Read Online The Devil's Own Chloe (Bistro La Bohème Series) by Alix Nichols - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Alix Nichols
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phone,
you’d shout from the kitchen, “Is it Dad?” and she’d shout back, “No, it’s Chloe’s-friend-Hugo-is-such-a-good-kid .”
Well,
that kid doesn’t deserve to die.
You
cannot want the lovely Yvette and Hervé Bonnet to lose a child like you and
Charles did. You cannot possibly want that.
Claire
sighs and shakes her head again. She doesn’t believe me. Her pragmatic mind
refuses to come to terms with the truth that I’m bad news. And not just your
regular bed-hopping and parent-neglecting nuisance, but a devil-powered,
inexorable, and inescapable disaster.
OK,
that was a little over the top.
My
track record is impressive but not enough to qualify me as the Antichrist.
How
bad am I exactly?
Could
I admit for a second, just for the sake of the argument, that Claire is right?
That there’s a chance I’m no Terminator, but only a young woman who’s had more
than her fair share of loss in her childhood and teens? I wish someone could
help me figure this out! I wish someone could ascertain if my abandonment, my
adoptive parents’ death, Lionel’s passing, and Charles’s stroke were the result
of my Midas touch or just a random “series of unfortunate events.”
Is
it possible that there’s no curse?
The
cab turns into Boulevard de Magenta, and I watch the elegant Haussmannien facades, with their first-floor mezzanines, second-floor balconies, and mansard
roofs. Most of the windows are lit with parties still in full swing in some.
We
stop at the traffic light on the Boulevard des Italiens. The last movie show of
the day must have just ended because crowds of laughing youngsters pour out of
the theaters. A black four-wheel drive pulls up next to us. The window is half
open, and the big, middle-aged man inside is wailing Brit’s “Baby One More
Time” in a shrill falsetto, alternating energetic lateral slides of his head
with vigorous back and forth moves. He accompanies this performance with an
intricate hand wave while his other hand is picking his teeth.
The
man is clearly under the illusion nobody can see or hear him in his cocoon.
Is
my Midas touch an illusion, too? Have I invented it to fill a fault line deep
inside my soul? Have I been living under a self-deception all these years?
No
way.
It’s
Claire who lives in denial.
The
cab crosses the Pont Royal to the left bank. It’s a dry night, and
people—tourists and locals—stroll along the Seine. I try to
distract myself by watching them, but Claire won’t let me. She’s stuck in my
mind, arms crossed over her chest and expression skeptical.
Damn
it, if only I had the guts to have this conversation with her in real life, and
not just in my head! I’d make her see me for who I am, for the evil genius that
I am, and she’d stop complaining about my infrequent phone calls and rare
visits.
She’d
send Diane to live with her uncle in Montreal, forbidding her from setting foot
in Paris.
And
she’d advise Hugo to stay away from me.
*
* *
Eleven
“You’re
sure you’re going to be OK?” Diane asks for the third time.
She
stops in the doorway, one foot still inside, and turns around to give me a
sympathetic look.
“Of
course I will.” I shrug. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I
don’t know… because you had nightmares all night?”
Crap. “How did you know?”
“You
screamed.”
Of
course I did. I dreamed of Hugo dying in my arms.
“I
dreamed of you taking root in my apartment.” I sigh theatrically. “And I don’t
mean this as a metaphor. Your toes morphed into tentaclelike branches, squeezed
through the cracks in the floorboards, and wrapped themselves around the
concrete structure underneath.”
Diane
cocks her head. “Really?”
Double
crap . What if
she interprets my clowning as a hint that I want her to move out?
“Oh,
yeah.” I say, bugging my eyes out at her. “Wouldn’t you scream in my
place?”
Diane
beams at me. “I love you, too, Chloe.”
Right.
I’m
not sure if I’m relieved or
you’d shout from the kitchen, “Is it Dad?” and she’d shout back, “No, it’s Chloe’s-friend-Hugo-is-such-a-good-kid .”
Well,
that kid doesn’t deserve to die.
You
cannot want the lovely Yvette and Hervé Bonnet to lose a child like you and
Charles did. You cannot possibly want that.
Claire
sighs and shakes her head again. She doesn’t believe me. Her pragmatic mind
refuses to come to terms with the truth that I’m bad news. And not just your
regular bed-hopping and parent-neglecting nuisance, but a devil-powered,
inexorable, and inescapable disaster.
OK,
that was a little over the top.
My
track record is impressive but not enough to qualify me as the Antichrist.
How
bad am I exactly?
Could
I admit for a second, just for the sake of the argument, that Claire is right?
That there’s a chance I’m no Terminator, but only a young woman who’s had more
than her fair share of loss in her childhood and teens? I wish someone could
help me figure this out! I wish someone could ascertain if my abandonment, my
adoptive parents’ death, Lionel’s passing, and Charles’s stroke were the result
of my Midas touch or just a random “series of unfortunate events.”
Is
it possible that there’s no curse?
The
cab turns into Boulevard de Magenta, and I watch the elegant Haussmannien facades, with their first-floor mezzanines, second-floor balconies, and mansard
roofs. Most of the windows are lit with parties still in full swing in some.
We
stop at the traffic light on the Boulevard des Italiens. The last movie show of
the day must have just ended because crowds of laughing youngsters pour out of
the theaters. A black four-wheel drive pulls up next to us. The window is half
open, and the big, middle-aged man inside is wailing Brit’s “Baby One More
Time” in a shrill falsetto, alternating energetic lateral slides of his head
with vigorous back and forth moves. He accompanies this performance with an
intricate hand wave while his other hand is picking his teeth.
The
man is clearly under the illusion nobody can see or hear him in his cocoon.
Is
my Midas touch an illusion, too? Have I invented it to fill a fault line deep
inside my soul? Have I been living under a self-deception all these years?
No
way.
It’s
Claire who lives in denial.
The
cab crosses the Pont Royal to the left bank. It’s a dry night, and
people—tourists and locals—stroll along the Seine. I try to
distract myself by watching them, but Claire won’t let me. She’s stuck in my
mind, arms crossed over her chest and expression skeptical.
Damn
it, if only I had the guts to have this conversation with her in real life, and
not just in my head! I’d make her see me for who I am, for the evil genius that
I am, and she’d stop complaining about my infrequent phone calls and rare
visits.
She’d
send Diane to live with her uncle in Montreal, forbidding her from setting foot
in Paris.
And
she’d advise Hugo to stay away from me.
*
* *
Eleven
“You’re
sure you’re going to be OK?” Diane asks for the third time.
She
stops in the doorway, one foot still inside, and turns around to give me a
sympathetic look.
“Of
course I will.” I shrug. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I
don’t know… because you had nightmares all night?”
Crap. “How did you know?”
“You
screamed.”
Of
course I did. I dreamed of Hugo dying in my arms.
“I
dreamed of you taking root in my apartment.” I sigh theatrically. “And I don’t
mean this as a metaphor. Your toes morphed into tentaclelike branches, squeezed
through the cracks in the floorboards, and wrapped themselves around the
concrete structure underneath.”
Diane
cocks her head. “Really?”
Double
crap . What if
she interprets my clowning as a hint that I want her to move out?
“Oh,
yeah.” I say, bugging my eyes out at her. “Wouldn’t you scream in my
place?”
Diane
beams at me. “I love you, too, Chloe.”
Right.
I’m
not sure if I’m relieved or
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