by A. Gardner
Michel pokes his head in again, and this time he scans the kitchen until he sees me. He waves to get my attention.
"Poppy, will you come here please?" he asks.
"Sure."
I wipe my hands and head for the hallway—the sound of customers waiting at the front door seeps through the walls. I meet Mr. Rolph in his office. He sits and invites me to do the same. Last time I sat in this chair, I wasn't met with good news.
Michel looks more gaunt than usual. His cheeks look as if they're slowly fading into the bones on his face. He looks like he hasn't had much sleep, and his office isn't as tidy as it normally is. There are muffin crumbs next to his coffee cup—Michel's version of messy.
"I'll start with your progress report," he begins. I take a deep breath, remembering my French macaron failure and everything that happened at Dovington Manor.
"Okay."
"Marta informs me that you are improving." He looks down at a newspaper on his desk like it's my personal baking file. "She says you are doing well."
"Oh," I blurt out. I'm a little surprised given the way I told her what I really thought of her back in England. "She said that?"
"Is there a problem?" He pauses, studying my face.
"No. No problem."
"Next, and most importantly…" He glances down at his desk again. I lean forward and catch a glimpse of the newspaper headline. Slapped across the front in bolded letters are the words Lord Samuel Dovington. The rest is all in French. I clench my hands in fists when I see his name. "We must discuss England."
"I figured as much," I mutter. "Thanks for giving me at least one day to take my mind off of it."
He looks puzzled.
"Lord Dovington was a wealthy man." He ignores my previous comment, keeping a concerned look on his face. It reminds me of the one my mom makes when she's brought a salad with dressing on top instead of on the side. I don't think I've ever not seen her send something back when we go out for dinner. It's kind of her thing.
"I agree," I reply, wondering where he's going with this.
"That means the press will be all over his wedding mishap." Michel pushes the newspaper aside. "I've been on the phone nonstop trying to prevent our name from popping up in the papers, but I can only do so much. I will be speaking to everyone about this at some point this week. Le Croissant has no comment on the matter, okay? If you are asked anything about the Dovington's you are not to give any sort of comment."
"I understand."
"We have a reputation here," he informs me. "We strive for perfection. Only the best of the best. Our bakery is not one of scandals and mischief. We hire hard workers. The brightest culinary talent that Europe has to offer."
"I get it." I move my fingers across my mouth as if I'm zipping my lips shut. "I won't say a word about it. I wish it'd never happened, anyway."
"Reporters are relentless creatures. They could be anywhere. Anyone."
"Then I will keep doing what I've been doing and never talk about England. Ever."
"Good." Michel manages to force an approving smile. I eye his empty coffee cup and twitching pinky finger. I stand up, spotting a few new wrinkle lines on his forehead. Managing a bakery is no easy task, especially when the main attraction doesn't communicate well with others. Or maybe it's just me.
"Want me to refill that for you?" I point at his coffee cup and half-eaten muffin from this morning's day old pile reserved for staff only. Michel raises his eyebrows.
"What?"
"Your coffee," I say. "You look like you're running on empty."
"Oh." He seems a little shocked. I guess no one has ever offered to refill his mug before. "Thank you, Poppy." I shrug like it's no big deal, because it isn't.
I grab the handle of his beige porcelain mug. The edges are crisp and thin with a vine of flowers outlined around the base. All in white, of course. Michel seems drawn to muted colors. Nothing too loud or too showy.
I take a step into the hallway and hear a loud bang followed by a scream.
The scream of a woman.
Michel jumps up behind me.
"The kitchen," I say lowly. My heart pounds as I take the lead. Racing to the kitchen with Michel at my heels, I don't know what I'll find when I push open the door. I can think of a million things, and all of them are bad. Dovington Manor bad.
Another bang makes me jump. My torso freezes, and I have to forces myself to take a breath before I turn blue. My fingers touch the door to the kitchen. As I cautiously push it open, I hear Michel's heavy breathing right behind me.
"No!" Destin yells.
