Paris Cravings: A Paris & Pastry Novel

  Paris Cravings

  Copyright © 2014 Kimberley Montpetit

  This is a work of fiction and the views expressed herein are the sole responsibility of the author. Likewise, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are represented fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual event or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Cover by Phatpuppyart.com

  Interior by Novel Ninjutsu

  For Rusty, the love of my delicious, pastry-filled life!

  Paris in June

  Dear Diary:

  I have a confession to make: I’ve become a total idiot over French pastries.

  They’re my new favorite food.

  My new-found edible souvenir.

  My new favorite sin.

  Drizzled chocolate, sugar-dusted raspberries, flaky crusts with perfect crimped edges. I’ll have to run a marathon when I get back home to New York just to burn off my new five pounds. French beignets are the worst temptation. Those yeasty chocolate-filled pastries call to me the way Prada handbags call to my mother from Fifth Avenue.

  Dunkin Donuts—so yesterday.

  Climbing the Eiffel tower, running through miles of hallways at the Louvre Museum, gourmet lunches on the Seine River . . . yes, those are all must-sees . . . if you don’t mind vertigo-dizzying heights and enough paintings to saturate your brain for the rest of your life.

  But once I discovered La Patisserie, the rest of Paris became a mere backdrop for my guilty pleasure. What’s a girl to do?

  I close my journal full of sticky scribbling and place it into the pocket of my suitcase with a melancholy sigh. After snapping the locks, I check my wallet and my heart leaps. I’ve got just enough euros left to buy one last box of pastries before we leave France forever.

  As I check our hotel room for anything we might have forgotten, I smile as I remember the night my best friend Sera and I ate warm, oozing chocolate crepes for dinner one night while we analyzed and rated French boys from the top of the Arc de Triomphe.

  If you’ve heard the expression, they’re to die for, well, I’m here to tell you, it’s true. Trust me.

  The crepes, I mean. Not necessarily French boys.

  I’ve restrained myself from checking out Parisian males because I’m already taken—by Mathew Perotti, the hottest guy at Eleanor Roosevelt High, as voted on by the female population of the student body. Matthew ended up in New York by way of Lubbock, Texas, and I had a suspicion that his southern drawl might have had something to do with swaying the vote.

  Darting down to the elevator, Sera and I sneak out of the hotel before Robert, our pain-in-the-derrière tour guide, comes downstairs to order the usual breakfast of café and croissants. In fifteen minutes, I’m wobbling furtively down the sidewalk in my high heels until we reach La Patisserie. The bell rings over the door as we enter and then we make a beeline for the beautifully-filled glass cases of fresh pastries.

  Sera studies a tray of sugar cookies with perfectly formed, undulating edges and pink whipped frosting, her breath glazing the glass. “Chloe,” she tells me. “You’re crazy to get on the plane with a box of these. They’ll get smashed—or Rodney and that group will steal them.”

  I picture éclairs flying across Seat 19F for a game of puff-pastry football. Three points per tart. Sera’s right—it’s insane to buy another box, but I’ve got to get one last chocolate beignet. Or two. They’re a work of art. Monet in a white box. The hours spent in the halls of the Louvre weren’t wasted on me.

  My phone beeps and my stomach jumps a little when I see that Mathew’s sent me a text message. You need a ride from the airport? I don’t have to hear his voice to feel that Texas accent tingling.

  I text him back, trying to figure out the time difference in New York when we leave. Sera’s parents are picking us up, but you can come, too. If you want . . .

  As I stare at the trays of cakes and tarts, I wonder if he thought I was getting back tomorrow instead of Monday afternoon. It’s nice to be missed, although Mathew didn’t actually say he missed me, I realize with a sudden pang in my gut. Maybe he wants to know what time the flight gets in because he has a date . . . I know that’s stupid to even consider because we’re more in love than Romeo and Juliet, but now I regret texting that added jab, if you want . . . as if I’m challenging him or daring him.

