Revealing Us
Page 10
Chantal smiles her sweet smile, which brims with the kind of innocence that only one who hasn’t been burned by life can possess. The kind of innocence Ella has. Or had. I wonder 89
if these past few months have changed her. I wonder . . . No, I will not let myself think bad things. She is ine. Happy. Married and honeymooning.
“I’ve had plenty of people do far worse than you,” Chantal assures me, sitting primly beside me in a black skirt and matching silk blouse, her long, light brown hair a perfect complement to her green eyes and olive skin.
I snort at her diplomacy, meant to comfort me. “In other words, I’m bad, but not as bad as the people who don’t even speak their own language well.”
She grins and says, “Exactly,” and the playfulness in her expression really does remind me of Ella. She reminds me of Ella. Well, in personality. Ella’s strikingly deep red hair and pale white skin are incomparable and, on her, enviable. A knot forms in my belly. Oh, how I miss Ella.
My cell phone rings and I run my hands down my faded jeans and grab it from the cofee table, assuming it’s Chris with the good news that his meeting is over. “Hey,” I greet him eagerly after seeing his number on caller ID.
“Hey, baby.”
“Uh oh,” I say, reading his weary tone. “Your meeting didn’t go well.”
“The museum is having some inancial issues.”
“They want your money.”
“My money won’t solve this. Not until they have someone who actually knows how to manage what they have. They asked me to take a temporary spot on the board to try to solve the problems.”
“Did you agree?”
“I agreed to talk.”
My concern is instant. “Please don’t pull back from this because you’re worried about me. I have a lot to learn, and plenty to keep me busy.”
“I would prefer you do those things with me. That’s why I brought you here. For us to experience Paris together.”
I hesitate only a moment, conditioned to hold back, to fear being hurt—but I’m already all in with Chris. Holding back only hurts us moving forward. “I’m here to be a part of your life, to build one for us, Chris. It’s a not a vacation. We have plenty of time.”
“And yet I always have this sense it’s never enough.” There’s a haunted quality to his voice that shades his words and I want to ask what he means, but he continues, “No matter what, it’s doubtful I’ll agree to sit on the board. My inancial team and I came in and cleaned things up several years back for them, and they’re in the same place all over again.”
I’ve never given much consideration to Chris’s business persona, and perhaps I should have. Despite his claim that he’d sold of his stake in the family cosmetics company, having no interest in sitting in a boardroom for a living, there’s a reason why he’s so rich. He manages his money. He doesn’t just spend it.
“They want me to stay for meetings this afternoon,” Chris adds wearily. He has to be as jet-lagged as I am, or maybe it’s the situation. “Baby, I don’t want to desert you your irst day in Paris.”
I shove aside a pinch of disappointment and irm my voice.
“You need to stay. You said there were people involved who could contribute to your charity, right?”
“Yes, but I can still meet with them outside of this large commitment.”
“You don’t want a great museum to be lost, Chris, and neither do I. I’m completely ine. I haven’t even explored the house yet, and there’s shopping within walking distance. Chantal can direct me where to go for what I need.”
“I can take you,” Chantal ofers eagerly.
“Perfect,” Chris says, obviously overhearing. “I don’t want you running around the city alone. It’s a big city and you have a language barrier.”
I look at Chantal. “Are you sure?”
“I have no plans, and I’d love to go shopping.” She sounds genuinely eager.
“So there you go,” I tell Chris. “I have an experienced Paris shopper as an escort. I’m set for the afternoon.”
Heavy silence ills the line and I can almost hear Chris struggling with himself. “I’m really ine,” I murmur softly.
“Don’t beat yourself up over this.”
“Here’s the thing,” he inally replies. “I could throw every dime I have at children’s cancer, and I won’t beat it. It takes worldwide awareness and involvement to make progress. The museum supports the cause, and this donor is well connected in an international company.”
“Then you need to do this, and if I can do anything to help, I will. So go ix what’s broken and Chantal will keep me company.”
“Tell her we’ll pay her.”
“I heard that,” Chantal says. “And no. I’m not going to take money to go shopping.”
I snort. “You’ll deserve a big bonus if you ind a way to get me to speak French.”
“That bad?” Chris asks.
“Worse,” I conirm. “Maybe some real-life situations will help.”
Chris lowers his voice. “I might have to come up with a reward system for learning new words.”
I bite my lip. “Be careful. I might not let the board have you.”
“Please,” he groans. “Don’t let them.”
“You’re on loan only,” I assure him.
