It was true that as a child, Lacey had spent hours creating elaborate fantasies in which her life played out like a Hollywood movie: she was the perfectly beautiful star living in the perfectly glamorous house, being courted by the most perfectly handsome man. Though real life seldom measured up to her fantasies, she never abandoned hope.
When she decided to pursue a career as a chef, she’d set her sights on training at Le Cordon Bleu, the acclaimed Académie D’Art Culinaire with a reputation for exacting standards and five-star elegance.
Now she lived and studied in Paris, the romantic City of Light. Every day she was surrounded by the ultimate in fashion and culture. In her free time she had visited the Louvre, strolled among the flowers at Tuileries and lingered at sidewalk cafés, entertaining herself with daydreams of a torrid love affair with a dashing Frenchman.
So far, no such Frenchman had appeared. They were all apparently pursuing beautiful, elegant Frenchwomen. As for American men, Lacey had made mistakes with them before.
She selected a knife from the wood block beside the worktable and chose an onion to chop, but before she could begin, the door to the kitchen burst open. “What does a man have to do to get something to eat around here?” A tall American man with windblown light brown hair and a slightly ruddy complexion strode into the room. “I’ve spent all day flying halfway across the world to get here and the woman at the reception desk tells me the dining room is closed.”
Lacey stared, wide-eyed. The man filled the room with his larger-than-life presence, as if he’d personally flown a plane across the world, at times dodging enemy fire, and perhaps stopping to tame a lion or two along the way.
“There is a café one-half kilometer down the street that will be happy to serve you, I am sure,” Giselle said, all warmth gone from her voice.
“After the day I’ve had, I don’t need the hassle of going out to eat.” He spotted the cooling baguettes and walked over to them. “These smell great. Could I have some of this bread, and maybe some cheese?”
Giselle shook her head and left the room. Though Lacey’s French was still rudimentary, she thought the chef muttered something about “rude Americans.”
“What’s her problem?” the man asked.
Lacey could have told him that if he had asked politely for a petit repas—if he had been charming and had flattered Giselle’s cooking or praised her beauty—in other words, if he had behaved more as a Frenchman would have—he might have succeeded in talking the chef into preparing him an omelet or a hearty sandwich. But what was the use? American men were not Frenchmen. They were used to getting their way. This one was no exception and she could see he wouldn’t take no for an answer.
“I can prepare you some bread and cheese.” She moved toward the bread knife in its holder by the wooden breadboard. “And we have some grapes.”
“Perfect. I’m starving.” He sat on one of the tall stools at the prep counter and watched as she sliced the still-warm bread and arranged it on a plate. His broad shoulders sagged with weariness and a shadow of beard darkened his cheeks and jaw, but there was a nervous energy to him as well, as if he was prepared to leap off the stool at any moment. She added a generous wedge of cheese from beneath the glass dome on the counter, and a bunch of grapes from the cooler. Spying the jug of vin ordinaire on the pantry shelf, she hesitated, then brought it to the counter with the plate. “Would you like wine?” she asked.
“That would be great.” He plucked a grape from the bunch and popped it into his mouth as she poured the wine. “I don’t know why it is you can’t get decent food on planes anymore,” he said. “They actually ran out of meals on my flight from Frankfurt, and the cardboard they tried to pass off as a sandwich on the leg from Beirut was inedible.” He tore off a hunk of bread, added a sliver of cheese, and made a groaning sound as he bit into it.
Lacey bit back a laugh at his theatric enjoyment of the simple bread, cheese and fruit. She had forgotten how demonstrative some American men could be, even with strangers. The Frenchmen she knew were considerably more formal and reserved. “Are you with the wedding party?” she asked. As far as she knew, the entire inn was booked by the Donovan and Fellini families and their many relatives and friends. For the past several days they’d been flying in from all over. All the rooms were full and even the former butler’s pantry off the upstairs sitting room had been hastily converted into guest quarters, though there was scarcely room for a narrow bed and chair in the small space.
