The Devil's Own Chloe (Bistro La Bohème Series) (2 page)

Three

I’m
at
Lolo
again, unwinding after a long day.

Hugo,
René, and I had managed to put all the finishing touches and scrub the house
clean yesterday. But this morning Madame Beauvais called to say she did want
that custom bookcase in the hallway, and could my team please, please, please
build it before she and her husband moved in tomorrow? I agreed, considering
this was her only whimsical request and she was paying handsomely for it.

What
with the walls being far from plumb and our electric saw breaking in the middle
of the action, René and I spent seven hours making those shelves.

Did
I mention Madame Beauvais wanted them curved?

If
only Hugo’s exam was tomorrow!

Anyway,
we finished by six forty-five. René left, and I used the remaining fifteen
minutes to shower and change into a pair of slim-fit blue jeans, a white silk
shirt and a black tailored jacket. Clothes that say “I’m a creative
professional” are a must if you want to make it as an architect in this city.
It’s that way or the highway.

At
seven sharp, Monsieur and Madame Beauvais arrived and I showed them around. Two
hours later, I left the house, a fat check in my purse and two glasses of
champagne in my stomach. And ended up here in
Lolo,
the bar being just a
few blocks from the Beauvais’ house.

Tonight,
I’m not interested in picking up a man. I’m not in the mood for sex, and I
don’t even know why. It’s just like that. Some evenings—usually after we deliver
a project and the pressure drops—I let melancholy get the better of me.
On those evenings, I walk into the nearest bar, treat myself to the most
obnoxious cocktail on the menu, and then foot it home. Meandering the
boulevards of Paris, shutting out the hubbub, and zooming in on random faces
and words are my way of touching the soul of this city.

For
an ancestry-deprived person like me, it’s important to establish a connection
with a place and to nurture it. Although I only moved to Paris at eighteen,
I’ve completely lost my singsong Midi accent and taken root here. I’ve become a
Parisienne.

Which
is about as much belonging as I may ever be granted because, to quote Cersei
Lannister, “The gods have no mercy. That’s why they’re gods.”

Yeah,
I know, I know—referring to
Game of Thrones
is bad form in good
Parisian circles—and I’ve been doing it a lot lately. It’s all Diane’s
fault. She twisted my arm and got me to watch an episode the day she moved in,
and I’ve been indulging almost every night since at the expense of my reading
time.

But
back to the matter of my belonging, I have obviously considered that I was just
given up for adoption by a hapless teenage mom. The fact that she chose to give
birth anonymously, without disclosing her identity, supports that theory.
Besides, it’s the most likely scenario, statistically-speaking.

Except
statistics don’t work for me.

The
most likely scenario in my case is that my birth mother is dead. And probably
my biological father, too.

I
was adopted as an infant by an adoring couple—Murielle and François
Germain—who had no kids of their own. They gave me a postcard-happy
childhood in a sleepy little town near Marseilles.

When
I was eleven, the three of us had one of those spectacular car crashes that
ends up on the local newscast.

My
adoptive parents died.

I
survived.

People
said it was a miracle.

Ha!
Little did
they know the invisible force that had kept me alive wasn’t the hand of God. It
was the Devil’s paw.

Because
I’m the Devil’s own child.

Anyway,
after the accident killed my adoptive mom and dad, I was put in foster care in
Nîmes. My foster parents—Claire and Charles Petit—took good care of
me, despite being overwhelmed by their son Lionel’s ever-aggravating cystic
fibrosis and their daughter Diane’s unruliness. They sent all three of us to
the best private school in town, where I acquired my passion for geometry and a
buddy who’s now key to the success of my business—Hugo.

“Chloe!”
someone cries out from behind, breaking me from my reminiscences. “I knew I’d
find you here.”

I
turn around.

Fabien
stares at me, unsmiling.

“Hi,”
I say.

Crap
.

I’m
such an idiot. I can’t believe I returned to the bar where I’d picked up my
latest lay so soon. Normally, I’d wait at least six months, letting the trail
go cold, before revisiting a hunting ground. Thankfully, Paris has no shortage
of bars and cafés.