  The truth is—I’m dying for him to prove that he still wants me and loves me as much as ever.

  We promised each other we’d talk when I got back from this trip. Even though we’ve been together for eight months, I still worry that I’m not the sort of girl a guy like Mathew usually goes for. But isn’t eight months proof that Mathew and I are perfect for each other? It’s practically a school record. At Roosevelt, hooking up and breaking up is a sport. Even though Eleanor probably turns over in her grave at the thought.

  I pause in my pastry selections hoping for another incoming text from Mathew, but the phone is silent. When I glance up, Sera is staring at me.

  “You nervous to go home?” she asks, her big brown eyes innocent, even though I know what she’s thinking.

  I take a breath and nod, grateful for my best friend who knows what I’ve been through. “Yeah, I guess The Worst Night of My Life is starting to hit me all over again. Being in Paris for a week made it easy to put that night out of my mind. I want to forget about what happened and move on with Mathew like it never happened, but it’s so hard.”

  Sera touches my arm. “Have you figured out what you’re going to say when you guys have The Talk?”

  I give her a weak smile. “I have no idea, but in twenty-four hours I’ll be home and I have to make decisions.”

  Sera puts on her teacher voice, “As Eleanor Roosevelt used to say, ‘A woman is like a tea bag. You never know how strong she is until she’s in hot water.’” Glancing at the clock on the shop wall, she gives a start. “We have to go! Robert’s going to give us hell for being late. The bus is leaving for the Loire Valley in like—”

  We glance down at our watches at the same time, and I swallow down a gulp. Five minutes.

  “Et plus?” the bakery woman asks. She’s a mind reader with an empty pastry box.

  “Mais oui,” I say, snapping back to reality. “Je voudrais—um, the raspberry tart on the second row—merci!” My philosophy is why choose just one when you can get an éclair and a lemon tart with real whipped cream, and a chocolate filled croissant?

  “Oh, and I want one of those crepe thingies rolled in powdered sugar,” I add, my words starting to rush. I don’t even care if I look greedy; I want it, and this is my last chance.

  “Hurry up, Chloe!” Sera says, darting to the shop door to peek out. Like she can actually spot our French class five blocks away.

  “Ssh!” I hiss, trying to figure out the change from my euros and if I have enough to purchase one more. But which pastry? There are so many to choose from! Oh, what would it be like to work in a pastry shop arranging endless rows of divinely delicious tarts and éclairs? I mean, who would have thought you could do so much with a few cups of flour? Pure genius.

  Sera begins to hyperventilate. “One minute till drop dead time!” Her face turns a splotchy red like she’s going to burst into tears. “By my calculations, we are not going to make it!”

  I start to laugh, and she gives me a dirty look. Sera is a walking clock, calendar and secretary rolled into one. She needs to send a resume to the Trump Tower. Seconds matter to her. Like that old guy who counts down to midni
ght on New Year’s Eve.

  “Okay, already!” I whisper, shooting glances at the pastry lady in her starched white apron. “Robert won’t leave us,” I tell her, although even I have my doubts. “Aren’t there rules about not abandoning your tour students?”

  Sera speaks between clenched teeth. “Do you know what drop dead time means?”

  Unfortunately, I do. This is it. I’ll never walk across the bridges of the Seine River again. Or eat a croissant. Or lick the chocolate off the top of an éclair.

  I swear I’m beginning to wonder if I was swapped at the hospital with another baby eighteen years ago. Maybe some French woman gave birth while visiting New York. I’ve only taken two semesters of the language, but the words are starting to roll off my tongue like a native.

  Maybe I should do a foreign exchange program. I can totally imagine living here; touring the museums, walking to school from my Paris flat. Having a French sister.

  But what about Mathew—will he wait for me while I’m gone for an entire school year? And fight off the girls? Girls like Parvati Eswana, the drop-dead gorgeous girl from India who showed up last November to film a movie. Parvati had arrived at Roosevelt High straight from Bollywood, the Indian film world of Bombay. She’d stayed because her mother had decided to fulfill her own lifetime dream of medical school.

