Chapter 23
23
I barrel into Café de Paris, sweaty and clutching the printer paper box full of my work stuff. As soon as I’m inside, my heart stops.
The café is charming, as always: golden-framed black-and-white photographs of Parisian street scenes; white trellises and flourishes everywhere you look; and its centerpiece, a long glass display case boasting pastel petit fours, buttery croissants, and a bright rainbow of shiny macarons. It’s decorated for the season, not in garish red and green but in elegant gold and white, delicate baubles and lights illuminating the shop.
But all the charm is undercut by a panicked realization: the golem isn’t here.
“Hi, hello,” I say, flustering my way up to the counter, box of office supplies in hand.
“Bonjour,” says the model-pretty woman behind the counter. Her honey-toned chignon is in perfect harmony with the patisserie scene. She’s often the one ringing up customers when I come in here, and I think she might also be the owner. She’s several inches taller than I am, but so slight I’m sure a strong breeze would send her flying across the pond, all the way back to France. I notice, for the first time, her name embroidered in delicate gold thread on the left bosom of her neat white apron: Karine. “How may I assist you?”
“I left my—friend here,” I say, my fingers getting so slick with perspiration I nearly drop my box. I can feel panic rising in me as I try to imagine where he might be, and what he might be doing. Nothing good can come of a twelve-hour-old nonverbal muscled monster wandering through the Loop. “He’s about six feet, brown hair, he was in scrub pants and, uh, flip-flops and a Cubs hat, and—”
“Ah, oui !” Karine says with a delighted smile. “Monsieur Paul, yes?”
“Yes,” I say, stunned.
For a moment I’m caught off guard, wondering how the hell she knew his name. Then I remember giving it to her when I put in his coffee order— Grande café for Paul, for here, thanks . Now she’s smiling like she has a crush on my golem, referencing him with the familiarity of an old friend.
Which is impossible, since he didn’t exist before last night.
“Such a nice man,” she says, beaming. “He enjoyed his first coffee so much, and so quickly, even though it was very hot!”
“Yep, that’s him,” I say. “So where did he go?”
“I offered him a second coffee, for him to take—how you say...‘one for the road’—if he would help me to carry some heavy boxes out to the recycling, in the alley. He’s very strong, no?”
“Uh, yes,” I agree.
“Monsieur Paul should be back any moment—ah, and here he is!”
I crane to look over my shoulder, and see my golem walking into the café. He heads directly for me, and takes the heavy box I’m holding like it’s nothing. He tucks it easily under one arm.
“Ah, merci, Monsieur Paul!” the Frenchwoman says.
“Mrrrrmm,” he says with a shrug. It was no trouble, coffee woman.
“I bought a new machine, you see?” Karine says, gesturing to a chic stainless steel espresso machine. “A friend in Paris, she told me she uses one like this at home, and she sent it to me for my shop. The grind is so fine, and in the same machine, voilà , latte!”
“Yeah, great,” I say, barely glancing at it.
But then the logo catches my eye: a deeply engraved JL , with three threads of stylized steam rising above the letters. I wasn’t aware that Java-Lo made such small machines. The footprint was so much smaller than the industrial models we were usually featuring in our campaigns. This one looked like it was exclusively meant for use in a tiny café, or even at home. Not a mansion’s massive chef’s kitchen, either—this thing would even fit in my dinky kitchen. I wonder why they haven’t been marketing that? It seems like such an easy sell.
“Out with the old, in with the new, as they say!” Karine chirps. “And merci again, Paul, for taking out so much of my ‘old.’”
She hands the golem a to-go cup of coffee, his name scrawled on the side in scrolling letters, accompanied by a heart. With his free hand, Paul Mudd accepts his third coffee of the day—and of his life. He gives Karine an appreciative nod, and she practically swoons.
“Would you like a croissant?” she asks, trying to keep us—him—there. “Perhaps a petit four, or a macaron—”
“We have to go,” I say, taking my companion by the elbow.
“Ahh, c’est dommage ,” she says regretfully. “Another time, then. Au revoir, Monsieur Paul. Happy holidays. We hope to see you again at Café de Paris!”
“Fat chance,” I mutter, and hurry him outside.
“Mrmmm?” Paul asks me when we’re on the sidewalk. You didn’t want to eat anything?
It’s a fair question. I haven’t eaten today, and everything at Café de Paris is delicious. It’s embarrassing to calculate how much money I’ve spent there over the past year; I have basically been a living embodiment of the I-deserve-a-little-treat philosophy. I’ve been there a hell of a lot (not that Paul’s new buddy Karine had ever bothered to learn my name) and have never walked out without a beautiful box of sugary carbs. But oddly enough, when I was in the café just now, I wasn’t even tempted by the array of pastries.
“I’ll eat at lunchtime,” I tell Paul Mudd. “Come on, let’s get you some actual clothes.”
It occurs to me only after we start walking toward the train that I have no idea where we should go to get him clothes. I’ve never actually been clothes shopping with a man. Not since I was a little kid and occasionally got dragged out clothes shopping with my father, who basically only ever shopped the sales racks at outlet stores.
My father was one of the most generous people on the planet, constantly donating to the causes he loved, picking up the dinner tab when we were out with friends, volunteering at the temple and the animal shelter and for our school events. But he hated spending money on himself. And I doubt he’d want me dropping serious cash on outfits for a man I made out of some basement-repair leftovers.