“I’m
glad you’re by yourself,” Fabien says.

“I
was leaving, actually. I’m knocked out.”

He
nods. “I’ll walk you home.”

Double
crap.

“Listen,”
I say, “we had a good time, but I’m not looking for a repeat session.”

“Of
course you are.”

“Pardon?”

He
arches an eyebrow. “Why else would you be hanging at this particular bar when
there are so many others in the area?”

Good
question.
I
could say I like the place and I’d forgotten all about him, but I know it would
sound lame.

“You’re
not looking for a relationship, right?” he asks. “I get it, I really do. For
your information, I’m not looking for a girlfriend, either.”

“So,
what’s your point?”

“As
you said, we had a good time last week, so why not have another go at it?”

Why
not, indeed?

I’ve
had “sex buddies” in the past, and this type of loose relationships works for
me. With the right man—and Fabien seems to be the right man for the
job—my hormone-crammed body can take the edge off while my heart remains
perfectly safe. We’d continue until the excitement of being with someone new
wears off, and then we’d go our separate ways. I was with my last “buddy”
almost six months. It didn’t end very well, though. The poor guy began to
develop feelings, so I had to ditch him.

But
then again, I’d suspected from the very beginning he was fishy. His smile was
way too warm and his touch too gentle. Fabien hasn’t demonstrated any telltale
signs of such weaknesses. This means our inevitable parting will likely be
smooth and mutually agreed upon.

So,
yeah, why the hell not?

*
* *

Four

As
I hurry down rue Lafayette, maneuvering my umbrella against the elements that
leave no doubt summer is over, I can’t help thinking about Fabien.

We’ve
been “seeing” each other every Saturday night for over a month now, and I’m
beginning to doubt he’s as right for me as I thought. He hasn’t showed any
romantic tendencies, so all’s fine on that front. But he’s started to make
observations that rattle me. Nothing outrageous, just an occasional remark on
my clothing, in the vein of “your blouse is too transparent” and “your jeans
are too tight,” or my person, such as “Do your parents know you sleep around?”
That last one
really
rubbed me the wrong way.

Last
Saturday, he paid and insisted we leave the bar before I’d finished my drink.

“What’s
the emergency?” I asked.

His
eyes darted to the man having a beer at the counter. “He’s been checking you
out.”

“So
what?”

Fabien’s
nostrils flared. “What do you mean, ‘so what’?”

“I
haven’t been checking
him
out, have I?”

“Maybe
you have, when I wasn’t looking,” he said, twisting his lips, and gripped my
arm. “We’re leaving.”

I
shrugged and followed him out, disappointed by his sudden outburst of jealousy
and by the implications it had for our arrangement.

Fabien
may not be the emotional type, but he’s becoming possessive, which means it’s
time to end our affair and begin looking for a new Candidate.

That’s
a shame, really, because things looked good from my perspective. As good as they
ever get for me, anyway. But hey, nothing good lasts, as someone clever said.
The annoying thing is that Fabien will never know that I’m doing him a favor.
He’ll never suspect that my ending our relationship now—at the first
symptoms of his growing, albeit heavy-handed, attachment—might spare his
life. He’ll be angry for a while, and he’ll despise me. But that’s OK. At
least, he won’t become another victim of my unique toxicity.

It’s
not for nothing that they call me “Kiss-of-Death Chloe.”

Well,
to be frank,
they
—whomever that may be—don’t. I do. Someone
has to.

A
car zooms by, splashing rainwater onto my legs. I bend down to rub the
resulting polka dots on my shins and calves, diffusing their dampness as best I
can across my sheer stockings. When I’m done rubbing, I straighten my back and
take another look at the map on my phone. Rue Cadet must be the next one on the
left. That’s where I’m headed to meet with Hugo’s big sis, Jeanne.

He
called me last night to say he’d heard from the exam administration—he’s
passed it with flying colors and will get his license in a few weeks. He also
announced Jeanne wanted to hire us to redo her bistro.

I’d
had no idea Jeanne had bought a bistro.

