Page 13 of From Paris, with Butter
As Anna held tightly to her new fiancé’s hand, I sent Mateo the photos before ushering the couple back into the dining room. “I wish you both so much happiness,” I said, smiling.
I checked on each of my tables, then slipped into the staff room. There, I took a moment to soak in the perfection of the evening, of proposal plans not being ruined, of everyone leaving happy after all. I gave a little shiver, then opened my eyes. Time to get back to work.
Chapter 6
“Oh, damn.”
I was walking home after work and, as I dug around in my purse, my fingers had brushed a small box.
I’d spent much of yesterday making macarons–in two flavors no less–as a gift to Yasmine for completing her hospitality school applications. Although I’d made several thousand macarons in my life, I’d wanted these to be perfect.
And they were, with smooth, glossy shells and a crisp exterior that gave way to a chewy inside. I’d dyed them Yasmine’s favorite colors, gold and purple, and created two fillings: champagne and vanilla plum. I’d put the six most perfect ones into a box, intending to give them to Yasmine after work, but in the rush of the day they’d lain forgotten in my purse.
Cautiously, I opened the box. Of course. They were squashed now.
I was already downcast when I approached my building. The scene that greeted me when I turned the corner didn’t improve things. On the sidewalk—blocking the way into the building, naturally—was my new neighbor/eternal enemy, Laurent Roche, president of the Brotherhood of Furtive Cooks.
He was wearing another expensive suit and looked like he’d just stepped out of a fashion magazine. Congrats to him. At his feet were a polished briefcase and two grocery bags. He was on his phone, barking out sentences about mergers and deadlines.
Rather late for a business call. He must think he’s terribly important.
Monsieur Roche’s telephone call gave me the perfect excuse not to greet him. Instead, I tried to edge by as inconspicuously as possible. Just as I thought I’d slipped past, there was a sudden tug on the back of my coat. Startled, I spunaround to see what had stopped me. It was Monsieur Roche, holding me back like I was a puppy trying to make a break for it.
“Excuse me,” I said, taking a large step away from him so that he had to break our connection.What a rude person.
I turned to the building again, but Monsieur Roche shook his head to stop me. I stared at him with my I-hate-you-but-I-can-still-look-polite expression I’d perfected during my time at Le Jules Verne until he ended his phone call.
“You can’t go in there,” he said, pocketing his phone. “There’s been an accident.”
“An accident?” I repeated, startled. “Is anyone hurt?” I stood on my toes, trying to look into the building. Just then, a fire truck turned down our street, its lights flashing.
“No one hurt,” Monsieur Roche said shortly. “Madame Blanchet was performing a séance?” He broke off, looking momentarily perplexed.
“Yes,” I said, nodding. “She hosts séances often.” I’d been invited multiple times, but I’d firmly told Madame Blanchet that incense gave me headaches.
“Well, she was hitting some pipes in the bathroom with a wrench to activate the spirits or whatever she said, and she ended up knocking a pipe loose. We’ve been told to vacate the building while they check for water damage.”
I frowned, annoyed that I had to rely on this man for any information. “Where are Madame Blanchet and Bijou?”
“Is Bijou the dog? Madame Blanchet is at the café around the corner,” Monsieur Roche said, indicating the direction. “Half the building is with her. The dog was in her purse when she left.”
“I’m glad everyone is alright,” I said, watching firemen descend upon the building. Monsieur Roche was back to looking at his phone and wasn’t paying me attention. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, we have a very important businessman right here.
“I’m going to join them,” I said. I looked at Monsieur Roche, feeling awkward. “Do you…want to come along?” I asked, even though I couldn’t imagine this wet blanket of a person adding enjoyment to any gathering.
Fortunately, he shook his head. “Still have work to do.” He lifted his bags from the ground. One tipped, spilling its contents. Outrolled two onions and a sack of potatoes.
I looked at the groceries for a moment, knowing I should just help him and go on my merry way.
But I chose chaos.
I reached down and grabbed the sack of potatoes. “These are some lovely potatoes you bought.”
Monsieur Roche took them roughly from me and shoved them back in the bag.
“What are you going to cook with them?” I asked, the picture of innocence.
The thick eyebrows furrowed. “I don’t cook,” he said, as though I’d just accused him of something unspeakable. Then, perhaps realizing it might be odd for an avowed non-cook to be seen with a bag of raw potatoes, his face colored. It made him look nicer. More human.
