Chapter 3
After showing Andrew how quickly he could reach his rented apartment from his uncle’s store, Gabrielle returned to her own home. Chambres parmi les étoiles, or her rooms among the stars, as she liked to call her apartment on the fifth floor of the building on Rue Saint-Martin. She spent the afternoon cross-legged on the floor of the salon, finishing homework and studying for final exams. If she passed, it would secure her a degree in psychology. From there she could take on the problems of the world while waving her diploma in victory, or so she had imagined when she’d first started this journey.
She paused to search for a bottle of sparkling water that lurked at the back of her tiny refrigerator. Carrying it to the table, she laid the book she had been reading in front of her. Before opening it to her marked page, she considered the man she had agreed to help. Why had she suddenly changed her mind? Was she thinking of him as a psychology project? An interesting case study like so many she’d encountered over the last three years. Or simply a diversion from the recent chaos of her life, post Lyam. She didn’t want to label the friendship she had begun. Instead, she fell back to poring over her books until the alarm on her phone rang, alerting her to the lateness of the day. It was almost four-thirty and she’d wanted to go for a walk before the sun slipped from the sky.
Grabbing her purse and jacket, she hurried downstairs. The idea crossed her mind that by now Andrew would likely need a break too. She strode along the sidewalk, humming a little tune, taking no notice of the appreciative stares she received from men she passed.
Arriving at his Uncle Olivier’s neglected little shop, she noticed the store’s two ancient windows had been lifted from the bottom and propped open by using elderly, black leather boots, set on end.
“Bonjour,” she called, poking her head through the window that was open the widest. “‘Allo? Andrew are you ‘ere?” There was a distant scuffling sound from inside.
“Hi!” he yelled. “Come on in.”
Pushing the door open, she noticed things were already taking on a brighter aspect. Fresh air had driven out the dank smell of sadness and dilapidation. The crumbling crates that ran down the center of the space, were gone too. Bottles, clean and sparkling stood in their place, and the sound of hammering could be heard from a back room.
Gabrielle paused to look at a few labels as she passed through and realized there was some really good wine here. She wondered if any were from Chateau de Belliveau, her family winery in Provence.
“Hey,” Andrew greeted her from the floor where he was kneeling over a pile of old boards. A saw, bucket of nails, and other equipment lay around him. He sat back on his haunches and swiped an arm across his brow. “It’s surprising what Uncle Olivier had back here. I think I can make something really nice from this.” He waved a hand over the assortment of wood. “I may not know wine, but I can build almost anything; cow sheds, barns, fences, you name it. Surely I can put together a few display shelves or wine racks.”
“I am sure you can too. I see you ‘ave been cleaning.”
“Yep,” he picked up the hammer, waving it in her direction. “I just want to put this idea of mine together. Then we can see what it’ll look like, okay?” She nodded. He stuck a few nails in his mouth and as he began hammering, she left the room to wander among the bottles. She picked up the cloth he’d been using and started dusting a few more. Fifteen minutes later, he called her back and she entered to find him standing over a rectangular, wooden container.
“It’s a display box. Otherwise known as a manger, or a feeder for cattle.” He grinned at her puzzled face. “Still, I think my uncle would have been happy with it.” His pleasure was endearing, and his face flushed with pride. He hoped she would like what he’d created, and Gabrielle found her heart skipping a beat. He seemed like such a sweet guy. Of course, she’d believed similar things about someone else before too. And look how that had turned out. She cast her eyes away from him and toward the box.
He nudged his invention with a toe. “All I have to do is find some of that fake straw stuff to create a cushion, and bottles can be laid inside. Makes a beautiful presentation, don’t you think?”
“I do. And I believe you are referring to raffia. I can find some for you at an ‘ome improvement store.” Despite her brain telling her to remain aloof, Gabrielle found it hard to admire the box instead of the man. “Would you like to take a break from your work and go for a walk? I promised myself I would find some cherry trees today. They are blooming all over the city.”
For his answer, Andrew brushed off his knees and reached for the leather jacket flung on an ancient workbench. “I’d follow you anywhere,” he said with a grin.
Gabrielle blushed, turning away quickly to lead the way back through the shop. She waited outside while he closed the windows and locked up. They then walked purposefully up the street toward the same métro station they’d arrived at late last night.
“Where are you taking me?”
“Jardin des Plantes on the left bank of the Seine River. Officially, it is the National Museum of Natural History, but I go there for the botanical gardens.”
“Sounds great,” he said enthusiastically. “I’ve never had too much time for gardens. As a kid I’d help my mother, but that was for vegetables, not flowers.”
“You spent much of your time working with les vaches?” She grinned up at him as they strolled along Rue Saint Denis.
“If you’re going to use French words I don’t know, and then laugh at me,” he said with a mock frown, “I may have to revert back to my earlier threat where I become a crazed maniac.”
She made a sound of derision. “I wouldn’t believe it any more than I did last night.” But she made a show of distancing herself from him and he chuckled.
“Not even one day has passed, and already this girl’s me figured out.” Andrew directed his remarks to a plane tree growing through a square patch of earth on the sidewalk.
Laughing, Gabrielle said, “Les vaches means, the cows.”
“Ahh, thought so. Yeah, I’ve spent a lot of time with them. Too much probably. Twenty-eight years old and still single.” He kicked a stone from the sidewalk with the toe of his cowboy boot. “What about you? Did you grow up here?”
