Sylvie wrapped her arms around Colette’s waist. “Merci, Colette!”
Before I could do the same, Colette pulled something from her pocket and held it clasped in her hand. “I found this for you, Grace.”
It was a charm of a little dog with upright ears and short legs. “A French bulldog,” she said.
“Bonbon!” I said, wanting to cry but smiling at the same time. “Thank you soooo much, Colette!”
I didn’t know where Bonbon was, but at least I’d have the charm as a memory of her—something I could carry with me always. I hugged Colette hard and then added the charm to my nearly full bracelet, which now held the Eiffel Tower, a camera, a postcard, a macaron, and a silver mixing bowl—tiny treasures I’d found on my trip.
I hated to say good-bye when I felt as if I was just starting to get to know Colette. But the bakers and Uncle Bernard had a surprise for her, too: a triple-layered cake. It was delicious!
Before she left that day, she kissed us each on the top of our heads. And then, as I watched her bike away, I let the tears come.
In the sleepy hours of early morning, we left the cobblestone streets of Paris in a rental car for the widening roads of the green countryside. The Palace of Versailles was less than an hour’s drive outside of Paris, but my aunt and uncle wanted to get an early start to beat the crowds and arrive before the day heated up.
Aunt Sophie was driving, with Mom sitting beside her in front. Aunt Sophie insisted on driving, because she’d driven for years in the States before coming to Paris. Uncle Bernard, like many Parisians, hadn’t spent as much time behind the wheel. Instead, he sat in the middle seat beside Lily’s infant seat. And Lily? She was happily making bubbles with her spit.
As we traveled along, Mom turned around and asked, “Sylvie, have you been to Versailles?”
“Non,” said Sylvie, sitting beside me way in the back.
Good! I thought. For once, we’ll both be seeing something new together.
Because we’d left Paris so early, we reached the palace right when it was opening and didn’t have to wait in line for our tour. Our guide, a young woman in ballet shoes and a swirling skirt, explained that King Louis the Fourteenth had built the palace far away from Paris because when he was a boy in the city, there had been attempts on his life. So he turned swampland into the palace grounds. “About thirty-seven thousand acres were cleared to make room for a walkway, tree-lined terraces, and thousands of flowering plants,” she said. “At one point, there were fourteen hundred fountains and four hundred pieces of sculpture. King Louis the Fourteenth was a man full of ideas.”
Mom leaned down to whisper in my ear, “Sounds like someone else I know.”
I grinned as we followed our guide to the next room.
“Construction,” the guide continued, “went on for years and took more than thirty-six thousand workers. But when it was complete, the palace could accommodate up to five thousand people, including servants.”
Thirty-six thousand workers? I couldn’t help thinking that if I ever managed to turn an idea into a business, I’d start with just three workers: Ella, Maddy, and me.
Following our guide, we walked and walked. The palace seemed to stretch on forever. I craned my neck at gilded ceilings, admired wall-size paintings, and marveled at the ornate chairs, tables, and sofas. As long as I didn’t use a flash, I was allowed to take photos at every chance.
When our guide pointed out a hidden passageway between rooms, disguised by bookcases, I thought of Ella. She loved mysteries!
Click!
At the end of the palace tour, we headed outside under a mid-morning sun. The grounds stretched on and on with canals, massive fountains, mazes of green hedges, and dazzling displays of flowers. Sylvie and I followed along at our own pace after the adults. I was feeling a little sleepy after getting up so early. Lily had it made, I thought, sleeping away against Uncle Bernard’s chest in the baby carrier.
Mom slowed down and waited for us to catch up.
“Grace,” Mom said, “remember when we celebrated Bastille Day a couple of weeks ago?”
I nodded. I remembered France’s independence day well. It was the day Sylvie and I had gone for ice cream, and I had been brave enough to stand up and sing with her and Colette. I sighed. So much had happened since then. It seemed so long ago!
“During the revolution, an angry mob stormed this palace—right here at Versailles.”