“Yes, I’m sorry to say I am.” He stuck out his hand. She hesitated, then took it. His grip was strong, his palm callused and warm. “Marc Kendrick,” he said. “My cousin is the groom. If I’d gotten to him sooner, I might have talked him out of this foolishness, but I’ve been out of the country for most of the last year.”
“You aren’t happy your cousin’s getting married?” she asked. The little she’d seen of the bride and groom had led her to believe they were both nice people, and obviously very much in love. So far their families at the inn had gotten along well.
“I guess I don’t see what Gabe’s hurry is to settle down.” Marc took a sip of wine. “He sounded pretty thrilled when I talked to him on the phone, so I guess I’m not unhappy for him. This bread’s really good, by the way.” He tore off another large piece.
“Thank you.” He really wasn’t rude at all. In fact, he was nice, in a rough sort of way.
“What were you doing in Beirut?” she asked. It seemed an impossibly exotic destination to her. Until her arrival in Paris two months ago, she had never been out of the United States.
“Working,” he said. “I didn’t want to leave, either, but I let myself get talked into photographing my cousin’s wedding.” He shook his head. “I tried my best to get out of it. I told him weddings really aren’t my thing, but to most people one picture is very much like the next. I make my living with a camera, so they figure I’d be just thrilled to take sappy staged shots of their big day.”
“You’re a photographer?”
“Photojournalist.” He grimaced. “I document the action in war zones and chronicle world tragedies. I don’t do blushing brides and grinning groomsmen.”
She laughed at his obvious distaste. “Sounds like it will be a nice change for you,” she said. “All that war and tragedy must get depressing. And what could be more romantic than a wedding in Paris?”
“I’ll take a weekend dodging sniper fire in the Gaza Strip over three days in the company of starry-eyed lovers any day,” he said.
Harsh words, but Lacey didn’t really believe them. Marc Kendrick wore the attitude of the bitter cynic the way an actor wore a costume for a play. But his firm grip when they’d shaken hands and the appreciative way he consumed a simple meal made her think there was more to this disgruntled man than he let the world see. “Lovers can be a bit hard to take when you’re lonely yourself,” she said.
His gaze locked to hers, intense. She felt as much as saw the truth of her words in the pain that flashed through his eyes, quickly masked by a cynical sneer. “There’s a lot to be said for one’s own company,” he said. He pushed the empty plate away and stood. “Thanks for the food. You saved me from inflicting my tortured French on some poor waitress.”
She watched the kitchen door swing shut behind him, then collected his empty plate and glass and carried them to the deep sink. Of all the men who had arrived for the wedding so far, Marc Kendrick was definitely the most interesting. Certainly the most worldly and cynical, possibly even the most rude and brash. But she held none of that against him. Like Lacey herself, he was in an unfamiliar situation far from his usual home. That he’d allowed her to glimpse the uneasiness behind his bravado touched her. And as out of place as she sometimes felt in the bustle and glamour of Paris, she took a great deal of comfort in knowing that a man accustomed to dodging bullets and escaping disaster in Third World countries could be unnerved by something as wonderful and joy-filled as a wedding.
HIS HUNGER SATED, Marc felt mo
re like himself. Good thing the younger of the two women guarding the kitchen hadn’t been as snippy as her coworker. He’d been surprised to find an American wearing the traditional white smock and chef’s toque, but he’d been too focused on the excellent bread and cheese she’d served him to inquire as to her background. Now he regretted not finding out her name.
No doubt he’d see her again during the week he was stuck here. If not, it didn’t really matter. All he wanted was to take care of this family obligation and get back to his real work.
Focused on his thoughts, he turned a corner in the hallway and almost collided with a smaller man. “Marc! You finally made it. I was beginning to worry!”
“My plane was delayed in Frankfurt.” Marc managed a smile for the older man with the elaborate mustache. “It’s good to see you again, Uncle Frank.”
“It’s good to see you, too.” The two men embraced, Frank Fellini’s arms tight around his nephew, the warmth of the gesture triggering a knot in Marc’s chest. Frank had been like a father to him, practically raising him after his real dad ran off.
