Bon Appetit (18 page)

Almost.

The vicar began the Communion service, but I didn’t go forward. It would be awkward to leave Anne alone. I knew she wasn’t comfortable going forward, and she shouldn’t, not being a Christian.

I looked at the quiet line of people waiting for the elements, the memory of the body and the blood of Christ. Sustenance for the long week that lay ahead for most of us.

For the first time, I yearned for Communion and was denied.

I think I understood the meaning of “communion” for the first time. In French, the word had a feeling of intimate communication, sharing thoughts and emotions. I supposed it did in English too, but the word had become so everyday to me that I’d forgotten the depth of its meaning.

Alone here, in many ways, I realized how much I yearned for intimate communication, for sharing my thoughts and emotions. Looking at the elements of sacrifice in front of me, I understood the sacrifice He made in order to achieve that intimate communication.

I bowed my head and prayed instead.

After the service, Buki talked Anne’s ear off, her silver hoops wiggling in her dark brown earlobes as her enthusiasm level rose. Anne’s face lit up. I knew she had been lonely too.

Gabby was on call to serve coffee, and I saw her reluctantly leave Philippe’s side. He made his way forward to me.

“How was school?” he asked. “You’ve been at the village, I hear. Pastry chef for the week”.

“Yes”. I grinned. “Not that I wish ill health on Maman, but it was nice to be in charge of my own
laboratoire”.

“Oh yes, like all women, you want to be in charge,” he teased.

“We did macarons at the school,” I continued. “I ate the most fantastic kinds. Rose. Anise”.

It was fun to talk with him in English, something we never did at work. Somehow, being able to converse in two languages bonded us in a way I didn’t feel with anyone else. Not even Anne, perhaps because her English wasn’t as fluent or nuanced.

“Have you been to Ladurée?” Philippe asked, naming a famous
pâtisserie
in Paris. “Or Gérard Mulot?”

I shook my head.

“Ah, then, I would be remiss as a member of the House of Delacroix if I did not show them to you. Perhaps one day this week, we may go? I’ll pick you up at school, and we can go from there. I
will put it on the work calendar. How do you Americans say? A field trip!”

I don’t know why, but I asked, “Will Céline be coming?”

He shook his head.
“Non
. I will leave her with Patricia”.

A corner of some kind was being turned, and I knew it.

“Bon,”
I said. I did want to see the
pâtisseries
, and it was only one … date. “I would love to go,” I finished in English.

He laughed, “Good! I will call and let you know what day I can arrange for us to play hooky”.

I laughed too. “All right. Now you’re taking this English slang thing too far”.

Anne and Buki came alongside us. “Coffee?” Buki asked, pointing upstairs. We headed that direction. Philippe gathered Céline from her classroom, and she joined us as well.

She sat next to Anne. “You are a baker too?” She sighed dramatically. “Can’t I ever get away from bakers?”

We burst out laughing. Buki, a doctor, reminded Céline that she was not a baker.

“I’m glad!” Céline said. I marveled at how easily she moved between English and French, a compliment to her father … and her mother.

After coffee, Anne leaned over. “Do you have plans for the rest of the day?” she asked.

I shook my head.

“I have something I want to show you,” she said. “Let’s walk in Versailles for a while. I’ll show you my surprise, and then we’ll have a bowl of soupe before returning home”.

I nodded my agreement. “We’re going to go,” I said to everyone else.

“That’s fine,” said Gabby who had just rejoined the group. “Philippe is driving me home today. Nice to see you again”.

I grinned.
I bet
.

Anne and I walked to the shopping area in Versailles, stopping at our café for lunch. I ordered French onion soup and a small quiche. Anne ordered a
croque-monsieur
with duck. I loved those!

“What’d you think of church?” I asked between bites.

“Nice people,” she said. “It seems very English”.

I laughed. “It
is
English”.

