by Alix Nichols
“Laura, may I ask you a question?”
She nodded—and rolled her eyes, realizing the pointlessness of her gesture. “Yes, of course.”
“Why do you sound like you know me?”
Cold sweat gathered under her hairline. Stay calm. “Beats me. Maybe because I know all your songs and have played them daily since your first album came out? Which, using your metaphor, is the same as seeing you in your birthday suit. Many, many times.”
He opened his mouth and roared with laughter.
Oh, how she loved that unrestrained laugh of his. It was better than a bowl of rum raisin ice cream or a scented hot bath in the middle of January or an afternoon on the beach with a great book. It was simply the best thing in the world.
“Wow,” someone behind her said. “How did you do it?”
Emma turned around and saw Jeanne, the blue-haired waitress, gawking. A chubby middle-aged man stood next to her.
“Hi, I’m Jeanne.” The waitress extended her hand.
“I’m Laura.” Emma shook it, surprising herself with her flawless reply. A full week of practice had paid off.
Jeanne turned to Cyril. “Hey, Cyril. I need your friend here to tell me how she managed to make you laugh like that. In all the hours you’ve spent at this bistro over the past three weeks, the most anyone could wring from you was a lopsided smirk. So, I must know.”
“She said she liked the sight of me in a particular suit.” Cyril pursed his lips to contain his hilarity.
“I said no such thing,” Emma protested.
Jeanne winked. “Being cryptic, are we? Anyway, I just want you to meet Pierre, my boss. He’s standing next to me.”
Cyril nodded. “Monsieur.”
“Bonjour,” Pierre said. “I’m the proprietor of this establishment.”
“Let me guess—and a huge fan of my music. Everyone at La Bohème seems to be.”
“Not everyone. Just me and Rob,” Jeanne said.
Pierre gave him a toothy smile. “I must say I don’t know your songs. You’re too young for me. But I am a big fan of soft rock and the French chanson, and I’m told you’re the new generation’s face of it.”
“I certainly hope not,” Cyril said. “It would not be a pretty face.”
Jeanne coughed and Pierre’s smile drooped.
Cyril broke the awkward silence. “I suppose your love of the French chanson is the reason you called the bistro La Bohème?”
“Right on the button.” Pierre grinned again. “When I bought this place from the previous owner, the first thing I did was rename it after my favorite piece by Charles Aznavour.”
“It’s my favorite, too,” Cyril said.
“Well, in that case, this beer is on me.” Pierre turned to Emma. “And whatever mademoiselle is ordering, too, of course.”
After he left, Jeanne swapped out the empty peanut bowl in front of Cyril for a new one. “You have a fresh supply of peanuts next to your left hand.” She turned to Emma and smiled. “What shall I get you?”
“A Perrier, please, or any other sparkling water.”
Jeanne nodded. “I’ll leave you to your conversation, then.”
Emma stayed at La Bohème for the rest of the morning and chatted with Cyril about all sorts of things, forgetting she had a huge amount of work and a tight deadline. She wouldn’t have budged if someone had called her to say her apartment was on fire. What did it matter if her home or all of Paris burned down when she was finally talking—really talking—with Cyril?
Chapter Six
Cyril
Gerrie called at the worst possible time: he was in the shower. Hearing her ringtone sent his brain into a frantic dilemma-solving mode. Safety required that he ignore her call and carry on with his shower. But Gerrie had been so difficult to reach lately. His calls would go straight to her voice mail, and it took her days to call him back.
He pushed the faucet handle down, toweled his hands and ears dry, and grabbed the wall-mounted receiver. “Hey.”
“Hi there! Thought I’d give you a quick call between appointments.”
“How’s business?”
“Not bad,” she said with a tinge of pride in her voice. “Old clients come back for more and recommend us to new ones. But the downside is that Emma and I are swamped. I get up at dawn, and she toils at her computer until one or two in the morning. Every night.”