“Fill that closet,” Chris orders. “Make me feel like you want me for my money.”
I laugh. “I do. You didn’t know that?”
“I thought you wanted me for my body.”
“Actually it’s the Harley.”
“Now you’re just feeding my other obsession.” I hear someone speak in the background. “I can still tell them ‘no’ and come home.”
Home. Our home. I like that. “Don’t. I’ll be here when you’re done.”
“Be careful, and text me when you get back to the house so I know you’re safe.”
I open my mouth to make a “Yes, Master” joke I’ve made on several occasions, but snap it shut. The memory of Rebecca calling Mark that is just too fresh. Instead, I simply agree.
“He’s a Harley guy?” There is an excited lift to Chantal’s voice. While I’ve been on the phone she’s been inspecting the rows and rows of books, many of which are interesting art and travel editions.
“Chris loves his Harleys,” I conirm, and it’s my turn to ofer a cat-that-ate-the-canary smile. “And I love him on them.”
Chantal sighs and walks back to the couch to perch on the edge of a cushion next to me. “There’s something about a guy on a Harley. I think it’s the whole ‘bad boy who’s so good but destined to break your heart’ fantasy. Which doesn’t sound like much of a fantasy when you put the broken heart part in the picture, but it is. It so is.”
My gut tightens with that same damn memory of Chris showing up on his Harley after our breakup. It’s a destructive memory and I will it to stop showing up. “Sometimes it’s the ones who look the least dangerous who really are,” I warn her, thinking of Mark in his perfectly itted suits and with his perfectly chiseled body. “The suave, debonair ones.”
Her eyes ill with longing. “I’d like to get my heart broken by both kinds at least once. But since I have no men in my life, I think we should go eat lunch and inish with macarons. Then we shop.”
Her naïve welcoming of heartache is again so like Ella that for a moment I can only stare at her, and when I recover, lunch and shopping are the last things on my mind. “Would you know where one would get a marriage license?”
“Sure. City Hall. Are you getting married?”
Am I going to marry Chris? “I . . . No. Well, not right now.”
“But maybe?”
I have to digest this question for a moment. Chris and I haven’t talked about it any further, but I ind myself smiling at the idea. “I’d say a very strong maybe, that leans toward yes.” I 94
don’t let myself think about how painful it would be to embrace forever with Chris and have him shut me out again.
Chantal grins. “So hot Harley men don’t always break your heart, huh?”
“No, they don’t.” At least not intentionally. “But that doesn’t mean you should go chasing them. They aren’t all like Chris.”
“I know. I’ve never met him, but my mom says he’s special.
She’s gotten to know him through Katie and John and a series of charity events.” Chantal pulls her laptop from her briefcase.
“Speaking of Chris, I think he might need to be with you if you’re iling for a marriage license.”
“It’s not my wedding I’m interested in right now. I’m looking for a friend I lost touch with, who came here to get married. I thought the licensing oice would be a good place to start to ind her. What do you think?”
“You have to have a legal ceremony at City Hall before a religious one can take place, so if she got married here, a record would be there.”
Hope ills me. I may be one step closer to inding Ella.
I don’t like crowds. I think it comes from a childhood of being trapped in my house under my father’s lock and key. Sitting in a tiny café across from City Hall with Chantal, I feel like the fel-low patrons around us are sardines in the same can. My unease started when we climbed into a taxi to head toward City Hall.
Maybe it’s just eating out for the irst time in Paris without Chris that bothers me.
I stare at the menu, which is all in French, so I can’t understand it any more than I can understand the many conversations going on around me. “I’m assuming you chose this place to give me a lesson in ordering of French menus?”
“Actually, I brought you for the macarons. They’re famous for them here.” She looks hesitant and then reluctantly adds, “And I’m sorry to tell you this, but most of the restaurants will have French-only menus.”
Oh. No. But of course they do.
“Don’t look so distressed,” Chantal says quickly. “A few streets from your house is the Champs-Élysées. Since it’s a tourist hot spot, many of the restaurants there will have English on the menu. You’ll also ind a McDonald’s and a couple of Starbucks there.”
Just hearing that two American hot spots sit near my new home sends a rush of relief through me, yet the uneasy feeling hangs on. The nape of my neck tingles and I glance around, looking for suspicious characters. My progress is halted when my gaze catches on a waitress mixing up condiments with raw hamburger at the table directly to my left.
My gag relex is almost instant and I return my attention to Chantal. “If you order raw meat, I’m leaving.”