“Depends
on how much work is required,” I said. “We’re booked from late October through
the end of spring.”

“I
know. From what I’ve seen, the job won’t take us more than three weeks. Four
with contingencies.”

“If
we take this project on,”—I tried to sound menacing—“don’t even
dream of acting like you’re related to the client.”

“It
wouldn’t work even if I tried. I’m her
younger
brother, remember?”

“So
what?”

“You
know what. Younger siblings are patronized at best and ignored at worst,
regardless of their occupation, experience, and age.”

“Oh,
come on. Jeanne adores you.”

“Adores
me—yes. Respects me—not so sure.”

He
might have a point there. I would’ve used the exact same words to describe
Lionel’s attitude toward Diane and me.

Hugo
spoke again, sadness tinting the humor in his voice as if he knew whom I was
thinking about. “Using my privileged connection would be pointless in this
case.”

“I
guess.”

“If
you want to know the whole truth, I’m worried Jeanne will ruin your good
opinion of me.”

I
smirked. “So you believe I value you, huh?”

“I
believe you do.” He paused before adding with an exaggerated ire, “What’s even
more annoying than Jeanne’s attitude is how quickly her husband Mat took his
cue from her. He now treats me as if I’m his little brother. It’s
disheartening.”

Hugo
sighed and I imagined him shaking his head.

Even
so, I’d bet money he actually likes Mat. Because in the fifteen years I’ve
known him, Hugo Bonnet has never really
disliked
anyone.

As
I turn onto rue Cadet, I recall one by one all our classmates, teachers, and
common acquaintances in Nîmes and in Paris. Just as I suspected, I can’t
identify a single individual Hugo may have regarded with antipathy. Is he even
capable of such a sentiment?

When
I get to the bistro called
La Bohème
, he’s already there. The place is
cozy and unaffected, but undeniably passé despite the funky posters on the
walls. Jeanne, whom I haven’t seen in years and whose blue hair and piercings
seem to be a thing of the past, greets me warmly.

She
introduces me to the headwaiter—a woman in her early twenties named
Manon—and a server of about the same age, Amar. The chef and other two
waiters are absent, but Jeanne tells me I’ll meet them later today.

I
look around, and my mind goes into overdrive picturing the possibilities. This
place would make a great neo-bistro or an artsy restaurant. Alternatively, I
could redesign it as a hippy-chic coffee shop or even a snazzy juice bar,
provided the structure cooperates. But I shouldn’t get ahead of myself. Let me
see first what Jeanne wants and how far her budget will stretch. Unless she’s changed
beyond abandoning her Gothic look, this woman won’t give me carte blanche like
Madame Beauvais did.

“Mat
and I got twenty grand for this,” Jeanne says, opening a sketch pad. “And these
are our ideas.”

I
knew
there’d be no free reign.

“We
need more light in the front room,” she says as I study her sketches. “And I’d
like to convert the basement into a gig venue with a small stage.”

“We
often host musicians and stand-up comedians here,” Manon chimes in. “And then
the front room gets too crowded, and it’s a big mess. We need a dedicated space
for the shows.”

“Can
you do it?” Jeanne asks.

“I
must see the basement first and assess how much work it requires.” I point to
Hugo. “Has he mentioned we’ll take this on only if we can finish by late
October?”

Jeanne
nods.

“Is
your electrical wiring up to code?” I ask.

She
grins. “The previous owner got it upgraded just before he sold the place to me,
so that’s sorted.”

“What
about the plumbing? And the kitchen?”

“The
kitchen only needs new tiles and furniture,” Hugo jumps in. “And the three
bathrooms will stay where they are now.”

I
walk over to the door marked with a wheelchair pictogram. If we sign on, I’ll
have to make sure this space complies with all the latest accessibility
requirements, but at least we won’t be moving any partitions. Next, I take a
look at the men’s and women’s bathrooms, which are older and in a considerably
shabbier state.

“You
want these black, huh?” I turn to Jeanne, who’s standing behind me. “Lavatory
and all?”

She
spreads her arms, palms up. “What can I say? My residual inner Goth needs an
outlet.”

