Chapter 33
Iwent up to him.
“Can I give you a ride home?” Laurent asked, breaking the silence. “I have a rental car.”
“Yes,” I croaked. My voice seemed to have fled.
This was it. This was the moment Laurent and I laid down our cards and learned if we had enough to make a go of things.
But maybe not. Maybe he was still a workaholic. Maybe he’d decided what we had wasn’t that special. Maybe he’d decided to dedicate his life to making quiches, and the only reason he’d shown up to the gala was to get my opinion on his newest attempt.
Probably not that last one, I told myself. That would be strange.
The pressure was enough to make me consider chasing Madame Blanchet down and taking another spin on the Vespa. But I’d been so brave these last few weeks. I wasn’t going to shy away now. Digging deep for one last bit of courage, I followed Laurent to his car and opened the passenger door.
At first all I saw were glass food containers. They were stacked half a dozen high, completely filling the backseat.
“Oh. Wow.”
I’d promised myself that I’d be brave, not that I’d be articulate.
“I made you some food,” Laurent said solemnly.
“I’m very pleased to hear that!” called Madame Blanchet from behind us as she jammed her helmet on and struggled with the Vespa’s kickstand.
That seemed to be an excellent sign to get in the car. Once inside, with seat belts fastened, Laurent and I stared at each other in silence. How did I always forget just how handsome he was? Even looking as grave and nervous as he did now, he still made my breath come faster.
“I wanted to bring you some food,” Laurent said, still sounding deadly serious. “I couldn’t decide what to cook, and I wanted to make sure I made something you liked. So I made a lot of things.”
He and I both glanced at the backseat. The amount of food he’d brought could probably keep a small village nicely fed for a week.
“That was very thoughtful of you,” I told him.
“There’s the beef stew you mentioned liking a few months ago.” Laurent reached back to adjust the container so it was perfectly lined up with the others.
“Oh, right. Beef stew. Thanks.”
Wow, we were really bringing the passion today.
Someone behind us blared their horn. We both jumped, looked guiltily at each other as though we’d been doing something illegal, then Laurent started the car.
We didn’t speak on the ride to my apartment. Once Laurent parked, we both took a mountain of food containers inside and arrayed them on my countertop. We stared at each other from across the sea of food.
“Margot,” Laurent began, and the sound of my name on his lips thawed things a little.
I spoke up. “How did you get the time off?”
“Well,” Laurent said slowly. “They had to give me the time off because I quit.”
He grinned, looking so happy that, despite all the remaining unknowns, I found myself grinning back.
“You quit?”
“I absolutely quit.”
“Why?”
Laurent grimaced. “Because that job was terrible, and it turned me into a horrible person. I was terrible to you, back in Berlin. Everything you said to me—about falling back into bad habits, about not making you a priority—it was true. I was an idiot. Hurting the people most important to me for a job that made me miserable. Again. Margot, I’m so sorry. ”
His words hung heavily between us.
“I’m applying to pastry school.” It was the only thing I could think to say. I could barely take in what Laurent was telling me or what it might mean for us.
Laurent laughed in delight. “Of course you are. You’ll blow them away.”
“I’m only applying to programs that are a good fit for me. Not the one my mother graduated from.”
“Do you know, I tried every dessert you made at the gala? I even grabbed one of the macarons from the garbage.”
“You ate trash macarons for me?”
“Ate it and loved it. Your trash macarons nearly brought me to tears.”
“That was probably because of the bleach they use to disinfect the trash cans.”
Laurent shrugged. “Look, when a flavor combination works, it works.”
I swallowed hard. “You were right, in Berlin, about me giving up too easily.” Laurent opened his mouth to interrupt, but I held up a hand. “You were an asshole about it, but you were right. I’d stopped trying anything new in life just to try and avoid failure.”
I paused. “But now I’m working on changing that.”
Laurent took my hand and led me to the couch. “Tell me about it.”
