Chapter 13
Chapter Thirtee n
Just before midday, I stood, stretched the kinks out of my back, clutched the microphone, and turned to my group. “Listen up, history lovers, you’re going to like this one. In a couple of minutes, we’ll arrive at the Basilica of Notre-Dame de Fourvière. The basilica’s fascinating structure draws from both Romanesque and Byzantine architecture which was very unusual when it was constructed in 1872.”
Anthony in the back row emitted a loud, exaggerated yawn, probably just as much from being tired as from his lack of interest in history. I had no idea why people like him went on a Vacation Dreamz tour. All the paraphernalia stipulated the tour schedule and focus. Maybe they didn’t read the itinerary properly. There were plenty of ‘party’ style tours around that fixated on the nightlife.
For the benefit of those who were listening, I continued, “The basilica is actually two churches sitting on top of each other, and the locals call it the upside-down elephant. See if you can work out why as we approach.”
“Oh yeah,” Tiffany said .
“Tiffany can see it. Anyone else?”
“Yes,” Lexie said. “It looks like an elephant on its back, and the four towers look like legs.”
“Correct. One of the best aspects of this building is the site it’s built on. From here, you get an incredible view over the city of Lyon. On a really clear day you can see all the way to Mont Blanc, Europe’s highest point.”
Moments later, Roman reversed the bus into position and killed the engine.
“Okay, guys, we have one hour here. I’ll lead a tour through the basilica or you’re free to stroll around as you wish. But remember—one-hour max. We must be at lunch on time because trust me, you don’t want to keep a French chef waiting.”
They all seemed to stand at once. As they grabbed their belongings and filed off the bus, I turned to Roman. “See you soon.”
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” His grin was ridiculous.
I cocked my head and frowned. “And what exactly would that be?”
His grin grew bigger. “No niente .” He shook his head.
Laughing, I grabbed my bag and skipped down the steps.
Seven women and four men joined me for my private tour of one of the most fascinating yet less-renowned churches in Europe. “This way, guys.”
I rattled off intriguing facts about the church and how it had shaped the history of Lyon. Pointing out a gilded statue of the Virgin Mary positioned in front of an intricate stained-glass window, I said, “This church is dedicated to the Virgin Mary. Many believe she protected the city of Lyon from the bubonic plague that swept through most of Europe in 1643.”
The group nodded as they scanned the artwork. Being able to share my knowledge with my guests reminded me how much I loved my job.
A brick dropped in my stomach.
My knowledge would be completely useless once I was booted out of Europe.
Damn that letter. Damn my boss.
Before that brick became as big as a shipping container, I unclenched my jaw and silently vowed that no matter what, I would be the best I could be right up until my very last day.
After showing the group the most interesting aspects of the basilica, I led them out to the best viewing platform in the city and eased to the back of the camera-snappy tourists.
My stomach rumbled, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten all day. I’d also exerted a bit of energy, thanks to my roll in the hay. Stifling a giggle, I peered into the distance. Mont Blanc was hiding today, concealed behind a sea of haze. I’d only seen the mountain four times in my thirty visits, so today’s absence wasn’t a surprise.
My life was like that at the moment . . . unable to see into the distance. In six months, I had absolutely no idea what I’d be doing or even what country I’d be living in.
I’d had plenty of times in my life where my world had been tipped on its head. But this time was worse, way worse. A cloak of hopelessness engulfed me. Anger and sorrow filled the same space in my head. I didn’t want to leave, not Europe, nor my job.
But there was nothing I could do.
Thankfully, I didn’t have time to ponder that brutal reality. With my tour guide’s voice at full projection, I hollered to the group that we needed to get moving.
Back on board the bus, after I’d completed a full head count, Roman released the brake and we rolled down the hill to Lyon. With the microphone in hand, I kneeled on my chair to face the passengers. “I hope you’ve left room for one of the best meals in France.”
A few groaned. “Not more food.”
“I know. I know, you probably don’t need to eat for a week after this morning’s high tea. But what some of you may not know is that Lyon is France’s culinary capital. It’s affectionately known as the stomach of France. Nearly every street offers rustic Bouchon restaurants and peasant delicacies. Today, I’m taking you to one of my favorite restaurants, Le Pailleron. You’re all in for a real treat, especially if you chose the fish.” My mouth salivated at the thought of it.
I continued talking until Roman pulled the bus alongside the park that ran parallel to the Rhone River. “Roman will make sure the bus is locked so you can leave your things here if you wish. Let’s go.”
Grabbing my bag, I stepped from the bus onto the plush grass. The passengers joined me, and once everyone was off, Roman jumped down and locked the door. He rubbed his stomach. “Don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”
“Yeah. Famished.”
