Page 10 of From Paris, with Butter
“It’s not traditional, but I added a bit of cheddar to contrast with the Gruyère,” I said, pleased Yasmine had noticed. I’d spent hours tinkering with the ingredients, creating so many batches that even Madame Blanchet—a great devotee of my baking—eventually pleaded that she couldn’t take any more off my hands.
“You should bake professionally,” Yasmine said, picking up one of her favorite topics. “Or at least sell these on a streetcorner so the masses can enjoy them, too.”
I shook my head at her praise but couldn’t help but smile.
We turned the corner onto the Boulevard de Grenelle. The street was full of stately apartment buildings crowned with ornate balconies and flower boxes spilling over with red and pink geraniums. Linden trees lined the boulevard on either side.
Beyond them was the edge of the small, elegant Square Nicole deHauteclocque which was so perfectly manicured it reminded me of a jewel box. The sun had just slipped below the horizon, and everything was so still and quiet we might have been walking through a landscape painting hung in the Musée D’Orsay.Paris At Dusk,I would have called it.
“Margot,” Yasmine said. The sound of my name jolted me back to the present.
“Sorry,” I said, “Lost in thought. Did I tell you the Chilean man, Mateo, emailed again? Now he’s thinking about having us bring out the engagement ring with the dessert course. He’s worried that if I put it in her champagne glass there’s a chance his girlfriend will drink it without noticing.”
Yasmine smiled as she shook her head. “How do you still get excited over each engagement? I would just tell him to toss the ring at her and be done with it.”
“Oh really? You wouldn’t just drop it in the soup bowl?”
“Look, that wasonetime, and like I told everyone, it was an accident. That girl had me taking pictures of her for nearly half an hour while she twirled her pasta like an idiot. My arm got tired, and her phone justhappenedto fall into the soup tureen.
“Right. Of course,” I said solemnly. “It could have happened to anyone. Now, most people might not have laughed hysterically—to the point that you collapsed to the ground and Luc started taking bets on whether you’d pee yourself—as the girl plunged her arms into the soup to fish her phone out, but that’s why you’re such a good server, Yasmine. You really make each meal your own.”
I looked slyly at Yasmine, and we burst into laughter on the street.
“I’ll be so glad when I’m out of there,” Yasmine said, still grinning. “No more running around with rickety trays, or serving people for seven courses, or dealing with their unhinged dietary restrictions. God, Margot, do you know what I’m going to do if another person walks in and tells me they’re severely gluten intolerant then flips out when we give them a substitution for bread?”
“All I know is they should probably get a very good protective case for their phone.”
“Advice I would give anyone,” Yasmine agreed, nodding sagely.
At the next street corner, Yasmine peeled off toward her apartment. Shewaved as she popped the final gougère into her mouth.
I reached my building and stepped inside. When I opened the door to my floor, I was immediately greeted by the scent of roasting chicken.
Another late dinner for my new neighbor,I thought idly. Just as I reached my door, the one next to mine—my new neighbor’s—swung open. Out stepped a man.
A wall sconce was out (again), so the man was mostly in shadow. It wasn’t until he took a step toward me and a blond curl fell across his forehead that I stopped with a start.
“No,” I breathed. “You are not my new neighbor.”
But the insufferable man from the restaurant, the man with the cancer-stricken sister, the man who’d driven me to one of the worst days of my professional life, had indeed just stepped out of the apartment next to mine.
What had I done to deserve this bad luck? It must have been something in a past life. I couldn’t think of anything I’d done in this existence to warrant this kind of negative karma.
The man recognized me at the same moment. If I hadn’t been overwhelmed with horror, his wide-eyed shock would have made me laugh.
We stood in the dim hallway, appraising each other.
This is your chance to make things right,I told myself.You’ll figure out his favorite dessert, bake it for him, and move past the entire incident at the restaurant. You should be grateful for this opportunity.
Well, that was a bit of a stretch. But, still. At the very least, he would never again catch me being rude.
Forcing a smile, I stuck out my hand. “You must be my new neighbor. I’m Margot Delcour. I live right next door. What a coincidence for us to meet again.”
The man gave no sign of reaching for my hand, but I wasn’t giving up that easily.
“I’m glad we were able to sort out the confusion at Le Jules Verne, and I hope you and your sister enjoyed the rest of your meal,” I said, smiling wider despite the awkwardness. “Madame Blanchet said you just moved in.”
Silence. Yawning, endless silence.
