Chapter Twelve
Sparrow
I watch a lot of shows on YouTube in French. I can’t really understand what most of them are saying, but I’m super proud of myself for understanding a lot of mannerisms and picking up more words lately. It’s hard to explain why it’s comforting, even when I’m not entirely sure what they’re saying, but it is.
Some part of me must remember my mother speaking to me in French when I was little. My father only knew how to listen—he never tried speaking French, except for a few words to my mother. He said that he knew he didn’t have the sound, so it wasn’t his role to try to pretend he did. He wanted to leave that to her, but without her, I’m afraid that sound I could have had left me before it even had the chance to flourish.
I pull the dough I’ve been stirring off the stove and prepare my piping bags. I love the feel of piping choux pastry, or pate à choux , onto baking sheets. My father loved it too. At two or three in the morning, I would smell melted butter and a mixture of flour and eggs. It was the smell that often woke me up from my dreams. And when I would tiptoe down the stairs, my feet in socks so I didn’t alert my father that I was also out of bed, I would see him in the kitchen with a dozen or so pastry sheets surrounding him.
He wore an apron that still had embroidery from my mother on the pocket, and he would be standing there, piping rows and rows of choux , the dough that makes up everything from eclairs to profiteroles, or cream puffs.
His large hands gripped the distressed pastry bag with such precision and grace it was like a farmer tending a garden or a surgeon utilizing their skills but through pastry.
I would sit on the little step leading down to the bakery from the back door and watch him work. He always hummed. Usually, they were songs from my mother, and usually, they were French. Sometimes, I would also catch him humming classics from Simon & Garfunkel or The Beatles. I think baking was his therapy.
My father never wanted to own the bakery on his own. When he started it, the goal was to make my mother’s dreams come true. It was never his dream to own such a place, even though he was a master baker. He never went to culinary school. Everything he knew how to do, aside from bread, he learned from my mother.
But he treated the café and bakery with the same care and intention with which he loved my mother—and taught me a lesson in what it means to do something and keep doing something with all your heart.
I once asked my father what he would’ve done if he hadn’t met my mother. And he said that he would probably still be baking bread somewhere in Boston and eating toast with two pats of butter and nothing more.
He said knowing that pains au chocolat existed because of my mother made all the difference in his life.
When we ate breakfast together, he would often say, “Sometimes some of us settle for what we know, and we think that butter is so great on toast because we’ve never eaten a croissant. Be someone who knows the difference.”
I walk to the front of the store, a folder in hand. As I look about my bakery, I guess what I’m wondering is, even though I’ve never been to France, at what point do I get to feel more French? Maybe this was something my mother was supposed to assure me of, and now, I have to settle for what I am: a French American woman who has learned to hide the fact that hearing French makes her want to cry. That choux pastry was one of my first foods, and being surrounded by chocolate creme and butter is as familiar as breathing. Or that I sometimes dream in French. Because when I wake up, I’m Sparrow, a woman who lives in a tiny New England town, has wild hair, and still dreams of seeing Paris.
This is what I’m thinking of as I hover over an application to submit my bakery to be featured in The Seacoast Gazette magazine. They often feature bakeries, and I’ve been waiting, sitting on applying or getting the word out about my store because I don’t know what would happen if a piece of my life made it into a world bigger than my own. Rafe makes me want to believe the wait is over.
Something about him as he works on his song makes me reflect on my passions—what I dream about. And it’s always the same: to keep my parents’ legacy alive while I can, when I can. I think I’ve done a fair job of it so far with the store, but what if their story could be told to even more people?
The bell jingles, and I look up to see Rafe walking toward me with a hesitant smile. He walks up to the counter, and I push myself to my full height. We don’t say anything, simply staring at each other, the sounds of a French café playlist swirling around us. I notice his forest-green eyes are a little darker today, something that shouldn’t cause my stomach to clench, but it does. He raises an eyebrow, the one with the scar, and I want to trace it and ask him how he got it.
A throat clearing makes me jump a bit. Gladys is in the corner of the café, her eyebrow raised. Rafe turns slowly toward her, which I’m certain he regrets when she signals for him to get on with whatever he’s here to do. I bite my lip and notice his eyes catch on it before moving up to my own.
“I heard there’s a pumpkin patch thing happening?” he says in a question. He’s fidgeting, his hair bouncing with every move. If I didn’t know better, I would say he’s nervous.
“Yes, there’s a pumpkin patch, over at Wicked Good Farms.”