“She’s really good at what she does,” he said, and he meant it. Emma produced the most original and handsome images he’d ever seen. She’d created the covers of both his albums. He loved them.
“Yep,” Gerrie agreed. “She’s a fantastic designer. And I run around like a headless chicken, taking care of everything else from accounting to contracts to customer service.”
“Why don’t you hire someone to help you out?”
“We’re thinking about it. But it’s a big step for a small, family-run company, you know?”
“Yes, of course.”
Only… she had worked just as hard before his accident and yet had found time to see him every day.
“Gerrie,” he said. “I need you to be honest with me. It’s not just the work, is it?”
“What do you mean?”
“After I came home from the hospital—over two months ago—we’ve hardly seen each other… I hate to be a pain, but something has changed.” He paused, giving her a chance to protest.
She didn’t.
He waited, heart sinking with every passing moment.
“I… I can’t do this, Cyril,” she finally said. “I care for you and I want us to remain friends, but… I can’t be your babysitter.”
He’d expected something along those lines, but it still hurt like hell to hear her say it.
“I’m so sorry, baby,” she continued. “But I’m not a Mother Teresa type. Self-sacrifice isn’t in my nature.”
He could tell her he didn’t want or even need her self-sacrifice. He could give her countless examples of his growing autonomy and enumerate all the smart gadgets that allowed a blind person to do almost everything sighted people could do.
But this wasn’t just about his autonomy. He’d given the matter a good deal of thought. The accident had forced him to become someone else. Someone Gerrie didn’t seem to like anymore. His appearance, his social status, his lifestyle—all of it had changed, and not in a good way. Who could blame her? He was no longer the man she had been in an on-again-off-again relationship with since high school. Even his so-called soul had morphed into something different.
Angrier.
Uglier.
A lot less fun.
“That’s OK,” he said. “I understand. Take care of yourself.”
He hung up and stepped back into the shower stall.
Stick to the routine.
Thank God for the routine. The daily planner app on his phone had been his lifeline since the accident. He tried to have a task planned for every hour, including things like go to La Bohème for a drink and listen to the radio. Marked down like that, those activities stopped being a pastime and acquired a vague purpose. He didn’t go to the bistro just for the beer. He went there so he’d have a reason to leave his apartment, familiarize himself with his neighborhood, and maintain a semblance of social life.
Today’s list contained his usual activities and two tricky tasks—pasta cooking and grocery shopping. He was going to do both things on his own this time. Like the big boy he was.
Cyril dried himself, got dressed, and headed to the kitchen. Two days ago, a Darty technician had come by to swap his touch screen ceramic hob for a basic one with hand turning knobs. Which meant he could now prepare his favorite spaghetti al pesto. At least theoretically.
Before the accident, spaghetti had been his go-to dish, the easy and filling meal he’d cooked so often he could make it with his eyes closed. Or so he used to claim. Well, he had the ideal conditions now to put that claim to the test. After all, what better way to test a theory than a blind trial?
Some
thing jabbed his thigh, making him flinch. His fingers came into contact with the corner of his fashionably rustic dining table.
“You have arrived at your destination,” he said out loud, mimicking the polished robotic voice of the GPS in his adored MINI Cooper.
Which was now as much of a wreck as its owner.
OK. Spaghetti. He skirted the table to get to the pantry. Mom had stocked it with all kinds of foodstuffs, organized and labelled in Braille. Finding a spaghetti box shouldn’t be too difficult. Over the past months, the good people at Mobility Help had taught him lots of food-related tips and tricks. He was now able to brew his own java, spread jam on his toast without losing half of it on the floor, and press orange juice.
Cooking pasta would be his next milestone.
Grabbing the box, he walked over to the cooking area, where he put it on the worktop. Now, if he could locate a saucepan, fill it with water, and get it to the stove, he’d treat himself to a good swig of beer.
