Chapter 14
I arrived early, but Laurent was already there. Through the restaurant’s large windows, I saw him standing just inside. He was peering intently out a window, but in the wrong direction. This meant I was able to observe him without him noticing as I walked up to the restaurant.
He was standing a little stiffly, his briefcase resting against his feet.
He was still dressed for work, but he’d taken his suit jacket off and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt.
There was a little gel in his hair, as though he’d attempted to tame his curls, but whatever it was, it hadn’t been enough.
They flopped over his forehead like they always did.
In one hand was a neatly folded newspaper.
As I got closer, I saw it was turned to the crossword puzzle.
I couldn’t make out his answers, but I imagined they were neatly written, and in ink, too.
He was turned just away, so I only saw his profile, but that was enough for me to observe a single green and golden eye.
A little thrill ran down my spine when I realized it was me he was looking for so intently.
I was nearly at the entrance when Laurent saw me. He broke into a lopsided grin and hurried to open the door. Again, we kissed on the cheek, and again I felt heat pulse through me when his cheek pressed mine. I was half-tempted to grab his face and kiss him right there.
Save it for dessert, I told myself as I followed our server to our table.
Laurent walked behind me, and as he did, he placed a gentle hand on the small of my back. I wasn’t sure whether it was to protect me from being jostled or out of a simple desire to touch me, but, in either case, it set me tingling all over.
When we got to our table, Laurent smoothly stepped in front of our server to pull out my chair. I’d seen a thousand men attempt the same move at Le Jules Verne, but none of them had managed to do it with Laurent’s finesse. Charmed, I smiled at him as I sat down.
“This place is lovely,” I said.
The restaurant was small and paneled with dark wood, but the space still felt bright due to the large windows letting the light stream in. The ceiling was pressed metal, with a fleur de lis motif, and the walls were hung with watercolors of conifers.
“I hoped you’d like it. I’ve been here twice and had an excellent meal both times.”
Laurent passed over a menu, pointing out his recommendations. I liked that he gave his opinion then left me to it. I’d had too many dinners where my date decided to order for me because he “just knew” what I’d like best.
When our server came by, we got moules-frites to start, and I ordered a brandy-based cocktail and the chicken braised in cider. The specialty of the restaurant was pork, and I looked at Laurent to see if he was dismayed that I was ordering chicken. But he only smiled.
“A smart choice.”
Laurent ordered a glass of Bretagne cider and the cotriade, a seafood stew. Our drinks came, and we clinked glasses. In both my personal and professional lives, I was used to driving conversations, but Laurent beat me to it.
“How has your week been?” he asked.
I was about to give the usual platitudes, but he seemed genuinely interested—his eyes alight as he leaned forward, closer to me—so I gave the real answer.
I told him about the new fall menu at Le Jules Verne, how lovely serving the Iliescus had been, how I was sad that summer produce was thinning at the markets, and the cake ideas I was considering for Colette, whose birthday was next week.
Not a bit of it was revelatory, or even particularly interesting, but he kept his golden eyes on me the whole time. His gaze was so intense I warmed under it.
“And…and you? How have things been?” I asked, feeling slightly off-kilter.
“Nothing nearly as interesting. I finally finished unpacking. Other than that, mostly working.”
“How’s work? You work in an office now?”
“Yes. For a shipping company. It’s not particularly enjoyable.” He spoke lightly, but I saw from the tightness in his face that there was some deep unhappiness there.
“Right. Of course,” I said, flailing for a new conversation topic. “Where were you living before you moved into the building?”
Laurent gave a small smile, a real one this time. “Aix-en-Provence, where I’m from. Back when I was being an insufferable boor, I believe you mentioned having been there?”
“Several times. I love it there. Was it hard to leave?”
Laurent moved his fork half a centimeter so that it was perfectly parallel with the rest of his cutlery. “Not particularly. My girlfriend left me, so I needed someplace new to live anyway.”
Ah, zero for two. I grimaced in embarrassment.
But, to my surprise, Laurent laughed. “You walked right into that one. Don’t worry. We were a poor match.” His tone was relaxed, but I noticed he took a rather large gulp of water. “My parents and sister wanted me to stay in Aix, but it had too many difficult memories.”
Yes, I understood that completely.