“Huh,” he says, a grin starting to play near one side of his mouth. He puts a hand on the back of his neck and rubs it slowly, shifting the top of the light-grey hoodie he’s wearing. It’s unfair how good he looks right now. “And there are pumpkins ... at this patch?”
I try to hold back a laugh at how certain I am this is the first time he’s ever said that word in his life. I nod instead. “Did you want a coffee?” I ask him, and he shakes his head, convincing me immediately that something is up. “A pastry?” Again, his head shakes.
He shifts from side to side, his hands now doing a tapping thing on the front of the counter.
“Ask her out already!” Gladys yells from the corner. Clearly, she’s had enough. “This isn’t Dunkin’. You don’t just order a regular coffee with cream and sugar and call it a day.”
I sink a little. “Rafe, are you asking me out?” I ask breathlessly. It seems odd he would be nervous to ask me something I would clearly say yes to, especially because we are supposed to be fake dating.
He clears his throat. “I, uh . . . Well, I was going to see . . . if you wanted to—you know, go because we’re dating. We can go after the Maple Fest. Maybe there will be pumpkins.” He winces at the last bit. He’s usually the sort that is so composed, so easygoing. But I like this side of him a little too much.
“Yes, I’d love to go.”
He lets himself smile in a way that warms me up from within. I move to the pastry case and pull out a maple croissant with a piece of brown bakery tissue, hovering it between us. He takes it, the edges of his fingers meeting the edges of mine, and I hope he doesn’t notice the little shiver that hits me when we touch.
“Thanks, Sugar,” he says so softly, as if we’re sharing a secret. And I suppose we are. “I’ll meet you after I sing.”
∞∞∞
It’s officially Maple Fest, and my heart is so full. This is one of my favorite days of our entire year here in our small town, and it’s one where everyone (and I do mean everyone) celebrates the start of fall. Maple is our mascot. Even people from the surrounding cities and areas drive to experience what it’s like to be in our town and celebrate the scenery and festivities along our river.
There’s a park adjacent to one side of the river—the stiller segment. It looks like a giant lake there, but you can hear the rush of the river on the other side of the shops where it’s rocky and not as smooth. People even paddle board into our town via the river. They’ll get some lunch and then paddle back to wherever they started from.
It’s a beautiful, sunny day, and I’m wearing a long sweater dress and boots to kick off the celebration. With the addition of my trench coat, it’s clear I put in a little extra effort in my appearance today. I’m going to say it was to represent the bakery well for a special day, not to impress anyone in particular. We have a booth in the long lineup, and I’m hoping I’ve baked enough croissants and chouquettes to make all the families happy with a little piece of French-baked goodness.
“Hmm. Someone’s looking foxy for a certain musician.”
I whip around to find Lily walking up to the booth with a satisfied smile on her face. She’s wearing all black, and her hair is in a haphazard bun.
“Lily, please. It’s really not like that.” A few people overhear and turn toward us, but thankfully, they’re tourists and no one I know, so we’re safe.
She puts on her apron, which somehow already has chocolate on it even though I know it’s just been washed, and gives me a knowing grin. “Where is your main man, anyway?” she mutters, looking around.
“I haven’t seen Jacques,” I reply politely. My whole body cringes because we both know that’s not who she was referring to, and it’s certainly not who came to my mind when she mentioned “my man.” She rolls her eyes, and we start to set out our signs and pastries. I found several adorable sparrow statues at a consignment shop recently, and Lily somehow found tiny berets to put on them. I think she made them herself, but she’ll never admit it. She does seem to have a look of pride when she looks at them, though, so I’m pretty sure my theory is correct.
It’s only when she elbows me that I look up and follow her gaze to see Rafe walking through the building crowd with his guitar case and a smoldering smile. His focus is on me. I start to stand a bit taller when we’re both derailed by Alfred Hughes, one of the board members of our Music and Arts Committee, intercepting Rafe. He talks hurriedly to Rafe, who nods politely, and they start to move toward the bandstand on the other end of the park. I grin at him, and he shrugs like he’s truly sorry. I laugh a little when he makes an absurd face with his eyes crossed over his shoulder, setting down his guitar case. He points to himself and mimics strumming a guitar, points at me, then to the bandstand, and then holds his hands as if in prayer. He’s asking me to visit him while he’s singing.
I tap my mouth with my finger and look up like I’m thinking about it. Lily interrupts our adorable and silent communication when she hits me with a bag of marshmallows and yells, “She’ll be there!”
Rafe laughs and picks up his guitar case, looking at me over his shoulder with a heartbreakingly beautiful smile.