“I’m not surprised after your workout this morning.” His grin was ridiculous.
With a groan, the smile dropped from my face, and I spun on my heel. “Okay, everyone, follow me.” Trying to soothe the heatwave curling up my neck, I strode up one of the mountainous streets typical of Old Lyon Town.
Pastel-colored buildings lined the cobblestone lane. I paused at a narrow green arched doorway and waited for my group to gather around.
“During the Middle Ages, Lyon had a thriving silk trade. The silk was transported into Lyon via barges on the river, and they’d carry it by hand up these hills. Trouble was, if it rained, the silk would be ruined. So they built hundreds of secret passageways known as traboules that crisscross all over the city. Most of them are now private. Lucky for us, this one isn’t. But please keep your voices to a minimum, people live here. Roman, please close the door behind us.”
I pushed on the heavy green door, and it creaked open. The passage was dimly lit, but I headed for a light streaming from the ceiling in the distance. Not that I needed the light. This was my thirtieth time crossing through this tunnel, so I could navigate it with my eyes closed.
I paused at a central courtyard and waited for the group to close in around me. Roman was taller than most of them, and our eyes met across the sea of heads. For some reason, having him there made me nervous. A weird shiver wobbled across my stomach.
Stop it, Daisy. This is what you do. You’re good at it.
“Some traboules date back to the fourth century. See this well?” I pointed at the semi-circular bowl built into the wall. “The residents in the ancient homes above us had to rely on this well to be filled from the river. Fortunately for them, these tunnels made it easier to cart water. Instead of going around the large city blocks, they could travel through them. Clever, huh?”
Sunny and Beth leaned forward to look into the well.
“Of course, the wells are no longer in use. Except as an occasional ice bucket, maybe. During the second world war, these tunnels helped the resistance. They were integral in preventing the Nazis from occupying all of Lyon.” I met Gina’s gaze. “If only these walls could talk, huh?”
The young Korean woman nodded. It wasn’t very often I had a guest from Korea. But unlike the American boys, Gina had obviously done her homework. She was my ideal tour member. She was interested in what I had to say and got involved. And I hadn’t had a Korean yet who’d created even a hint of trouble.
“Okay, let’s keep moving. ”
As I led the group toward the exit, a sense of melancholy hit me. I’d always planned to explore more of these tunnels one day.
Now, I was running out of ‘one days’.
We exited into yet another cobblestone street, and squinting against the glare, I held the door open. My rumbling stomach helped switch my focus away from my limited time left. But as I continued up the street and we passed a bakery, I smelled seductive scents of buttery croissants and freshly made bread. French bakeries were like no other in the world.
They were another thing I was going to miss.
Halfway up the hill, I pushed through a glass door and the tinkling bell announced my arrival. “ Bonjour, Sophia. C’est moi, Daisy ,” I called out to Sophia, who would be in the kitchen applying the finishing touches to our meals.
I held the door open and instructed my group to find a seat in the tiny restaurant.
Sophia sashayed her hips as she strode toward me. The middle-aged woman looked like she was in the prime of her life. Her skin glowed, her hair was glossy, her makeup and painted nails had been applied with skill, and her grin confirmed she was glad to see me again. We kissed each other’s cheeks, and she pulled me for a squishy hug.
“ As-tu fait un bon voyage .” She led me to my table near the kitchen where I could still see all of my group.
“ Oui, tout pour planifier jusqu'ici.” As I relayed how this month’s tour was going, the guests settled into the two long tables that’d been beautifully set. White tablecloths with jade napkins that flowed over the table edges were anchored in position by black plates. Rustic bronze cutlery flanked the plates, and little jam jars filled with colorful flowers that Sophia would’ve picked from her garden were dotted through the middle .
As was typical at the beginning of a tour, other than the couples who sat together, the men sat at one table and the ladies at the other. I don’t know how this happened, but it nearly always did. By the end of the tour, they’d be mixing it up.
I expected Roman to sit with the men or the women; I did not expect him to sit with me. I blinked at him.
“What?” He portrayed the picture of innocence.
“I . . . ummm . . . I thought you’d sit with the guys.”
He scrunched up his face and leaned in. “I told you. . . the women are always more interesting.”
I glanced over his shoulder at a whole table of women.
“Am I cramping your space?”
“What? No, of course not. Just don’t go trying your twenty questions thing on me.”
He held three fingers to his forehead in some kind of weird salute. “ Si. Yes, boss.”
“And stop calling me boss.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I huffed. “That’s even worse. Just Daisy. Okay?”
“Daisy. Or Red, right?”