“No. Toulouse. It is in the south of France. I came ‘ere to attend the University of Paris-Descartes. I will graduate with a degree in psychology soon. If I pass my finals,” she admitted.
“I see,”Andrew said, stroking a non-existent beard and frowning. “So, that’s why you’re being so nice. You’re using me as a case study.” Moving his hands as though he were picking up an invisible book, he shot her a sideways look, licked his finger, and turned unseen pages before reading aloud, “Chapter ten, paragraph three, and I quote, ‘The inner workings of the primitive male, fresh off the farm are unfathomable to the gentile Frenchwoman. It is highly improbable that an uncultured, unrefined, almost boorish man could enter polite Parisian society without the intervention of modern psychological methods of treatment. See attached dossier for recommendations.’”
“You are terrible,” she quipped and laughed aloud, smacking him in the arm. “I’m doing no such thing.” She looked coquettishly over her shoulder as she sped up. “I am taking pity on you, because I believe you are beyond conventional ‘elp.” Giggling, as he roared with mock outrage, she sprinted ahead, feeling happier than she had in—well, maybe in forever.
Gabrielle was pleased to learn Andrew had purchased the Passe Navigo card, used for all public methods of travel in Paris. Grabbing a small, free map of Paris from the ticket kiosk, they descended into the métro station and flashed their cards at the scanner. The gates clanged open, and they hurried along the cave-like hallways to where their train was screeching to a stop. The doors slid open, people poured out, and they hopped on.
The train was full of passengers who studiously avoided eye contact. Gabrielle led him through the crowd of people, who kept their feet planted wide to maintain balance, as the train lurched away with a squeal of metal. As they rode toward Odéon, where they needed to change lines, they fell into a friendly silence.
In a matter of minutes, they reached their destination, alighted from the train, and made their way along the winding corridor. As they climbed to street level, Gabrielle sighed rapturously, feeling the fresh breeze swirl down the steps to meet them.
The sky above was the colour of a robin’s egg, and the sun shone with a gentle warmth that promised a serene spring day. As they wandered into the garden, shimmering butterflies floated through the air, moving like scraps of spun silk.
Flowersof every hue splashed across the landscape in riotous colour, each row painted as though with the stroke of an artist’s paintbrush. Eagerly, she led her new friend to saunter along paths created for admirers of natural beauty, toward a cherry tree hanging heavy with pink blossoms. Its branches dipped low beneath the weight. The tree was so heavily laden with blooms, they nearly touched the ground, resembling a wedding cake covered in perfectly formed flowers.
“I can’t even seeany leaves,” Andrew said with surprise. He left the path and ducked under the branches to stand beneath the blushing canopy, examining a branch at close range. “Flowers cover the entire tree.”
Gabrielle laughedas he came back to join her, and they continued their promenade. “The garden was created in 1635 by the royal physicians of King Louis the thirteenth to grow medicinal plants,” she said. “They brought herbs and plants from all over the world to be tested for their curative properties.” She gestured ahead to where a long, creamy-white building, with domes at either end, spanned the open area. “That building is the Natural History Museum. I spend time there too, but we do not have time to go there today.”
Other shrubsand plants rustled in the cool, blissful breeze, their new leaves glowing in the light like emeralds. The air was filled with the fragrant bouquet of sweet-smelling flowers and the earthy aroma of freshly turned soil.
“I can seewhy you wanted to come.” Andrew drew a deep breath. “It’s peaceful. Sort of clears your head.” He turned his head to look at her face, seeking her agreement as they walked.
“Oui. When we were young, my parents would bring my sister and me to see this garden and occasionally the Ménagerie…” She paused to translate.“In English, it means the zoo. Ma mère, my mother, was from Paris and she would miss ‘er life in the city sometimes. So, my father would bring ‘er to visit. Walking through ‘ere brings back special memories.” She trailed her fingers along a tree branch filled with white cherry blossoms. They brushed across her skin like velvet whispers. She stopped, pulled a branch to her nose, and breathed deeply. The sweet smell of petals and pollen was heady. The breeze carried a chorus of buzzing insects and chirping birds. This was the balm she had wanted. It was perfect.
Tears welled up as she thought of her mother. The last few months had been hard. Sharing the burden with her parents would have been a relief, but she couldn’t involve them in the mess that surrounded her relationship with Lyam.
Surreptitiously, she dabbed at the moisture on her lashes and pasted a smile on her face. “My mother grew up not far from here, in that direction.” She swung her arm. “In the fifth arrondissement.”
“You have special ties to the city. Guess I do too, in a way, but we’re worlds apart.”
“Tell me about it,” she prompted, clasping her hands behind her back as they wandered between beds of multi-coloured tulips.
“About where I’m from?”
“Oui, it interests me.” She smiled at him.
“Nothing too exciting to tell,” he said, hooking his thumbs into the belt loops of his jeans, his boots clumping on the broad sidewalk. “Dad met Mom in Normandy while touring France on an educational trip when he was in high school. It was his last year, so he must have been seventeen or eighteen. The two of them kept in contact through letters for a couple of years and then she came for a visit. They fell in love and were married within a few months’ time. She came to live in Canada, on the cattle ranch where my dad grew up. The countryside is beautiful there,” Andrew’s eyes took on a faraway look. “Our farm is set in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains. Ever been there?”
“No, I ‘ave traveled around Europe, but never to the Americas.”
“You should go sometime. Of course, you need to have realistic expectations. When Uncle Olivier came to stay with us, he was disappointed there weren’t cowboys on horseback, rounding up cattle on the streets of Calgary.” He laughed.