The kitchen looks like a chef's nightmare. Pots and pans are scattered across the floor. Some were holding today's goods. Flour is still floating through the air, and some of it sneaks up my nose. I cough, stepping to the side where Dandre is watching and covering his mouth with his hand. A woman about my age flails her arms, knocking over a tray of my chocolate éclairs. I cringe when they hit the floor.
All my hard work.
Ruined.
I quickly scan the kitchen for Marta and Jean Pierre. The two of them are near the back door, which is wide open. Jean Pierre has his arms crossed, and Marta is gawking at the scene in front of her.
Destin is standing the middle of the kitchen. I deduced it was him because he is the only one left unaccounted for besides the staff that work the front counter. He's covered from head to toe in flour and raw batter. What I'm guessing is our almond raspberry cake mixture is dripping down his front and oozing off of his head, hiding his thick mane.
The woman in front of him screams something in French before she bumps a few more trays of pastries on her way out. She leaves in a whirlwind of confectioner's sugar, and all of us are left wondering what the hell just happened.
Destin exhales as he looks down at the mess on the ground. We will all have to work double time to make up for the work that was just lost. Hopefully, we have enough pastries to feed the morning rush of customers. Jean Pierre steps forward, and the kitchen remains eerily silent. I gulp, praying that Destin won't be fired before he has the chance to explain what happened.
What did just happen?
From what I could make out, the woman stormed into the kitchen unannounced and let Destin have it, along with half of today's product. Destin must have done something unforgiveable for that woman to run wild like that. Or maybe it's a French thing? The woman in the apartment above me seems to yell whenever she feels like it. Or maybe Destin is just one of those guys. The ones that draw you in for reasons you never figure out and drive you crazy for the rest of your life. A guy like my ex-boyfriend Locke. Whether we're together or not, he yanks at my last nerve every time I see him. Not in a good way.
Destin barely lifts his head. He doesn't look at his boss. Instead he wrinkles his nose and squints his eyes like he's about to be punched. Jean Pierre opens his mouth and says something quietly in French. Destin observes the mess around him and nods.
"What did he say?" I mutter to Michel.
"He told him to get cleaned up then fix this mess," he whispers.
"Will he be fired?"
"No," Michel clearly states. "Chef Gautier hand picks his team. He won't want to lose Destin over a lover's quarrel."
"Lover's quarrel?" I repeat back.
"Val is Destin's la amie…she's his girlfriend."
"Dang. What did he do to piss her off?" I scan the current state of the kitchen and the remaining patches of clean flooring. There aren't many.
Marta steps over a mess of flour and tainted croissant dough with a rag in her hand. She bends down to start cleaning, glancing up at me and Dandre. Marta frowns.
"Well," she barks. "Are you just going to watch me?"
I want to glare at her and smugly say yes.
Even as a joke though, she won't find it funny.
I follow Dandre and grab a rag of my own to start tossing scraps into the trash. The faster we clean, the sooner we can assess the damage to today's pastry count. My heart sinks as I
scoop handfuls of my perfectly glazed chocolate éclairs and dump them in the trash. I bite the corner of my lip as I do. It's like watching my little works of art being chucked down a drain.
When the kitchen is close to being clean, Destin returns wearing a dry uniform. His face is red like he spent the last thirty minutes rubbing his cheeks raw with a loofah. He hangs his head, looking embarrassed. Dandre tosses him a wet rag, and he starts cleaning as fast as he can. He shakes his head, mumbling to himself as he scrubs the remnants of powdered sugar from his workspace. Marta hops to her feet and begins counting pastries.
I walk toward Destin and carefully nudge him on the shoulder.
"Are you okay?"
"I'll live," he responds. "That is, if I'm not murdered in my sleep tonight."
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
"I see you're still alive," I comment. All day yesterday, Destin kept his head down. I watched him brace himself every time Jean Pierre retreated to the back garden for a breath of fresh air. Destin knew he would get an official talking to. He just didn't know when it would happen.
