by Alix Nichols
“Amanda, it’s just money—”
“I don’t mean it only in the financial sense.” She wrung her hands. “I need to have goals of my own. I need to be productive, feel useful . . . I’m too much of an achiever for a life of leisure.”
He nodded, the hopeful sparkle leaving his eyes.
“Besides,” she delivered the coup de grâce, “I love my apartment. I love Paris. I’m one of those sedentary folks who need a home with walls and a roof. And a designer couch.”
* * *
Four pairs of tiny, black-pearl eyes stared at Amanda’s naked body as if it were totally fine. From her height, she couldn’t distinguish each individual eye, but since she’d read the spider book, she knew Christophe had eight of them.
“I’m afraid you got the wrong idea, buddy,” she said, squirting shower gel onto her sea sponge. “I’m willing to let you crash in my bathroom for a while, and we can chat and all that, but I’m not OK with you checking me out like this.”
Christophe didn’t react.
“It’s inappropriate,” Amanda said. “The fact that you’re naked, too, doesn’t authorize you to ogle me. This is not a nudist bathroom—it’s a private bathroom. I don’t like sharing this space with other people. Or arachnids.”
She closed her eyes to shampoo her hair, and her thoughts went to Kes’s guide. We count on your cooperation, it had requested. Amanda smiled. Wasn’t she the most cooperative reader in the world? Over the last couple of days, she’d been treating her orchid like a princess and talking to Christophe whenever he showed up in her bathroom.
Which was often.
Maybe he was lonely, the poor devil. Maybe the lady spiders kept rejecting him. Another possibility was that he preferred human females to his own kind. Or maybe he was just different from all other spiders—an outsider by choice, a unique specimen that enjoyed living by his own rules, in limbo between two worlds.
Like Kes.
As she stepped out of the tub, her buzzer went off. Amanda threw on her white bathrobe and hurried to the door.
The same courier as last time handed her a small cardboard box.
She tore it open as soon as she shut the door. The box contained a typed page and a gorgeous hand-painted silk scarf. A little too classic for her taste, but beautiful nonetheless.
She began to read the letter.
A Woman’s Guide to Love, Part II
Introduction: In ideal circumstances, we would recommend that you practice on plants and animals for at least three months before graduating to humans. But the circumstances being what they are, we suggest you move on to your next subject: your mother.
Rationale: It’s common knowledge that mother-daughter relationships are never simple (same as between fathers and sons). We’ll spare you the psychological underpinnings of this phenomenon and assume your relationship skews toward the “complicated” end of the range.
Instructions:
1. Accept your mother’s dinner invitation.
2. Tell her she matters and give her the scarf, letting her assume you bought it.
3. Tell her that all she achieves with her “tough love” approach is upsetting and alienating you. Provide three or four concrete examples.
4. Go home and wait for the penny to drop.
Bonus points: Here’s an additional challenge for you: if you find the courage to tell your mother you love her, a certain Gitan will tell his parents the same thing. For the first time in his life.
~ ~ ~
As always, we count on your goodwill and cooperation.
Stay tuned for Part III!
Amanda folded the page and stared at the pattern on the scarf for a good quarter of an hour.
Then she picked up the phone and dialed Vivienne.
* * *
The doorbell rang at seven, and Amanda let her mother in.
Vivienne could’ve just waited for her in the car, seeing as she was driving Amanda to a restaurant in Saint-Cloud. Oh well, at least she’d had the courtesy to ring the bell this time.
What was the fun in trespassing when you were expected, anyway?
“I need to wash my hands,” Vivienne offered, stepping inside.
Her real agenda was, of course, to conduct a quick inspection of the premises. She did this all the time, and it annoyed Amanda to no end.
But, strangely, not tonight.
Vivienne headed to the bathroom—after all, it had been her excuse for coming up—and a moment later, Amanda heard her scream.
Oh no.
She must have seen the spider.
Amanda sprinted inside, imagining the worst. But, luckily, Vivienne was too squeamish to make use of one of her expensive shoes.
Amanda smiled.
Like mother, like daughter.
“Do you have an insect repellent?” Vivienne asked, pointing at the spider.
“Maman, meet Christophe, my roommate. He’s harmless.”
Vivienne’s mouth fell open for a split second before she collected herself. “The reservation is for seven forty-five, so we need to go. We’ll talk about this later.”
Amanda followed her out the door, noting that her mother must have been truly distraught not to finish her inspection.
They drove to Saint-Cloud in silence.
At the restaurant, they ordered their dishes and spent some time studying the silverware.
“You’re too isolated and lonely,” Vivienne announced.
Amanda lifted her eyes from her fork. “Why would you say that?”
“Why? You called a spider in your bathroom ‘Christophe’ as if it were your pet.” Vivienne peered into her daughter’s eyes. “I remember those books—you adored them when you were little.”
“I did.” Amanda held her mother’s gaze. “Maybe he is my pet.”
Vivienne shook her head. “You’re headed for a breakdown, Amanda. I’m going to find you a good therapist.”
“I don’t need a therapist. I need—” Amanda took a deep breath. “Your sympathy and understanding.”