“Anyway, like I said, they got married.” He looked sideways at her and winked. “And that’s where I came in.”
“I would never ‘ave guessed,” Gabrielle said dryly. “Do you ‘ave any brothers or sisters?”
“Yep, both younger than me. A brother, Jayke and a sister Brielle. She’s twenty-two and in her second year of zoology in British Columbia, the province west of Alberta. Jayke loves the farm.”
“Don’t you love your farm?”
“Yeah, I do,” Andrew shrugged. “But there isn’t room for us both to work with Dad and earn a decent living. I was thinking of applying to take a course in carpentry when we got word Uncle Olivier had died. Then we were contacted by his lawyer, learned about the will…and, whala, here I am.” He stopped and spread his arms wide with an infectious grin she couldn’t help but returning.
“I believe the word you want is voila, but I must admit there is a certain earthy charm to whala.” Gabrielle giggled behind her hand, hoping she wasn’t offending the man. He really was too cute.
“Vella? Is that what you said? Or volla?” He cupped an elbow with his hand and tapped a finger to his temple as she repeated it again. “Voila,” he ground out finally, bending at the waist to expel the word as though it had been stuck in his throat.
“C”est parfait!” she shouted with a laugh. “You did it.”
“And what about you?” he asked with a teasing grin. “Tell me about yourself. Specifically, are you dating anyone? Married? Attracted to men wearing big hats?”
Gabrielle laughed. Scuffing the toe of her shoe through a drift of pink cherry petals, and scattering them across the paved walkway, she thought a moment before answering. She didn’t want to say anything about Lyam. The less anyone knew of him the better. And she didn’t want to open a door that gave Andrew opportunity to ask her on a date. She wasn’t ready for that.
“I am single, yes.” She chose not to remark on men in hats, but her lips curved with humour at his question. He was flirting with her, and the knowledge warmed her heart despite her misgivings. “And you?”
“Aww, I’ve dated quite a bit, but nothing serious. The girls were nice enough. We just didn’t click.”
Although not exactly sure what he meant by ‘click,’ Gabrielle dropped the line of questioning for a safer topic. He did too.
“You seem to know a few things about wine,” Andrew said. “Is that true of all people who live in France?”
“My father’s side of the family owns an estate in Provence with vineyards and olive groves. They produce both wine and olive oil. Growing up, I spent most of my summers there, so I suppose you could say I have some familiarity with it.” She shrugged expressively. “I would be interested to know if your uncle carried any of their wine. It is a delicate vin rosé created by Chateau de Belliveau.”
“Hey,” Andrew said with a deep chuckle. “I don’t even need an interpreter for that. Rosé wine.” Sobering he said, “I’ll certainly keep an eye out for it. Not sure how I’m going to sell wine to Parisians when I know nothing...” He sighed. “It might be best to put the shop up for sale right away, but somehow, I feel as though I’m supposed to stay for a while...at least try to make it work.”
She led him out the other side of the park and onto the street, ending up on Boulevard de l”H?pital.
“That wasn’t much about you,” he said. “I still know nothing. You’re the only friend I’ve got in this whole country, and I’d like to get to know you better.” He looked at her with genuine interest, something she’d never experienced before from the male species. Sure, they looked at her beauty, but the men she’d known only wanted to talk about themselves. Did he really want to know the real Gabrielle? She felt at a loss to know what to say.
After a long pause, he said jokingly, “I’ll start you off. What’s your favourite colour, food, and music?”
Gabrielle giggled despite herself. He was so comical, so animated…so different from the brooding, enigmatic man she had dated for the last year.
“D’accord.” She stepped closer to him, allowing a lady walking three dogs to pass, and then began. “I love red…crimson to be exact, and I like American pop as well as some traditional French music. I like to travel, and ski, although I am not very good at it. My favourite season is springtime, as you can tell.” She lifted an arm to trail her fingers through the bright green leaves of a young sapling. “I ‘ave one sister, named Annette, who is younger and still lives at ‘ome with the best parents a girl could ever ‘ave. I swim twice a week and ride une velo, otherwise known as a bicycle, for exercise. My birthday is in December and my age will remain a mystery…although I can say I am a little younger than you. I am passionate about ‘elping people and understanding the ‘uman condition.” She drew in a deep breath. “Oh, and I adore cassoulet, but it is not so good for the figure.” She patted a slim thigh.
“I don’t think you need to worry about your hips.” To her embarrassment, Andrew backed away to examine her more closely, then fell back in stride. “Thank you for sharing that information.” He tapped the side of his head. “It’s gone into the memory banks, although I’m left with a few questions. Like, what the heck is cassoulet?”
“Sometime I will make it for you,” she promised rashly, then wondered why she was offering such a thing. She certainly wasn’t following her own advice.
“Actually, we should eat,” Andrew said suddenly, looking at the many bistros and restaurants on the street. “All this talk of food has me thinking it’s been a long time since breakfast. Are you hungry?”
Gabrielle hadn’t noticed, but now that he mentioned it, her stomach growled loudly. Dusk was falling upon the city and the breeze had a bite to it.
“Bien s?r, I know just the place.” She glanced both ways up the street. Tossing the ends of her scarf over one shoulder, she sprinted between traffic, leaving Andrew to follow as best he could. She pulled up short on the other side to look back. Andrew was loping along in her wake, a car skimmed past him with an irritated honk of its horn.
