What If It's Love?: A Contemporary Romance Set in Paris (Bistro La Bohème Book 1)

by Nichols, Alix

  Lena’s joy at seeing Jeanne was mixed with guilt. “I’ve been doing a lot of sight-seeing recently,” she said.

  “Of course. Sight-seeing.” Jeanne rolled her eyes. Then her expression changed to that of an exasperated parent. “Oh, come on, Lena. My coffee break is only ten minutes, so I don’t have time for small talk. What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I’m perfectly fine.”

  “I haven’t seen you in days. Make that a week. I’m worried about you! What’s going on in your life that keeps you from La Bohème?”

  Lena racked her brain for a plausible explanation. “I’ve also been translating a lot. I concentrate better in here. Or in the library.”

  “Is that so? I thought you concentrated just fine at the bistro.”

  Lena folded her arms over her chest, refusing to elaborate.

  “And I have proof,” Jeanne said. “When you’re at the bistro, have you noticed how one of the waiters turns up by your side every twenty minutes or so to ask if you need anything?”

  “I guess—why?”

  Jeanne tapped the side of her head. “Each time we do that, you always order something—usually another tea or coffee or mineral water. The problem is that if no one reminds you, you get so engrossed you forget to reorder. I doubt you’d notice if I’d grown a second head.”

  Lena smiled. “I’m sure I’d notice your second head.”

  “You should see yourself staring into space, then typing like a madwoman, and drinking from an empty cup.”

  “I don’t do that!” Lena grinned.

  “Which one? Staring into space or forgetting you’ve finished your coffee? It’s bad business for the bistro, you know—a customer who occupies a table for hours with the same drink.”

  Lena threw her hands up. “You lost me, Jeanne. First you’re upset I haven’t come into La Bohème for a few days, and now you’re telling me I’m bad business.”

  “That’s not what I said. You’re excellent business, when we give you a little push. Besides, you return for dinner and you tip.”

  Lena lifted her chin. “That’s more like it.”

  “Lena, we count on you. La Bohème needs you. You’ve become part of the . . .” Jeanne hesitated, looking for the right word.

  “Decor?” Lena offered. “I don’t mind. I like it at La Bohème.”

  “Well, if you do, then why don’t you haul your nerdy ass downstairs for a nice long coffee between girls? I’ll even share with you the last slices of Mom’s amazing apple pie.”

  Lena cocked her head to the side and said innocently, “I thought your coffee break was only ten minutes long—that’s what you said, didn’t you?”

  “What break? Who said anything about a break?” It was Jeanne’s turn to fake innocence. “I’m not working until five. I’m here as a patron to have a coffee with a friend.”

  Lena hesitated. “Is . . . Rob there?”

  Jeanne shook her head. “He starts at five today.”

  Then she put a hand on her hip and delivered her final argument in a deep voice with a terrible Italian accent. “And remember this, ragazza: My friends never, ever refuse my offers—unless they have a death wish. You won’t disappoint me now, bella, will you?”

  When the coffee was served and the pie unwrapped, Jeanne repeated her earlier question. “So, what’s wrong, Lena? And please don’t give me that bullshit about writing and translating. This is about Rob. What’s the deal with you two?”

  Lena took a bite of the apple pie and gave in to the temptation to spill the beans. Jeanne was a friend, her only friend in this city. With a sigh she told her about their kiss and his confession about spying on her.

  Jeanne listened, eyes round, and mouth agape.

  “Turns out I’ve been falling for the wrong guy. So now I just need some time and distance to lick my wounds and try to get over him,” Lena concluded her tale.

  “Ooh la la—our Rob, a homegrown spy, huh?” Jeanne shook her head, before asking, “Tell me, when was the last time you looked at a price tag?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You know, the little ticket that tells you how much an item you want to buy costs.”

  “I don’t buy expensive stuff—” Lena began to protest.

  “I know.” Jeanne winked. “I’ve noticed. So, let’s imagine for the sake of the argument you’re buying something from that sweatshop outlet down the street. Would you look at the price tag? Not because you’re curious to see how much they’re charging for that crap, but because you want to make sure you’ll have enough money at the end of the month to pay rent?”

