Paris Cravings: A Paris & Pastry Novel

by Kimberley Montpetit

What’s happening to me? I’ve never felt anything like this before in my life. I stare at Jean-Paul and he gives me a confused smile. I’m sure he thinks I’m a complete idiot.

  I don’t mean to be having these feelings about this French guy. Believe me, I’m really not that sort of girl. Really.

  Six Months Earlier

  Parvati, Sera, and I were soon a threesome. We did homework at Sera’s house, watched movies at my place, and Parvati even invited us over to her elegant apartment for dinner one night. Mrs. Eswana had hired a daily cook since she was buried under with thesis research.

  We sat on cushions at a low table and dined on spicy chicken and rice, sweet breads and tea. For Eleanor Roosevelt girls, we felt très chic and very grown-up. Her mother came out of the study, dropped a kiss on Parvati’s silky dark hair and told us in her British accent that we were darling girls and should come again sometime.

  We clinked cups and Sera graced us with a memorized school quote: “As Mrs. Roosevelt used to say, ‘The purpose of life is to live it, to taste experience to the utmost, to reach out eagerly and without fear for newer and richer experience.’”

  We fell onto the floor in giggles.

  “I think I reached out eagerly and consumed too much food,” I said, so stuffed I could no longer move without groaning.

  Parvati smiled demurely. She had a way of doing that without looking like an idiot.

  Parvati’s famous connections in Bollywood spread through the school, and the next day all the girls were coming over to our lunch table to ask questions and gush over the girl from India as if she was a rock star and they were her groupies.

  “Your cousin is Aishwarya Rai?” Lacey Smith asked, leaning dangerously close to the pool of unused ketchup on her tray. “ She’s the most beautiful actress ever!”

  Sera was drooling, too. We’d just watched Aishwarya Rai in Bride and Prejudice over the weekend.

  Parvati took a delicate bite of her Hamburger Delight, compliments of Eleanor Roosevelt’s state-of-the-art cafeteria menu, and nodded. “I got to be one of the dancers in the market scene. Did you know that she just signed for a movie with Johnny Depp? Aish said she’d try to get me on, too.”

  The girls were now hanging on her every word.

  “What’s Bollywood?” Stacy Stewart whispered next to me.

  “The India version of Hollywood,” I whispered back. “But they make even more movies than we do here in the States.”

  “Wow.” Stacy bit into her apple, chewing slowly. “She must get a lot of frequent flyer miles going back and forth.”

  I laughed into my yogurt as Mathew suddenly appeared at the end of the cafeteria table and beamed at us, his hair wet from the locker room showers, his skin scrubbed and fresh. I imagined how good he probably smelled and melted just a little inside. “How are all you ladies today?” he asked.

  There were a few giggles and hellos around the table as tuna sandwiches and Hamburger Delight were forgotten. I smiled up at him, thinking how lucky I was to have a boyfriend everyone liked and admired.

  “Hey, Perotti,” someone yelled across the room. Mathew winked at me and said he’d be right back. I nodded and finished off my lunch. Five minutes until the bell rang. I had an Algebra test next period and worried whether I’d studied enough. Xs and Ys were flying like mush through my brain from a study session the previous night.

  Sera elbowed me in the ribs. “Check that out.”

  My gaze followed her finger. “What is she doing?”

  While I’d been staring off into space, Parvati had jumped up and followed Mathew across the cafeteria. I noticed how smoothly her hips moved around the tables as students rose to toss their trash and collect backpacks.

  She had stopped Mathew in the open doorway, one hand on her hip as though asking him a question. Guys from choir clustered around her, and then a few basketball players wearing letter jackets sauntered that direction as well, sinking milk cartons into trash cans from ten feet away as though they were actual basketballs.

  Suddenly, Brian Fenway pointed to the doorway and yelled, “Kiss her!”

  The whole cafeteria seemed to explode in unison. “Kiss her! Kiss her!”

  “What the hell—?” I sputtered.

  Above the door of the cafeteria an old forgotten string of mistletoe from December’s Christmas Pageant was hanging in full view. This was the middle of January. Obviously the school janitors were not doing their job cleaning up properly—and now I was paying the price. The dimwit freshman class were all hooting and hollering at my boyfriend and the new gorgeous girl from India to lay one on each other.