I rolled my eyes just as Sophia’s son, Matthieu, emerged from the kitchen. He was carrying a long wooden board topped with what I believed to be the most exquisite handmade bread in Europe. Matthieu positioned the board on the women’s table and made a show of slicing it into thick portions. Steam rose from each slice and my mouth salivated at the gloriousness. Matthieu raced to the kitchen and repeated his show for the men’s table.
The second he left, the men launched in, and as they ate, their expressions told me they were experiencing slices of heaven. Mike, in particular, showed his satisfaction openly. His eyes rolled and although I couldn’t hear him from this distance, and despite his mouth being full, I could lipread his words: oh my god.
His eyes met mine and he winked. “ Yummy ,” he mouthed with an expression that confirmed he’d slipped into culinary heaven.
Smiling, I nodded at him. I grew up believing that food was just fuel, necessary to keep you going. I never knew the joy of a home-cooked meal. Or how something truly delicious could transport your thoughts to another world. London had started my discovery of food. Europe’s vast culinary options had developed that into a passion.
Every minute on this tour seemed to be reminding me of the little time I had left in Europe. Tick. Tick. Tick.
Matthieu arrived at my table with another whole loaf of steaming bread.
Roman rubbed his hands together and glided his tongue over his lovely cherry popsicle lips. He did it in slow motion, as if for my own private show.
Shit, Daisy! Stop it.
I snapped my eyes from my co-worker to Matthieu’s hands caressing the golden crust. Steam swirled upward as he delicately carved even slices for our benefit.
“ Grazie. Looks delicious,” Roman said.
“Matthieu is deaf,” I whispered to Roman, though I had no idea why.
“Oh.” Roman reached over and tapped Matthieu’s forearm. The waiter turned to him and Roman signed something to the waiter.
My jaw dropped as I watched Roman and Matthieu have a silent conversation with their hands.
Roman, Mr. Perfect, strikes again.
Matthieu looked at me with an odd expression, convincing me that he and Roman had been talking about me. I attempted a smile and said, “ Merci beaucoup . ”
Matthieu nodded, snuck a glimpse at my cleavage and scurried away.
He may have been deaf, but there was nothing wrong with his eyesight.
A dozen questions raced across my mind at once, and in an attempt to prioritize them, I snatched up a slice of bread and dipped it into the truffle-infused olive oil and balsamic vinegar. Before I devoured it, I paused. “How do you know sign language?”
Roman followed my process with the bread as he spoke. “Nonna is deaf. Has been for about fifty years.”
“I’m so sorry. That’s terrible.”
“Oh, don’t worry about Nonna. She got tuberculosis in her twenties, but nothing holds her back.” He took a bite of the bread and moaned. “Yum, this is delicious.” A crumb stuck to Roman’s lip, and I found myself staring at it, waiting for the moment his tongue lashed out to collect it.
Jesus, Daisy. Stop it.
I cleared my throat. “It’s the best bread in Europe.”
“Really?” He took another bite, yet the crumb remained in place. “That’s a big statement.”
“Trust me. And wait till you taste the fish. It’s to die for.”
While he devoured another slice, I dragged my eyes away from that crumb to survey the room. It wasn’t the grandest restaurant in Lyon. It wasn’t the most expensive, either. But it had character. Every aspect had something interesting to look at. Sometimes I thought Sophia had missed her calling and that she should’ve been an interior designer, and then I’d taste her food again and decide that no, she was doing exactly what she was born to do.
Maybe being a tour guide was something I was born to do. I loved it. And I’m good at it. But would it be appealing in a country that didn’t have so much history?
Sighing at the unanswerable question, I pushed back on my chair. “Excuse me. Duty calls.” I made my way around the ladies' table, confirming that they were happy. They were. At the men’s table, I paused behind Samson. “Did you like the bread?”
“Best I’ve ever tasted.” Mike, across the table from Samson, licked his fingers. The way he did it, slowly, with his eyes flitting from my gaze to my cleavage and back again, had a tantalizing shimmer swirling inside me. My stupid brain was both disgusted and fascinated. Mike was young and model-worthy gorgeous. Why he’d be paying me any attention was a mystery of ‘missing sock’ proportions.
“Okay, I’ll leave you, boys, to it.” I scurried to the safety of my own table. Roman captured my gaze with his exquisite eyes. Maybe it wasn’t the safe option after all.
Sophia and Matthieu emerged from the kitchen carrying three plates each. The meals were delivered with such swift efficiency it was hard to believe they were the only staff in this restaurant.