  “What are you saying, Jeanne? Do you think that lack of money justifies taking advantage of people’s trust?”

  “No, that’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying that when Rob signed up to spy on you, you were nothing to each other. There was no question of trust or affection or anything like that.” She glanced into Lena’s eyes. “Don’t get me wrong—what he did isn’t pretty.”

  “Ah, good. I was beginning to wonder if the French had a totally different value system from the rest of the world.”

  “But he did come clean after you guys kissed, didn’t he?”

  That much was true.

  “Listen, Lena, I’ve known Rob for two years now, and I can tell you this: He’s a good guy. In spite of this slipup . . . and his looks.”

  Lena finished her slice of apple pie and licked her fingers. “My compliments to your mom. This was an amazing pie.”

  Jeanne swallowed the rest of her coffee. “I’ve got to run—have some errands in town. I hope you figure out this thing with Rob pretty soon, so we can all go back to normal.” She pushed back the coins Lena had placed on the table. “This one is on the house, honey. I’ll tell Pierre it was an investment. Ciao!”

  Lena was about to leave too, when her phone rang. She glanced at the caller ID—it was her dad. Lena braced herself for bad news: He didn’t normally call in the morning.

  “Pumpkin, I’m going to have to cancel my Parisian vacation in August. I’m really sorry.”

  Lena began to panic. “Is something wrong?”

  “Not at all. Quite the contrary, I have wonderful news.” Anton cleared his throat. “Anna and I decided to advance our wedding date to August. So, we will see each other as we’d planned; only it will be in Moscow and not in Paris.”

  “Oh. OK. I’ll come for your wedding then! Wow, Dad, this is moving superfast.”

  “Sweetie, we advanced the date because Anna is pregnant. You’re going to have a little brother or a sister before Christmas.”

  “Seriously? This is fantastic!”

  Lena felt like jumping with joy and giving a bear hug to someone. She wasn’t even sure if she was happier for her dad or for herself. Having a sibling had been her number one wish throughout her childhood, and it was finally coming true now that she was twenty-three. Well, better late than never. Infinitely better.

  She hung up, grinning. As she thought about what it would be like to have a sibling, it hit her that the baby would divert most of her dad’s excessive solicitude. What a terrific and unhoped-for boon! She was still smiling when her gaze fell on the couple sitting at the opposite end of the terrace. The woman faced her and the man had his back to her. She couldn’t hear them, but the man must have said something funny, because the woman threw her head back in laughter. The man took her hand, and she didn’t withdraw it.

  The man was Rob.

  * * *

  Lena’s smile slipped and her muscles tensed. The scene was painful to watch, and yet she did as if hypnotized. She couldn’t see Rob’s face or hear the conversation, but her imagination readily filled in the gaps. Was he doing this to make his point? To make her jealous? Or was he over her in just one week? Had he ever been into her at all? The last thought made her wince.

  But then Rob entered La Bohème, gave Lena a nod, and sat at a table not far from her.

  Lena’s fists unclenched, and her whole body went limp with relief. She l
ooked at the couple again. It was now so obvious that this guy wasn’t Rob. In fact he looked nothing like Rob, apart from the similar hair and clothes. His shoulders had a different slant, his back was thicker, and his neck thinner. Lena felt the color warming her cheeks.

  How embarrassing.

  She glanced at Rob and her cheeks went from warm to burning. He was looking at her in the same dark, nearly palpable way he had done a few weeks ago by the Seine. His eyes bored into hers with stark intent, as if she were the only woman on Earth. As if the world around them had dissolved into nothing.

  Her undoing was averted by Pierre, who unwittingly sat next to Rob. “Waiting for someone?”

  Rob shook his head. “Just chilling.”

  “I must be doing something right if my staff comes here on their free time. First Jeanne, now you. Do you mind if I chill alongside you for a few minutes?” He waved at Didier. “Two espressos and sparkling water, please.”