So I did. Slowly at first, as I explained speaking to Chef La Croix and deciding which pastry schools to apply to.
I picked up steam as I told him about the trips I’d booked.
Noisette crept over, and she let Laurent stroke her as I told him how I’d wanted a cat since we’d given Jacques away but had never gone through with it.
As I spoke, Laurent kept hold of my hand the entire time.
“I’m so proud of you,” he said when I’d petered to a stop. “Margot, I can’t even put into words how proud of you I am. And I’m so completely unsurprised.”
I laughed a little. “You knew I wasn’t going to spend the rest of my life in shambles?”
Laurent’s eyes blazed green and gold. “I knew from the moment you—rightfully—told me off the night we met at Le Jules Verne that you were a person who wouldn’t go down without a fight.”
“I was smiling that whole evening!” I protested. “Perfectly friendly.”
“I know. And I could still tell you weren’t someone to mess with.” Laurent smiled his crooked smile. It had been so long since I’d seen him smile like that.
“Margot, a year ago my life was in shambles. I didn’t think I was worthy of anyone.
I figured I’d just have to struggle through things alone.
What I didn’t realize was that all I needed for everything to make sense was to meet a relentlessly optimistic baker who put more effort into making others happy than anyone I’d ever met. ”
Laurent heaved a sigh. “Every day since you left Berlin, I’ve known what an idiot I was for losing you. It made it very easy to quit. I’m just terrified I’ve done it too late.” Laurent swallowed hard. “Have I?”
Again, I dodged his question. “You’re done being a chef?” I didn’t want that for Laurent, for him to return to a soulless office job, but I also didn’t want to risk losing him to his work again.
Laurent smiled. “It took me weeks to figure things out. It’s the only reason why I didn’t quit the night you left. I wanted to come back to you with a plan.”
He exhaled. “I’m done working as a chef for a restaurant that isn’t mine. It’s too easy to lose control and end up working insane hours and making food that doesn’t excite me, all for someone else’s vision. I’m done with that. Instead...”
Laurent paused to take an excited breath.
“I want to open a small restaurant. Very small, just a handful of seats. It’s a new concept, but it’s becoming more popular.
The space will be small enough that I’ll be able to afford rent, utilities, and everything else without needing a financial backer who makes all the decisions.
Instead of hiring a team, I can do everything on my own: I’ll make the food in front of the diners, mix the drinks, hell I’ll even be able to do the washing up.
It’ll be a premium experience, so I’ll only need to do a few seatings a day and can keep my hours manageable. And I’ll answer only to myself.”
Laurent’s eyes shone as he spoke, and I found myself catching his enthusiasm.
“Margot,” he said, turning serious. “I feel confident about this, but not if it comes at the expense of us. If this idea doesn’t work out, if you ever think it’s the wrong choice, I’m not afraid to step away from it.
More than any restaurant, I want to be with you.
I want that more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life.
” He hesitated. “If you’ll still have me. ”
Laurent was speaking so honestly, and his feelings so perfectly mirrored my own, that all I could do was fall forward and let myself collapse into his embrace. He pulled me in close.
“Margot, I can’t offer you a perfect life. All I know is that when I met you, I finally stopped feeling lost.
That, of course, made me cry.
We stayed like that, tight in our embrace. I became acutely aware of Laurent’s body pressed to mine, our tear-dampened faces touching, his lips resting in my hair.
He seemed to get the same idea. He kissed my hair first, so gently I wasn’t sure if I was imagining it. But he kept going, trailing the kisses along my hairline, across my cheekbone, until he reached my mouth. I wanted him more than I’d ever wanted him before.
In a smooth motion, he scooped me up, his brawny chef arms bulging. He carried me into my bedroom and laid me on the bed. I looked at him for a moment, filling my vision with this man I loved, the man who made my life make sense. We undressed each other, and he was gorgeous in the dark.