“Religion doesn’t seem very French to me anymore”. She took a bite. “This sandwich is fantastic! I think the cheese is smoked. Try some”.

I forked a bite into my mouth.

“Delicious?” she asked.

“Yummy!” I answered in English.

“Yummy!” she imitated and I laughed.

“I disagree with you about the French and religion,” I said, bringing the topic back around. “I think in your hearts, you French are very religious. Look at your national slogan—liberty, equality, brotherhood. Those are all Christian ideals, really. Liberty—freedom from self and sin. Equality—God counts a person’s value according to his faith, not according to his deeds. Brotherhood—I have sisters and brothers all over the world due only to the fact that we believe in Christ”.

She nodded slowly, though maybe unwillingly. “I’ll think about it. Church was better than I thought”.

We finished our lunch and discussed our exhibition projects.
Anne was already clicking through her ideas. I hadn’t had my inspiration yet. I didn’t know if anyone else would do so, but I wanted a theme.

“Let’s go see the surprise I was telling you about,” she said. We asked for
l’addition
, the bill, and left.

“It’s just a few blocks away,” Anne said, turning toward the
château
and into the more exclusive streets. We passed a jeweler and an upscale clothing store, and then she stopped.

The long, deep storefront before us was empty, but gorgeous. The long windows were broken up into sections, the trim painted a brilliant blue. Some of the windows were broken into smaller panels, which had been painted with aristocracy in the Louis XV style. I peeked through them at the gorgeous marble floor inside, then peered up at the ceiling, where cherubs and angels holding shafts of wheat were painted on a cerulean background. Brass fixtures were propped up against one wall, though it was clearly under construction.

“What is it?” I asked. “It’s drop-dead gorgeous”.

Anne tugged me toward the door, which was cut crystal and had a border of small flowers painted along etched vines. A small sign hung in the center.

I exhaled slowly. The village bakery was quaint, cozy, and fit the homey village. The bakery at Rambouillet was busy, friendly, and sweet in its own right. Simone kept it decorated seasonally, and it always looked and smelled warm and inviting.

But this—this was the flagship for sure.

“I would love to work here,” I said. I wondered if I could graduate in the top ten of my class. Not if my macarons kept crumbling.

“Who wouldn’t?” Anne agreed, still peering in the door.

I was shocked when he pulled up. In fact, I didn’t realize it was him at first.

I looked out my window, and as I did, I saw Papa drop the lace back into the window at the big house.

Maybe he couldn’t believe it either. Philippe was driving a motorcycle!

I flung open the door in surprise and stood there. He took off his helmet, unsnapped one from the back and walked toward the door.

I ushered him in. “I didn’t know you drove a motorcycle!” I exclaimed.

“I haven’t for a long time,” he admitted. “But it feels really good. And it’s much easier to park and get around Paris. Are you up for riding?” He held the helmet toward me.

“Yes!” I’d never ridden on the back of a motorcycle. Another exciting experience to chalk up to
La Belle France
.

I put on my leather jacket, and he helped me onto the back of
the bike. I held on to him for stability, but I couldn’t help drawing nearer to him, and he did not pull away. It’d been a long time since I’d been this close to a guy. It felt good. It made me realize how much I craved touch and intimacy, and brought up conflicting feelings about Philippe. And Dan.

I pushed the thoughts away for the moment and turned my head toward the wind to breathe in a less personal—and less enticing—scent than Philippe’s cologne.

We took off down the road, to the autoway, and then to the Périphérique, the road that circled Paris. First stop, Ladurée on the Champs-Elysées. I loved the feeling of nothing between me and the city as the wind caressed my skin.

Philippe parked the bike, and we walked into the bakery. He nodded to the young Japanese girl behind the counter, who recognized him. The Bakery Fraternity in action, I imagined.

We looked at the long row of pastries, including shimmery delicacies with piped light cream, covered with fresh raspberries, and sprinkled with gold. He pointed out the macarons.