I glanced around me and let it all sink in. History was so much more interesting out here, where I was standing on the same ground where the revolution had taken place. I shuddered, thinking of the king and queen who had lost their heads. “I’m glad we’re visiting after their revolution,” I said. “Not during.”
Sylvie nodded solemnly, and I wondered how much of that she’d understood.
When we reached the village that Marie Antoinette had created so that she could escape palace life during her reign here, I found myself getting homesick. The little farm with stone buildings, ponds, and a water mill reminded me of the Blackstone Valley, with its rolling fields, dense thickets, and old brick mills.
We all stopped to sit in the grass beside a pond.
Two majestic swans, with orange bills trimmed black, preened their ivory feathers as they floated. They seemed totally unconcerned that we were there watching them.
A wave of silliness came over me, and I spoke in a grand voice and extended my hand toward them with a flourish. “Royal swans,” I said.
“Cygnes royaux,” Sylvie said, imitating me and gesturing, as if she were ushering in the king and queen.
“Watch your heads,” I advised them.
Mom smiled at my joke.
We lingered a little longer, watching the swans, who in their own way were just as beautiful as everything else at the palace. My mind drifted, thinking about how hard it would be to update my blog about Versailles. There’s just so much to say—where would I start? Maybe I’d say this:
If you close your eyes, you can almost imagine royal carriages, horses, lords, and ladies arriving at the gates of gold and entering the vast cobblestone court.
King Louis XIV (the 14th) was called the Sun King, because the court revolved around him—until the revolution started in 1789. Then later, it was King Louis XVI (the 16th) and the queen who lost their heads.
Benjamin Franklin went to France and got a treaty signed that made the French and Americans friends (allies). Then the French sent soldiers, sailors, money, and ships to America. We probably wouldn’t have won our independence without aid from the French!
That night, I posted a few photos from Versailles on my blog. My caption read: The power of an idea—and a whole lot of gold.
Just as I was logging out, I heard the ding of an incoming e-mail. It was from Grandma and Grandpa. Finally! And Grandpa definitely had some good advice about being in business:
Number 1: Do what you love. (What gets you excited and gives you energy?)
Number 2: Make it your own! (How can you stand out and make your product unique?)
I gazed out the open bedroom window, listening to someone playing a mandolin. Sylvie was already sleeping, her breaths coming soft and slow. Napoléon curled up in the crook of her legs, watching me.
I thought about Grandpa’s advice: Do what you love.
I looked over at Napoléon. Sylvie loved her cat and spent time with him every day.
And I loved Bonbon. I wanted a dog—I wanted her. But that was different. Grandpa didn’t say Get what you love. He said Do what you love.
Dad had hobbies he loved, whether it was making unusual birdhouses, fixing up the old stone wall, or scraping and waxing his skis. Mom was energized by running and working toward her first half marathon. And besides fooling around on the piano, Josh loved anything related to bikes—riding them, reading about them, and fixing them.
What did I love to do? That was easy. Ever since I can remember, I’ve loved baking: creating something out of nothing, or at least turning simple
ingredients into something surprising and delicious. And all the while here in Paris, the thing that had tickled me most? The pastries—the special French creations—displayed in every pâtisserie case and window. No wonder most of my blog photos were now of “art you can eat.”
But…I dropped back down to my mattress.
Baking couldn’t work. Not for a business with Maddy and Ella. In June, when I’d first suggested selling baked goods as a business idea, they hadn’t jumped on the idea. They’d more like stomped on it.
Still…what if I could find a way to make baking my own? How could I make it stand out? And if I could make it unique, as Grandpa had said to do…If I could prove I had a good idea, could I then convince my friends to join me, too?
I didn’t know the answers. Not yet. But when I closed my eyes, a hum of excitement and energy buzzed inside me!
s we sat around the breakfast table, I felt torn between two worlds.
Two homes.
