flour. Her thick black hair is held in a hairnet.

  I say hello to her in English, and she answers me back the same. It’s a running joke. The first time I came here, I was talking on the phone with a friend from home, and she greeted me in English, assuming I didn’t know her language.

  She was surprised when I switched to her native tongue, which I do again right now. I order a baguette, and we chat briefly. Am I having a good day? she asks. I don’t need to unload on her, so I tell her my day is fine.

  “Did you find the rugelach in Le Marais that I told you about?” she asks as she bends to the case to grab the bread.

  “It was amazing. And if I keep eating that I will balloon up,” I say, patting my belly and puffing my cheeks.

  She laughs and waves a hand dismissively. “Don’t even go there, young man. You’re too skinny. You haven’t an ounce of fat on you.”

  That might not be precisely true, but she’s correct that I’m trim. Running and biking has that effect on the physique.

  “And you are too good to me,” I tell her, then hand her two euros for the bread.

&nb
sp; I grab the bread and say good-bye as well.

  “Bonjour.” The greeting comes from the woman behind me.

  I turn in the direction of the voice. The American voice. The confident, strong American voice.

  “Je voudrais un croissant chocolat.”

  But she’s all wrong, so I jump in. “It’s pain au chocolat.”

  She furrows her brow. “What did you say?”

  I repeat myself. I can’t help it. In my line of work, it’s a natural reaction to offer up the more appropriate translations for Americans. I ought to tune out conversations.

  But this American? I don’t want to tune her out.

  She’s so very . . . red.

  Rich auburn hair spills down her shoulders, landing in the kind of big, soft curls that look like they take hours to achieve, with loads of potions and lotions and many fights with heated devices that do all sorts of things to hair. But she hardly seems the high-maintenance type, since she wears a red-checkered bandana like a headband. Jeans hug her legs, a pretty maroon blouse accentuates her lovely assets, and boots make her even taller. Cowboy boots.

  She’s statuesque.

  Good thing I like tall birds.

  Good thing I’m even taller.

  Wait. Am I really thinking of picking up a woman in the bakery?

  Of course I fucking am. I love American accents. I love the boldness. I love the confidence. I love the way American women own who they are.

  Like this one. She’s stunning, especially with those pouty red lips.

  “That’s what we call a chocolate croissant,” I add.

  “We?” she echoes. “That’s what we call a croissant?” She arches a brow, but not in a haughty way. More like a “you don’t say” way. She points at me playfully. “You don’t really sound like you’re part of that we. But I’ll still give you a big old merci beaucoup for helping me.”

  When she smiles, it’s like a sunbeam. A full-wattage grin.

  “You’re correct. They call it that. I simply partake of its deliciousness.”

  “You should partake of chocolate croissants. I hear the ones at this boulangerie are to die for.” Then she winks at me and turns to Marie, who’s watching our exchange with avid interest. The American woman orders properly this time, and Marie fetches the pastry for her.

  I head out, but I dawdle. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’m on pace to set a record for sheer sluggishness. Just a few more seconds, and she should be exiting.

  She strolls out the door, bringing the scent of chocolate with her, and for a fleeting moment I imagine she tastes like chocolate.

  She stops in front of me. She takes a bite of the croissant wrapped in a waxy paper and chews. She hums her praise for the food. “This is a delicious chocolate croissant.” Then she brings her fingers to her lips. “Oops. I meant pain au chocolat.”

  “Very good. And I apologize if it seemed out of line to correct you. I didn’t want to see you commit a faux pas.”

  “We didn’t mind,” she teases.

  “We are so glad to hear,” I add.

  She takes another bite and rolls her eyes, presumably in pleasure. When she finishes, she says, “So you’re a Prince Charming rescuing damsels in distress from language faux pas?”

  “Something like that.”

  “So gallant.”

  “I aspire to gallantry every day. Though sometimes it expresses itself in odd ways.”

  “Funnily enough, if you can ensure I’m getting access to one of the best chocolate croissants in all the city, then I’m good with those odd ways.”

  “Do you like . . .?” I pause, and her green eyes follow my gaze to the treat in her hands.

  “I do. Very much.” She points at me with the end of the croissant. Her eyes are inquisitive, studying me. “You’re not French.”

  “You’re not, either.”

  “But that’s obvious.”

  “And it’s obvious I’m not as well.”

  She smirks. “You’re British.”

  I feign surprise. “What gave it away?”

  “The accent might have been a tip-off.”

  “Damn.” I snap my fingers, as if she’s caught me. That makes her smirk a little more. “You’re American,” I toss back at her.

  Her eyes widen, and she appears positively astonished, playing along. “However could you tell?”

  She waits, tapping her toe, evidently expecting me to say her voice since that’s what we’ve been chatting about.

  “You want to know the giveaway?”

  “I do.”

  I lean a touch closer to her. “Your smile.”