This morning came and went fast. I made the morning éclairs again, and this time I kept a fixed eye on them until they were gently placed behind the glass up front along with all the other pastries.
"Oui." Destin strolls past me throwing a clean towel over his shoulder. He is actually grinning today, which is an improvement on yesterday's scowl. I don't know what happened with his girlfriend Val when he went home for the day, but I can only guess that either they made up or broke up.
Dandre keeps a close eye on Destin like he's the doughnut of the day. I clear my station, ready to make myself a café au lait and nibble on a day old croissant in the back garden. People-watching through the iron gates has been my primary way of soaking in Paris. The early mornings and long hours don't leave much time for me to do anything else but work, eat, and sleep. It's like rehearsals for The Nutcracker all over again. The hype never goes away until the new year. My muscles aren't as sore, and I don't lament over pictures of raspberry cheesecakes in random cookbooks, but the work is just as hard.
Destin takes a deep breath and heads out back for a breather. I take off my chef's jacket and hang it up next to my purse. Discreetly, I dig for my pocket notebook. The one I decided to start carrying around Paris with me to jot down thoughts and observations. I quickly note the way Dandre sets multiple timers to make sure nothing is overcooked or browned unevenly and the way Marta likes to cool her hands in the freezer before she works with tart dough. Cold hands keep the butter in the dough from melting too fast.
I follow Destin outside. The evening sky is settling in. The bakery is closed, but we have special orders to prep before we leave for the day. Jean Pierre is meeting with a client about a custom wedding cake, and Marta is reviewing tomorrow's deliveries from suppliers.
The air is crisp and much warmer than expected for a Parisian spring. It makes me want to leave work early and do some window-shopping. I need to fill up my camera with pictures before I head back home. I glance at Destin as he stretches his arms and legs. He rubs the side of his face, flashing his black tattoo that spreads across his knuckles.
"So," I casually say. My curiosity won't extinguish. "What happened with Val?"
He exhales and leans against the back wall of the bakery. His gaze moves along the tops of buildings in the distance and stops when he reaches the dimming sky.
"Valentine," he replies quietly. The way he says it, French accent and all, sounds romantic. Poetic even. "She is the best and worst thing that has ever happened to me."
"I see." I nod. "Unfortunately, I can't relate. My ex-boyfriend is definitely one of the worst things that has ever happened to me, but I can't say that he was the best too."
"Oui." Destin cracks a smirk. In his solemn stare into the heavens, I see a glimpse of the Destin I met on my first day at Le Croissant. The teaser. The joker. The master of quiche Lorraine, and brioche des rois. "So you are single?"
"Oui," I smugly answer.
"Valentine wants me to quit my job," he admits, crossing his arms.
"Why?"
"I forgot our anniversaire again."
"If that's why she doused you in butter and sugar yesterday then maybe you should think about a fresh start?" I suggest.
"I did this last year too," Destin continues. "And the year before that. And before that. And before that—"
"Got it," I interrupt. "So yesterday was years and years worth of bottled-up frustration. Makes sense."
"I love my job, but I also love Valentine." He pauses, hanging his head the way he did after his girlfriend stormed out of the kitchen yesterday. "Chef Gautier took a chance on me and…"
"Before you say it, you haven't failed anyone. The life of a pastry chef is turning out to be much harder than I ever imagined. I'm not sure a balance between bakery and babe even exists."
"I am nothing without Valentine," he says quietly. "I am nothing without Le Croissant."
"Then win back both." My suggestion seems next to impossible, but it brightens him up. If our roles were reversed I would most likely resort to picking one and regretting my choice later. I'm much better at giving advice than I am at taking my own.
But I suppose lots of people are like that.
"Que?"
"Apologize to Valentine and to Chef Gautier. Win them both back."
"I can speak to the chef, but Valentine I am not sure."
"When was your anniversary?" I ask.
"Last weekend."
"So surprise her with a romantic night out and beg." I chuckle.
