picture just to confirm. The calendar had flipped from March to April since I’d left the States, and this picture was from Paris Fashion Week six months ago. He was here. My heart started to beat triple time in my chest, but I couldn’t tell if it was excitement or panic. Could I do this? Could I track down this gorgeous man whom I hadn’t seen in seven years on the off chance that he remembered me?
I studied the picture. The truth was Jean Claude was so far out of my league, surrounded by models and aristocrats, billionaires and artists, that it was laughable that I’d even attempt to contact him. Still, there was no mention of a wife or girlfriend. Could I just walk away and not see him again? No.
Decision made. I noted the address of the Absalon design house on the Avenue Montaigne and closed the browser windows. Newly resolved, I pushed back from the computer, grabbed my shopping bags, and hurried to the door. If I was going to do this, I was bringing my A game. Calling “Merci” to the man at the counter, I dashed from the Internet café.
* * *
• • • •
BACK AT CAFÉ Zoe, I was disappointed to find that my suitcase had not magically appeared. There were no messages from my family or work, so I assumed my emails had arrived and all was well or they had yet to read my emails—it was still morning in Boston, after all, so they might catch up to me later.
I dropped my loot in my apartment and went back downstairs to strategize while fortifying with a good lunch. I was a planner. I needed bullet points, a spreadsheet, or at the very least a mission statement so that I could keep my nerves from taking over and sending me into a spiral of self-doubt. At the moment, I was 100 percent flying by the seat of my pants. This was not my comfort zone.
I sat by the window, brooding over my latte. Zoe appeared at my table with the salmon toast I’d ordered. It looked amazing. A thick slab of bread with slices of avocado and thinly shaved salmon, topped with greens and a soft boiled egg, which was split open, with the runny yolk glazing the food beneath.
“Merci,” I said. “This looks amazing.”
“Are you well, Chelsea?” Zoe squinted at me with concern. “You look . . . concerned.”
I glanced up at the pretty Frenchwoman. She had such a peaceful way about her; maybe she could give me some ideas on how to handle this situation.
“Do you really want to hear my tale of woe?” I asked.
Zoe nodded and pulled out the chair on the other side of the table. It was then that I noticed she had a latte in hand and had been planning to join me all along. That made me smile.
I took a bite of my salmon toast, enjoying my food for a moment before delving into my story. I explained about my father’s wedding, my sister calling me out, which Zoe kindly protested, forcing me to admit that, no, it was actually true. Then I told her about my year abroad and the recent awkward reunion in Ireland.
I was swabbing the last of the egg yolk with my bread when Annalisse came with two fresh coffees. We thanked her, and she took away my empty plate.
“You are here, then, to see a man?” Zoe asked.
“That’d be the short version, yes,” I said. “But I’m nervous. What if he doesn’t remember me? What if he’s married or horrified that someone from his past has shown up out of nowhere?”
Zoe tapped her chin with her index finger, then she snapped her fingers and pointed at me. “You should follow him in disguise. Dress as a server, and then you can watch him and see if he is worth another chance.”
“Wouldn’t he notice a woman dressed as a server following him around the city?” I asked.
“Non, that is why it is perfect,” Zoe said. “No one ever notices servers. In France, we keep our distance and try not to be noticed. We are like background scenery that delivers food.”
Her French accent made the crazy idea seem so reasonable. I found myself actually considering it until I remembered. “I don’t have any clothes.”
“I have clothes for you,” she said. She studied my figure with a critical eye. “Yes, we can do this.”
* * *
• • • •
THIS WAS HOW