  All the guys at school flocked around her the first day she showed up.

  Parvati, that is—not her mother. Actually, all the girls flocked around her, too. She’s beautiful and mesmerizing and I loved her accent and the way her hair dripped like water around her waist. That’s when I started growing my own hair out, but the length hit my shoulders and went into remission.

  There’s a pain in my stomach. The Talk with Mathew looms over me, closer than ever, and it’s not going to be pretty, but I don’t want to lose him, despite what he did. Maybe I shouldn’t go anywhere at all again, let alone a semester abroad. In fact, maybe this ten-day trip to Paris has been nine days too long.

  My cell phone rings as the bakery woman lays the last pastry into the white cardboard box and ties it up with ribbon. It’s my mother—again. She’s still getting over Jerry, the man who reminded me of my dad and treated her like royalty. He seemed like the perfect guy—until he informed her that he wasn’t ready to commit to an instant family, even though he’s forty-five.

  “Mom, I’m about to catch the bus for our last tour and I’m in a shop and—I’ll see you in like, a day or two, okay?” Alright, it was closer to two than one. But really, I should have thrown my cell in the Seine and bought a calling card. My mother still has her sad days and she wears a lot of black even though it’s been four years. Her excuse is that black is slimming and looks dramatic with her pale skin and red lipstick.

  I lower the phone when I realize that Sera has left the shop and is motioning to me through the window from the sidewalk.

  “We’re going to get stuck,” Sera says, mouthing the words through the glass. “In Paris forever! I’m going to run ahead,” she adds, pointing with her finger. “Just hurry, will you!” Her last words are so loud, I can actually hear them through the window.

  I give her a nod and a thumbs up sign. I can do a mile in about six minutes. I think I can make a few blocks in about sixty seconds. Piece of cake. Which reminds me. “Can I get that last square of three-layer lemon chiffon in the corner?”

  “Mademoiselle?” the woman questions, about to tie the ribbon into a permanent bow.

  “Um, there. S’il vous plait. ” I show her the cake in question. When in doubt, just point straight at the item you want. It works great.

  While she wraps the lemon chiffon in tissue, faint screeching noises seem to come out of nowhere. I glance around and the bakery owner’s eyes dart to my hands.

  “Huh?” Wait, that isn’t French at all. How do you say, “Huh,” in French? Now where did I put my dictionary?

  The woman points again. “Te-le-fone.”

  My mother is still waiting on the other end of the line. “Sorry, Mom,” I tell her hurriedly. “I’ll see you soon. Promise. Love you—bye!”

  I flip the cell closed. My mother will eventually calm down, order Chinese, and watch reruns of Tom Selleck, Magnum P. I. I guess he’s cute—for an old guy from the 80s.

  I used to think I had a cool mom but that ended when I was like—eight.

  “Quinze euros et vingt-huit,” the pastry woman says, ringing me up.

  I dig out my last ten euro bill and scatter a handful of one and two-euro coins. “Keep the change.”

  “Merci,” she answers.

  “You’re welcome. I mean, de rien.” I have to speak French because this is my last stop. My last purchase. My last minutes in Paris. I’ll never see a La Patisserie again. I want to sit down and eat the whole box of pastries by myself. Except I’ll hate myself in the morning.

  Jostling my cell phone into my handbag, I sling it over my shoulder. The flimsy bakery box is heavier than I expect and I feel myself teetering on my high heels. No self-respecting French girl wears comfortable sneakers that you can actually walk in. I buried mine in the bottom of my suitcase after the first day and wore heels like they did. Big mistake. I have blisters the size of the Chrysler building.

  My handbag slides down my arm, bumping the pastry box, which wobbles dangerously. My heart lurches at the thought of losing my very last edible souvenirs to the floor, but I get the box righted again and pause to make sure it’s not going to slip again. Gripping the rest of my shopping bags, I turn backward to push myself out the heavy glass door. It doesn’t budge. I probably need to pull it toward me instead, but I don’t have a free hand.

