Chapter 8 Gustave
Gustave
She hesitates when I suggest we sit, her eyes narrowing, lips curved in exasperation. “Not worried about the paparazzi?” She lowers herself onto the edge of the chair. “Catching the great Count de Valois slumming it on Rue de Buci?”
I wince because she’s not wrong. “I am worried,” I admit. “And I’d like to explain why.”
Something flickers in her gaze—anger, but curiosity, too. She weighs me for a long moment before saying, “Fine. But not here.” She nods toward the stairs above the café. “We can talk in my apartment.”
It’s an indulgence to follow her up those narrow steps. I’ve walked past this building dozens of times, but I’ve never set foot inside.
Ironic because my family owns it.
The apartment is part of the package we offered as part of the Carriera restoration, a gesture meant to smooth relations between the museum and us.
I signed the papers, delegated the details, and never thought of it again—until now.
Her door opens into a space that is wholly hers.
The apartment came furnished, I know, but she has transformed it.
Bright blankets and cushions thrown over chairs, candles pooled with wax, shelves cluttered with books in both English and French.
There are photographs on the fireplace mantel.
I drift closer, unable to resist peeking into her life, getting to know her better.
In one photograph, Tara’s family gathers around a long table, plates piled high with food.
In another, she’s in a pink dress, eyes bright with joy, a banner behind her reading Feliz Quinceanera, Tara.
There’s a picture of her with a younger woman—her sister, I assume—both laughing, heads tilted together.
These are her roots, unmistakably Mexican, vibrant, and full of life.
She clears her throat, reminding me what I’m doing here.
When I turn, she’s watching me carefully, arms crossed.
She’s guarded. Braced for impact. I hate that she’s expecting this conversation to be as unpleasant as the one at the Pyramid.
It’s my fault, and I have to fix it, make amends, right the wrongs…
but more than all that, I want her to feel safe with me, like she had that night in the hotel suite.
“Thanks for…talking to me after”—I shake my head in self-deprecation—“I was so rude to you.”
She raises both eyebrows.
“I owe you an apology.” The words taste strange in my mouth because contrition isn’t something I indulge in often. “I was unfair. Suspicious. And…cruel.”
She gives me nothing in return. No words, not even a sliver of emotion. She’s waiting for me to finish.
I let out a long exhale. I’m a private person, not inclined to share how I feel, but I feel compelled to with Tara.
I don’t want her to hate me because of what an imbécile* I was.
“I live my life under the gaze of others. Every photograph, every headline, every careless rumor becomes ammunition.”
She finally nods, then waves a hand toward the seating area. It’s a quiet invitation, as if she’s decided it’s safe to share the space with me. I sink into an armchair while she settles on the couch across from me.
“Would you like something to drink?” she asks politely.
I regard her with quiet consideration. She has no reason to talk to me, and yet she is. This is a generous, big-hearted woman. “No, thank you.”
She jerks her chin in acknowledgment. “I didn’t know who you were. I swear.”
I’m a fucking idiot for putting her through that, for treating her that way. “I know. I know. It was I who pursued you that night. I was…it was…how do you Americans say it, a…knee-jerk reaction.”
She gives me a small smile. “And from what I have gathered, you are popular with the tabloids.”
I grimace. “Yes and…my divorce…I am divorced.”
“I heard about that, too. After I met your wife.” Something flashes in her eyes. “I, for a moment, thought you were married.”
“Non,” I deny quickly. “Non. That’s not who I am.”
No. I’m a man who has a wonderful night with a woman, and then calls her a slut. Putain!
“écoute*…the divorce was hell, especially because my son was affected.”
“You have a son?” Now, her eyes are warm. “How old? What does he do?”
She’s forgotten she’s angry with me, I think, amused.
I’m getting an idea of what kind of person this mademoiselle from America is. She’s not one who holds a grudge…unlike Simone, who holds all the grudges, all the time, since time immemorial.
“Aubert is eighteen. He’s finishing his bac…ah…baccalauréat,” I explain. “Like your high school.”
“I know what baccalauréat is, Gustave.” Her eyes twinkle.
She’s making this apology way too easy for me.
“Aubert paid a heavy price with people asking him questions, and journalists snapping photos. My parents…they were affected and upset. It’s been a family scandal.”
She nestles into the sofa like she’s comfortable now. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Look, I’m not going to pretend I understand a world where you have to worry about paparazzi. I grew up in Boyle Heights, and the closest I came to a celebrity was once when Javier Bardem came to my father’s restaurant.”
