Page 87 of From Paris, with Butter
“Wherever you want to live.”
“I was…” I hesitated. “Well, I was thinking, after I finish pastry school, of moving back to Colmar. Whenever my mother and I moved, it was always the place I’d hoped to go back to. I’ve missed being home.”
He pulled me close. “Then I’ll find a place in Colmar, and we’ll make a new home there.”
In the morning, I awoke to a pale Paris dawn. I was alone in bed; I heard Laurent moving around in the kitchen and talking to Noisette. I sprawled across the bed and took a few minutes to soak in the weak sun and feeling of hopefulness that washed over me.
That’s what I’d been missing for five years. There’d been moments when I’d been happy, even moments I’d bent over double with laughter. But there’d been so little hope. Now, I could feel it returning.
As I was rubbing the last bit of sleep from my eyes, Laurent came in bearing a tray laden with breakfast.
“I made the rolls myself,” Laurent said proudly. “Shall we eat in the window seat?” he asked.
There was just enough space for both of us and the tray. I tried to lean my head against Laurent, but he was weirdly jumpy. I gave it up.
“The coffee’s excellent,” I told him.
“What about the rolls?”
I made a noncommittal noise that I hoped he’d take positively.
Suddenly, Laurent stood up, nearly overturning the breakfast tray.
“Margot.” He sounded so concerned that I set my mug back down.
“Margot,” he said again. “I know that you’re used to this, you know, working where you do. I didn’t want to do something cliché. But I also know how much you love your work and love Paris.”
I stared at him, utterly baffled at where this was going.
“What I’m trying to say is…” Laurent collapsed to the floor.
No. No, he was kneeling.
“You can just see the Eiffel Tower from here, and I wanted it to be part of this moment.” Laurent was actually sweating.
I followed his pointing finger and looked out my window. Yes, there was the Eiffel Tower. It looked lovely today.
I turned back, about to comment on the perfect weather, then froze.
In Laurent’s shaking hand was my mother’s emerald ring.
“Celine found it at her house last month. You must have taken it off when you were baking cookies with her daughters. They’d stolen it as a spoil of war. I didn’t want to buy a ring I wasn’t sure you would like, and when this one reappeared…” Laurent looked anxious and happy and terrified.
He swallowed hard, then took my hands.
“Margot Delcour, will you marry me?”
There was a sudden roaring in my ears. I tried to speak and found my voice had fled. I suddenly understood why so many people at Le Jules Verne were speechless when they were proposed to.
I managed to hold out a trembling hand. Laurent slipped my mother’s ringon. It sparkled in the sun.
“Yes,” I breathed. I grabbed Laurent’s shirt and dragged him to me, nearly overturning the breakfast tray a second time.
Unlike our conversation at Christmas, when I’d clung to Laurent’s mention of marriage as proof I was worthy, this proposal wasn’t about validation. Instead, it was the icing on the cake. Which didn’t make it any less sweet.
I kissed Laurent, losing myself in the utter perfection of the moment.
When we paused to catch our breath, Laurent looked at me and grinned. “I was driving myself mad trying to decide when to ask, and I thought the idea of a proposal over breakfast sounded romantic. How do the rolls taste? Remember, you’re my fiancée now, so we have to be honest with each other.”