  Parvati’s expression was puzzled, as though she had no idea what everyone was cheering about. Finally, she glanced up, saw the mistletoe, and her hands flew to her face as though she were mortified. Was she innocent or just a good actress? I hated being so suspicious, but I was anyway.

  “Do you think she knows what mistletoe means?” Sera asked.

  I froze in my seat, unable to answer.

  The entire cafeteria erupted into chanting and clapping. “Kiss her, kiss her, kiss her!”

  My strawberry yogurt threatened to come up my throat. “I can’t look,” I said as I stared daggers at my boyfriend and Parvati.“Why doesn’t she walk away?” I whispered fiercely.

  “Come on, Chloe, let’s get out of here.” Sera’s tone became indignant on my behalf. “I’m not going to let you be humiliated.”

  The cafeteria crowd wouldn’t let up the shouting and whooping so finally Mathew and Parvati shrugged their shoulders, leaned toward each other, and kissed while the crowd cheered. Now I was truly pissed.

  The image of their locked lips wouldn’t leave my brain.

  Why did I have a photographic memory when it came to some new chick kissing my boyfriend but I always come up blank when it’s time to memorize algebraic equations?

  Jean-Paul helps me onto the couch and picks up the fallen crutches. I want to cry and sink into the floor. I can’t believe he caught me dancing in his living room. On one foot, no less. He must think I’ve lost my mind.

  “Are you hurt?” he asks, running to the kitchen to get me a drink of water. He examines my ankle for new bruising or swelling and I say a silent prayer of thanks that I shaved my legs that morning.

  “I’m fine. No, actually my ankle feels better, it’s just—it’s just—” what can I say? How can I explain? Am I merely hormonal?

  “Maman and I planned to let you sleep as long as you needed to.”

  “The wonderful smells from the shop woke me up.”

  “Ah, yes. Désolé, je suis désolé,” he repeats, saying he’s sorry several times.

  “No, don’t be sorry! I want to come downstairs and help. That’s why I got dressed. Then I called my mother and, well, you know how mothers can be.”

  “Say no more,” he says with a wink. “Your maman must be crazy with worry.”

  I hold up my finger and thumb close together. “Just a teensy bit.”

  “Come downstairs and have a soda. It’s on the house.”

  “I can’t keep taking from you.”

  “You have it backward, Chloe,” Jean-Paul tells me. “We are giving. There is a difference.”

  “Merci,” I whisper. I don’t know what else to say. They are just too kind.

  “Shall I carry you?” he offers suddenly. “The stairs can be difficult.”

  An image of me in Jean-Paul’s arms, my hands around his neck, pops into my head. “No way, I’m much too heavy.”

  He ignores my protests as he bends down and scoops me up as though I weigh hardly anything. Does this guy lift weights or what?

  “You are light as a feather,” he says, grinning. In this position our faces are way too close. I glance away and my eyes dart around the room wondering where I should rest my gaze. I can only hope I don’t begin hyperventilating.

  “You’re going to break your back,” I tell him weakly.

  Jean-Paul kicks aside the crutches. “We can get those
later.”

  “Do all French guys carry girls in distress down their stairs?” I say, trying to make a joke out of it.

  He frowns as though seriously pondering my question and I like how his forehead wrinkles in the middle. “I’ve never counted before, but I do believe you are the first girl to break her foot in our shop.”

  I laugh and then add under my breath, “And the last, I hope.”

  Of course he hears me and those Hershey syrup eyes fix on mine. He’s so close I feel dizzy. His dark hair falls over one eye, looking so soft and thick, I want to reach out and smooth it back.

  “I hope so, too,” he says as he maneuvers the stairs.

  Questions torture my mind. Did I feel like this when I first met Mathew? Were there jolts of electricity, a jump in my stomach, the sensation that I’d faint every time I looked in his eyes? I need to think about that. I also need to think about this somewhere quiet without Jean-Paul around. His presence confuses my brain.

  When he sets me down at a table in a corner of the kitchen, Madame Dupré runs over in her floury white apron. She looks shorter and smaller than I remember from my position on the floor that morning. Her cheeks are bright red like she’s been standing over the stove.