How could I fly home tomorrow without knowing when I’d ever see Sylvie, Lily, and my aunt and uncle again? I buttered my croissant and smothered it with apricot jam, afraid it might stick in my throat. I took a big drink of orange juice, and a big breath. One day left. A day of fun and exploring. I was not going to cry.
The flaky, buttery croissant melted in my mouth. I closed my eyes, trying to memorize the taste.
As Uncle Bernard and Mom discussed flight schedules and what time we’d need to leave for the airport tomorrow, I glanced around the table.
After five whole weeks, I’d come to know everyone’s footsteps through the apartment. I knew who was up early and first to fill the kettle with water and turn on the stove with a click. I knew who drank tea and who drank coffee, French-press style. I knew when Lily was murmuring to herself in her bassinet that if her little voice shifted and changed pitch, her crying would follow in about five seconds.
I knew that Sylvie talked in her sleep, often scolding someone, which made me wake up and giggle.
And it’s funny, but I knew me better, too. I knew how to handle new things better than I’d ever dreamed I could. I understood and spoke a little more French every day. I could even create a few French treats. And I’d learned that even if I don’t always have a fully “baked” plan, things still usually turn out okay.
That thought made me feel better. I drank my last swig of orange juice, ready to get on with the day.
An hour later, we all boarded the subway, an amazing color-coded system that runs under Paris. Soon, we arrived in the neighborhood of Montmartre. As we climbed the steps toward daylight under fanciful green ironwork and two glowing red lights, I felt as if we were stepping out of a dragon’s mouth into sunlight. I knew that I couldn’t capture that feeling in a photo, but I had to try.
Click!
Uncle Bernard lugged Lily’s stroller, while Aunt Sophie now wore the baby carrier strapped to her front, with a sleeping Lily inside.
Last day, last day, last day, I kept reminding myself over and over in my head. But I just wasn’t ready to leave tomorrow.
We strolled past a whole street of fabric shops with tables of fabric of every color, every texture. I wondered if Colette bought her fabric here. I would really miss her, and still couldn’t believe how sweet it was of her to make Sylvie and me our polka-dotted aprons. I’d cherish mine and use it at home.
A tickle of excitement filled me. I was going home. I would turn my baking into a business—somehow! The energy from that idea helped. But I still felt a longing to stay, at least a few more days.
The streets wound their way to the base of a steep hill. Uncle Bernard pointed to its top, where a white stone church towered toward the sky. “Voilà! Le Sacré-Coeur!” he said. “The Sacred Heart of Montmartre.”
It was a long climb up to this famous church. We had two choices: a zillion steps or a funnel-like tram called the funicular that zipped visitors right to the top.
Mom said, “We need the exercise. Let’s do the steps.”
Aunt Sophie agreed.
Sylvie and I looked at each other and rolled our eyes, and then we started climbing after them. Halfway up, my muscles burned, and we stopped to rest.
“C’est dur!” Sophie said. “It’s hard!”
I agreed, but then it occurred to me that if Colette were with us, she’d make the climb fun by breaking into song. So I decided to give it a try.
“Frère Jacques, Frère Jacques…” I began singing.
Sylvie started in, too, turning the song into a round.
And then Mom joined us, and then Aunt Sophie, and finally even Uncle Bernard, who surprised me with his deep baritone voice.
Frère Jacques,
Frère Jacques,
Dormez-vous?
Dormez-vous?
Sonnez les matines.
Sonnez les matines.
Ding, dang, dong.
Ding, dang, dong.
We kept singing with each step upward, and I pictured monks rising early to ring the morning bells by pulling on the heavy ropes in the bell tower. Our voices harmonized and floated on the air, almost like the church bells that rang out so frequently over Paris. Uncle Bernard ended the round, his voice deep and full.
Before I knew it, we were at the top. The steps had flown by!
“That was fun!” Mom exclaimed. She was barely out of breath, but I gulped deep breaths to get my heartbeat back to normal.