He opened the cabinet where he kept his pots and pans and groped. But all he dug up was skillets. Five of them in different sizes—and not a single saucepan. Mom must have moved the saucepans to another place that made more sense to her. But where? He could call her and ask, of course, but then this undertaking would become assisted.
Cyril sighed. His cooking adventure would have to wait until he found the energy to turn his kitchen inside out.
For now, he would tackle the next item on his to-do list: grocery shopping. He rushed to the foyer, grabbed his cane, and walked out of his apartment, spurred by determination.
But once inside the convenience store, his confidence evaporated. He’d studied these aisles with Mom several times. So why couldn’t he remember where to start?
Concentrate.
OK. Beer and milk were at the back. Bread on the left. What about coffee? And cheese? This was a lot more difficult than he’d expected.
He was about to call for the shop assistant, when he heard a familiar voice. “Cyril, hi! What are you doing here?”
He turned toward the voice. “Hi. Who is this?”
“Stupid me! It’s Laura. From last week at La Bohème?”
“You didn’t mention you lived in the neighborhood.”
“I don’t. I just have some business here this month.”
“What sort?”
“Stalking you.”
He lost his tongue for a second.
“I’m kidding,” she said, laughing. “I’m a photographer, and I’m doing shoots on rue du Faubourg Montmartre for a magazine.”
“Oh, good. Stalkers are creepy.”
She cleared her throat. “So, what is it you need to buy?”
“The basics. Coffee, beer, licorice candy, milk, bread—”
She giggled. “I hope that list doesn’t reflect your order of priorities.”
“Of course it does.”
“Can I help you? I finished today’s shoot earlier than planned, so I have time on my hands.”
“Sure,” he said, trying to conceal his relief. “You’re very kind.”
She hooked her skinny arm through his. “All right, then. Let’s go hunt down some licorice.”
When they’d marked off the last item on his list, Laura offered to help him carry the bags to his apartment.
Cyril silently thanked the god of vanity for having made sure he’d left home without the granny-style shopping cart his mom had gotten him.
“There’s no need,” he said without a trace of conviction in his voice.
“I insist.”
“OK. Follow me.”
* * *
“Can I get you something to drink?” he asked her as soon as they’d finished transferring the contents of the bags to the pantry and refrigerator shelves.
“One of those beers you bought would be nice now.”
He motioned to the kitchen table. “Please, have a seat.”
As he opened the fridge door, he itched to demonstrate his recently acquired skills to this woman. He’d become good at pouring liquids, rarely spilling a drop. You could actually do without sight to measure the fullness of a glass. He’d learned to rely on nuances in sound and weight and on a judicious use of his index finger when the liquid approached the top.
Hmm. Perhaps no finger this time.
“What do you look like?” he asked as he held her glass out for her.
“Who? Me?” She took the glass, brushing her fingers against his.
“I know you aren’t obese,” Cyril said. “But other than that, I’m in the dark.”
“OK. Let’s see. I’m foxy. I wear my platinum blond hair in a wavy bob. My waist is narrow, and my hips are full. My boobs are size D. Oh, and I have a gorgeous little beauty mark above the left corner of my mouth.”
His lips twitched. “You sound amazing, Marilyn.”
“Pardon me? I have no idea who you’re talking about.”
“Don’t you? So you just described yourself, what you really look like, and you weren’t at all poking fun at an optically challenged person?”
“Uh-huh.”
He sat down next to her. “I demand to verify.”
“And how will you do that? You have no way of gauging how blond my hair is.”
“Wrong. I have a color-detecting app on my phone.”
“Really?”
He nodded. “But even without it, I can assess the veracity of the beauty mark, the D cup, the thinness of the waist and the fullness of the hips.”
“By groping me?”
Cyril threw his hands up and schooled his features into a look of misunderstood innocence. “A blind man’s got to do what a blind man’s got to do.”
“Yeah, right.” She was silent for a few seconds and then said, “You can check the beauty mark. But that’s it.”
