Page 22 of The Paris Roommates: Dean
“I don’t know how I missed going to your father’s restaurant,” he continued as they walked down Rue de Jacob, “but Nanine patroned Chez Papa—great name, by the way—from time to time with her husband, who has since passed away. They thought the food was quite excellent, and I’m told the opinion of a fellow chef matters a lot, yes?”
She nodded slowly as she sidestepped for another passerby on the sidewalk. “My father always thought so, and of course, I have eaten at Nanine’s restaurant myself many times and always enjoyed it. I admire female chefs. They are a rarity in the food industry. Like sommeliers.”
Right. This was a thread he could run with. “So you know how tough things can be for women in this industry. Nanine had to close down her restaurant after her recent heart attack.”
Her hands went behind her back as she continued to walk beside him. “Yes,Le Mondealluded to that. I was sorry to hear it.”
“I came back to help Nanine because she asked,” he confessed, knowing he needed to lay it all out there. “There’s no one who’s captured my heart like her. I’d do anything for her.”
“It was the same with my father.” Her inhalation was audible and sounded pained. “I miss him every day, as I imagine Pierre does.”
Dean gestured to the café on the corner, his backup to Café Fitzy, because if he went to his usual spot, he’d be peppered with questions about Nanine and the other courses. When she consented, they hailed a waiter and found a table in the corner.
“The pet store owner said Pierre had spent his whole life cooking with your father,” Dean began when they were seated. “I’m going to put the little guy on the chair at the table beside us, but we might keep his throw on, don’t you think? Unless you want him to perch on the table with us.”
“No, he is better off as he is.” She glanced at the cage before returning to her study of him. “It strikes me that there is greater meaning in that statement. Pierre does seem to want to stay with you and work with Chef Madison. He does so love creating cuisine. My father used to say he almost believed Pierre could read recipes.”
Her nostalgic tone made Dean want to take her hand. “I get the sense he missed working with your father in the kitchen. I wish you could have seen the owner of the pet store where we bought him. He exclaimed about how Pierre needed to be a part of a kitchen as if his soul demanded it or something.”
Her mouth tipped up. “My father used to say he and Pierre had that in common. When he died, Pierre was very depressed. We all were.”
Finally, he put his hand on her arm, and her surprised gaze flew to his. “I don’t know what it feels to lose someone like that, but when I got the call that Nanine was in the hospital, I felt like my whole world was shattering. Restoring her to health has been our top priority. But reopening the restaurant is her wish.”
Her face had softened, and he knew it was time to say what needed saying, even if it changed everything between them. “So while I’d love to just give the parrot back to you, I can’t. I wish I could clone him. I’m hoping we can figure out a way for you to see Pierre enough so you can be happy…and also that you’ll see how happy he’ll be working at Nanine’s. I don’t know what happened that led to him being in that pet store, but that article inLe Mondechanged things.”
She hung her head. The waiter appeared, and after a moment, she ordered a café crème, which he echoed. When they were alone again, she tapped her lips before saying, “Everything about this situation is tragic, so I wonder why I thought trying to reclaim Pierre would be otherwise. I understand why he must stay with you, and I appreciate your offer to see him. He is…my last happy link to my father.”
God, that flat-out cut his chest open. “I’m sorry, Jacqueline.”
“Me too.” Then she lifted her chin. “But that is life. Not everything goes your way. It’s how you respond that determines who you are, and I know who I am.”
Suddenly it was like the sun had come out. She was the most beautiful woman in the world, a woman he was desperate to comfort. “How about we discreetly lift up this throw so you can see Pierre? That would cheer you up, wouldn’t it? Oh, wait! The waiter is coming back.”
The man deposited their coffees with an insouciant glance. A hard-earned smile lifted the corners of Jacqueline’s mouth as Dean playfully raised the throw. “Okay, we’re in the clear. Pierre? Tell Jacqueline how beautiful she is and how much you love her?”
The parrot gave a whistle before saying, “J’adore, Jacqueline. Elle est très belle.”
Her watery laugh felt like a boon. “You have been very nice to me. Most of the men I have dealt with would have said, ‘This parrot is mine’ and ordered me to leave.”
“That’s not my way.” She studied him more closely, and he felt the urge to take her hand, to touch her. But it wasn’t time for that, and he knew it. “Like I said, I wish I could clone him. Let’s think of some places we might visit with Pierre. Have you been to Luxembourg Gardens, Pierre?”
“Oui,” the parrot answered with a loud squawk, making him realize a few of the patrons had stopped their conversations and were watching them.
Dean dug into his pocket for his phone. “We can trade phone numbers and schedule a visit. I’ll even throw in a picnic or something.”
“All right,” she agreed, reaching into her purse.
After he’d stored her number, calling her Dream Girl in the directory, he took a quick sip of his coffee, feeling juiced. “Hey! I have a question. Did your father have any inkling Pierre had such an incredible talent when he got him?”
She looked off, nostalgia playing across her features, and the reverie looked good on her. So good Dean wanted to take her hand and run his thumb over the back of it as she replayed those precious memories. “Pierre came into my father’s life soon after he was born. My father worked in the kitchen all the time, that was where he brought Pierre, and since my father talked to himself while he was cooking, he’d also share his thoughts with Pierre, who rapidly assimilated everything my father told him. They loved each other deeply.”
Pierre gave a terrifying impression of a grief-stricken cry, making Dean freeze in his chair. Jacqueline pressed her hand to her mouth, red staining her cheeks.
“What can we do for him?” Dean asked helplessly, because he was going to tear up any minute.
“Let him grieve in private,” she said, gently closing the throw over the cage. “We remember those we love best in private.”
Dean cleared his throat. “Yes. Nanine always says that.”