So when I see a TJ Maxx on the corner ahead, I don’t even bother with the train. I grab the golem by his elbow and steer him into the store. I immediately know it’s the right choice, because it’s not the sort of place where friendly salespeople are breathing down your neck the whole time. It’s just a security guard at each entrance making sure you don’t shoplift anything from the endless racks of discount clothing. The clothing and the customers are mostly ignored by the rest of the employees.
I steer my clueless companion past the towers of impersonal last-minute gifts, boxes and boxes of bath sets and hot cocoas and gourmet hot sauces, perfect for the person you just barely know who for some reason invites you to their white elephant holiday party. I breathe a sigh of relief when we reach Menswear, which appears to be the least popular section in the entire department store.
“Here,” I say, grabbing a few size-large shirts and pants from a rack and shoving them toward the golem. “Try these on.”
“Mrrmmm.”
Obediently, the golem begins removing his shirt.
“Not out here,” I hiss, dragging him toward the fitting rooms as an elderly Indian woman raises her eyebrows in alarm.
After I’ve given Paul a crash course on the dressing rooms, and how to maneuver the small slide lock, and a very specific order of operations— go into the stall, close and lock the door, take off your clothes, put on some of the new clothes, come out and show me, repeat —the golem fashion parade begins.
His first outfit is simple: a ribbed sweater, dark navy, with well-fitting jeans. It’s hard not to do a double-take when he walks out. He’s still wearing the Cubs cap, which I’d told him to always put on before stepping out of the dressing room. But other than the hat, wearing clothes actually meant for someone of his build is transformative. He looks like he stepped out of a Vogue spread using the world’s most beautiful people to sell a rugged-everyman look.
At my expression, the corner of his mouth twitches in what might be the golem equivalent of a smile.
“Mrrrrm?” You are pleased?
“The shirt and the pants work,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest and trying to sound authoritative. “They, you know, uh, fit. But you have to wear a hat, and right now the only one we’ve got for you looks weird with the outfit, so here—try this next.”
I grab for another shirt and shove it at him. He compliantly returns to the dressing room, and emerges a few minutes later in a plain dark green long-sleeve T-shirt.
I nod approvingly.
“Good basic piece. Keeper.”
I hand him a few more things to try. Khakis are a no-go; they somehow emphasize his subtly sandy skin, which can’t be good. I need him to look as natural as possible. When he comes out in the bulky white cable-knit sweater, I shake my head for that one, too. Way too country club. If there’s one thing this guy isn’t, it’s a WASP.
I grab a couple of T-shirts and a pair of sweatpants, in case he needs something to sleep in. Then, as I’m hanging the rejected country club wear on the rack outside the dressing room, someone else’s reject catches my eye. I snag the red-and-black-checkered flannel button-down and tell the golem to put it on with the first pair of pants he tried.
He emerges moments later, once again wearing the same flattering dark-wash jeans, now paired with the red flannel shirt. It’s open, revealing his taut, tawny chest. I swallow hard. He looks like a hot Jewish lumberjack. Paul Rudd meets Paul Bunyan.
The golem gives me a somewhat sheepish look, his dusty fingers tapping at the buttons. He doesn’t know how they work.
“I’ll, uh, help you,” I say, closing the distance between us.
My hands tremble slightly as I bring them to his chest, my fingers fumbling on the first button before sliding it into place. Cheeks burning, head down, I quickly finish buttoning his shirt all the way until I reach the waistband of the dark-wash jeans. At the waistband, I hesitate. I’ve closed all but the very last of the buttons. This shirt is long, meant to comfortably be tucked in or worn loose. Which means that it extends below the belt, the final buttonhole resting expectantly on the dark denim crotch of the tight jeans.
“Just...one more button,” I say.
My heart is thundering, my stomach churning, a hot hurricane twisting through my insides. I take the fabric gently, my fingers just barely grazing the denim down below as I slide the final button into place.
Maybe I’m imagining it, but the golem seems to be holding very, very still. I try to keep my breath steady as I look up at him. He’s gazing down at me, unblinking, his chest rising and falling with his steady, impossible breath.
“All done,” I say.
The golem nods, and smooths the front of the flannel shirt. His palms leave behind a faint trail of dust, so slight you’d miss it if you didn’t know to look for it. He keeps one hand on the fabric of his shirt, and rests the other lightly on my hip. My skin tingles at his touch, so gentle but crackling with so much power.
“Mrrmm,” he says. I like this one.
“Yeah,” I say, swallowing hard. “Me, too.”
I take a stumbling step back and try to gather my thoughts—which is when it finally occurs to me that I have no idea how much of a wardrobe I should be purchasing for him. Is the golem going to stick around for a while, or crumble into dirt at sunset? My stomach churns, and the first bite of hunger I’ve felt in almost twenty-four hours starts nibbling at the edge of my gut.
I need him to go to the wedding with me.
That’s why I did...whatever I did, isn’t it?
Oh my God, is that really why I did this?
Did I really do this?
Focus, Eve. Focus.
One thing at a time.
Something in me decides that no matter what, Paul Mudd is meant to be at my side when Rosie and Ana get married. They need to see someone next to me; so does my mother. If nothing else, he needs to be here through the weekend. That means at least four days’ worth of clothes. After the wedding, I have no idea what the hell will happen. But at least factoring him in for that long helps me decide two things, shopping-wise: we’re going to have to go to another store at some point, to get him a decent suit.
And I’ll hold on to all the receipts.