The older woman’s mouth fell open again, this time for a few long moments. Amanda struggled to suppress a satisfied grin. Vivienne controlled her facial expressions like a pro, so provoking her into two mouth gapes in one hour was an undeniable achievement. And a good sign.
“I knew you wouldn’t want a therapist,” Vivienne finally said, “but I could’ve never imagined, not even in my wildest dreams, that you’d want my sympathy instead. You’re so proud and so . . . dismissive of me.”
“You’re wrong. I’m neither. I’m just trying to protect myself because the things you say hurt too much.”
And that was when Vivienne’s jaw dropped for the third time.
They spent the rest of the evening discovering each other’s unsuspected vulnerabilities and pledging to try to handle things better in the future. Over dessert, Amanda gave her mother Kes’s gift without revealing its provenance.
Eyes glistening, Vivienne insisted it was the most beautiful scarf she’d ever seen.
“Ma chérie,” she said as she stopped the car in front of Amanda’s building. “I love you more than anything . . . All I want is for you to succeed in this rat race called life.”
“I know, Maman.” Amanda opened the car door and began to climb out. Then she stopped and turned to Vivienne. “I love you, too. We’ll figure it out.”
I hope, she added silently as she closed the door.
Even if they didn’t, she thought while running up the stairs, they had just opened up to each other in a way they’d never done before. It would stay with them, no matter what.
When she reached her landing, she was startled to see Kes sitting on the steps leading to the upper floor with a book in his hands and a smile in his eyes.
“I was too restless,” he explained.
She grinned. “Well, you just saved us twenty minutes of sleep. So, well done.”
She unlocked the door and let both of them in.
“How did it go?” He followed
her into the kitchen.
“Tea? Wine? Beer?”
“Just water, please.”
She poured them both some water and sat down across from him, grinning.
He gulped his glass down. “So?”
“It went well. Better than I could’ve imagined.”
“Really?” Relief was palpable in his voice.
“Why do you sound so surprised?” she teased. “I thought you knew what you were doing when you sent me part two of your guide. I thought it was based on the insights you’d gleaned from your psychology books.”
“It is. But you can never be sure.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I was worried your dinner might go wrong, and then your relationship would deteriorate, and it would all be my fault.”
“I see.” She gave him a playful look. “Then you’ll be happy to hear I’ve also earned your bonus points.”
His eyes widened. “You did?”
She nodded, feeling incongruously smug.
“Wow.” He put his elbows on the table and encased his face with his hands. “So now I’ll have to tell my parents I love them.”
She reached over and put her hand over one of his. “Looks like you will. And no shortcuts, please.”
He gave her a pleading look. “They’ll decide I’m even weirder than they thought.”
She shrugged. “Not my problem.”
“I’ll go see them tomorrow.”
Tomorrow?
Amanda panicked. Did he really have to act on his promises so quickly? She had only a week left to enjoy his company until he went off to Vegas.
Unless . . . he cancelled his trip.
Should she ask him to stay, like he’d asked her to go away with him?
He’d probably refuse, just as she had done. After all, traveling from casino to casino was how he made a living. More than that—it was his way of life . . .
“My folks are in Lyon these days,” Kes said. “It’s just two hours by train. I’ll be at your place at midnight.”
Good.
She exhaled in relief and caught him staring at her in a funny way.
He took her hand and held it in his.
“You know what the last part of your ‘Guide to Love’ will be about, don’t you?” he asked, his voice deep.
She did.
She dreaded it.
And, God help her, she looked forward to it.
“Let’s see . . .” She tapped the side of her glass, feigning intense mental activity. “We started off with a plant, then a spider, then my mother . . . What’s the next life-form on the evolutionary ladder? The most advanced organism . . . Hmm . . . Wait, I know—it’s Kes Moreno!”
He chuckled. “Mock it all you want, but can you deny you’ve followed all my instructions so far to a T?”
No, she couldn’t deny it.
“I’m just humoring you,” she said with the most offhand shrug she could manage. “For fun.”
“Fine by me.” He mimicked her shrug. “As long as you continue following my instructions.”
She drank from her glass, formulating the question she’d wanted to ask ever since his unexpected declaration. Not that it mattered all that much or would change anything, but she wanted to know anyway.
“What do you see in me?”
He startled and looked her over. “Where shall I begin?”
“I’m serious, Kes. Why do you think you’re in love with me?”
His brow wrinkled in feigned bewilderment. “Beats me. You’re so utterly unattractive.”
She blew her cheeks out, growing impatient. “Please stop deflecting my legitimate questions with nonsensical replies. I really want to know. I need to know.”
He searched her eyes. “O-oo-k-aay . . .”
“I can understand why you want to sleep with me.”
“Why’s that?”
“Young men have a high sex drive. You’re young. And I’m attractive.”
“You think? Hmm.”
She ignored him. “As I said, I get the sex part. What I don’t get is the love part.”
“Would it help if the next installment of the guide was illustrated? I could draw some pictures, and even color them.”
“Ha-ha,” she said without bothering to smile. “I mean it, Kes. I’m not the type of woman men fall in love with.”