  The bakery woman is speaking rapid French and waving her arms, but I can’t understand a word. The man next in line ignores me, raising his voice to place his order.

  How do you say Help! in French? Knowing I have to sprint five blocks carrying all of this in my arms—in less than a minute—makes me suddenly want to cry.

  “Okay, get a grip,” I mutter, concocting a plan. If I balance the pastry box and the bags in one hand, reach out to pull the door toward me with the other hand, and then quickly slide through and hope the door doesn’t smack me in the arm and spill everything, I can make it out of here.

  But as soon as I start to do just that, the pastries suddenly shift inside the box, throwing off my balance. The beautiful white box begins to slide out of my one-handed grip. I let go of the door, grab the box and steady everything once more.

  The bakery lady gives me a sympathetic smile and holds up a hand, signaling that she’ll be there in a moment. My heart is in panic mode and I’m trying not to scream. The grumpy customer has decided he wants coffee and the lady is changing out the filter.

  Then I spot a policeman standing on the curb and try to catch his attention to help me open the shop door, but he’s distracted by a commotion on the sidewalk. A guy with his hat pulled low over his eyes knocks into an old woman—and grabs her purse!

  The thief takes off across the street, darting around a skidding taxi like a sprinter. The woman rips off her head scarf and shakes her fist screaming, “Voleur! Voleur!” Not hard to translate that.

  The cop is gone, racing after the thief before I can even take a second breath. My potential savior has disappeared.

  This is ridiculous. I’m going to get out of here if my life depends on it. Balancing the bags, pastry box, and my purse once more, I reach out to yank the door toward me, get one foot through, put my knee against the door’s edge and try to launch myself through the six-inch space. The plan turns out to be the worst move I could make.

  My high-heeled sandal slips on the shiny tiled floor. What happens next becomes one of those “seeing your life pass in front of your eyes” experiences.

  Snapping like a flimsy pencil, my spiked heel goes flying through the air and my foot keeps right on sliding, too. I’m definitely wearing the wrong outfit because my bare leg in the chic tight skirt flies up in an unexpected karate kick. Not on purpose
. My other foot twists as I try to keep my balance and the pastry box scrambles like eggs in my hands.

  My backside has a date with the hard floor and pain shoots right up my rear. The last thing I see is the box of pastries flying straight up like a big, square, gooey softball. The box turns upside down, the lid flips open, and suddenly all my pastries are raining down around me with smears of cream and lemon filling.

  Pain shoots straight up my foot and into my ankle—and tomorrow morning my derrière is going to be seriously black and blue.

  Silence fills La Patisserie. I’m adrift in a sea of whipped cream and broken tart shells and I try not to cry like a stupid baby as I stare at my now ruined pastries.

  A flurry of noise breaks through the gooey cream stuffed into my right ear. I can hear a woman shrieking, and then there’s a deeper voice somewhere off to my left. I lift my chin and try to focus.

  I must have a concussion because the woman who placed my pastries in a box with doilies and lace has suddenly had a sex change.

  Hovering above me is a boy about my age, maybe a little older. He looks at me with dark brown Hershey syrup eyes, then holds up two fingers and I grin like an idiot.

  “How many fingers?” he asks in English.

  What does a girl do when confronted by possibly the best-looking guy she’s ever seen on the planet? “Um, have you got the time?” I ask.

  So I’m not going to be asked to join the Mensa club for geniuses any time soon.

  “Bien sur.” His voice matches his eyes, like Hershey’s syrup and vanilla make the perfect ice cream combo. “Il est huit heures onze.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut and moan as I mentally translate, “huit heures onze.” It’s 8:11. We’re supposed to be at the bus by 8:00. Robert had said drop-dead time was 8:10. Anybody who wasn’t on the bus and in her seat belt was going to be left behind. His steely blue eyes had looked straight at me to make sure I got the message.

  I am in major trouble.