“I don’t think so,” she said, scrambling to her feet so quickly the coffee cups rattled.
He also stood. At a shade under six feet, he was tall for a Frenchman and much taller than Drew. Genna felt small and petite—an unfamiliar sensation for someone who was five foot seven in her stocking feet and not exactly a winsome sprite. He moved toward her. Was he going to kiss her, right in the middle of the upscale Café de Flore?
When he again took her hand, she couldn’t decide if she was disappointed or relieved.
“Au revoir.”
“Yes, oui, au revoir.”
He released her hand. Her accent was probably still horrific, but at least he was polite enough not to wince.
“Another evening, perhaps?”
“Ah, sure. I mean, oui. Merci.”
He leaned forward so his mouth was inches from her ear. “Take care in the traffic,” he whispered. “La circulation est très dangereuse, n’est-ce pas?”
“Pardon?”
He smiled and shrugged, palms up.
“You do remember me!”
“Mais, bien sûr. You are not a woman who is easy to forget, Madame Genna McGraw.” He paused. “What is Genna, by the way? Is it short for something?”
“Geneviève, but only my French grandmother called me that. She’s been gone for many years now.”
“Mais, c’est belle! Geneviève.” The lilting way in which he said her name put her in danger of melting into a glistening puddle of middle-aged desire.
Not good.
Not good at all.
“Um, merci?” she stammered before turning and almost running out of the café. She sensed Pierre’s eyes burning two holes in her back, but she resisted the urge to turn around as she darted to the corner and crossed the Rue Bonaparte to the door of her apartment building. The courtyard was already dark. She waited in the shadows for several minutes until she was sure Pierre had left the café and then reemerged onto the street. She needed to pour her heart out in an email to Nancy. If it hadn’t been for her best friend’s encouragement, Genna might still be languishing in her basement suite.
Genna made it to a small place on Rue Mignon that offered cheap computer access and printing services. She plunked herself onto a plastic chair in front of a free monitor, logged on, and began to type.
Hi Nancy
You know how you said I should find a sexy Frenchman to fall in love with? Guess what? I found one! But don’t worry, I have no intention of falling in love with him or anyone else. Mind you, if I were so inclined (I’m not. Honestly!), he’d be the perfect candidate.
His name is Pierre Leblanc and, get this, he’s the son of horrid old Monsieur Leblanc, my landlord that I told you about. He looks to be in his early fifties, tall, snappy dresser, speaks perfect English, loves art, and as far as I can tell, he’s on his own.
What’s surprising is that he seems to like me. Okay, that sounds as if I’m in Grade 9. What I mean is that he appears to be interested.
I met him when I went to his father’s tabac shop to ask where to dispose of my garbage. We got to chatting and he asked me to meet him for coffee later in the afternoon. We ended up talking for ages. He suggested dinner, but I balked. How lame is that? But when was the last time I dated a man who wasn’t Drew? Don’t remind me about Fun Gordon. He doesn’t count.
I’m sure Pierre must think I’m a complete idiot the way I ran out of the café when he invited me to dinner. It was silly of me to panic. After all, as I keep trying to convince myself, I’m a grown woman. But I’m so out of practice!
What should I do if he asks me out again? Part of me wants to be left alone, but the other part, well! Write back soon!
Love Genna
Genna clicked Send. Still buzzing from all the coffee she’d consumed with Pierre, she paid the attendant, then wandered back along the Boulevard Saint-Germain toward the apartment. A crowd of young people spilled out onto the sidewalk up ahead, and a distinctly American odor assaulted her.
Her stomach clenched with hunger. She slipped through the thronged restaurant to the counter at the back. A young woman took her order for le Big Mac avec pommes frites et un Coca-Cola.
What the hell, even cookbook authors needed a night off once in a while.
Chapter Four
Orange Macarons
Filled with tart marmalade and dark chocolate
At 9:30 a.m., after almost two weeks in Paris, one coffee date with a sophisticated Frenchman, and five new recipes for Eat Like a Parisian, Genna followed the crowds through the tunnels under the massive Châtelet Métro station to Line 1, Direction La Défense. A few stops brought her to Champs-Élysées Clemenceau.
She was on her way to her first French language class. Five years of high-school French a few decades earlier were enough for Genna to keep herself fed, caffeinated, and lubricated with the occasional glass or two of wine.
What she couldn’t do was hold a conversation in French that lasted longer than two minutes. Also, Genna had to admit that she wouldn’t object to the odd encounter with human beings who were not waiters or shop assistants. Her time with Pierre at the Café de Flore had been pleasant but not repeated. He’d made no attempt to contact her again.
And why would he? She’d given him le brush off and he didn’t seem like the kind of man accustomed to rejection. Did she even want to see him again? Her friend Nancy had scolded her, telling her that if he did contact her again—and it was a big if—she was to be considerably more forthcoming. After all, Nancy wrote, what was she afraid of?
As a two-time ex-wife with generous alimony and a steady stream of boyfriends, Nancy had perfected the art of the no-strings relationship. She spent her days either shopping or flitting from upscale charity to upscale charity with names like The Friends of West Vancouver Poodles Society and Save Our Views. She was hardly in a position to provide reliable advice when it came to men.
The address of the language school belonged to a modern doorway that opened onto a linoleum-covered foyer and a steep staircase. Genna scaled the four flights of stairs to a blue door advertising “L’École Javert.” She hoped the intermediate class that she’d optimistically signed up for wouldn’t be a variation on Les Miz for hapless foreigners.
She opened the door to a reception area enclosed in taupe walls adorned with posters of French beauties of the scenic landscape variety, not the svelte, pouty-lipped waifs Genna passed on the streets.
“You are Madame McGraw?”
Speaking of pouty lipped and svelte. The receptionist reminded Genna of the women who worked at the cosmetics counters in department stores. Flawless makeup, perfect hair, and an exquisitely cut beige suit molded around petite curves.
“Yes. I’m here for the ten o’clock class. I’m a bit early.”
“Non, non, non!” the woman exclaimed, gold earrings flashing. She bustled forward and took Genna’s arm.
“Français seulement! Alors, encore!” French only. Again!
“Oh, uh, désolée. Um, oui. Je suis ici pour la classe de dix heures.” I am here for the class at ten o’clock.
The woman barely disguised a shudder at Genna’s accent.
“Um, Je suis . . .” Genna paused. What was “early” in French? She searched the part of her brain containing all the French she’d ever learned. It didn’t take long to discover that the French for I’m a bit early was AWOL, if indeed it had ever existed. She flashed back to those stilted conversations in French 11. No one was ever early. Come to think of it, no one ever said anything useful. Conversations revolved around saying your name and that you were a student at Point Grey Secondary School in Vancouver, British Columbia. Je suis une étudiante à l’école secondaire de Point Grey de Vancouver. The curriculum presumed every student would remain sixteen years old forever.