“I knew I wanted a change in scenery,” Laurent continued. “Paris was the obvious choice.”
I smiled. “It always is.”
Laurent took a sip of cider, and I watched him as he closed his eyes, savoring the taste as a smile crept across his mouth. I found the corners of my own mouth turning up. A grump could never appreciate a drink the way Laurent did.
Laurent opened his eyes, still looking a little dreamy. “Beautiful,” he declared, setting his glass squarely back in the center of his coaster. “What about you? Your accent isn’t Parisian.”
“I’m from Alsace. Colmar, specifically,” I said, naming a town in northeastern France, close to Germany and Switzerland.
“Ah, Colmar,” Laurent said, smiling the way French people usually did when I told them my hometown. I understood why. Colmar—with its cobblestone streets and overflowing flower boxes and medieval half-timbered houses—was easy to love.
“Colmar, Paris, and you mentioned living in Martinique. Have you lived anywhere else?”
I laughed. “A few other places. Do you want to hear all of them?”
“Of course.”
I settled back in my chair. “Well, I was born in Austria, but my mother and I moved back to Colmar shortly after, and we lived there until I was about five. Then we moved to Brussels. That was nice because it was close enough to home that we could still visit a lot. We stayed there for two years, then moved to Martinique when my mother was offered a pastry chef role at a new hotel there. We were in Martinique for about a year and a half, then we moved to Washington DC for about three years while she was a pastry chef at the French Embassy. After that, we were in Madrid for about a year, then back to Colmar for a few years, then my mother moved to London after I finished secondary school.”
“Is she still there now?” Laurent asked, smiling.
I ducked my head. I’d had years to practice, but I was still so bad at telling people.
“She died, actually,” I said quietly, looking down at the table. “About five years ago. Well, closer to six now. She was in a car accident.”
I chanced a glance at Laurent. He looked crestfallen.
I knew I looked miserable too, because I’ve never been able to talk about my mom without being on the verge of tears.
It had made countless dates uncomfortable, and I was sure he’d be joining the long line of men who made their excuses (with varying degrees of believability) and quickly exit rather than deal with the woman who’s still cut up over her mom’s death.
Nervously, I raised my eyes. Shockingly, Laurent wasn’t glancing around for an exit or mumbling about an errand he had to run. He was looking right at me.
“That’s both of us stepped in it this conversation,” he said, a tiny sad smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “I’m so sorry about your mom. When my sister got sick, I couldn’t even consider the possibility of her not making it. It took my breath away.”
“Thanks,” I mumbled, dropping my gaze again. “It was very hard. My dad was never in the picture, so after my grandparents died, she was the only family I was close to.”
“And she was a pastry chef?”
I smiled. “She was an amazing pastry chef.”
Laurent smiled back, the smile that lit up his entire face. “You clearly got her talent. Have you ever considered becoming a professional?”
My mood, which had been slowly inching upward, plummeted again. I shrugged uncomfortably. “I tried once. It didn’t work out.”
I was worried Laurent would ask me to elaborate but, perhaps noticing my discomfort, he changed the subject.
“Was it difficult moving so much growing up?”
“Sometimes,” I said, my shoulders relaxing.
“Sometimes it felt like my mother dragged me to every corner of the world.” I smiled faintly, remembering.
“But she loved going to new places, starting fresh. I’m not quite the same way.
I’m happy to be back in France, and to stay here.
I still visit Colmar often as well. It’s the one place that’s ever really felt like home. ”
Laurent smiled. “That’s wonderful to have a home you want to return to.
I’ve always wanted to get away from Aix.
My sister, on the other hand, loves it there.
Noelle went to university less than an hour away, but she still came back every weekend because she missed home.
She helped me move in when I came here, and I think even that made her a little homesick,” he said, laughing.
Laurent’s face softened as he spoke of his sister.
Our mussels and fries arrived, and we paused to try them.
They looked gorgeous, the fries golden brown and shining lightly with oil, with flecks of sea salt dotted across them.
The mussels had been steamed in cider and Pernod and were swimming in a pool of sautéed shallots, garlic, and parsley.
I fished one free of its shell and tipped it into my mouth.
It tasted perfectly of the sea, but the sea enhanced, the sea melded with aromatics and layers of flavor.