Towering statues of horses and riders guarded the massive stone church. Before joining the line up yet more steps to tour inside, we wove our way past street merchants lined up at the base of the church. They were selling wooden puzzles, replicas of Sacré-Coeur, bracelets, postcards, and bookmarks.
Sylvie and I made our way to the stone wall and gazed down. Below us, the shops and cafés of Montmarte looked like dollhouses. And tomorrow, from my window seat on the plane, everything would get smaller and smaller until it all disappeared from view.
I wasn’t ready!
“Sylvie,” I said, “I wish you could come with me—avec moi—to the United States.”
She blinked back tears. How I’d misread her big brown eyes when I first arrived. I had thought she hadn’t wanted me here, when actually, she’d just been nervous about communicating with me in English. But her English had improved, right along with my French.
“Me too!” she said, but then gave her head a shake. “Big money. New bébé.”
“Oui,” I said. “I know.”
We leaned into each other, shoulder to shoulder, and looked out over Paris. The city stretched into an endless maze of streets and buildings. Music drifted up from street musicians, and outdoor cafés brimmed with customers.
I suddenly realized what makes Paris more than just another city. It isn’t the Eiffel Tower or the countless “locks of love” at the Pont des Arts. It’s not even the history of the city, so much older than our own.
Paris is Paris because of its people.
Parisians seem to make the ordinary details extraordinary.
It’s in every enthusiastic Bonjour! and Au revoir!
It’s in perfectly made strawberry tartes and pains au chocolat.
It’s in the way people take time to gather at outdoor cafés.
And it’s in the music they play that lifts from subways and drifts down cobblestone streets.
I grabbed Sylvie’s arm, startling her.
“Quoi? What?” she asked.
“Sylvie! I have it! I have it!”
She looked at my hands, as if I’d just found something incredibly valuable. And I had.
“What, Grace?” she asked.
“My business idea!”
Her eyes met mine, and she waited for me to go on.
“A Paris-style pâtisserie!” That hum of energy filled me all over again. I explained to Sylvie how my friends and I could make beautiful French pastries and serve them with je ne sais quoi—that “I don’t know what” that makes something special.
Sylvie beamed. “C’est magnifi
que!”
Just then, Uncle Bernard held up his camera. “Les filles! Girls!”
We faced his camera, with all of Paris behind us, linked arms, and smiled.
Click!
My alarm went off, signaling my very last day in Paris. I fumbled to turn off the buzzer in the predawn darkness. Luckily I had packed the night before, so I only had to get dressed.
After giving sleepy good-bye hugs to Aunt Sophie and Baby Lily, I followed Sylvie into the backseat of the rental car behind Mom and Uncle Bernard. Then we began zipping along the nearly empty roads of Paris.
Though Sylvie sat beside me, and there was so much I still wanted to say to her, I couldn’t keep my eyes open. I quickly drifted off to sleep.
But when the car stopped, I straightened up.
We weren’t at the airport.
Fields stretched into the distance, and the sun beamed down on a farmhouse with lavender shutters.
“Mom? Where are we?”
“I’ll be right back!” she said as she hopped out of the car and hurried up to the farmhouse door. She knocked and soon disappeared inside.
I was confused. Was she doing some last-minute shopping before catching our plane? That seemed like terrible planning on her part. We’d been in Paris long enough to get anything she’d needed.
“Uncle Bernard?” I asked.
He looked at me and Sylvie and offered a mere shrug and a smile.
When the farmhouse door swung open again, a woman with a long white braid stepped outside with Mom. They exchanged a few words, and then Mom wheeled a green luggage case down the driveway toward the car. We had overpacked, and we probably needed an extra bag, but why pick up something here?
I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, trying to make sense of what Mom was doing. Something unscheduled and last-minute—and on the way to the airport? This was so unlike her.
She opened my car door and I glanced out. Behind Mom, from the mesh end of the rolling case, two shiny eyes peered back at me.
It was Bonbon.
“Mom! How did you…?”
She just smiled, put the travel case on the seat beside me, and then jumped back into the passenger seat up front.
Grace Page 10