“Oh sure, now you check to see if I’m still alive,” he said in a playful tone, lurching to a stop beside her. “Lot of good that would do if I’d been mashed to a pulp out there.”
She found herself stifling a giggle, yet again. She turned and led the way to a little hole-in-the-wall restaurant she remembered from time spent in the area with her family. She strolled onto a narrow street lined with cars, hoping the place was still there.
Unfortunately, Gabrielle focused so eagerly ahead, she failed to notice a raised cobblestone at her feet and rammed her boot right into it. She yelped. Sprawling forward, she flailed at the air, struggling to make her feet catch up to her body. But just before her hands took the force of her fall, a strong arm curled around her waist from behind, preventing catastrophe.
Andrew pulled her upright and spanned her waist with both hands. The heady scent of his cologne combined with his leather jacket assailed her senses. He bent down to search her face. She shook her head, as though to clear it, and pulled away.
“You okay?”
“Yes—Yes I’m fine.” She glared at the problematic stone, which had dislodged even further. “Thank you for catching me.”
Brushing errant hair from her face with a gentle finger, he looked at her, his blue eyes filled with concern. “Maybe so,” he said firmly, “but let’s not take any more chances.” With an exaggerated motion he extended his hand, palm up, and waited.
Against her better judgement, Gabrielle placed her small hand into his large one. She watched, mesmerized, as his fingers closed around hers, warming her whole being with his caring touch. Her heart leapt.
Calm down, she told herself. The last thing you want is to start something.
But as they continued to walk, she felt a spring in her step that hadn’t been there before. She peeked at him from beneath her lashes. He was sweet, she decided, quite genuine in his wish to hold her hand and it made her feel safe.
Of course, she guessed there was more to his request to hold her hand than just to keep her safe. Despite that, she sensed no ulterior motive, as she often did with other men she’d dated. Gabrielle had no false illusions as to why most men wanted to go out with her. She knew she was an attractive woman. Sometimes it felt more like a curse than anything.
She glanced at the door beside her, shaking off her musings, and realised they were passing the restaurant she sought. La Petite Licorne was written in a flowing, gold script over the door of a tiny building, tucked in between two gigantic apartment blocks. There was one window, cut into the ruddy-coloured brickwork that made up the facade, looking in on an interior that glowed with light and life.
“This is it.” Gabrielle said with surprise. Her memory had served her well. She stopped abruptly and pulled him to the entrance. Andrew reached around her and yanked the heavy oak door open, gesturing, with a low bow and a sweeping gesture, that she should proceed him.
The door creaked and then banged shut behind them, causing Gabrielle to jump in the tiny, dark foyer. But as they stepped through another door into the restaurant itself and gazed around, Andrew removed his hat and gave a low whistle of appreciation. The space was charmingly quaint and inviting. Soft music eddied around them, mingling with a murmur of voices, but their eyes were immediately drawn up.
High above them and at the ceiling’s center was a large, circular piece of art that stretched from one side of the room to the other. The sculpture resembled a stained glass rose window, such as might be seen in Gothic architecture. Vibrant with hues of orange, red, and yellow, the swirled patterns were set apart by ornately curling slivers of thin, darkly polished wood. Lit from within, it glowed with almost an ethereal beauty.
The wall opposite them was a bright crimson, but the others, including a high arch leading to the kitchen, were sedate in their creamy whiteness. Bell-shaped lampshades, looking as though lacy red scarves with long trailing fringes had been draped around the exteriors, were suspended from the ceiling, adding a soft warmth to the room.
Glass cabinets lined the wall closest to them, each boasting something either pretty or appealing. One flashed in the light with crystal stemware, another chilled carafes of water and multi-coloured drinks, while still another housed a delectable selection of desserts.
Long, wooden tables, rustic in their smooth, simple finish, filled every available space. While richly carved chairs, covered in red velvet were pushed beneath, awaiting customers. Already a few tables were filled, but several tables were empty. Gabrielle breathed a sigh of relief. She remembered the food had always been good in this establishment and seating would be at a premium.
An older woman, dressed in a swishing floral skirt and red blouse, scurried from behind a swinging door at the back, only pausing to snatch a small chalkboard from where it rested on a drinks’ counter. Her jet black hair, in contrast to her lined features, was knotted tightly in a bun atop her head. But as she hurried toward them, a broad grin nearly split her face in two, lending beauty to an otherwise tired face. She held the board, etched in chalk with the day’s menu, in two hands and looked enquiringly from Andrew to Gabrielle before speaking in a gravelly voice.
“Bonsoir, bonsoir,” she said, waving at the few available tables. “Une table pour deux?”
“Bonsoir madame. Oui, pour deux s”il vous pla?t.”
The petite lady nodded briskly and wound her way through the complicated configuration of tables to a secluded spot in the corner where she propped the chalkboard menu on a chair and left them with a smile to attend to other guests who were arriving.
“We were lucky to get ‘ere when we did,” Gabrielle leaned across the small square of wood between them, her hands folded under her chin. “Only Parisians know of this place. I think it was always very popular.” She looked around with interest, but her gaze quickly shifted back to rest on Andrew’s animated face.
He was tanned, rugged, and good-looking. He had the sort of face that later in life would earn its wrinkles from hard labor under a hot sun. Or contrarily, from braving the blast of winter weather that was said to dip below -40 Celsius in Canada. His jawline was strong with a faint shadow of whiskers dusting his cheeks. His blue eyes danced with excitement as he bent to place his hat under the table. Then, he gazed around the charming French restaurant, finally coming back to catch Gabrielle staring. He grinned.