“Different flavors, see?” Philippe ordered a lemon grass one, and then one of peppermint. The macarons were so light, they were the essence of the flavor and melted on your tongue.

“Pastry should be light,” I said. “Not heavy, sitting in your stomach afterward. They should be whipped and formed to be as airy as possible, silky as possible. A punctuation to the meal”.

Philippe smiled at me.
“Exactement!
You get it now”.

I looked over the cases, the lighting perfect, like jewelers’ cases. The glass was polished and buffed until it almost disappeared. There
was a beautiful
mousse au caramel
, with an odd pattern on top—cross then dot, cross then dot.

“How did they make that?” I asked.

“They sifted cocoa through a rattan screen,” Philippe explained. “You can sift through almost anything to make a pattern”.

We hopped on the bike and went to the next Ladurée, on the Madeline, the “Ooh La La” district of Paris. Walking in felt more like entering the elegant salon of an aristocrat than a restaurant and pastry shop. The walls were walnut panels and gleaming cases tempted passersby, promising a momentary distraction to the harried day.

I drank it in. The minutes-old Madeleines, crisp and hot with a tender crumb inside. The
palmiers
, handprints made of puff pastry and dusted with sugar. Mousses and flans and cakes more elaborate than any I had ever seen—all for daily consumption.

“Truly incredible,” I whispered. “We have nothing like this in the US. At least not in Seattle”.

“So I understand,” Philippe said. “Though Luc has tried”. A troubled look crossed his face, and I remembered the urgent phone call from Luc to Monsieur Delacroix the other day.

“He is trying,” I agreed, hoping I hadn’t slighted his cousin and my friend.

We went to a few more shops and then stopped at a restaurant for dinner. It felt exciting to pull the motorcycle helmet off my head and stroll into a café to ward off the cooling Parisian night.

“Two?” The waiter held up his thumb and forefinger.

“Table for two,” Philippe confirmed. This was definitely a change from our usual table for three.

We sat down, and he ordered a carafe of water and one of wine.

“Is it okay if I order for us?” he asked.

“Please, do,” I said.

The waiter brought some freshly cleaned radishes, a plate of softened butter, and a small, scooped gourd which held sea salt. I watched as Philippe spread a little butter over his radish, sprinkled salt on it, and bit in.

I did likewise, and the explosion of taste and texture was amazing. Sweet, hot, peppery, crisp, velvet. I took a drink of wine and tried another.

“Why did you decide to take your motorcycle today?” I asked, unable to quell my curiosity any longer.

Philippe laughed, and like his sister, the years dropped away from him as he did. I could imagine him as a teenager. “Always curious, you Americans, aren’t you?”

I grinned. “But of course, it’s one of our best qualities”.

“And one I enjoy,” Philippe said, smiling in return. “I have had my head down, as you say, into my work for so long, that I have forgotten, I think, how to have fun. I have taken care of Céline, of course, but mostly my life has consisted of working and duties. Going to the museum with you was fun. Riding my motorcycle, I have put it away for quite some time … out of fear”.

He stopped there, and I waited for him. The waiter brought out our first course and I bit into my fish.

“Is it good?” Philippe asked before continuing.

“Divine,” I said. He looked pleased.

He took a bit of his
sole meunière
. “I’ve been a cautious driver—and I will continue to be so. But perhaps I’ve been a bit too cautious. I’m aware that I’m the only parent Céline has, but I also want to
teach her to live and to take risks. And laugh, Lexi, like you do so often”.

I blushed at the frank compliment, but he was right. Lately, I’d begun to laugh a lot more. Take a few risks. Maybe it was French
joie de vivre
. Maybe I was simply letting go.

We chatted about his childhood and mine, and I thanked him for taking me to visit the
pâtisseries
.

“I saw the new Boulangerie Delacroix in Versailles,” I said. His face cooled. I proceeded slowly. “It looks … lovely”.