She laughs. “You do know tartare is very common here, right?”
“No, I’m not well traveled. I’m also not a huge fan of meat in general, though I eat it if it’s nearly burnt.”
“Hmmm, well”—she picks up the menu—“what about escargot?”
“I do not eat snails.”
She arches a brow. “Too bad. It’s another favorite for Parisians. How do you feel about duck?”
“They’re too cute to eat.”
She blinks at me, showing no signs of the impatience I deserve. “Fish?”
“Allergic. Do you eat pasta here?”
“It’s not a French staple, but we have it. You will ind a lot of American food on French menus, but I must warn you that most Americans dislike our attempt at their foods. Don’t expect our versions to be the same as what you’re used to.” She sets her menu down and laces her ingers together. “We need to ind things we do well that you will enjoy on a classic French menu.
Our pastries and desserts are fabulous.”
“A girl’s h*ps can only take so many pastries and desserts.”
“True,” she concedes, and considers a moment. “Well, our quiches are amazing. It’s the pastry crusts that make them so good, but they aren’t calorie-friendly, either.”
“Quiche is an option, though. I can eat that.”
“We also do an excellent grilled ham and cheese. Also quite fattening, of course, since we drench them in butter.”
Grilled ham and cheese? Is she serious? She grimaces at me and chides, “Don’t look so appalled. They are our version of hamburgers and quite delicious. Our bread is homemade, and our cheeses are amazing. As you Americans say, don’t knock it until you try it.”
“I’m sorry.” And I am. This is the food she loves. I need to frame my dislike with the diplomacy she’s shown me. “I do love cheese, so I’ll try the grilled ham and cheese. That is, if they have it on the menu here?”
“They do. Both quiche and the grilled ham and cheese are very common in our restaurants, so they can be your go-to orders. I’ll teach you how to ind them on the menu.”
“I think that’s smart.” I manage to sound positive, though the idea that these are the only items that I’ll eat is quite daunting.
“Okay, so ‘Croque Monsieur’ is the grilled ham and cheese.”
She shows me on the menu and I take a picture of it on my cell phone. “If you add ‘Madame,’ then you get a sunny-side egg on top.”
My eyes go wide. “An egg on top of a grilled cheese?”
“Yes,” she says, laughing. “You are really not enjoying this exploration into French cuisine, are you?”
if these past few months have changed her. I wonder . . . No, I will not let myself think bad things. She is ine. Happy. Married and honeymooning.
“I’ve had plenty of people do far worse than you,” Chantal assures me, sitting primly beside me in a black skirt and matching silk blouse, her long, light brown hair a perfect complement to her green eyes and olive skin.
I snort at her diplomacy, meant to comfort me. “In other words, I’m bad, but not as bad as the people who don’t even speak their own language well.”
She grins and says, “Exactly,” and the playfulness in her expression really does remind me of Ella. She reminds me of Ella. Well, in personality. Ella’s strikingly deep red hair and pale white skin are incomparable and, on her, enviable. A knot forms in my belly. Oh, how I miss Ella.
My cell phone rings and I run my hands down my faded jeans and grab it from the cofee table, assuming it’s Chris with the good news that his meeting is over. “Hey,” I greet him eagerly after seeing his number on caller ID.
“Hey, baby.”
“Uh oh,” I say, reading his weary tone. “Your meeting didn’t go well.”
“The museum is having some inancial issues.”
“They want your money.”
“My money won’t solve this. Not until they have someone who actually knows how to manage what they have. They asked me to take a temporary spot on the board to try to solve the problems.”
“Did you agree?”
“I agreed to talk.”
My concern is instant. “Please don’t pull back from this because you’re worried about me. I have a lot to learn, and plenty to keep me busy.”
“I would prefer you do those things with me. That’s why I brought you here. For us to experience Paris together.”
I hesitate only a moment, conditioned to hold back, to fear being hurt—but I’m already all in with Chris. Holding back only hurts us moving forward. “I’m here to be a part of your life, to build one for us, Chris. It’s a not a vacation. We have plenty of time.”
“And yet I always have this sense it’s never enough.” There’s a haunted quality to his voice that shades his words and I want to ask what he means, but he continues, “No matter what, it’s doubtful I’ll agree to sit on the board. My inancial team and I came in and cleaned things up several years back for them, and they’re in the same place all over again.”