”I”m counting on you to translate that.” He jerked a thumb at the hand-written menu beside them.
Gabrielle smiled. Reaching out, she turned the chalkboard to face her since Andrew couldn”t read any of the French words scrawled neatly on the prix fixe.Scanning quickly, she translated with ease.
“There are two options of three courses each that I think you might like. First, a lentil salad topped by fresh goat cheese with a lamb and prune Parmentier, which is a French version of what you might call a shepherd’s pie, and to finish, Crêpes Suzette flambéed in Grand Marnier...” As he opened his mouth she held up a restraining hand, took a deep breath and continued.
“Second, a curly endive salad with a poached egg and lardons. That’s chunks of bacon, to you,” she cocked her head sideways to look at him before continuing. “Then, savoy cabbage stuffed with boulettes de saumon, which is fancy French talk for salmon dumplings, served in a pink crayfish sauce. The dessert course is a runny chocolate-chestnut cake, which actually sounds better when you say it in French.” Assuming a lofty expression, she repeated a description of the sweet treat in her own language. “Gateau coulant chocolat-marrons.”
She peered at him, a chuckle bursting from her throat as he pretended to consider, tapping a finger on his chin, and looking at the beautiful artwork above.
“That sounds like a heck of a lot more than two choices of three courses each. I barely remember where one ended and the other began.” He slapped his head in mock horror. “You decide. I’ll be happy to eat whatever you choose.”
Was he joking? He was too easy to get along with. Shaking her head as he looked away again, clearly pleased to accept whatever she ordered, she read the neat handwriting once more and made a decision.
“Voila,” she said, as the server, a slim young man in black pants with a crisp white shirt, plunked a basket of sliced, brown baguette on the table. He also placed a bottle of water and two glasses in front of them. Then he wrote down their order and hurried away to the kitchen.
“Salmon it is. I ‘ope you will like it.” She waved a hand at the bread. “Please, ‘ave some. It is fresh and we can ask for more if you wish.”
Andrew’s eyes grew round. “More?” he said in a disbelieving tone. “I didn’t exactly put in a hard day’s labour. This will be just fine.” He picked up the basket and offered it first to Gabrielle before taking a slice for himself and biting into it with thoughtful consideration. “What a great idea. It’s crusty, yet soft on the inside. How do I say, delicious, in French?”
“Cette baguette est délicieuse.” Gabrielle closed her eyes, kissed her fingers, and then opened them with a dreamy smile.
Andrew chuckled. “Okay, but I think I’ll start with the words rather than the gesture. Don’t want to offend someone by accident.” He took a breath. “Set bag-et hey, delisers.”
Gabrielle covered her mouth as she collapsed against her chair in a fit of merriment. “C”est t-terrible!” she spluttered, at length. “But I love it.”
“I have a long way to go until I can be trusted to say anything beyond, thank you, hello, goodbye, and please,” Andrew said with twinkling eyes, his attention resting on her. Suddenly, he grew serious and reached across the table, taking her hand in his. His bright blue eyes looked like a stormy sea in this light. Her gaze flickered between them and his mouth that always appeared to be curved into a smile of good humor. “I want to thank you, Gabrielle. You’ve done so much to help me already and made me feel so welcome. I really think I can pull this off if I have you as my friend.” He squeezed her hand gently and let it go. “At least, I want to try, for Uncle Olivier.”
His eyes drifted across her face. “You really are a remarkably beautiful woman,” he said, half to himself. “And unbelievably, kind.” He appeared to flush and cleared his throat as he looked away.
Her hand felt cold after the warmth of his touch, and she lowered it to her lap where she twisted both of her hands together. Swallowing, she said, “You are quite welcome. I am so glad I was there at the right time to ‘elp you.” A hush fell over them; her eyes cast down, and his remained fixed on the decorative ceiling. The mood turned sombre.
“So…” she paused dramatically. “I require some vital information from you.”
His head whipped around with his eyes opened wide. “You do?”
“Oui,” she said, lifting one shoulder. “What is your favourite colour, food, and music?
“Oh.” He grinned, his features lightening. “Pretty standard selections for a guy, I guess. I like all shades of blue. And thick, juicy cheeseburgers covered in fried onions and mushrooms. Steak too, of course. But my choice of music isn’t what you might expect from a cowboy.” He leaned forward slightly as though divulging a great secret. “I’m not a fan of country.” He raised his eyebrows, clearly expecting her face to register shock. When she merely nodded encouragingly, he continued.
“I like 60s folk music with a dash of Celtic thrown in. Sometimes a little jazz is nice, too.” He settled back in his chair, arms folded over his chest as he added this last, startling piece of information. “I also play the fiddle, guitar, and I sing a little. Mainly play the same sort of tunes as I like listening to.”
She was a little surprised at this last fact. It felt out of character with the rugged man’s appearance who sat opposite her. Involuntarily, she noted his work-roughened hands. “You’re right,” she said. “That does surprise me although I saw you arrive with a guitar.”
“Yeah. I never leave home without it.” He quipped. “I’m not a professional or anything, but I’ve performed for events like weddings and dances…and appeared at a few gigs in Calgary during the winter, when the farm wasn’t busy.”
“I would like to ‘ear you play.” Gabrielle shook out her napkin and laid it on her lap.
“I’d love to play a song for you,” he said thoughtfully. “I know just the song. Anyway, it’ll help to pass the time when I’m not working on the shop. It’s pretty daunting to take over a business you know nothing about. Especially a failing business in a foreign country.” He sighed.
