Page 14 of From Paris, with Butter
“The potatoes are for decorative purposes,” he said, as though that was not a completely insane comment to make.
“Decorative purposes?” I repeated, enjoying this more and more. I’d never met anyone who was such a compulsive liar while simultaneously being so bad at it.
“Yes,” Monsieur Roche said, looking decidedly flustered now. “The uh…rural ambience reminds me of home.”
I nodded as though he’d just made a brilliant remark. “Fascinating.”
I was about to make another comment when the expression on Monsieur Roche’s face stopped me cold. He looked drawn and anxious.
“Please,” he said, actually pleading. “I…I just need to get back on this call now.” He seemed so stricken that I knew any further jokes would only be cruel.
I suddenly felt bad. Presumably, if he was making such bizarre lies, there had to be a reason behind it. Even workaholic sticks-in-the-mud deserved their secrets.
Trying to make up for my jibes, I dug around in my purse and pulled out the little box.
“Here,” I said, holding it out. “They're macarons. In case you need something for dessert. Um, I usually bake something to welcome new neighbors, but I’m not sure what you like, and this is all I have on me, and I’m sorry they’recrushed, but I think they’ll still taste alright…” Now I was the one stumbling over my words.
“Anyway, have a good evening.”
I shoved the box into Monsieur Roche’s hands. His fingers instinctively curled around it before he seemed to register what had happened. I turned toward the café and was gone before he had time to muster a thank you or tell me he didn’t actually want damaged baked goods from crazed women he didn’t know.
That wasreallythe last time I spoke to Monsieur Roche,I promised myself as I walked into the café. Bijou ran up to me, begging to be picked up.No point in continuing that torture.
Chapter 7
Ispent the next morning browsing the markets in St. Germain, picking up tomatoes, apples, and anise. My favorite cheesemonger was there, and although I was well stocked, I chatted with him, discussing the new Camembert he was expecting and sampling the slivers of different varieties he pressed on me.
Afterwards, I went for a stroll along the Quai de la Mégisserie and popped into several of the small flower shops, their greenery spilling into the streets. At the final one, I purchased a gorgeous bouquet of pale pink Japanese anemones. The owner wrapped them up for me in brown paper.
I returned to my apartment in the afternoon. As (terrible) luck would have it, Laurent Roche was just stepping out of his own apartment. I gave a brief nod, then went to unlock my door as quickly as possible. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him pause.
“Mademoiselle Delcour?” He said my name like a question. To be honest, I was surprised he remembered it.
“Yes?” I turned to face him, wondering what I could have done to annoy him this time.
“Your macarons. The ones you made. They were very good.” Monsieur Roche’s brow was furrowed, as though he couldn’t quite believe he was saying something nice to me. That made two of us.
“Oh. Thank you.”
He was still frowning, his golden eyes glimmering beneath his brow. “Good food deserves to be complimented.”
He spoke as solemnly as if he was giving a sermon at a graveside. If I hadn’t been caught so off guard by his praise, I would have laughed at his seriousness. I half expected him to start intoning a hymn next.
Monsieur Roche’s politeness quota for the day apparently met, he gave me a stiff nod and started to close his door.
“Hey,” he said, pausing with the door nearly closed. He was speaking to someone inside. “You should still be napping.”
I’m not sure what I was expecting to appear—a child? A tousled lover?—but it certainly wasn’t the small, scruffy gray cat that appeared in the doorway. The animal meowed forlornly, showing a pink mouth.
Sighing, Monsieur Roche picked up the cat and held it to his chest.
“You have a cat?”
Something strange was happening with my emotions. As I watched the little creature butt Laurent under the chin, I suddenly remembered my own childhood cat. His name was Jacques.
We only had him when I was very young, but I remembered him sitting on the countertop as my mother taught me how to laminate dough for croissants, his glossy black fur dusted with flour. Every night he’d slept in my bed, his warm little body curled at my feet.
We couldn’t take Jacques with us when we’d left Paris, and I’d been devastated to leave him with our neighbors. For years after that, I’d begged my mother to adopt a new cat, but she (rightly) said we moved too often for a pet. Eventually, I gave up, and Jacques faded to the back of my memory. Funny how that happens.
