Page 5 of The Paris Roommates: Dean
Dean told the man they couldn’t wait to see him again once Nanine’s reopened, and in a moment of inspiration, he asked if he could have the article about the chef with the parrot, trying to be all cool about it. Because he wanted that link to his dream girl. Sawyer rolled his eyes as the owner’s eyes grew even brighter with emotion. The man pressed the clipping into his hands with great warmth, speaking of mementos of the heart.
Yeah, Dean’s heart was feeling something all right. He slipped the newspaper item into his free pocket, looking forward to the moment when he could dig it out and study the woman in more detail. But everyone was watching him, so he simply extended his hand to the owner, who shook it with great enthusiasm before turning to Sawyer to shake with him as well. Dean’s emotional meter was rocking new levels as they left the pet store, Pierre snugly inside the cage he’d arrived in, covered now with an aged burgundy throw with fringed edges.
“Do you need my handkerchief, man?” Sawyer asked as they walked down the street, the proprietor still looking on like a proud parent from the doorway.
“Nah, I’m good.” He hoped the parrot was okay under its cover. “He really cared about Pierre finding a good home. Are you seriously not moved by what just happened?”
“I gave up my love for animals when my parents made me take the stray dog I’d found at the playground back to the pound, unmoved by his likely execution.”
Dean knew how much pressure Sawyer’s parents had put on him to be perfect, causing him to doubt himself as an artist. But this… “Jesus. Your parents really have no empathy, do they? How did you turn out so good?”
He shrugged his lean shoulders. “I don’t know. Books. Art. Philosophy. Rousseau said it best.”
Dean didn’t groan because this was why he loved Sawyer. While their families and upbringings couldn’t have been more different—Sawyer’s parents were overachievers with brilliant careers while he’d had an abusive, often unemployed drunk of a father alongside a mouse of a mother who worked the register at the local food mart—they were both constantly searching for something real, something meaningful. “Hit me up with the quote, Doc.”
“Really?” Sawyer shot him a dubious look as they turned the corner onto Rue des Grands Augustins. “Okay, here goes.Conscience is the voice of the soul.And one realization that’s setting in as I get ready to turn thirty this year… Not everyone has a soul. My parents included. And Nanine’s daughter and son-in-law for what they did to her restaurant.”
Dean’s stomach soured. Yeah, they’d used her granddaughter to come back into her home after a long estrangement and then scammed her while she was on vacation, gutting the front of her restaurant and using her identity to sell off the award-winning wine cave she’d spent decades amassing. “This time I’m going to say, ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’ I only want to focus on fixing the problem. Speaking of, it feels right to pop into this wine store today.” He nodded to a maroon and gold storefront displaying what Dean knew were classy bottles as they were tucked into wooden boxes. Even he knew that only the good wine received that kind of packaging.
“More tingles?” Sawyer winced. “Dean, you get one crazy pass on the parrot from me—”
“It’s on my list of places to ask about replacing Nanine’s lost stock.” He wouldn’t say that he’d been waiting on his gut for prompting on when to go in. Timing was everything when it came to manifesting. Too bad Voltaire and Rousseau hadn’t talked about that.
“No one wine store can replace what’s been lost or has the connections to do so, Dean,” Sawyer said as they stopped in front of the store. “We’ve discussed this at length as business partners. We’re going to buy wine and spirits that match the new menu and add special bottles as we come across them. Over time. Like Nanine did before over decades. You can’t just go out and buy a cave.”
He loved his roommates, but they were thinking too small for him, too literal. “Why not?” Dean put his hand on the door and grinned at Sawyer’s disgruntled expression. “That’s what the guy who bought Nanine’s cave did.”
Sawyer glared at him. “Don’t remind me.”
He didn’t often put his foot down. It went against his easygoing nature. But suddenly he was as unmovable as a mountain. He was good at helping people realize their dreams—it was what he’d done as an angel investor, after all. Other people’s dreams were so much easier to nail down, and he was going to nail this down. “Hear me out. We need to start poking around, putting out feelers. I know Nanine doesn’t want to be embarrassed by what happened.”
“It’s private, Dean—”
“Totally agree, but I’m not content to wait for special bottles to emerge over decades or for Nanine to travel across France like she did before Bernard died. Nanine’s is slated to open as the holiday season kicks off, and that’s when people want something really special to drink. Not too many people can or will lay down the money for a Chateau Lafite, but people splurge on vacation.”
“Assuming anyone in their right mind wants to spend thousands of dollars on a bottle of wine.”
Dean would, but only if he knew it was going to be good, but how could anyone be sure? “I saw people in San Francisco lay down huge money for the mere experience.”
“So bragging rights,” Sawyer concluded. “And that’s the state of humanity we’re in.”
“Sadly, Doc, but we need to be ready for them.” He patted Sawyer’s shoulder since his friend looked downright morose now. “Feel free to hang out here or head back. I’m going in.”
I’ve got to.
He pulled open the door, making sure not to bang the parrot’s cage against the frame as he entered. “Bonjour,” he called out, not seeing anyone in the store.
A black-haired woman in a tailored navy pantsuit appeared from a side door. “Bonjour, messieurs,” she responded. “I see you are the person who bought the parrot. What can I do for you?”
His hand went slack, and he almost dropped the cage. He tilted his head to the side, his hairs standing at attention on his neck. “Do you mean that the chef’s daughter was in your establishment today?”
Then it hit him. The pet store owner had said Jacqueline—yes, that was her name—wasn’t based in Paris, but that didn’t mean she was currently out of the country. His dream girl from the newspaper article was in town right now, walking these same streets. His heart rate went crazy.
“Yes, she was,” the woman discreetly said, “before she had to part with the parrot. Their restaurant is no more, you see. The mother had trouble letting it go. Now, while sad to part with her family’s legacy, she has the freedom to dispose of the estate and sell the restaurant’s property.”
Could his skin tingle any more at all of the signs being thrust in front of him?
“They aren’t trying to sell off the restaurant’s cave, are they?”