I smile back at him and then look down, trying to remember what I was doing before that moment. Lily is helping a customer with an order of macarons while I’m trying to will the blush out of my face and out of my heart.
Hours later, we’re nearly out of pastries, and we have a dozen new pickup orders for the next few weeks. We’ve even received an order to supply maple croissants for a new inn opening in Portsmouth. The event was a huge success, and more than once, I was asked about plans to expand and my thoughts on people being able to have our products shipped to them. Even though I’m now exhausted, the day has given me a lot to think about when it comes to the next steps for my bakery.
I roll my neck around to try to get some of the tension out. Lily and I have started to pack up, and I’m just pulling down an edge of the back banner when she stops me.
“Hey, I’ve got this. Go see your man. Isn’t he playing soon?”
I look at my phone. It’s 3:54 p.m. Lily’s right. Earlier, I may have bent down under our table and looked up the band schedule for today’s event. Sure enough, they added Rafe, and he’s playing at 4:00 p.m.
“He isn’t my man,” is all I manage to say as I abandon the banner to pull boxes from under the table to organize some of the packaging.
“He wants to be.”
I look at her, but she hasn’t given me a face. She’s calmly starting her part of the tear-down process, which means she isn’t teasing me. “Rory, go. I’ve got this, really. And Liam already offered to take some of our stuff back to the shop. So, I’ll be fine.”
“You don’t want to go listen to music too?”
Lily shakes her head. “I’m peopled out. As much as I love good music, I’m ready for a glass of wine and the latest episode of The Man is a Rake . Who needs a show by the river when I can be home and watching a man rile up the womenfolk with a good trench coat and his fortune of ten thousand pounds a year?”
I laugh. She isn’t wrong. I think one of the funniest things about Lily is that she’s obsessed with Regency romances. I like them, too, but she’s the one who got me interested in them. It’s such a contrast to her sometimes-spiky personality that I forget she’s really a homebody and someone who would prefer to be away from the crowd.
It’s now four minutes till. The truth is, I don’t want to miss Rafe’s performance. I take off my apron, set it neatly in the bin near our table, and wrap Lily up in a hug while she says, “Don’t get sappy on me.”
I laugh and walk toward the bandstand. It’s a darling, raised platform with a roof and a lattice designed across the lower third of the structure. It’s just big enough for a band. A grassy section surrounds it where people have already stretched out blankets and lawn chairs to settle in for the show. I hear strumming and the sounds of musicians warming up. As I get closer, I make out three people on the stage. There’s Rafe, who has my heart hammering in my chest, and two men I haven’t seen before—a percussionist and a violinist. I’m so intrigued by this little group that I wander toward the back and near a line of trees.
I wave and say hello to people I either met at my booth or have known since I was a little girl and try to compose myself. Thermos of coffee in hand, I close my eyes and inhale sharply when Rafe’s voice breaks through the air.
“Good afternoon, everyone. Thank you so much for being here and for being willing to listen to some of my music.”
I open my eyes and see the effortless way he’s settled in behind the mic. It’s clear that he’s at home, and this is just an extension of who he is more than a show. He’s the same both on and off the stage. And this brings more comfort than I expected.
“I did write all of the songs you’ll hear tonight—and you may recognize one covered by a small French band known as Histoire.” Rafe is laser-focused on me.
I drop my Thermos and scramble to pick it up. He writes for my favorite band. How is that possible? It makes no sense. I’ve looked them up. There is a Durand. There is a Noémie. There is a Fran?ois. Besides the image of their lead singer, Noémie, no one knows who they are (unfortunately)—at least no one I’ve met, and especially no one in my small town. But this means Rafe knows them. And I can’t even begin to think of what a small world it must be for this to be true.
Rafe starts strumming his guitar, and I’m spellbound. If I thought that the first time I heard him sing was magical, this is proving that it only gets better as I know the man better. I’m learning new things every moment now too.
Things like the way he scrunches his nose when he needs to hit a note in the higher range, or the way his hair looks in the setting sun, and the outline of his frame with the backdrop of the river behind him. He’s free, and he’s wonderful. I can’t help but think of how at home he looks not only with an instrument in his hands but also here in this place. I try to picture him not in Birch Borough any longer, and a chill hits my system. It just doesn’t seem possible that he’ll ever leave. How quickly meeting someone can change our lives, even when we least expect it.
From LA to the City of Light
Stay with me through the night.
Rafe’s lyrics are so . . . him.