  Flying into French, Madame Dupré says several things I don’t understand except for one phrase. Beignets. That sounds fantastic, and I’m still hungry even though I ate soup for lunch awhile ago. “S’il vous plait,” I say.

  Immediately a basket of fresh chocolate beignets is placed on the table along with a mug of steaming hot chocolate. A plate filled with pats of butter and jam along with a knife and spoon comes next, as well as an assortment of thinly sliced ham.

  I pick up one of the gorgeous rolls, and it’s so warm and fresh I close my eyes in ecstasy as I take a bite. From this corner I can see the hustle and bustle of the kitchen. A huge electric mixer is kneading dough and there are pots on a big cast iron stove. The whole place smells heavenly. Yeasty and chocolaty.

  I’m dying to help, but I don’t know how to ask, and I probably can’t do any mixing or baking wearing this skirt and jacket. I need jeans and sneakers and a white smock. I want to be a pastry shop girl. Bad.

  Jean-Paul stops at my table with a tray on his way to the front counter. “Would you like anything else?”

  I’d like to taste you. The thought flies through my mind, and quickly I gulp the rest of my cocoa. Which burns my tongue. Tears sting my eyes as I blink past the scorching of my mouth and take a fast gulp from a water glass.

  “Hey, don’t drink so fast,” he tells me gently.

  I try to stand up, knowing that I really need to get out of the same room as Jean-Paul and stop my out-of-control mind. “I’m going to hobble down to the corner and get some money out of the ATM, okay? I’ll be right back.”

  “You should take the day off and rest your foot.”

  “I will, I will, it’s just that—I can’t wear this all day, can I?” I ask, pointing to my stained and crusty jacket and skirt.

  “Why not? I think it looks good on you.” He stops, and then adds in a rush. “I mean you look fine. I mean, the clothes are fine. Everything is fine.” He stammers on his last words, swiping the table with a damp cloth. Then he calls out a string of French words over his shoulder.

  It’s like Jean-Paul is having a fluster moment, which doesn’t seem possible. He turns back, his face composed again. “The last batch of croissants are about to come out of the oven.”

  “Sure! Please. Don’t stop for me. I’ll just do my thing. See you later!”

  Cool, nonchalant, that’s me. When I return with some suitable clothes for dough rolling, I’ll ask if I can help. Jean-Paul retrieves my crutches so I won’t have to climb the steps. He brushes away my thanks. “Come back in one piece,” is all he says with a wave of his hand.

  Madame Dupré tells me goodbye, kissing me on both cheeks, as if I’m going to be gone for the rest of my life, even though I’ll be back in ten minutes.

  “À bientôt,” I call as she holds the door open for me to a clear summery afternoon.

  Madame Dupré stands there watching me, then greets an older gentleman coming up the sidewalk. “Bonjour, Monsieur Allard,” she says. He tips his hat, replying, “Bonjour, Madame Dupré,” and then they both take off in rapid French, losing me instantly.

  Too bad the doors hadn’t been opened wide like that this morning. I wouldn’t have missed my bus. I try to imagine what I’d be doing right now, but it’s difficult to picture. All I come up with is me wandering through lots of ornate castle rooms while trying to read a pamphlet.

  When I get to the next corner, I see a debit machine. Maneuvering my handbag and crutches is tricky, but finally I get my card out and stick it in the machine, punching in my PIN and the amount of money I need.

  Insufficient funds.

  No way.

  I try again, pressing the numbers more carefully to make sure I haven’t accidentally made an error. A line forms behind me. One of the crutches clatters to the sidewalk and a gentleman reaches down and picks it up for me.

  “Merci,” I murmur, getting more self-conscious as the line grows longer.

  Insufficient funds blinks at me again. Then the machine starts beeping, as if I’m doing something illegal which makes me jump and I nearly fall over.

  “Pardon, mademoiselle,” a voice says impatiently.

  “Je suis désolé,” I say, realizing that I seem to be saying that a lot lately.

  I take my card and shove it into my bag, hobbling off again. The crutches are starting to annoy me and so does my handbag which bumps against my thigh relentlessly. I want to throw the crutches into the nearest fountain.