I’ve never given much consideration to Chris’s business persona, and perhaps I should have. Despite his claim that he’d sold of his stake in the family cosmetics company, having no interest in sitting in a boardroom for a living, there’s a reason why he’s so rich. He manages his money. He doesn’t just spend it.
“They want me to stay for meetings this afternoon,” Chris adds wearily. He has to be as jet-lagged as I am, or maybe it’s the situation. “Baby, I don’t want to desert you your irst day in Paris.”
I shove aside a pinch of disappointment and irm my voice.
“You need to stay. You said there were people involved who could contribute to your charity, right?”
“Yes, but I can still meet with them outside of this large commitment.”
“You don’t want a great museum to be lost, Chris, and neither do I. I’m completely ine. I haven’t even explored the house yet, and there’s shopping within walking distance. Chantal can direct me where to go for what I need.”
“I can take you,” Chantal ofers eagerly.
“Perfect,” Chris says, obviously overhearing. “I don’t want you running around the city alone. It’s a big city and you have a language barrier.”
I look at Chantal. “Are you sure?”
“I have no plans, and I’d love to go shopping.” She sounds genuinely eager.
“So there you go,” I tell Chris. “I have an experienced Paris shopper as an escort. I’m set for the afternoon.”
Heavy silence ills the line and I can almost hear Chris struggling with himself. “I’m really ine,” I murmur softly.
“Don’t beat yourself up over this.”
“Here’s the thing,” he inally replies. “I could throw every dime I have at children’s cancer, and I won’t beat it. It takes worldwide awareness and involvement to make progress. The museum supports the cause, and this donor is well connected in an international company.”
“Then you need to do this, and if I can do anything to help, I will. So go ix what’s broken and Chantal will keep me company.”
“Tell her we’ll pay her.”
“I heard that,” Chantal says. “And no. I’m not going to take money to go shopping.”
I snort. “You’ll deserve a big bonus if you ind a way to get me to speak French.”
“That bad?” Chris asks.
“Worse,” I conirm. “Maybe some real-life situations will help.”
Chris lowers his voice. “I might have to come up with a reward system for learning new words.”
I bite my lip. “Be careful. I might not let the board have you.”
“Please,” he groans. “Don’t let them.”
“You’re on loan only,” I assure him.
“Fill that closet,” Chris orders. “Make me feel like you want me for my money.”
I laugh. “I do. You didn’t know that?”
“I thought you wanted me for my body.”
“Actually it’s the Harley.”
“Now you’re just feeding my other obsession.” I hear someone speak in the background. “I can still tell them ‘no’ and come home.”
Home. Our home. I like that. “Don’t. I’ll be here when you’re done.”
“Be careful, and text me when you get back to the house so I know you’re safe.”
I open my mouth to make a “Yes, Master” joke I’ve made on several occasions, but snap it shut. The memory of Rebecca calling Mark that is just too fresh. Instead, I simply agree.
“He’s a Harley guy?” There is an excited lift to Chantal’s voice. While I’ve been on the phone she’s been inspecting the rows and rows of books, many of which are interesting art and travel editions.
“Chris loves his Harleys,” I conirm, and it’s my turn to ofer a cat-that-ate-the-canary smile. “And I love him on them.”
Chantal sighs and walks back to the couch to perch on the edge of a cushion next to me. “There’s something about a guy on a Harley. I think it’s the whole ‘bad boy who’s so good but destined to break your heart’ fantasy. Which doesn’t sound like much of a fantasy when you put the broken heart part in the picture, but it is. It so is.”
My gut tightens with that same damn memory of Chris showing up on his Harley after our breakup. It’s a destructive memory and I will it to stop showing up. “Sometimes it’s the ones who look the least dangerous who really are,” I warn her, thinking of Mark in his perfectly itted suits and with his perfectly chiseled body. “The suave, debonair ones.”
Her eyes ill with longing. “I’d like to get my heart broken by both kinds at least once. But since I have no men in my life, I think we should go eat lunch and inish with macarons. Then we shop.”
Her naïve welcoming of heartache is again so like Ella that for a moment I can only stare at her, and when I recover, lunch and shopping are the last things on my mind. “Would you know where one would get a marriage license?”
“Sure. City Hall. Are you getting married?”
Am I going to marry Chris? “I . . . No. Well, not right now.”
“But maybe?”
I have to digest this question for a moment. Chris and I haven’t talked about it any further, but I ind myself smiling at the idea. “I’d say a very strong maybe, that leans toward yes.” I 94
don’t let myself think about how painful it would be to embrace forever with Chris and have him shut me out again.