Sophia placed my meal in front of me and just the sight of it had me salivating. The meal was a feast for my eyes as well as my stomach. It was served in the copper pot it had been cooked in and consisted of little fish dumplings with a fluffy mousse-like consistency, smothered in a rich cheese sauce that resembled thick baked custard. I shuffled my chair forward and placed a spoonful of quenelles de drochet into my mouth.
My taste buds sighed.
Roman’s eyes widened, and after a slight roll upward, his gaze met mine. “This is amazing.” He ate some more and when he moaned his approval, I knew he’d agree with me that Sophia’s quenelles de drochet was one of the best meals in Europe.
“I told you.” Running my spoon through the rich sauce, I scooped a good dollop over the dumplings. This was the ultimate comfort food.
“I’ll have to tell Mamma about this. She will want to bake it for her friends.”
Nodding, I took another mouthful and vowed that before I left Europe, I too would learn how to make this. But sorrow hung in my belly like soggy bread. Even if I did learn to make it, I didn’t have anyone to cook it for.
I wanted to slap myself.
I’d been on my own for years, so why the hell did it bother me now?
Sophia always managed to place a sneaky glass of champagne on my table when I wasn’t looking. Grateful for her devious actions, I gulped half the drink in one go.
“So, Red, you never did answer my question about whether your mamma remarried?”
Shit! I couldn’t believe Roman got the jump on me with another personal question. I was definitely slipping.
In an attempt to delay my reply until I’d formulated a suitably ambiguous response, I scooped another spoonful. But when I raised it to my lips, a drip of sauce landed on my breast. Double shit. When Roman’s eyes swept from the red splatter on my left bosom and met my gaze, I wanted to die. A blaze of heat raced up from my chest like slow-moving lava. It hit my neck, my cheeks, my ears. I didn’t need a mirror to know I looked like someone who’d fallen asleep on a sun chair and stayed there through summer.
My whole adult life had been dedicated to avoiding unwanted attention to my breasts. The universe never got that memo.
Roman handed over his napkin, and cringing, I wiped up the mess. He cleared his throat. “You were saying?”
I blinked at him. “Huh?”
“Your mamma? ”
“Oh.” Grateful for the distraction, I blurted out something I’d been trying to forget for years. “Mother was a free-love kind of woman. Men came and went through our caravan all the time. So, no . . . she never remarried.”
“Caravan?”
Damn it, another secret is out. “Yeah, as in trailer.”
Roman blinked at me with an expression that was hard to decipher. “You grew up in a trailer?”
I folded the soiled napkin and placed it aside. “Yep. Like I said, we moved around a lot.”
“Ha!” He raised his glass, proposing a toast. “ Salute . And you said your growing up was boring.”
Chinking my glass to his, I had no idea why we were toasting my crazy childhood. “It was.”
“No, it wasn’t. Far from it. I’m still in the same house I was born in. My parents live upstairs and are still together after thirty-five years. I went to two schools, one for junior, one for senior. I’ve always had the same neighbors, and I’m still very close to all my school friends. That is the definition of boring.”
“Sounds wonderful.”
“Well, I think yours sounds wonderful.”
I rolled my eyes. My childhood was far from wonderful.
At times, it was downright horrible. I swigged my drink. My favorite champagne had taken on a bitter element; rotten thoughts instigated that. Roman reached forward, placed his hand over mine, and squeezed.
His gentle touch had a lump forming in my throat.
We barely knew each other, yet Roman seemed to know when I was struggling with my emotions. It was like he was reaching into my brain and seeing what I was seeing. I hoped not, or he was going to need something more potent than champagne to eradicate those images.
“Hey.” His voice was a throaty whisper. “Just so you know. I’m like a vault. You can tell me anything.” He leaned over the table, closer to me. “I’m excellent at keeping secrets. Just ask my sisters. They tell me all sorts of stuff that I can’t tell Mamma.”
The room became still, all sound extinguished. It was like I was in a vacuum with just me and Roman. Waiting for me to reveal my deepest, darkest secret. Acid churned in my stomach. My bones sagged. If I didn’t escape, there would be no turning back.
Forcing myself to move, I tugged my hand from his grip and glanced at my watch. “Oh, will you look at that? We have to get going.” I pushed back on my chair and made a dash for the restroom at the rear of the restaurant. Every step was like wading through wet cement.
My embarrassment at revealing my childhood to Roman weighed a thousand times heavier than it had when I’d told Zali. Maybe it was because everything about him was so damn perfect. His looks. His personality. His home life. I couldn’t think of one single thing wrong with him. Not one.
Locking myself in the toilet cubicle, I fought the humiliation inching up my neck. What the hell was wrong with me? Since I’d met Roman, my emotions had turned haywire. And all my flaws were suddenly being displayed in giant neon lights.