  Profiting from the distraction, Lena stood up and left the bistro. She almost ran the few feet to the building’s entrance, up the stairs and into her apartment. Her mind reeled. Rob hadn’t forgotten her. He wasn’t over her. He wanted her and he wanted her to know it. She thought about their kiss and what it had done to her. In her two years with Gerhard she hadn’t experienced anything that could remotely compare to that. Even now, her mouth was hungry for his lips, his taste, and her body ached for him. But could she trust him again? And if he broke her heart—or rather, when he broke her heart—would she be able to handle it?

  Lena went to her little desk and opened her laptop. She found a file with unfinished translations and scrolled down to the one she had been struggling with for a few months now. As she read the original poem again, the French version poured out of her, as if of its own volition. Lena began to type frantically, afraid she would forget the words. It was magic—like a locked door suddenly unlatching. When she finished and reread her translation, she knew why the poem had opened up at this precise moment.

  Curled up under my fluffy blanket,

  I’m summoning that pesky dream.

  What was it? Whose triumphant gambit?

  Whose loss? Whose win?

  You’re gone, and both of us are safer.

  Except . . . this thing I’m thinking of,

  This funny thing I have no name for,

  What if it’s love?

  In our silly competition

  Who threw the bull’s-eye dart?

  And who, on a misguided mission,

  Hurled forth a heart? . . .

  * * *

  Rain poured down in noisy and resolute showers. Lena had planned a trip to the Versailles Gardens for this Sunday, but that plan no longer made sense. According to Météo-France, it was going to be like this all day. She pressed her forehead against the window and tried to motivate herself to get out of the apartment, go somewhere, do something. After a while, she gave up and admitted that the weather had the upper hand. Dark skies and rain often made her feel lonely. This time round, they also made her nostalgic for the excitement of her first days in Paris and the heady mixture of freedom and possibility they had brought. Why couldn’t she maintain that state of mind? How did she let that sense of freedom slip through her fingers? How did she end up with a heart heavy with want and longing—when she had promised herself to keep it uninvolved?

  Her phone beeped. It was a text message from Jeanne.

  Hey, any plans 4 2nite? How about a nite in with a movie & popcorn? If interested, please confirm availability of DVD player/computer & microwave. We’ll bring the film & popcorn. 7 pm?

  Hug, Jeanne

  Lena replied immediately.

  Computer, check; microwave, check. 7 is fine.

  Looking forward to it,

  Xo, Lena

  It was amazing how a short text message could lift your spirits. Lena didn’t feel lonely any longer, and her heart lightened. She was going to spend the evening with a friend.

  The friend in question showed up at her doorstep, accompanied by Pepe, at seven o’clock on the dot.

  “Nice to see you, Pepe,” Lena said, then turned to Jeanne. “I thought the ‘we’ in your text was you and your boyfriend.”

  “He’s out of town.” Jeanne went to the microwave and began to fumble with the buttons.

  Pepe made a throat-slashing gesture to prevent Lena from asking further questions, then opened his backpack and took three beers and a bottle of apple juice out.

  As they sprawled on the couch, Jeanne introduced the film. “On the program tonight is a French spoof that I doubt either of you has seen. It’s called The Joy of Singing. Ring any bells?”

  Lena and Pepe shook their heads.

  “Thought so. It wasn’t a huge box office success even in France, but it’s one of my favorite movies.”

  Pepe turned to Lena. “Says the woman with blue hair and holes in her lips. I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

  Jeanne snarled at him before continuing her presentation. “Just remember there’s no point in trying to figure out who’s doing what, with whom and why. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that the movie is hilarious. Especially the leads, Marina Foïs and Lorant Deutsch.”

  “I know Marina Foïs!” Lena said. “She’s so funny.”

  “They play undercover agents who join a singing class to get information about trafficked uranium. Or something like that.” Jeanne started the movie. “You’re in for one absurdist, joyous romp, my friends.”

  Pepe passed the popcorn around, and Lena put on her glasses.

  As the movie began, Jeanne raised her index. “Almost forgot: If either of you have a problem with nudity, let me know so that I can tell you when to close your eyes. Which is going to be a lot of the time.”