"I can't," he sighs. "Her brother just arrived from Zürich. She won't leave him. Unless…" He glances at me with a growing grin.
"Oh no." My eyes widen. "I'm a wreck when it comes to blind dates. I'm not tagging along."
"S'il vous plaît, Poppy," Destin pleads. "It was your idea."
"So?" A schoolgirl response is the only comeback I have.
"I'll wash your dishes," he offers.
"Tempting." I tilt my head, toying with the idea.
"You can convince her that my cooking is bien." He clasps his hands together and looks at me eagerly.
"You've never cooked for her?"
"Eh?"
"Destin," I scold him. "Now I'm afraid to ask how long you two have been together."
"We grew up together," he admits.
"Oh Destin," I mutter. "You are an absolute cream puff." He wrinkles his forehead, a little confused. "It's not just the anniversaries and your affair with puff pastry. Maybe she's frustrated because she wants to know where the two of you are going."
"Going?"
"You know, if you're the one or if she should start looking elsewhere?"
"She is the one." He says it firmly, his eyes drifting off like he's searching through a file cabinet in his head. He looks at me with a sparkle in his eyes as if saying it out loud brought him to some realization that he shouldn't let Val slip away…even though she's insane.
"Fine, I'll tag along." I cave, but only because I don't want to fly back to the states kicking myself because I never got the chance to flirt with a French man or dance at a Parisian night club. "If it means that much to you, I'll go talk you up and keep her brother company. If he turns out to be a perv, you owe me."
"Merci," he thanks me. "You will not regret it."
"If Michel deports me for breaking the rules, I'm blaming you."
"He won't find out," Destin assures me.
* * *
The puffs of smoke coming from Val's mouth don't distract me as much as her dress does. I can't really say what the typical French woman looks like, having not really met any so far. But I imagine that Val fits the mold. Her outfit makes me feel like I'm on my way to a high school bonfire. A simple skirt and heels are all I have.
Val is wearing a black, strappy dress, and it's skintight. Her heels have just as many straps. She tugs at the pocket of her studded jacket and puts out her cigarette when she sees me. I agreed t
o meet Destin after work in front of Le Croissant. It's late enough that the bakery is pitch black inside, and Michel isn't around to see me breaking his number one rule—no fraternizing with coworkers after hours. I still don't understand why it matters, especially since in two weeks I'll be back overseas.
I grabbed a bite of what I had in my fridge before leaving, but it wasn't enough. My stomach is growling as I approach my date for the evening. I straighten the hem of my skirt and double-check my posture before he spots me.
Destin steps forward looking relieved. I can feel the tension in the air. Val has her back turned, and she's having a separate conversation with her brother. Who knows what about? Destin has his hands in his pockets. He's wearing slacks and a men's blazer that makes his shoulders look wider than they are. Or maybe he really is fit, and I just never noticed through the chef's jacket.
"Poppy, just a second." Destin grabs my arm and pulls me away from the others. He shouts something in French, and I briefly see Val roll her eyes.
"She doesn't look happy," I comment. And I haven't even had the chance to get a good look at my date. All I know is that he isn't short.
"Poppy." Destin glances over his shoulder, making sure his girlfriend isn't watching. "I have been thinking about what you said." He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a tiny jewelry box. My heart races.
"Is that what I think it is?" I whisper.
Destin nods.
I don't know him or Val well enough to give an official nod of approval, but he said that he loves her. Freak-outs and all. I smile and cover my mouth as Destin hurriedly puts the tiny ring box back in his pocket.
"Do you think she will say yes?"
"No," I answer.
Destin frowns.
"Oui," I correct him. "I believe the French say oui." If an engagement ring isn't the ultimate apology than I don't know what is.
"Oui," he repeats.
I nudge him back toward the group. If all goes well this might turn out to be the best night of Valentine's life. Either that or we'll all end up looking like Destin did when he forgot their anniversary. I press my lips together, trying to ignore the chilly night breeze as I walk toward my date for the evening. I really need a scarf. I see them everywhere around here.