I’ve hoped all my life
For you to see me, need me
Take away the pain and hold me as I am
Love me as I am
And find a way home.
The crowd claps song after song, and I realize that everyone is falling in love with him as much as I expected they would. He’s stunning. His voice is a mix of rugged creativity and softly spoken love letters. He’s everything good in this world, I’m convinced. Perfect? No. No one is. But beautiful? Without a doubt.
“Honey, you keep looking at him like that, and we’re going to need to get you to a doctor.”
I turn to my right and see Gladys in a lawn chair with an empty one beside her. I was so focused on Rafe I didn’t notice her arrival. Or did she pass by me? I’m honestly not sure. She motions for me to sit and hands me a blanket. I’m grateful for the warmth and the company. My movement must’ve shifted something for Rafe because he noticed. And as we make eye contact from across the lawn, he smiles—wider than I’ve seen him smile yet—and closes his eyes with a grin, like he’s committing however he saw me to memory.
“Sheesh. Now I understand.” Gladys is fanning herself, and I’m trying to keep the blush from my face (unsuccessfully). “So, how does he kiss? He’s a good kisser, isn’t he?” I’m too tongue-tied to answer. “Ah, of course he is. With a mouth like that and the voice of an angel, there’s no way that man can do anything badly. I mean, just look at how he plays that guitar.”
I try not to think of her tone, and the way she’s implying much more than kissing, and attempt to focus back on the music. It swirls around us, and a sense of peace falls around me.
“You like him.”
It’s a statement, not a question. I hesitate.
“And don’t have the audacity to try to make it less than it is.” She huffs and takes a sip from her Thermos, which from the smell of it, may be a little more than hot chocolate. Brow furrowed, I manage to break my watch on Rafe and turn to look at the woman I’ve known my whole life. Her eyes are dancing as the lights come on around us. “Why are you fighting it so much?”
I swallow and play with the edge of the blanket. “Why do you think I’m fighting it?”
“Because, child, you’re back here instead of being right in the front, showing those groupie wannabes that there’s no competition.”
I peek toward the stage and cringe. There are several single women, some just out of college, I’d guess, and some quite a bit older than me, swaying to the music and trying to get Rafe to look their way. I take some satisfaction (okay, a lot) that he’s not.
“Take it from me, Rory. Life is too short to be waiting in the wings, hoping one day you’ll be ready for love. Because love isn’t something you’re ready for. It’s something that finds you. So don’t miss it when it does, yeah?”
I swallow and think of all the ways I’ve missed having someone older than me really speaking into my life. Sure, I have people who look out for me, but wisdom and greetings are not the same thing. I nod lightly to her because I can’t lie and tell her I don’t have feelings, and I also can’t promise that I can carry through on the feelings Rafe might have for me.
“Good,” is all she says before looking back to Rafe’s band in the stand.
“Thank you, everyone. For this final song ... ” Rafe’s speaking voice cuts through the brisk air as the crowd starts to lovingly shoot the idea down. Apparently, they don’t want him to leave either. “I want to dedicate this to someone who has changed how I see the world in a very short time.”
My heart beats faster in my chest. There’s no way he could be talking about me, yet my body knows he is.
“This person has become someone very special to me.” He clears his throat, and I feel tears sting my eyes. “And they don’t even know how sweet they really are.” Leaning closer to the mic, eyes focused on the ground, he whispers, “This one’s for you, Sugar.”
And then I am carried away by a melody wrapped in lyrics with talk of birds taking flight, and hearts becoming homes, and cities of lights not comparing to the love they’re finding through the night. It’s only when the crowd cheers and starts to pack up their things or disperse that I realize I have tears streaming down my face.
Gladys has the decency not to comment on my emotional state and waits patiently while I stand and help pack up her chair.
“Thank you,” I tell her before giving her a hug that’s been long overdue. She pats my back gently and winks at me when she catches someone’s eye behind me. But I already know who it is. My body told me a few seconds ago by the increase in energy through my veins and the sudden charge in the air.
“Thanks for taking care of my girl,” he says quietly. My girl.
“You’re welcome,” Gladys replies as I turn to face him.
Rafe’s hands are in his pockets, and if not for his confident posture, his expression would tell me he’s nervous. He wants to know what I think of his performance. And this thought has me feeling far cozier than I expected.
A teenage girl interrupts us, asking for photos and a selfie. Before we know it, the last clusters of people want signatures and photos and are just dying to know who the song is about. Rafe doesn’t tell them, but he does give me a wink. It’s only when we’re (almost) alone, nearly a half hour later, and the only people left in the vicinity are our town’s cleaning committee, that I get the chance to tell him what I’ve wanted to tell him all night.