“Have you just arrived?” Frank asked. “Are you checked in yet?”
“Yes. Though I suspect the room they gave me was formerly a broom closet.”
Frank laughed. “It probably was. There are so many of us here, most of the young people are sharing. I hope you don’t mind close quarters.”
“I’ve stayed in worse.” In Iraq he’d stayed in mud-floored barracks and in Afghanistan he’d slept in caves. At least this time he’d lucked out and didn’t have to bunk with anyone else—probably because there wasn’t room for another bed in the small space.
Frank stood back. “Let me look at you.” He studied Marc and shook his head. “You look worn-out. And you’re too thin. You’re not taking care of yourself.”
“The food in Beirut isn’t always the best. And I’m tired from my flight.” He smiled again, more touched than annoyed by his uncle’s scolding. “I’ll be fine once I’ve had a good night’s sleep.”
“It’s good that you’re here,” Frank said. “You’ll have a few days to relax before the wedding. Eat some good food, drink some wine, see the city.” He grinned. “Catch up with family. It’ll be a real vacation for you.”
He nodded. He couldn’t remember when he’d last had a real vacation, and that was fine with him. He wasn’t the type who enjoyed idleness, or playing the tourist. “How is Gabe?” he asked. The groom in this wedding was Frank’s son.
Frank’s grin widened even more, setting the ends of his elaborate mustache—which Marc suspected benefited from a generous application of black dye—to quivering. “Gabe is in love. Very happy. And Alexis, his fiancée, is a wonderful girl. You’ll meet her tomorrow. They’re both so excited and grateful that you’re going to photograph the wedding for them. It will mean so much more to them, coming from family.”
Marc wondered if this was true. Having him here certainly meant a lot to Uncle Frank, who had been the one to ask him to be the wedding photographer. Marc would never have said no to Frank. “I’ll do my best,” he said. “You know this isn’t really my usual kind of work.”
“You’ll do a great job, I know. I wish your mother could have joined us.”
“She sends her love, and she wishes she could have been here, too. Unfortunately, with the new job she couldn’t get any vacation time.” Marc’s mother—Frank’s sister—had recently taken a teaching position at a new school.
“I’m happy for her, but we’ll miss her. And speaking of the women in your life…” Frank arched one eyebrow. “Is Nancy with you? I was hoping we’d get to see her again.”
Inwardly, he cringed at the question he’d known was coming. “Nancy and I split up a couple of months ago.” She’d packed her things and moved out of the New York apartment they’d shared while he was on assignment in Korea. They’d been drifting apart for a while, so he hadn’t even been all that surprised when she’d called to tell him she was leaving.
Frank’s face fell. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “She was a nice young woman.”
He nodded. “She was.” He shrugged. “It’s hard to have much of a love life when you travel as much as I do.” Or when you weren’t the type of man women stuck with. Everyone he’d ever dated had eventually found some reason to leave. He’d decided he wasn’t meant for any long-term relationships.
Frank’s expression darkened further. “I know how much you love your work, but there are more important things in life than a job. People—and your relationships with them—will mean more to you in the long run than all the prizes and awards you can hang on a wall.”
The implied criticism of his lifestyle stung. Did his uncle really think he was so shallow? “I get a lot of satisfaction from my work that goes beyond awards and prizes,” he said. “I help make people aware of what’s going on in the world. That often results in aid and attention that improves people’s lives.”
Frank nodded. “Yes, yes, I’m aware of all that. But in the meantime, what are you doing to improve your own life?” He leaned forward and patted Marc’s shoulder. “You can’t blame me for wanting to see you as happy as Gabe is now.”
“I’m happy,” he said. Or at least content. “You don’t have to worry about me.”
“You’re right. This week is for celebrating, not worrying. It’s good to have you with us. I’ll let you get to bed now.”
Right. That’s what he needed, a good night’s sleep. Then he’d be better prepared to face a week of dealing with romantic sentiments and wedding hysteria. Give him a guerrilla uprising any day!