Laurent climbed into bed and pulled me close, covering me with kisses until I couldn’t think straight. But every time I looked at him, I knew that I was where I was meant to be.
Afterwards, we curled around each other and talked into the night.
“Have you thought about where you want to open your restaurant?” I asked.
“Wherever you want to live.”
“I was…” I hesitated. “Well, I was thinking, after I finish pastry school, of moving back to Colmar. Whenever my mother and I moved, it was always the place I’d hoped to go back to. I’ve missed being home.”
He pulled me close. “Then I’ll find a place in Colmar, and we’ll make a new home there.”
In the morning, I awoke to a pale Paris dawn. I was alone in bed; I heard Laurent moving around in the kitchen and talking to Noisette. I sprawled across the bed and took a few minutes to soak in the weak sun and feeling of hopefulness that washed over me.
That’s what I’d been missing for five years. There’d been moments when I’d been happy, even moments I’d bent over double with laughter. But there’d been so little hope. Now, I could feel it returning.
As I was rubbing the last bit of sleep from my eyes, Laurent came in bearing a tray laden with breakfast.
“I made the rolls myself,” Laurent said proudly. “Shall we eat in the window seat?” he asked.
There was just enough space for both of us and the tray. I tried to lean my head against Laurent, but he was weirdly jumpy. I gave it up.
“The coffee’s excellent,” I told him.
“What about the rolls?”
I made a noncommittal noise that I hoped he’d take positively.
Suddenly, Laurent stood up, nearly overturning the breakfast tray.
“Margot.” He sounded so concerned that I set my mug back down.
“Margot,” he said again. “I know that you’re used to this, you know, working where you do. I didn’t want to do something cliché. But I also know how much you love your work and love Paris.”
I stared at him, utterly baffled at where this was going.
“What I’m trying to say is…” Laurent collapsed to the floor.
No. No, he was kneeling.
“You can just see the Eiffel Tower from here, and I wanted it to be part of this moment.” Laurent was actually sweating.
I followed his pointing finger and looked out my window. Yes, there was the Eiffel Tower. It looked lovely today.
I turned back, about to comment on the perfect weather, then froze.
In Laurent’s shaking hand was my mother’s emerald ring.
“Celine found it at her house last month. You must have taken it off when you were baking cookies with her daughters. They’d stolen it as a spoil of war. I didn’t want to buy a ring I wasn’t sure you would like, and when this one reappeared…” Laurent looked anxious and happy and terrified.
He swallowed hard, then took my hands.
“Margot Delcour, will you marry me?”
There was a sudden roaring in my ears. I tried to speak and found my voice had fled. I suddenly understood why so many people at Le Jules Verne were speechless when they were proposed to.
I managed to hold out a trembling hand. Laurent slipped my mother’s ring on. It sparkled in the sun.
“Yes,” I breathed. I grabbed Laurent’s shirt and dragged him to me, nearly overturning the breakfast tray a second time.
Unlike our conversation at Christmas, when I’d clung to Laurent’s mention of marriage as proof I was worthy, this proposal wasn’t about validation. Instead, it was the icing on the cake. Which didn’t make it any less sweet.
I kissed Laurent, losing myself in the utter perfection of the moment.
When we paused to catch our breath, Laurent looked at me and grinned. “I was driving myself mad trying to decide when to ask, and I thought the idea of a proposal over breakfast sounded romantic. How do the rolls taste? Remember, you’re my fiancée now, so we have to be honest with each other.”
“Honestly?” I repeated, and Laurent nodded. I looked at this man and was almost overwhelmed by the amount of love I had for him.
But I still couldn’t flatter his ego about baked goods.
“They’re just slightly too tough,” I admitted, squeezing my eyes shut. “You always overwork the dough.” I opened my eyes tentatively, then dissolved into laughter at the affronted look on Laurent’s face.
“But don’t worry,” I said, pulling him close. “We have an entire lifetime to perfect it.”