a pile of rocket greens on top. My aunt and I agreed to douse it with the provided house blend of chili oil.
“The food has been a revelation,” I said, “and I’ve only been here for two and a half days.”
“Yes.” My aunt sipped her glass of Casavecchia. “Paris has its charms: the food, the sights, the people. Anyone can imagine themselves living here.”
The way she spoke, I felt she was talking about herself. Aunt Evelyn was selling her home in San Francisco. The rest of the family couldn’t have known, otherwise the pageantry and procession at the airport would have been bigger.
“I couldn’t live here,” I said. “It’s beautiful, but our family is back home. I’d miss too many things about California, like the convenience of driving my car.”
“You’re already tired from walking?” Aunt Evelyn asked.
My feet were sore, but not painful after a day out sightseeing. However, switching to more comfortable flats for the next two days would be best.
“Not quite,” I admitted with a laugh.
“As long as the company is good,” my aunt said with a smile, “I’m sure your feet will feel fine.”
After dinner, I called Ma and asked if she knew that Aunt Evelyn was selling her house. The gasp from the phone indicated she didn’t. She promised to use the auntie network to find out more details, before reminding me to call the next day.
Deep sleep enveloped me as I dreamed. A scarf. A chase. Lovers in an embrace.
* * *
* * *
Marc was waiting for me at the top of the stairs leading down to Rue du Bac Station. He wore a tan leather jacket, dark denim, and the same messenger bag from yesterday. I didn’t think it possible, but he appeared even more handsome.
His eyes brightened when he saw me, followed by that dazzling smile.
“Are you ready for today’s adventure?” he asked.
“Yes.”
His phone beeped. He ignored it. The beeping persisted until it escalated into rings. He sighed and checked the screen.
“Work?” I asked. “It’s okay, you can take the call.”
Marc rolled his eyes while the ringtone trilled on. “Yes, it’s work. I’m sorry. Please excuse me.”
Brief pauses in the ensuing conversation were interrupted with rapid French.
I’d been hoping to eavesdrop, but I couldn’t understand any of it. Judging by his tone and body language, I could see that whatever was happening at work was stressful. I ruled out a few more careers in my list of his possible vocations.
Marc hung up three minutes later. “I’m really sorry. I told them not to call again.”
“It’s all right. I understand.”
He tilted his head and admired my cap-sleeved dress. “You certainly dressed for the palace. You’re the embodiment of spring.”
I twirled in one of the new items I had picked up while shopping with my aunt. The movement of the knee-length skirt highlighted the colorful butterfly appliqués pressed against a sheer lace overlay. The garment was a decadent, romantic confection of embroidery. Aunt Evelyn suggested the outfit this morning because of Marc’s plans for the day.
“Thank you.” I smiled.
The tension in his shoulders disappeared and his dimpled smile returned. “It’s less crowded at this time. We can afford to grab some breakfast before taking the RER to Versailles. Are you hungry?”
“Yes. I’d love breakfast.”
* * *
* * *
We walked to a boulangerie near the Musée d’Orsay. He went inside while I selected an unoccupied table outside in the sun. Marc emerged with a baguette and two coffees. Reaching inside his bag, he took out three small jars along with a cloth-wrapped parcel.
“This,” he said, leaning over the table to showcase the bread, “is important for your foodie encyclopedia.” The crinkle of the paper reminded me of opening presents on Christmas morning with the same levels of nervous excitement and anticipation.
Unraveling the cloth, he revealed a small, serrated bread knife and three metal teaspoons. Marc cut the baguette into a stack of slim slices. “Most locals don’t often eat decadent breakfasts. They love spreads and preserves—especially Nutella. I didn’t bring that, though, because you have it back home.”
I reached for the jars and unscrewed the tops. “So this is jam and toast?”
“Yes. Carrot and ginger, raspberry rhubarb, and blackberry vanilla,” he said, placing the spoons in each one.
Marc planned our breakfast like he had planned our day. Thoughtfulness like this did not exist on my dates—not that this was a date, I chided myself.
“Taste the jam first before I put it on the bread.” He dipped the spoon into the golden jar.