He lifted his hand to where he expected her face to be. She shifted a little, and then his fingers came into contact with smooth, warm skin. Her cheek. He stayed there for a moment, reveling in the feel of it, then cupped the side of her face and ran his thumb across her sweet chin and her elegant jawline.
“So far so good,” he said with a satisfied grin.
She didn’t speak or move.
He slid his fingers to the area above her mouth, looking for the famous mark. Finding none, he went up to her cheekbones and then down to her soft lips. After a good three minutes of brushing her mouth and cheeks and acquiring a substantial hard-on in the process, he pronounced his verdict. “You have no beauty mark.”
Her reaction came with a suspicious delay. “Don’t I?”
Was she out of breath, or was it just his imagination?
“Nope. At least none detectable with the naked thumb.”
“Darn! I was sure I’d glued one on this morning.”
He laughed. “Maybe it fell off. You should use stronger glue next time.”
“I sure will.”
Now, if he could come up with another excuse to touch her, everything would be fine in the finest of all possible worlds.
Think, Cyril, think!
“I’ve got to go,” she said suddenly.
Shit. Damn his anachronistic cockiness! This was what happened when a visually-impaired person with a scarred face acted as if he were still a heartthrob.
He swallowed hard. “I scared you. I’m sorry.”
She fumbled with something and shifted in her seat.
“I promise to keep all my digits off you in the future,” he said in a last-ditch attempt to salvage the situation. “Please stay.”
“It’s not you,” she said. “Really. I just… I remembered an important appointment.”
A chair scraped lightly against the floor tiles, followed by a short silence, and then her voice. “I’ll see you around.”
“Bye.”
He listened to her retreating steps. Then the door clicked shut, and his apartment became unbearably quiet.
He remained seated, frozen in a stupor at his kitchen table, while his mind replayed both of his encounters
with his fan Laura. After a long moment, he admitted to himself she had stirred something in him.
Then he made peace with the idea that he would never see her again.
In any sense of the word.
Chapter Seven
Emma
“And then I said, ‘Sure, no problem. If you think you can find a better designer who’ll meet your deadline and charge less than us, be my guest. I promise no hard feelings.’ ” Geraldine tilted her head to the side and spread her lips into a disdainful smile, reenacting her standard killer punch for Emma’s benefit.
Emma smirked. “I bet they said, ‘OK, you win, let’s discuss the color palette.’ ”
“Believe it or not, they didn’t! Those cheapskates made a new offer, higher than the first one but still below our quotation.”
“That’s unusual. So you delivered the death blow?”
“Oh yes, I did—and took immense pleasure in it. I looked at the new figure and pushed the sheet back across the table. I flashed them my Smile Number Three and said, ‘Messieurs, it’s been a pleasure, but my time is too expensive to be wasted on useless haggling. Good luck with your launch.’ I picked up my purse and began walking toward the door…”
Somewhere in the middle of Geraldine’s account, Emma tuned out. She was having a hard time concentrating on her sister’s self-congratulatory chatter. She’d had a hard time concentrating on anything lately since the beauty mark episode in Cyril’s kitchen. God, how she’d wanted him to continue touching her! Her body had gone all gooey and hot, and her brain… her brain had rearranged all its neurons to form three short words: Yes. Please. More. The only thing that made her pull back and leave was her fear of destroying the fragile little sprout between them with an excess of zeal.
She couldn’t risk it. Not now, not when she finally had a chance with him.
It was important he get to know her a little better before they became lovers.
Sweet Lord.
The mere thought that making love to Cyril had moved from the realm of fantasy to the domain of possibility was enough to send her pulse into the stratosphere. Was she freaking out? Was she scared she’d disappoint him in bed? After all, he’d dated none other than Geraldine—the woman who claimed to know every trick in the Kama Sutra and emit pheromones during sex that messed with men’s heads. Which was, of course, one hundred percent pure Geraldine-grade bullshit. Unlike Emma’s easily verifiable lack of experience and prowess.