Chantal grins. “So hot Harley men don’t always break your heart, huh?”
“No, they don’t.” At least not intentionally. “But that doesn’t mean you should go chasing them. They aren’t all like Chris.”
“I know. I’ve never met him, but my mom says he’s special.
She’s gotten to know him through Katie and John and a series of charity events.” Chantal pulls her laptop from her briefcase.
“Speaking of Chris, I think he might need to be with you if you’re iling for a marriage license.”
“It’s not my wedding I’m interested in right now. I’m looking for a friend I lost touch with, who came here to get married. I thought the licensing oice would be a good place to start to ind her. What do you think?”
“You have to have a legal ceremony at City Hall before a religious one can take place, so if she got married here, a record would be there.”
Hope ills me. I may be one step closer to inding Ella.
I don’t like crowds. I think it comes from a childhood of being trapped in my house under my father’s lock and key. Sitting in a tiny café across from City Hall with Chantal, I feel like the fel-low patrons around us are sardines in the same can. My unease started when we climbed into a taxi to head toward City Hall.
Maybe it’s just eating out for the irst time in Paris without Chris that bothers me.
I stare at the menu, which is all in French, so I can’t understand it any more than I can understand the many conversations going on around me. “I’m assuming you chose this place to give me a lesson in ordering of French menus?”
“Actually, I brought you for the macarons. They’re famous for them here.” She looks hesitant and then reluctantly adds, “And I’m sorry to tell you this, but most of the restaurants will have French-only menus.”
Oh. No. But of course they do.
“Don’t look so distressed,” Chantal says quickly. “A few streets from your house is the Champs-Élysées. Since it’s a tourist hot spot, many of the restaurants there will have English on the menu. You’ll also ind a McDonald’s and a couple of Starbucks there.”
Just hearing that two American hot spots sit near my new home sends a rush of relief through me, yet the uneasy feeling hangs on. The nape of my neck tingles and I glance around, looking for suspicious characters. My progress is halted when my gaze catches on a waitress mixing up condiments with raw hamburger at the table directly to my left.
My gag relex is almost instant and I return my attention to Chantal. “If you order raw meat, I’m leaving.”
She laughs. “You do know tartare is very common here, right?”
“No, I’m not well traveled. I’m also not a huge fan of meat in general, though I eat it if it’s nearly burnt.”
“Hmmm, well”—she picks up the menu—“what about escargot?”
“I do not eat snails.”
She arches a brow. “Too bad. It’s another favorite for Parisians. How do you feel about duck?”
“They’re too cute to eat.”
She blinks at me, showing no signs of the impatience I deserve. “Fish?”
“Allergic. Do you eat pasta here?”
“It’s not a French staple, but we have it. You will ind a lot of American food on French menus, but I must warn you that most Americans dislike our attempt at their foods. Don’t expect our versions to be the same as what you’re used to.” She sets her menu down and laces her ingers together. “We need to ind things we do well that you will enjoy on a classic French menu.
Our pastries and desserts are fabulous.”
“A girl’s h*ps can only take so many pastries and desserts.”
“True,” she concedes, and considers a moment. “Well, our quiches are amazing. It’s the pastry crusts that make them so good, but they aren’t calorie-friendly, either.”
“Quiche is an option, though. I can eat that.”
“We also do an excellent grilled ham and cheese. Also quite fattening, of course, since we drench them in butter.”
Grilled ham and cheese? Is she serious? She grimaces at me and chides, “Don’t look so appalled. They are our version of hamburgers and quite delicious. Our bread is homemade, and our cheeses are amazing. As you Americans say, don’t knock it until you try it.”
“I’m sorry.” And I am. This is the food she loves. I need to frame my dislike with the diplomacy she’s shown me. “I do love cheese, so I’ll try the grilled ham and cheese. That is, if they have it on the menu here?”
“They do. Both quiche and the grilled ham and cheese are very common in our restaurants, so they can be your go-to orders. I’ll teach you how to ind them on the menu.”
“I think that’s smart.” I manage to sound positive, though the idea that these are the only items that I’ll eat is quite daunting.
“Okay, so ‘Croque Monsieur’ is the grilled ham and cheese.”
She shows me on the menu and I take a picture of it on my cell phone. “If you add ‘Madame,’ then you get a sunny-side egg on top.”
My eyes go wide. “An egg on top of a grilled cheese?”
“Yes,” she says, laughing. “You are really not enjoying this exploration into French cuisine, are you?”
