Page 11 of Cowgirls Love French Kisses
Mathieu’s playingtour guide as my eyes continue to sag as we stroll along the Champs-Élysées.
“Did you know this avenue used to be a field?” He says it with a tour guide’s voice, which is probably the only thing keeping me awake.
“You don’t say?” I scoff, kicking at an imaginary clod of dirt. “Glad they spruced it up.”
He laughs, and points out a giant building up ahead. “They host Chanel fashion shows there. Imagine, Annie, models strutting where horses once trotted.” He does his best version of a horse trot, which—as one who has trotted many a horse—looks ridiculous.
“You’ve never been on a horse, have you?”
He shrugs. “It’s that obvious?”
I nod and then squint at the big stone structure, trying to picture haute couture among bales of hay.
“Quanti negozi di lusso, è come un paradiso dello shopping. Facciamo una foto qui, con la strada in background!”
A group of well-dressed Italian tourists push past me and I automatically grab hold of my handbag.
“I bet those old horses never had to worry about pickpockets,” I mutter under my breath.
We've made it to the banks of the Seine, and I'm watching the boats drift by, thinking how easy it'd be for a thief to make a getaway on one of those. I nudge Mathieu and nod towards a guy who's juggling three oranges.
“Hey, Mathieu,” I drawl, “you reckon that juggler's waiting for a crowd so he can lift someone's wallet?”
Mathieu's response comes with a soft chuckle. “Annie, that's Luc Lemoine. He’s famous. He's here every day, and the only thing he's likely to steal is a moment of your time.”
That shuts me up for a minute.
We stroll past this little café, tucked snug between a flower shop and a bookstore, and the sweet strains of a guitar dance through the air. The musician, a guy with a mop of untamed curls, is pulling at those strings with a kind of passion that you can feel all the way down to your toes. His notes float up and fill the early afternoon, turning the whole scene into something out of a movie.
The diners are a mix of folks who look like they've stopped time just to listen. There's a couple with their heads close together, smiles playing on their lips as they keep their eyes locked on each other. A group of friends burst into laughter, the sound mingling with the music, adding to the melody rather than interrupting it. Even the waiters slow down a tad, their trays balanced effortlessly as they move to the rhythm.
I lean against a lamppost, letting the music wash over me, feeling the tension in my shoulders unwind, bit by bit. It's like the guitar’s telling me to take a breath, to really see Paris, not just look at it.
Maybe I can get used to this—Paris might just have a tune I like.
The guitarist has a deep, melodic voice, and an air about him that says he hasseenstuff.
But then an unwelcome thought slips back into my mind.
“Hey, Mathieu,” I lean into him, “that guy with the guitar—you think he's serenading, or casing the joint for a quick score?”
Mathieu shakes his head, a smile tugging at his lips. “Annie, it’s Paris! Music is everywhere. That’s one of the many reasons I’m so happy to be back.”
“Back?” I ask. “You’ve been away?”
“It’s a long story. For now, let’s enjoy the music.”
But everywhere I look, I see potential victims and possible perpetrators. This probably isn’t healthy.
“Oh, look!” I point at a man grabbing an old woman’s coat. “We have to help her. That lady’s being robbed!” I am all set to rush over and wrangle the man to the ground, but Mathieu lays a warm hand on my shoulder.
“He’s helping her across the street, Annie.”
Well, butter my biscuit. The fella has looped an arm under the old lady’s and is, indeed, helping her across the street.
Mathieu gives me a look, partly amused, but a lot concerned. “Not everyone in Paris is out to get you.”
Standing there, with the violin’s song still rumbling in my bones, a blush creeps up my cheeks. I'm a little red-faced at how I've been seeing shadows in every corner of the city. I hate to admit it, but my small-town lenses are thick. The widest streets I've roamed were in Houston, and even then, it was just for a few afternoons. My small-town mentality's sticking out like a sore thumb here, making me squint at the brightness instead of soaking it all in. I’ve got to learn to adjust my focus.