“Because there’s a special type for that?” He bunched his eyebrows.
“Two types, actually.” She traced the rim of her glass. “One is Cutie Pie. No man can resist a sweet, shy, vulnerable damsel. Like Lena.”
“Rob’s wife?”
She nodded. “Why do you think he chose her over me? Women like Lena appeal to men’s protective instinct. They make them feel stronger and . . . maler.”
“If you say so.” He pulled his chair back and beckoned her. “Come here.”
When she approached him, he set his hands on her waist and pulled her onto his lap. “What’s the second type?”
She settled comfortably and wrapped one arm around his neck. “Mommy. That’s Jeanne and all the kind, nurturing, motherly women who make men feel safe and cared for.”
“I see.” He contorted his mouth like someone suppressing a smile. “So which one are you?”
“Neither of them, of course. I’m not shy. I’m certainly not sweet or even remotely motherly.”
She closed her eyes, enjoying the feel of his large warm hand sliding under the hem of her skirt and caressing her thighs.
“I’m assertive and competitive,” she said.
“I concur.”
She opened her eyes and stared into his. “I’m the bitch type.”
“Bullshit.” He met her gaze. His hand was on the inside of her thigh now, inching up. “I disagree.”
“You can disagree for all eternity, but that’s who I am, Kes. I’m sharp-tongued and tactless, and no amount of good manners can obliterate it.”
“Thank God,” he said, brushing her crotch.
She clutched his shoulder. “I’ve been trying—and failing—to be a good girl for as long as I can remember.”
“You should stop trying.”
He pressed his thumb right where she needed it and rubbed gently.
Ooh.
She arched her back and spread her knees a little.
Stay focused, Amanda.
“With a few exceptions—” She let out a soft moan. “Women tend to dislike me. And . . . oh God, this is so good! . . . as I said before . . . men tend not to fall in love with me.”
“And as I said before,” he echoed her, “I disagree.”
“You think . . .” She drew in a ragged breath, and her eyes glazed over. “You think you know me better than I do?”
“No, but I think I know men better than you do.”
He began to rub a little harder, and her head fell back on a whimper. She knew she had only a few moments of clarity left until she lost her capacity for coherent speech.
“And?” she rasped.
“We aren’t a monolithic mass. We’re diverse, and we like different kinds of women, for different qualities and in different ways . . . You—”
She opened her mouth to argue, but he pressed his lips to hers.
“Shh,” he said against her mouth. “Let me finish.”
She blinked.
“You have my heart, Amanda. And whether you want it or not . . .” He smiled a lopsided smile that stole the breath from her lungs. “You’d better get used to carrying it around. Because, ma belle, I don’t have a return policy.”
* * *
Chapter Thirteen
Back to Normal
~ ~ ~
A Woman’s Guide to Perfection
Guideline # 13
The Perfect Woman avoids men who are too young and too handsome.
Rationale: Too young = not ready for a serious relationship. Too handsome = coveted by too many other women, some of whom might be more attractive (smarter, better in bed) than you.
A word of caution: Here’s a rule of thumb: O
nly go out with men who are at least three years older than you and score between 5.5 and 7 on a hotness scale of 1 to 10.
Permissible exception: Do give a chance to a hunk who’s twenty years your senior and a proven monogamist. The margin of tolerance for younger men is one year and not a day beyond.
Damage control: If, despite our warning, you go out with a younger man, keep your heart uninvolved and observe him for at least six months for any signs of immature behavior. Similarly, if you end up seeing a man who scores above seven on the hotness scale, quarantine your feelings for at least six months to gauge how corruptible he is.
If you get involved with a man who’s both too young and too handsome, start stocking up on tissues, horror movies, and chocolate. Expect heartbreak before the year is out.
~ ~ ~
In contrast to the beginning of the week, this morning La Bohème was full to overflowing. The Parisians had returned from their southern vacations, and the tourists reappeared in droves. Manon asked the servers to cut their coffee breaks back to the pre-slump ten minutes. Amanda didn’t mind. Being busy meant getting more tips and not having time to think about Kes.
The first thing she did during her break was text him.
Did you find your folks at the campsite easily? Is your grandma OK?
A minute later, he replied.
Yes and yes.
She smiled.
Have you told them yet?
I’m gearing up for it.
Good luck.
Thanks!
Thinking about Kes, Amanda swallowed the rest of her coffee and went back to work. As she carried loaded trays and bussed dirty dishes, she felt pleasantly lightheaded—just like yesterday and the day before. It was her new normal.
Stupid, shortsighted hormones.
How did a girl keep her head on her shoulders when a man like Kes was doing everything to prevent it? He made her laugh. He plunged her into the present moment. Thanks to his clever prompts, she looked at people and situations in a new light and discovered things she’d never seen before.
The way he made love to her felt so right she wondered if he’d used some Gypsy voodoo to find out what turned her on. Because, God help her, he knew.
He’d discovered something important about her, something that no other lover—not even Rob—had figured out. And how could they? She was the ultimate type A, a true alpha: controlling and fiercely independent in all aspects of her daily life. With the emphasis on daily.