“But I’m determined to bring it back to life, and then I’ll see how it goes from there. At least the shop will be easier to sell once it’s fixed up…if that’s what I decide. My mother told my uncle when I set my mind to something I stick with it. Maybe that’s why he left it to me.”
Andrew glanced toward the kitchen where the door was swinging open. “Did you order wine? I’m asking because our waiter is carrying a bottle and two glasses this way with a purposeful look in his eye.”
“Oui,” she turned her head to watch the young man’s progress. “It is customary to enjoy wine with the evening meal. In this case I chose a crisp white to accompany the fish. It is Pinot Gris, from the Alsace region of France.”
“Interesting.”
The server dispensed a little for Gabrielle to taste. Then, after her nod of approval, the young man poured a measure into both glasses.
Mimicking her, Andrew lifted the glass to his nose and sniffed. Then, holding the goblet by the thick stem, he swirled the liquid and took a sip.
“Not bad,” he said, holding his glass to the light and squinting at it. “I like it. Not sure why I like it. I mean…I can’t describe it like I’ve heard people do in movies, but it’s nice.”
Gabrielle chuckled. “You are tres honnête, very honest. I like that,” she said, turning back to the wine and launching into some information she hoped would help Andrew learn more. “There are different styles of pinot gris. For example, if the grapes are allowed to properly ripen, the wine will be naturally low in acidity and high in sugar.”
Andrew feigned patting his pockets for pen and paper. “I should be taking notes from the master,” he fussed, a smile lurking about his mouth.
“If you tease me, I stop,” she announced with mock severity.
“Okay, okay,” he laughed. “Please continue. And I’m serious when I say I should be writing this down.”
“D’accord,” Gabrielle pursed her lips and went on. “Pinot gris is usually less aromatic than, for instance, a sauvignon blanc. Also, it is drier than chardonnay wines. This particular bottle is…” she paused to take another sip before adding, “rich and spicy, but not so aromatic, making it a perfect accompaniment for food.”
She glanced at his face. He looked lost, so she relented. “I can write a few things down for you,” she admitted, “and per’aps we could buy you a book or two on the subject. In English, of course.” She peered at him over the rim of her glass.
“Yeah. Thanks, that would be great...Hey,” he said with obvious relief, “I think our dinner is arriving.” Quickly, they made space for the hot food to be set in front of them. Andrew leaned over his plate, drawing a deep breath appreciatively. He looked up, puzzled. “This is odd, though. Doesn’t salad usually come first?”
“Not always in France,” she said, lifting her fork. “It is believed that the salad course can assist with digesting the heavier dish.” She paused, flicking the end of her utensil toward his plate. “Please, try some. I am anxious to know if you like it.”
Obligingly, Andrew cut into the tiny, perfectly formed cabbage to reveal several creamy and colourful layers within. “The salmon?” He poked at a thick peach-coloured portion near the center. It crumbled at his prodding.
“I think so.”
He cut a small portion, swirled it in the sauce at the bottom of the dish, and lifted it, dripping, to his mouth. “Hey, this is really good,” he said, chewing vigorously. He sounded shocked.
Gabrielle released her breath, startled to realise she’d been holding it in anticipation of his verdict. “Tres bien,” she said. Grasping her knife and fork, she sliced into her own meal and savoured the delicate flavours of the salmon in its perfectly paired sauce.
They ate in a companionable silence. The buzz of conversation from the other diners, the soft lighting, and the gorgeous canopy of glowing artwork, all added to a romantic ambiance.
The main course was cleared away, and they waited for the salad. Andrew gushed again about how tasty it had been, but his expression became pensive.
“Is something wrong?” Gabrielle asked, smoothing the napkin on her lap.
He ran a hand through his sandy hair leaving it rumpled and untidy. “You’re trying to prepare for exams and live a life that I have no idea about. So, I won’t ask you to help me with my uncle’s store. It wouldn’t be fair.” He arched one eyebrow, hopefully. “But I would like to see you again.”
The arrival of their salads allowed her to think about her response for a minute. She knew her feelings for Lyam were long since dead, but the betrayal was still raw. She didn’t think she could ever trust someone again.
“I don’t mind ‘elping you learn some French and per’aps a little about wine,” she said finally. “It would be a distraction from the constant pressure of my studies.” Purposely, she avoided his request to see her in the sense of dating.
“Then, I’ll leave it up to you.” Andrew’s cheerful smile returned. He placed both hands on the table, as though making a decision. “Come by the shop whenever you have time or need a break. The most important thing is that we’re friends. Okay?”
She nodded, feeling relief wash over her. He was indeed a remarkable man. Sensing her reticence, he had backed away without applying pressure or expectation.
They enjoyed the salad without speaking.
“I think I might have to loosen my belt buckle if this keeps up,” Andrew joked, pushing back from the table with a contented sigh.
But only a few minutes later a plate of chocolatey goodness was deposited in front of them. Gabrielle glanced up, not having noticed the server return.
“Mercy!” Andrew mispronounced the word for thank you with such energy that the young server did a double take before recomposing himself.
“Merci,” she said to the retreating server. She picked up her spoon and prepared to attack the dish, giggling to herself.
Letting a morsel of gooey chocolate melt upon her tongue, she closed her eyes rapturously and then opened them to remonstrate with Andrew. “You must learn to say the word correctly. At the moment, it sounds as though you are begging forgiveness for some serious crime.” She wagged a finger at him and smiled to soften her words.
