Read Online Paris Cravings: A Paris & Pastry Novel by Kimberley Montpetit - Free Book Online
Authors: Kimberley Montpetit
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swirls of plaster on the ceiling. I consider trying to get through to someone’s phone in my tour group, but decide against it. I’ve had enough excitable females for the moment. Besides, there may not be good reception at Château de Chenonceau in the middle of the river.
I glance around the room, taking in the details for the first time. The window seat is covered in fluffy, embroidered pillows and the furniture is definitely girlish. A bulletin board hangs on the far wall, plastered with snapshots. A girl about twelve kicks a soccer ball. She’s playing the flute at a school concert; next, a birthday party with a group of friends making faces at the camera. The same girl sits in the middle, sticking out her tongue. A dimple appears in the corners of her mouth and Hershey chocolate eyes seem to stare right at me. I sit up quickly.
Under the sloping eaves a mirror reflects the view of the room, and directly above the mirror, there’s a display of cutout letters, shiny with glue and glitter taped to the wall.
E-L-I-S-E.
A tremor runs down my arms. These sheets, this blanket, this pillow—they belong to a girl named Elise, but who is she? Where is she? Why didn’t Jean-Paul mention her?
I hop out to the hallway again. Inside the bathroom I find my sandals sitting in a neat little pile on top of a fluffy bath towel. Someone has repaired the broken heel. It’s finished off so expertly, I can hardly tell it was ever broken. I’m pretty sure Jean-Paul fixed it for me.
I test my bare foot by resting it lightly on the floor. It’s not nearly as sore as it was at the hospital. The swelling has gone down, too, due to the major ice pack I napped with. I rewrap the gauze the nurse gave me at the hospital so I don’t accidentally twist it again.
Hopping around on crutches, I figure I’d better plan for the worst and be prepared like a good Girl Scout should. I open drawers in a roll-top desk in the Duprés’ dining room and find a telephone book. I spend almost half an hour studying the pages along with my trusty French/English dictionary, but have no luck at all finding the American Embassy number.
I picture my luggage arriving at La Guardia airport without me and Mom finding the passport inside my underwear. She could mail it to me, but how long would that take? Probably much longer than a day.
I know I should be homesick, torn up over my mother’s worry, but there’s really nothing to be sad about. She’s fine; I’m fine. I’ll just buy a new ticket and get home a couple of days later if I have to, although it might cost me my clothes allowance for the next five years.
What did I have to look forward to in New York? Sweltering heat, pounding the pavement for a job—and Mathew and I having that scheduled “talk” about our relationship.
I squirm every time I think about that little chore. I thought Paris would help me chill out, and then go home to a better future with Mathew. I wanted Paris to give me amnesia, to help me forget and forgive all the recent bad history.
I haven’t made any decisions. I haven’t written out my notes for our relationship talk. I still love Mathew, but I’m not sure how he feels about me. We’ve communicated by cell phone during the trip, but we haven’t really talked . How can you have a heart-to-heart with texting? I hate the fact that I’m having a hard time trusting him. But do I trust myself?
Paris got a lot more exciting once I lost my French class to the Loire Valley, even if I’m paying for it with a flimsy ankle. The thrill of this beautiful old city seems to wrap around me. I stand up from the table in the Duprés’ dining room and bump my hips in a little dance, humming out loud for background music.
Hanging onto the bookcase so I don’t fall, I give another one-footed hip grind—and someone behind me gives a little cough.
I whirl around on my good foot. Jean-Paul is at the top of the stairs wearing a white chef’s apron. There’s a spot of flour on
I glance around the room, taking in the details for the first time. The window seat is covered in fluffy, embroidered pillows and the furniture is definitely girlish. A bulletin board hangs on the far wall, plastered with snapshots. A girl about twelve kicks a soccer ball. She’s playing the flute at a school concert; next, a birthday party with a group of friends making faces at the camera. The same girl sits in the middle, sticking out her tongue. A dimple appears in the corners of her mouth and Hershey chocolate eyes seem to stare right at me. I sit up quickly.
Under the sloping eaves a mirror reflects the view of the room, and directly above the mirror, there’s a display of cutout letters, shiny with glue and glitter taped to the wall.
E-L-I-S-E.
A tremor runs down my arms. These sheets, this blanket, this pillow—they belong to a girl named Elise, but who is she? Where is she? Why didn’t Jean-Paul mention her?
I hop out to the hallway again. Inside the bathroom I find my sandals sitting in a neat little pile on top of a fluffy bath towel. Someone has repaired the broken heel. It’s finished off so expertly, I can hardly tell it was ever broken. I’m pretty sure Jean-Paul fixed it for me.
I test my bare foot by resting it lightly on the floor. It’s not nearly as sore as it was at the hospital. The swelling has gone down, too, due to the major ice pack I napped with. I rewrap the gauze the nurse gave me at the hospital so I don’t accidentally twist it again.
Hopping around on crutches, I figure I’d better plan for the worst and be prepared like a good Girl Scout should. I open drawers in a roll-top desk in the Duprés’ dining room and find a telephone book. I spend almost half an hour studying the pages along with my trusty French/English dictionary, but have no luck at all finding the American Embassy number.
I picture my luggage arriving at La Guardia airport without me and Mom finding the passport inside my underwear. She could mail it to me, but how long would that take? Probably much longer than a day.
I know I should be homesick, torn up over my mother’s worry, but there’s really nothing to be sad about. She’s fine; I’m fine. I’ll just buy a new ticket and get home a couple of days later if I have to, although it might cost me my clothes allowance for the next five years.
What did I have to look forward to in New York? Sweltering heat, pounding the pavement for a job—and Mathew and I having that scheduled “talk” about our relationship.
I squirm every time I think about that little chore. I thought Paris would help me chill out, and then go home to a better future with Mathew. I wanted Paris to give me amnesia, to help me forget and forgive all the recent bad history.
I haven’t made any decisions. I haven’t written out my notes for our relationship talk. I still love Mathew, but I’m not sure how he feels about me. We’ve communicated by cell phone during the trip, but we haven’t really talked . How can you have a heart-to-heart with texting? I hate the fact that I’m having a hard time trusting him. But do I trust myself?
Paris got a lot more exciting once I lost my French class to the Loire Valley, even if I’m paying for it with a flimsy ankle. The thrill of this beautiful old city seems to wrap around me. I stand up from the table in the Duprés’ dining room and bump my hips in a little dance, humming out loud for background music.
Hanging onto the bookcase so I don’t fall, I give another one-footed hip grind—and someone behind me gives a little cough.
I whirl around on my good foot. Jean-Paul is at the top of the stairs wearing a white chef’s apron. There’s a spot of flour on
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