CHAPTER TWO
“WHAT HAPPENED with that rude American man last night after I left?”
Lacey had scarcely donned her toque the next morning when Giselle fired the question at her. The Frenchwoman’s eyes sparked with curiosity as she expertly twisted dough for the morning’s croissants.
Lacey pulled a basket of eggs from the cooler and set half a dozen to boil. The rest would go into omelets. Though the French rarely ate more than croissants and coffee for breakfast, in deference to the American appetites of its guests, the inn offered a full breakfast. “I gave him some bread and cheese. He really wasn’t that rude, just hungry and tired.”
“Bah! Just a typical man, then.” Giselle pinched off a hunk of dough and rolled it between her hands. “But a handsome one, non?”
“Yes, he was handsome.” A warm shiver danced through her at the memory of Marc Kendrick’s hand wrapped around hers. Not that it meant anything but that she hadn’t been that close to a man in months. “There are a lot of handsome men here for the wedding.” Marc’s cousin, the groom, Gabe Fellini and the best man, Josh McClintock, were both very good-looking young men, though they lacked the intensity of Marc.
“Then you are a lucky young woman, indeed,” Giselle said. “To be working in a house full of handsome, single men, surrounded by the romance of an upcoming marriage. Unless, of course—” she slid a sideways glance at Lacey “—you already have a lover.”
Lacey shook her head. “No.”
“And no one is waiting for you back home in America?”
“No. No one is waiting for me.” So far she had not exactly been a femme fatale when it came to men. She had a habit of getting starry-eyed over men who were all wrong for her. Shortly before coming to Paris, she’d been dumped by the owner of the restaurant where she worked. Her mother had warned her early on that they had nothing in common and it would never work, but Lacey had never let logic stop her from falling for a man. But once again, her mother had been right. Raul had dropped her in favor of a woman he met at his country club.
When she’d been accepted at Le Cordon Bleu, she’d dreamed of meeting a dashing Frenchman who would sweep her off her feet, but she might as well have been invisible for all the local men noticed her.
“Perhaps you will make a conquest during this wedding party,” Giselle said. She arranged the last croissant on the baking tray and began brushing the pastries
with butter.
Lacey laughed. “I doubt it. It’s hard for someone like me to compete with you sophisticated Frenchwomen.” So far the only man who’d paid any attention to her at all was Gaston, the portly, middle-aged butcher, who flirted with her whenever she stopped to pick up the day’s order of biftec or lamb chops. And since he was married with five children, he hardly counted as a conquest.
“If you cannot compete, do not try,” Giselle said as she slid the tray of croissants into the oven. “Your charm can be your novelty. Besides, the men here for the wedding are Americans. It may be they prefer an American woman.”
She thought again of Marc and wondered what kind of woman he preferred. He’d been dismissive of his cousin’s decision to marry, but men liked to joke about such things, didn’t they?
She had no time to ponder the question further as guests began to fill the dining room. Lacey was preparing omelets while Giselle baked more croissants when an impeccably dressed white-haired woman entered the kitchen, the scent of L’Air du Temps trailing in her wake. “Bonjour, mes amies,” she greeted them.
“Bonjour, Madame Beaulieu,” they replied. Celeste Beaulieu was related somehow to the bride’s family. It was she who had arranged for them all to stay at Milles Fleurs.
“Maybe I pour you some coffee, madame?” Lacey asked. “Giselle has some fresh made.”
“No, no, no, don’t go to any trouble,” she waved away Lacey’s offer. “I only stopped to see if you needed anything else from me for tonight’s welcome dinner.”
“Everything is taken care of,” Giselle assured her. “You have only to enjoy the meal and your guests.”
“And the pastry chef is arriving Friday to oversee the creation of the wedding cake. You are prepared to assist him, non?”
“Oui, madame. It will be my pleasure.” Giselle’s smile tightened a little with the words. Lacey knew she wasn’t crazy about turning over her kitchen to another chef, but the family wanted this specialist, Monsieur Gautier, so Giselle had no choice but to relent.
A Wedding in Paris Page 13