“Nope.” Andrew shook his head in denial. “I meant to say mercy just as it sounded. As a cry for help. This is all too delicious and filling.” She watched him spoon a bite of dessert into his mouth and then take his time to swallow. “Mercy,” he said again, with more emphasis.
She rolled her eyes.
“Mare-cee,” he said again. “Meercee. There, that was better wasn’t it?”
“Maybe a little, but still not good. Watch my mouth.”
“Oh, believe me, I’m watching it,” he accompanied his words with a great bark of laughter that caused people to turn and stare. “I’ve been watching it for a while now.”
“Stop being silly and concentrate!” She frowned, took a calming breath, and repeated it again. “Merci.” The word rolled off her tongue like melted butter.
Andrew’s forehead furrowed with effort. “Mercy!” he hollered, as though he were leading an army into battle.
She sighed. “I think that is enough for today. Shouting, thank you, back and forth, louder and louder each time is beginning to attract negative attention.” She ignored a couple who scowled at them over their aperitif, took one more spoon of her chocolate dessert and placed her napkin on top of the dish. “I am too full to eat more.”
Andrew dropped his spoon onto the plate and sat back contentedly. “You’re right. Rome wasn’t built in a day, and I doubt I’ll learn to speak French in a millennia. I’ll try again tomorrow.” He winked at her, then looked around for their server. “Now how do I ask for the bill again?”
“L”addition s”il vous plait. But I think I will just do it for you if that is okay? I believe, along with the book on wine, we should sign you up for a few French classes.” She reached across and patted his arm. “There is no way you could know ‘ow to pronounce these words. But you ‘ave the desire to learn and that is the most important part.” She sent him an encouraging look. “With time and practise you will learn.”
Andrew insisted on paying and soon they made their way back onto the main street. The setting sun, like a blood-orange gem, had painted the sky in hues of red, gold, and icy pink, and turned the world below into a kaleidoscope of glowing colour. Spring flowers bloomed in apartment balconies high above and fresh young leaves shivered in the trees beside them.
Without looking at her or making further comment, Andrew held out his hand. She slipped her own inside, feeling an instant warmth fill her body. His strong fingers curled around hers.
She breathed deeply. The sweet scent of spring rain lingered on the evening air. And, as they came to the steps leading into the métro, and started to descend, the symphony of horns, laughter, and merry chatter were left behind on the street.
Once through the barrier, the hallway broadened and appeared to go on indefinitely. A family, obviously American, shuffled along the corridor in front of them. Each parent was dragging a large suitcase and struggling to keep track of their tired, irritable offspring. The father was thin and moved sluggishly, wisps of blond hair peeking out from beneath a ball cap pulled low over his ears. Knee-length shorts slopped around his bandy legs, the hemline meeting up with long, white athletic socks that ended in a pair of thick, brown leather sandals. He held tightly to the hand of one tow-headed youngster who was bent almost perpendicular to the ground in a futile attempt to have his father move faster.
The mother, plump and arrayed in a long flowery dress with a matching pink cardigan, scuffled slowly along. A sobbing child of about two years old clung tight to her legs, impeding her progress.
The lady looked harried and distracted. She stopped abruptly as the smallest child collapsed to the floor, weeping, and repeating one word, over and over, “Puppy, puppy, puppy.” The father was oblivious to their plight, his attention trained solely on corralling the older child who had broken free and ran ahead, laughing gleefully. The mother was forced to stay where she was, entreating the distraught child to stand up and keep walking a little further. When that failed, she stood the suitcase upright and set her handbag on the concrete to gather the toddler into her arms.
Even as Gabrielle called out a warning, two men approached from the other direction. Quickening their pace, they came alongside. One of the men bent, snatched up the lady’s handbag, and both took off at a run.
The father, realising what had happened when his wife screamed, whirled around to look on helplessly as the thieves sped away. The woman waved frantically at passersby. She tried to catch their attention, pleading for assistance, pointing at the fleeing men who had stolen her purse. Her cries for help mingled with the howling of her baby. But it appeared hopeless. There were only a few people to hear her, and evidently no one at all who cared. They gave her and the child a wide berth as they hurried past with heads down, minding their own business.
All people, except for Andrew.
Pulling the cowboy hat from his head, he tossed it aside, whirled around, and took after the culprits. The hard leather soles of his boots echoed loudly along the corridor. At the sound of this unexpected pursuit, one of the thieves cast a look over his shoulder. His face contorted into fear. Yelling something to his partner, the pair redoubled their efforts to escape with the stolen property. But it was to no avail.
Gabrielle only had time to take a strangled breath before Andrew leapt forward, tackled both thieves, and all three crashed to the floor. They rolled together, slamming against the wall of the corridor with cries of anger and pain. Andrew took the worst of it. Yet he came up on his feet first, with one steely arm around the neck of the thief holding the bag, pinning him tight. The man writhed, kicked, elbowed, and hollered for help from his partner. But his pal had disappeared. Andrew yanked the thief’s arm behind him with one hand and grasped the man by the scruff of his neck with the other. Then, he marched the culprit with the bag, back to where the lady stood holding her howling baby. She sobbed with shock and relief.
A small crowd of interested onlookers had gathered by this time. Unwilling to help the woman themselves, they were nonetheless intrigued by the single-handed capture of this scourge of society.