I
return to the bar and run my hand over the copper countertop, taking in its
feel and subtle changes in hue. The bar is one of the bistro’s original
fixtures and fittings that Jeanne is keen on preserving.

Amen
to that.

I
stroke the smooth surface for another moment and then squat to admire the
varnished mahogany panels on the front. They’re rich reddish brown, and I’m
full of glee, anticipating the joy of touching them. As my fingertips absorb their
texture and warmth and my eyes feast on their color, I tell myself life’s good.
As long as I take the necessary precautions with
people
, I can derive my
happiness from
things
as often and as much as I want.

The
gods don’t object to my touching this antique bar or savoring pistachio
macarons. The universe doesn’t have a problem with me becoming a glutton for
delights like music and books. And, most importantly, the Devil doesn’t punish
an innocent on my account.

When
I’ve touched and looked to my heart’s content, I stand up and go through the
rest of Jeanne’s illustrated notes.

“OK,”
I say, closing the pad. “We may be able to fit into your budget and our
timeframe, depending on—”

Jeanne
throws her fist into the air. “Yes!”

“Easy.”
I smile. “I said we
may
. Let’s see that basement now, shall we?”

Jeanne,
Hugo, and I descend the wooden staircase. In the basement, the first thing I
notice is that the ceiling is high enough to build a dais. The space is dark,
which means I’ll need to be smart with the lighting. The good news is that
there’s no mold or detectable moisture and the drain tile system seems to
operate like the little engine that could. No structural problems, either. The
walls look terrible, though, and they’re poorly insulated. But that’s easy to fix.

All
in all, the basement is in better state than I’d feared.

Back
upstairs, Jeanne serves us drinks. She doesn’t say anything, but I can hear her
unspoken question loud and clear.

“So,
what do you think?” I ask Hugo.

“I
think it’s doable.” He winks. “And I’m not saying this as the client’s close
relative.”

“What
about you, René?” I turn to my second teammate, who’s joined us in the
meantime. “Do you agree with Hugo’s unbiased opinion?”

“Sure.”
René stifles a smile. “But don’t count on me working overtime. You know my
wife’s rules—if I’m not home by seven to have dinner with the kids, I
don’t get dessert.”

I
cock my head. “Is this your way of saying we won’t finish on time without
all-nighters?”

A
late night or two when wrapping up a project is almost unavoidable, but I doubt
this renovation will require more than that.

René
shrugs theatrically. “What I think doesn’t really matter at this point, does
it? I’m just a simple carpenter from Lille up against the cutthroat Nîmes mafia
with your ruthless ways and atrocious accent.”

Jeanne
bursts out laughing.

“Look
at the bright side, René,” Hugo says. “We could’ve been from farther south.
Think Corsica. Or worse, Sicily.”

“But
we still have
vendetta
.” Jeanne puts her hands on her hips. “And
omertà,
too. So if I were you, I’d weigh every word.”

Hugo
arches an eyebrow at René, looking down at the poor man from his six foot three
of hard muscle.

OK,
time for my verdict.

“Your
concerns are noted, René, and I promise you won’t go without dessert.”

I
turn to Jeanne. “Forty percent up front, twenty in three weeks, and the
remaining forty at the end.”

“Deal,”
she says. “When can you begin?”

“I’ll
write up the contract tonight so you can sign tomorrow. We’ll start as soon as
you’ve emptied the place out.”

On
that, everyone shakes hands, René goes to his car, and I climb into Hugo’s
minivan.

Have
I mentioned how much I appreciate his purchasing this vehicle? A car that’s
roomy enough to transport tools, building materials, and debris, yet small
enough to park in Paris is a must-have in our line of business. And seeing as
I’ve flunked my driving test three times, after which my instructor suggested I
stop trying, Hugo’s timely acquisition has helped keep my business afloat.

Oh,
to hell with euphemisms!

Can’t
I just be honest with myself and admit that Hugo’s reentry into my life a year
ago saved my drowning ass? It would appear I can admit it, after all.

There,
I just did it.

*
* *