  That only makes her grin grow wider. She tries to contain it. She tries valiantly, it seems. But she has no luck. “They don’t smile in France?”

  “Not like that. Not like you do.”

  Yeah, I could flirt all day with her. That accent. Those eyes. Her hair. She’s a welcome distraction. I almost don’t mind my plans being massively derailed since it’s given me this unexpected encounter, and I don’t want this encounter with her to end. “What’s your name?” But before she can answer, I shake my head, and hold up a hand. “Wait. Let me guess.”

  “Oh, by all means. Guess my name, Daniel.”

  I laugh. “Daniel?”

  “Seems like a good English name. Was I wrong? Is it Harry? William? Clive? Oliver? Henry? Rupert? Alistair? Archibald?”

  Laughing, I blurt out, “You can’t possibly think I’m an Archibald?”

  She waves dismissively. “Right, of course. My bad. You must be Archie.”

  “If I’m Archie, then how about you? Are you a Jennifer?”

  She shakes her head.

  “Amy?”

  Another shake.

  “Stacy, then?”

  “Nope.”

  “You must be Katie?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Try harder, Archibald.”

  “Taylor? Hannah? Madison? Chloe? Avery?” Every name yields a no. “I’ve got it.” Her eyes widen. “Judy? You must be Judy.”

  She laughs loudly. “Judy? You think I’m a Judy? While it’s quite a pretty name, let’s be honest—when was the last time you met an American Judy who was under fifty?”

  “When have you met an Archibald who wasn’t bald and over seventy?”

  She gives my dark hair a once-over. “True, you’re not bald. But why would you think only an American would have those names? Jennifer. Amy. Stacy,” she says, imitating me.

  “Perhaps the same reason you picked Harry and William.”

  “I picked them because I like princes.”

  “Well, perhaps I like American-sounding names,” I counter, and her green eyes sparkle as she laughs.

  “They do seem quintessentially American, don’t they?”

  “They do.”

  “Does that mean you think I’m quintessentially American?” She brings her hand to her chest, and my eyes follow. Because . . . breasts.

  I allow myself a second to admire the potential of hers, then I refocus. “Quintessentially American is a fine thing to be.”

  I’m about to throw in the towel and ask her real name, when her phone brays. It’s the loudest thing I’ve ever heard.

  “So sorry, this is my . . .” But she trails off as she answers the phone. “Bonjour, Marisol.”

  Her brow furrows, and she listens intently to her call for ten seconds, twenty seconds.

  And I’ve crossed the line.

  I can’t stand here and wait any longer. That would be rude. Her phone call is my cue to go.

  I give her a tip of the hat. “Good-bye, Judy,” I whisper.

  For a moment, her brow furrows, almost as if she’s surprised I’m taking off.

  Then, she smiles brightly, waves her fingers at me, and mouths good-bye, Archie.

  She turns the other way, her croissant in one hand, her phone to her ear in the other.

  I let myself enjoy a few seconds of the view of her walking away.

  Then reality swoops back in. I’m no l
onger flirting with a sexy American woman as if I don’t have a care in the world. Instead, I’m left here holding a baguette and my helmet, wondering what I’ll do next to earn the money to take the trip my brother wanted to take.

  5

  Joy

  * * *

  The line stretches for a hundred feet or more. It’s almost as if, well, it’s as if everyone has heard of this place.

  But I’m not going to let a long line deter me.

  Nope. I have sunglasses and no place to be today—except for a destination I wanted to visit on the trip that never was.

  I grab a spot at the back of the line queued up to enter the north tower at the cathedral of Notre Dame. Literally everyone is taking photos. And I’m not exaggerating. This is one of those times when literally literally applies.

  Except me.

  I set up an Instagram account a year ago, thinking I’d fill it with everything I longed to see in this city on that trip.

  It went unused, and my shutterbug ways remained limited to the mundane, to everyday items I didn’t want to forget. The filter in my furnace so I’d remember which brand to buy. A shot of my insurance card when I renewed my license. Proof of a deposit to show the bank. My camera roll is littered with daily reminders of tasks, and only tasks.

  I believe Paris is where you go to reinvent yourself.

  That’s why I’m here.

  To start over. To embrace life, opportunity, and beauty. And since change is the name of the game, I decide to capture what inspires me. I gaze at the spires of the cathedral, its massive archways, the sheer enormity of the fairy-tale-esque cathedral. I look at the real thing, but then, since I don’t want to forget it, I snap a photograph.

  As I stare at the intricate stone carvings in my camera app, I flash back to the Englishman from earlier today and imagine standing here with him, continuing our conversation. The possibility is so potent, I can see him. I can smell the faint scent of sweat and wood from his aftershave. I can hear the proper notes of his voice. If he were with me now, would we still be tossing increasingly ridiculous names at each other? Would we have moved on to other topics, like how many times he’s seen this cathedral, or the fact that I’ve never set foot in it before? Would he have said, “Go on without me. I’ll just wait for you here?”