“Hand it over,” Andrew growled into the man’s ear as they reached the family. The robber snarled threats in a language Gabrielle didn’t recognise, ending in a strangled gurgle as Andrew tightened his grip on his collar. The greasy scoundrel thrust the stolen bag at the woman. The crowd of bystanders began to clap and whistle as the thief was forced to return what he had taken.
Fingers trembling, the lady reached out to take her voluminous purse. With wide, frightened eyes, she looped it over her neck before hastily stepping away and hugging her baby close to her chest. Her husband slid an arm around her, shaking his head in disbelief.
“Thank you!” he exclaimed, looking close to tears himself. “I can’t believe you did that for us. You’re a regular Superman.”
The lady gave Andrew a wobbly smile, patting the bag at her side. “This bag has all our passports and my wallet with our bank cards. I don’t know what we’d have done if it had been stolen. We can’t thank you enough.” She subsided into fresh weeping, leaning into her husband’s embrace.
“You’re welcome,” Andrew said, still firmly restraining the thrashing thief. “Glad I could help. But I think you should keep your valuables in a safer place. I’ve read that pickpockets in big cities make a good living off unsuspecting tourists like yourselves.”
“We read about that too, in our travel guide, but when the baby started crying…” The woman’s voice trailed off. She blinked rapidly, took a deep calming breath, and caressed the child’s head.
“Thank you again,” the husband said. “The name’s Mel Jackson, from Wisconsin. We just flew in today. If everything had been stolen…” he paused to take a ragged breath. “Well, we’d have been in real trouble. Can I offer you a reward? Some money perhaps?”
Mel stepped back hurriedly as the thief doubled over, attempting to throw Andrew off guard and break his hold. There was a slight skirmish and then Andrew straightened, the thief still held erect in his steely grasp.
“No,” he said breathlessly. “Just glad I could help. I better get this guy to the authorities.” Andrew nodded to the couple. Then he added, “You should give your contact information to my friend here. The police will likely want to talk to you.”
As if in a dream, Gabrielle stepped forward as Mel hastily wrote their names and the address and telephone number of their hotel on a paper napkin from his pocket. He pressed it into her hand.
Andrew spoke once more. “You take care and have a good trip. Paris is a beautiful city, and the people are great.” Andrew shook the man in his clutches. “Just, not this one.” As the family gathered their luggage and moved slowly away, the toddler waved goodbye over its mother’s shoulder.
The crowd clapped again, a few of them cheering and shouting in French.
“Well, guess I should get this guy to the authorities. Where would that be exactly?” Andrew looked placidly over the shoulder of the captured man as though he’d picked up some loose change and wanted to turn it in at the front desk.
Gabrielle still stood in shocked silence, her mouth hanging open. She’d never seen anything like it. The vision of Andrew tearing down the corridor and tackling two men at once, was something she’d never forget.
“I—I have…I mean, I have no idea if there are authorities nearby.” She shook her head as though the dreamlike image would disappear in a puff of smoke. “Maybe at the ticket office there will be a guard?” She stared at the assembled crowd, a few teenagers turning to follow them as she mindlessly led the way back up the tunnel to the ticket desk.
Unbelievably, two policemen were on the other side of the exit doors, talking to a group of ticket inspectors. Gabrielle pushed through the gates, holding them open for Andrew. Still gripping the thief, he shoved him through, still spluttering obscenities and fighting to escape. She approached the uniformed men, and addressed them in French, explaining what had happened. After some measure of disbelief, and a few rapid-fire questions, the pickpocket was handcuffed and led away by one of the policemen.
The remaining officer asked to speak to the couple who had been robbed. Again, Gabrielle explained. Although displeased that Mel and his wife were not available for questioning, he took the paper bearing their names and stuffed it into his jacket with a frown.
Three young men from the group of cheering onlookers, had tagged along. Now, they pushed forward and spoke to the policeman in excited voices accompanied with much hand waving.
“They are telling ‘im you are an ‘ero. A powerful man who brought down a gang of thieves single-handedly.” Gabrielle whispered a loose translation to Andrew from the side of her mouth. “They are recounting what they saw and asking to go to the station to also make a statement. Apparently, they feel ashamed for not ‘elping the woman themselves.”
The tall policeman detached himself from the group and beckoned to Andrew with an imperious hand. “We will need your statement, monsieur. à la commissariat,” he said in French, his eyebrows knitting together in a frown. “You ‘ave done the city of Paris a great service, so it seems. Follow me, s”il vous pla?t.” He strode toward the entrance, followed by the three teens.
“Guess I have to go to the police station,” Andrew said ruefully. “Who knew doing a good deed would end our evening so abruptly.”
“It might take some time,” she said, handing him his hat. “These things seldom move quickly in France. Will you be able to find the way back to your apartment?”
“Sure.” He slapped the hat across his thigh to clear the dust, before ramming it low over his ears, one hand unconsciously smoothing the brim. “You get back to your studies. I can figure out the métro now.” The policeman coughed meaningfully from the stairwell leading to the street.
But Gabrielle couldn’t move. She still felt in a state of shock. Could all of this really have happened?
Andrew took a step to leave, then turned abruptly, grasped her gently by the shoulders, leaned close and whispered. “There’s something missing here. In all the movies I’ve seen since a boy, when the hero saves the day he gets to kiss the prettiest girl in the world.” With a lopsided smile, his face came closer, and she looked deep into his deep blue eyes as his lips softly brushed her own.
“Thanks for everything.” His hands slid away. Wheeling around, he hurried after the law.