“Rafe, you were ... ” And that’s all I manage to say. Nothing else comes out.
Instead of teasing me, he pulls me to his side and wraps his arm around my shoulder. He leans down to kiss my temple and takes a deep breath. It’s comforting more than sensual, but my body is buzzing just the same.
“Wait!” I yell. “You wrote with Histoire?”
Tension crosses his face. “I did.” A pause. “Do you ... know of them?”
I take a step back, as hard as it is move away from his embrace, to look him fully in the face. “Do I know them? Do I know them? Rafe, they have my favorite songs of all time. The music. The lyrics. The way they speak to the soul ... ” I pause to see that my words have thoroughly unsettled him. His looks are changing like a viewfinder from delighted to processing to unsure.
“How do you possibly know them?” he whispers.
I rock back on my heels. “Oh! My father. When we found out he was sick, we’d sometimes listen to French radio. He said it reminded him of my mother ... and there was this one song he couldn’t get out of his head. Lily helped us track it down, and it was Histoire! Their music made the hard days less hard.” I hesitate. “Do you think you could let them know? Not about me ... but just that their music helps people heal?”
With a smile and a slight look of relief, Rafe nods. “I’ll tell them.”
“Sparrow, I lived in Paris for a while,” he says, the words rushing out between us. A look of what can only be described as pain flashes through his forest eyes. As shocked as I am to hear his confession, within a few breaths, the information settles and starts to make sense.
“The CDG sticker,” I whisper. “On your guitar case.”
He nods as we slowly make our way away along the river and toward the shops, his fingers holding mine a little more tightly than before.
“It wasn’t a good place for me,” he confesses, and my stomach drops. Rafe turns to face me, both of his hands now holding mine between us. “Sparrow, I—a lot of people have left my life. People I trusted. People I should’ve been able to trust.” The cost of it is written on his forehead and etched around his mouth.
I want to ask him more on the subject, but I’m mesmerized by his touch and the intensity in his gaze. Instead of more questions, maybe all he needs is to be heard.
“I know I mentioned the pumpkin patch, but tonight, how do you feel about pizza?” he asks, slivers of sunlight hitting his stubble and lighting one side of his face like rays of light through tree branches.
I nod and take his hand, his fingers warm as they weave through mine and offset the chill in the air. Perhaps the warmth is also because when we touch this time, I know it’s not for show.
When we end up back at the studio later, Rafe is laughing, a pizza box on his lap, eyes dancing with happiness. He’s been playing songs and making me guess them—it seems I can only remember nineties boy bands tonight. Little does he know I’ve already hidden a guitar pick on the side of the snare drum in the corner when he wasn’t looking.
“Rafe, why are you really here?”
“For my birthday?”
“Your birthday is soon?”
He gives a slight nod. “But I’m supposed to be gone by then.” The air becomes heavy.
“When is it?” Ignoring his comment about leaving, I grab a scrap of abandoned lyrics off the floor and a pencil from near the piano.
“I—uh . . .” He clears his throat. “The fourteenth of November.”
I write down the date and immediately tuck the paper into the pocket of my coat. He’s playing with the edges of the pizza box, like he just can’t help but make music somehow.
“Sparrow, what’s with Jacques?” he asks suddenly. “Do you really like him?”
I hesitate, surprised by his question.
“Because, since you know he’s French, and he seems interested in you, I’m struggling to see why you wouldn’t have just asked him out yourself?”
My shoulders tense at his inquiry. “You make it sound so easy.”
“Then help me understand why it isn’t.” I hear the pleading in his voice, a statement to help me not fly away without him knowing the truth.
“He’s what I’ve been waiting for, I think. I—I know I said I want to be with someone French, but it isn’t for shallow reasons.” I whisper the words. He opens his mouth to speak when my phone buzzes, and I scramble to catch it. “Oh, gosh—look at the time! I’m going to go because I should just go ... ” I whisper.
My heart deflates. I gather my things without making eye contact.
“Sparrow, I . . . ”
He stands to move toward me, but I give him a grin to ease his worry. “No need to walk me home. I’ll be there in less than a minute.” I make it to the door and peek over my shoulder, the light catching his face as my eyes adjust to the night around me. “Rafe, for what it’s worth, I feel sorry for the ones who’ve left you.”
He looks up to catch my gaze.
“They have no idea what they’re missing.”