Page 19 of From Paris, with Butter
The universe most definitelywason my side today because, not only was the pastry delicious, but just then the bathroom door swung open. In walked the two women who’d been gossiping about Laurent earlier. They stood in front of the mirrors, reapplying their lipstick.
For a brief moment, I considered taking the mature, aloof route and not asking them about Laurent.
But of course I wasn’t going to do that. I had to live next to this man, after all, and I should know who my neighbor was. It was definitely not just because Iwanted to hear some good gossip.
“Pardon me,” I said, going up to them. They both turned and smiled. “I was sitting near you during the meeting, and I couldn’t help but overhear you talking about Laurent Roche. Do you know him? He just moved next door to me.”
The women said nothing for a moment. I had a sudden, panicked thought that I’d overstepped, but then the women turned to each other, then back to me, and the floodgates opened.
“Living next to you? How lucky!” the older of the two said, clasping her hands together.
“Has he cooked for you?” the other asked.
“Is he seeing anyone?” the first woman asked, looking hopeful.
I had to tell them that I knew practically nothing about my new neighbor, and he’d hardly spoken at all to me.
“I gave him a few macarons, but I’m not sure if he liked them,” I admitted.
As one, the women pressed their hands to their chests, aghast.
“Didn’t like your macarons! But I’m sure they were lovely.”
“You look like an excellent baker.”
“Did he thank you for them, at least?”
It took several minutes for them to come down from that affront and answer my questions about who, exactly, Laurent Roche was.
“He’s a Provençal,” the older woman said, a little sniffy in the way Parisians always are about people who come from places other than Paris. “From one of the little towns near Aix. That’s where his restaurant was, and it was very well-received, too. It was quite a shock when it closed.”
“Why did it close?” I asked.
“I’m not exactly sure,” the woman admitted. “I heard a rumor about money and also that his girlfriend wanted him to quit. I saw them dining at La Table de Pierre Reboul once,” she added, smiling at the memory. “Her dress was pale pink silk. Gorgeous.”
“Yes,” the first woman said, seemingly intent on being the one with more information to share. “But then she left him anyway.”
“And for one of hercoworkers,” the other woman stage-whispered. I swung my attention back to her, feeling like I was attending the French Open.
“Tragic, isn’t it?” the first woman said, looking delighted.
“Do you know what he’s doing in Paris?” I asked, trying to digest all this information.
Both women shook their heads. “I haven’t heard a thing. But it’s promising that he’s volunteering at this event. At least we know the food will be excellent. What is he like now?”
I wracked my brain, trying to think of anything I knew about Laurent Roche besides his grouchy demeanor and inability to admit he cooked.
“His shoes are always so shiny,” I finally said.
The younger woman nodded. “He was like that as a child, too. At church, his sister came in looking like she’d just been dragged through the woods, but Laurent was always perfectly turned out. He’s always been very charming too, even when he was a boy. Make sure you don’t lose your head over him.”
I assured the woman she had absolutely nothing to worry about on that front.
Chapter 9
“Are you warming up to the idea of being their pastry chef?” Yasmine asked as we exited the bathroom.
“Sorry, Yasmine. Especially not with my neighbor also volunteering. If that’s not a sign from the universe that I shouldn’t do this, I don’t know what is.”