Someone knocked on the door and I jumped.
“Sorry, I’ll be out in a sec.”
“Is that you, Daisy?”
“Yes, who’s that?”
“It’s Sunny.” She sang her name like a bird flying in a glorious ray of sunshine.
“Sorry, I won’t be long.” Fanning my face, I straightened my shoulders and told myself to snap out of it. “Did you enjoy your meal?”
“Oh, God, yes. It was so delicious. The bread alone was amazing. But that fish meal . . . I’ve never tasted anything like that sauce.”
And just like that, the rabbit hole I’d tumbled into was closed again, and I was reminded of why I truly loved my job. I exited the cubicle with a smile on my face.
Sunny scrubbed the front of her funky denim overalls with wet paper.
“Oh, what happened?”
“Ahhh it’s nothing. Spilled some sauce down my front.”
I burst into laughter, and she blinked at me. “Sorry. Sorry. It’s just, I did the same, but, well . . .“ I shrugged and pointed at my chest. “Not much gets past these.”
She giggled. “You’re lucky. Most guys have bigger tits than me.” Despite her comment, Sunny’s smile confirmed she held no bitterness over her non-existent breasts.
It always surprised me when women expressed their jealousy over my bust size. There was nothing sexy about tits that could flop to your belly button.
But sharing this moment with Sunny made me realize how much I missed Azalia. The two of us had talked about everything. And we laughed a lot.
Maybe Roman was right; I had forgotten how to truly laugh like I meant it.
I left Sunny to finish cleaning off the mess and returned to the restaurant. Roman and all the passengers were mingling outside. I thanked Sophia, kissed her cheeks, and suffered through Matthieu ogling my chest one more time.
Outside, I found Roman leaning against the wall with his foot up on the windowsill. When he saw me, his expression shifted to a smile that would’ve had Hollywood paparazzi clicking their cameras.
My heart did a weird flutter. Damn, girl. Cut that out.
Maybe Pierre’s kiss or Luca’s fingers had triggered the release of some kind of primal lust endorphins that’d been hibernating for winter. Actually, many winters.
Forcing my eyes away from Roman, I made my way to the front of my group. The second Sunny stepped from the restaurant, I raised my hand. “All right let’s go. Follow me.”
I led them toward Les Halles Market, which was a short fifteen-minute walk downhill. Along the way, I identified three ancient doors that led to secret passages, and I pointed out one of the two five-star Michelin restaurants in Lyon. I’d never eaten in either of those award-winning restaurants, and with the limited time I had left in Europe, I probably never would.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
I picked up my pace.
The bustling food hall was the epitome of multiculturalism. Every stall offered diverse delicacies from a different culture. The hive of activity was an explosion to my senses. Aromas alternated from sweet to savory. Cinnamon and cumin. Vanilla and paprika.
The sounds were as much from people as machines. Chopping, grinding, whirring. A dazzling array of colors sprung from every aspect of the hall. There were vibrant green vegetables that looked like they’d been picked that morning. Creamy pastries that made my mouth water just looking at them. Rich red berries, promising to sweeten any dessert or drink.
I drew my group’s attention to the stall selling spices from around the world. With dozens of different-colored powders and seeds hemmed in wicker baskets that were lined up in rows, it was a photo opportunity not to be missed.
After paying Felicity ten euros for allowing us time at her spice stall, we continued along the bustling corridor to Clostan, the only shop in Lyon dedicated to macarons. A rainbow of sweet treats was nestled tightly against each other in the display cabinet. Pistachio, salted caramel, blood orange, and delicious dark chocolate sandwiching rich creamy vanilla, there were thirty different flavors.
I’d tried them all.
Leonardo flashed a brilliant grin at my arrival, and as per usual, I ordered two of everything and he lined two white cardboard containers with each color. I helped translate a few of the macaron descriptions and subsequent orders for my group.
Roman stepped up to the counter, and in perfect French, he ordered three macarons, pistachio, French vanilla, and passionfruit sandwiched with dark chocolate. Roman was full of surprises. First the sign language, now French. Then again, most young Europeans could easily flit from their native tongue to another language without pause.
I’d always planned to learn fluent Italian during my time here.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Back on the bus, I did a head count before settling onto my seat. We had five hours of driving ahead of us. Roman navigated through the traffic and onto the A7, which we’d remain on for most of the way to Monaco. Within twenty minutes of hitting the main highway, I was struggling to keep my eyes open.
I told myself it was the comfort food, not my steamy morning with Luca that had me sleepy.
Deciding to close my eyes for just a minute, I curled my hands next to my cheek and rested against the window.