  “I thought it was a thriller slash comedy,” Lena said.

  “And so it is. But remember, it’s a French thriller slash comedy,” Jeanne said. “Noblesse oblige.”

  The movie was everything Jeanne had touted it to be and more. To the girls’ surprise, Pepe did close his eyes a few times. During a particularly risqué love scene, he walked out of the room, ostensibly to get some water.

  “In spite of his best efforts to pass for a jaded Parisian, Pepe is a Boy Scout at heart,” Jeanne said.

  “Well, I’m glad there’s more to him than the Nordic blonde obsession,” Lena said.

  Finally, after the required amount of thrills and chills, ludicrous murders, eccentric lovemaking and deadpan humor, the film ended.

  “Wow. This was . . .” Lena paused looking for the right word.

  “Indescribable? Weird? Bizarre?” Pepe offered.

  “Yes, but also original and very funny. Jeanne, thanks for picking this movie! I don’t think I would have ever seen it otherwise.”

  Pepe furrowed his brow. “And that would have been a great loss for your personal development?”

  Lena smiled at him. “Actually, the movie does help to better understand the French and their . . . mores.”

  Jeanne put the DVD back into its case. “Let’s not make sweeping generalizations. I can assure you that in their majority the French aren’t this promiscuous. Or this good at singing.”

  Pepe nodded energetically.

  “Take me—I don’t sleep around. Or Rob, for that matter.” Jeanne turned to Lena. “You may not believe me, but he’d never hit on a customer. That is, except you. And he hasn’t had a girlfriend since Camille, who he broke up with like a year ago.”

  Pepe rolled his eyes. “Lena, what Jeanne is trying to say is that Rob is a candidate for sainthood. In fact, he’s sworn off women because he’s about to be ordained. His business school is just a cover—he doesn’t want people to know he’s preparing to become a hermit monk.”

  Jeanne snorted. “Hermit monk, my foot!”

  “OK, I admit I let my imagination run wild for a moment.” Pepe narrowed his eyes at Jeanne. “Rob is no saint and Lena needs to know it. On numerous occasions, he’s threatened to kill me—each time in a
more devious way than the last.”

  “Can you name one member of the staff who hasn’t threatened to kill you?” Jeanne asked.

  Pepe disregarded her question. “I think I’m still alive only because he’s too lazy to execute his plans. Or too busy. Or too lovesick.” He pinched his chin theatrically. “Hmm. That’s it, lovesick. He’s been a sorry sight since Lena quit the bistro.”

  Lena looked at Jeanne, who nodded vigorously. And that was when it dawned on her.

  “Oh my God. This is an intervention, isn’t it?”

  “What?” Jeanne furrowed her brow.

  “Where?” Pepe asked, looking around the room.

  Lena shook her head. “The whole movie night thing was a ploy to nudge me toward Rob, wasn’t it?”

  “It was Jeanne’s idea,” Pepe said quickly. “She thinks you’d be good for Rob . . . or the other way around, I can’t remember. Anyway, I was threatened with bodily harm if I didn’t play along.”

  * * *

  “Amanda! What brings you here?”

  Amanda almost squirmed when she heard Jeanne’s voice. She had come to La Bohème hoping to run into Rob, but he wasn’t here. And now her chance of retreating discretely was gone, too.

  “I was in the neighborhood, so I thought I’d stop by for a serving of your chef’s delicious chocolate mousse.”

  “Excellent idea. With a cup of café crème and a glass of water?” Jeanne asked.

  “Yes, please.”

  When Jeanne returned, Amanda asked matter-of-factly, “Is Rob working today?”

  “Yes, but he arrives later in the afternoon. He should be here in an hour. Have you tried calling him?”

  Amanda shook her head. “This wasn’t planned. As I said, I just happened to be in the neighborhood.”

  “If you’re not in a hurry, I can join you in fifteen minutes for my coffee break,” Jeanne offered.

  Amanda brightened. If Jeanne joined her in fifteen minutes, they would chat for another fifteen minutes, and then she could order a drink and send a few e-mails until Rob’s arrival.

  “That would be really nice.”