I’m immediately intrigued. “Your father has a restaurant?”
“Mexican. It’s a restaurant and a rum bar. We serve the best mole in town.”
There’s pride in her voice.
“I appreciate a good mole.”
I’m still as fascinated with her as I was at the bar.
Then she’d dressed up. Now she was in some overalls with flowers on them.
She’d looked like a woman that night; now, there was something girlish about her.
I had looked up her file, finally, and I knew she was twenty-eight. I have fourteen years on her.
I never thought I was one of those men, like my friend Phillippe, who were interested in women so young, but here I was, and wanting to add, if cornered, like an old fool, “But she’s a mature twenty-eight.”
“You’d love my father’s mole,” she insists.
“I’m sure.” I sit up. “I am sorry, Tara, for talking to you the way I did at the Pyramid. I had no right…and I was…I come from a family that prioritizes reputation, which has taught me to be defensive. Too much so, perhaps.”
Her expression softens some more. “I get it. More than you think. I don’t even have social media. Can’t be bothered. My sister lives on Instagram, but me? No thanks. I don’t want strangers dissecting my life. So…I can’t even imagine how hard this is for you. And your son. Is he alright?”
Relief unfurls in me, a strange experience with a woman. It’s fragile and warm.
“Yes, he is…now.”
“Was he against the divorce?” she asks as she rises.
I get up, as well, surprised. Is she asking me to leave?
“No. He was…happy about it. Simone and I fought a lot.”
She stops and grins. “You know what Dr. Phil says?”
“I don’t even know who Dr. Phil is.”
She chuckles, and I’m obsessed with how her face lights up when she does. I want this woman to be smiling and happy all the time.
“He’s a TV psychologist who is full of BS, but he did say one thing that stayed with me. It’s better to be from a broken home than to live within one.”
On point!
“Gustave, I’m so sorry, but I need to eat something. I’m starving.” There is a whine in her voice. She really is hungry. I feel remorse immediately. She only just got home from work.
“I…can…we can….” I can’t invite her for dinner…or maybe I can. It’s not like I’m freaking Tom Cruise, and the paps are following me around. But if someone I know, and I know a hell of a lot of people in Paris, sees me with her….
“I only have to reheat some food. I cooked last night, and you know what they say? Chili con carne tastes better the next day. You want to eat with me?”
I should say no. I should leave. I shouldn’t stay. She’s literally under my aegis. I pay for her, and this is all kinds of risky.
“I’d love to,” I say instead.
The scent of chili con carne fills the little apartment as she warms it on the stove. Not French, not refined, not what the chefs at my clubs will serve—and yet it makes my mouth water.
Her kitchen is small but efficient, the kind of place where every pan has its designated hook, and every knife its designated slot.
I pick up one of the knives. Japanese. Expensive.
“My father insisted I bring my own knives to Paris.” She smiles fondly. “And he packed every dried chili known to mankind.” She opens a cabinet, and indeed, there are more chilis here than I’ve ever seen before in my life. “I was afraid I wouldn’t get through customs.”
A bowl of limes sits on the counter beside a bunch of cilantro in a glass of water.
She moves with an easy rhythm, the kind born of habit, of love. The way she chops, stirs, and plates feels like second nature—efficient, unselfconscious, alive.
She pulls a stack of tortillas from the fridge.
“Are those homemade?” I ask.
She wrinkles her nose, amused. “Are there any other kind?”
Her answer makes me smile. I grew up in a house where no one would’ve known which side of a spatula was up.
My mother, like Simone, viewed kitchens as something to pass through on the way to the dining room—not a place to linger.
Meals appeared as if conjured by magic, presented under silver domes by men in starched white jackets.
Simone inherited that same brand of refinement—elegance so brittle it cracks under the weight of real life. Cooking, to her, was what servants did, never something you did for love.
Even now, in Pommard, my refuge from the world, there’s still someone to prepare my meals. The housekeeper leaves casseroles in the oven and soup simmering on the stove, before disappearing back to her family in the village. I’ve never had to lift a pan in my life.
And yet here, watching Tara move through this kitchen—hair loose, sleeves rolled up, the air rich with the aroma of onions and cilantro—I feel something I’ve never felt in any of my polished dining rooms.
Warmth.
Home.
“You seem like a proficient cook,” I say, though what I really mean is you seem like everything I didn’t know I was missing.