  When I pass an outdoor café, I sit down at one of the tables farthest from the restaurant. Maybe they’ll take pity on a crippled girl and let me have a few minutes before trying to get a drink order out of me. Not that it’s required, but it’s the polite, French thing to do. If you use a café table—order a drink, Robert strongly advised.

  I get out my cell phone and call my mother again. She has to put some money into the bank. Like now. I feel so stupid wearing this awful skirt and jacket in public, and I wish we weren’t so broke—and I wish I wasn’t losing my phone when I get back home—and I wish I could talk to Mathew. And I wish Jean-Paul and Paris weren’t so perfectly beautiful.

  I give a sigh, listening to our home phone in New York ring and ring and ring. There’s no answer. Is Mom in the shower? Has she called the police? There’s no predicting. If my mother took one of those Ambien pills the doctor prescribed to help her sleep after Dad died, she might not even hear the phone at all. I’d definitely given her an anxiety attack this morning.

  I try to think calmly. Why is there zero money in the bank account? Has this class trip really used it all? I know that my mother doesn’t get paid again until royalty statement time. If it’s on time. And if the statement includes a check. A lot of “ifs” when it comes to book publishing.

  “Darn, darn, darn,” I repeat, rummaging through my bag again. There are a couple of coins at the bottom, but that’s it. Why didn’t Mom tell me sooner we were so broke?

  Madame Dupré might have something I can wear, but she’s so short and wide I’d have to glue the pants to my hips so they didn’t slide off my derrière. Maybe I’ll just borrow some socks and put an apron over my skirt.

  I call Sera next, using the cell number she called me on earlier, even though I don’t know the owner of the number. I feel guilty I haven’t called her before now. Miraculously, she picks up on the second ring. She must have permanently borrowed that phone.

  “Chloe,” she says and her voice rises in a squeak. “Where are you?”

  “I’m sitting at a café in the middle of Paris. Where are you?”

  “Shopping for earrings with Stacy. And then we’re going to walk down this cute cobbled road to Leonardo da Vinci’s house. Did you know he lived in France until he died? He was a personal friend of the king’s. I never k
new that.”

  “Um, cool.” Jewelry gets Sera really distracted.

  “So what happened to you, Chloe? I get on the bus and you just disappeared! Madame Sauvant is ticked off, and Robert isn’t speaking to anybody. He’s glued to his phone with the Tour office which is getting really annoying—but who cares about him? Are you lost? Are you scared? Tell me what happened!”

  “I just fell and broke my shoe and my foot and I went to the hospital and everything was a mess.” My voice dies away and I realize that I just don’t want to talk about it.

  “So who helped you? Give me your address and we can pick you up when we get back into Paris tomorrow night. It’s going to be, like, midnight or something, but then you won’t have to find your own hotel and get a taxi to the airport. I’d be so scared if I were you.”

  “Actually, I’m not scared at all.” It’s true. Other than my clothing problem, I’m feeling perfectly contented enjoying Paris by myself knowing Jean-Paul and Madame Dupré are waiting for me back at the shop.

  “Okay, I’m ready to write down your address. Robert said he can find where you are on his maps. In fact, there he is now! Robert!” she screeches in my ear. “Robert, it’s Chloe! I have her on the phone right now.”

  Sera is yelling and I can picture her waving down Robert. I hear his deep voice in the background, and I can’t stand it. I don’t want to be found. Not for a few more hours.

  “Are you still there, Chloe?” Sera asks breathlessly.

  Before I can stop myself, I take the edge of my jacket and brush it against the phone as though I’ve run into major static. “You’re breaking up, Sera. I’m losing my signal. Are you there, are you there?”

  “Of course, I’m here,” she says clear as day, but I ignore that. “Where are you—tell me fast!”

  “What did you say?” I keep repeating through the cloth on the speaker. I can’t believe I’m doing this. But I have to. My heart is beating and my palms are sweating. “Sera, I think I’ve lost you . . . “ I punch the phone off and bite my lips, hoping she’ll never find out what I just did. It’s no big deal. I’m safe, and I have a plan to get to the airport. I’ll see her then.