Les livres des cuisine? Who knew?
After the class, Genna waited until the other students had left before confronting Mademoiselle.
“Excuse me,” she said in English. Her head was pounding, her palms sweaty.
“En français.”
Genna shook her head. “I’m all out of French. Is there another class I could join? I don’t belong in the intermediate class.”
The instructor nodded her agreement and motioned for Genna to follow her to the front office, where she sat at her desk, tapped a few keys on the computer, frowned at the screen, and then shook her head.
“Ce n’est pas possible,” she said. “The beginners’ classes, they are filled.” She scrolled the mouse with a fingernail lacquered the color of ripe plums. “Non! This class is the only class until, ah, un moment, juillet.”
“But that’s almost three months away!”
“C’est dommage. You stay here. I give you materials.” She turned to a bookcase above the computer and started pulling out books. “You read and practice.”
“I don’t think I can keep up. I’d like to withdraw.”
“You can drop out of the class, but no refund. You signed a contract.”
“But that’s ridiculous! What if I were ill?”
“You are not ill,” Mademoiselle Deville pointed out. “And as the instructrice, I say you must stay in the class.” She smiled, a hint of pity in her perfectly lined smoky eyes. “It will be okay. You just need confidence.”
Genna was too tired to argue. She scooped up the books and headed out the door. On the landing, she found Marsha waiting for her.
“She didn’t let you out, did she.”
“None of the beginner courses are available until July and she won’t give me a refund. I guess I could insist, but I’m worn out. That was brutal!”
“Oh, come on, it wasn’t that bad. I was watching you. You were able to follow most of the conversations. It’s when you had to speak that you clammed up. That’s just a lack of confidence.”
“So Mademoiselle Deville tells me.”
“Well, Mademoiselle Deville is right.” Marsha grinned. “Let’s go get a coffee and I can help you practice. I know a good place not far from here.”
Genna wanted nothing more than to return to her apartment and hide her throbbing head under the colorful new pillows, but Marsha was already halfway to the second floor and suddenly an hour or two of female companionship—in English and without strings—didn’t seem like such a terrible prospect.
The April sun was warm enough for them to sit outside at a café on the Champs-Élysées. They ordered café crèmes and settled into two chairs set side by side at a small round table facing the street. A parade of Parisians passed in front of them, some strolling, a few hurrying, almost all talking on their phones. Tourists—in pairs and in large groups—also flowed past, eyes swiveling, phones snapping.
“Do you really think I’ll be able to keep up with this class?” Genna asked. “I feel like an idiot. I can understand most of what you and the others say, but when the instructor talks, I get one word in ten. Even that would have been bearable if she’d have just let me listen. But is it just me or was she trying to humiliate me by calling on me so often?”
“She called on everyone about the same amount. It seems like a lot because there’s only five of us.” Marsha turned sideways to look at Genna. “You did fine. Sure, you were nervous, but nobody minded. We’re there to learn.”
“Yes, and having a complete dunce in the class doesn’t help anyone.”
“Let’s forget about French class. We’ll have our coffee and get acquainted. Then, we can make plans to get together later to practice.”
“You’re not working this afternoon?”
Marsha’s smile faded and she shifted her eyes to her coffee. “Well, no, not today. I’m on hiatus right now.” She looked up. “Yes, that’s it. A hiatus. That’s why I’ve got time for French classes.”
“A hiatus from what? You said you went to L’École des Beaux-Arts. Are you an artist?”
“Designer. But I wanted to be an artist—a painter, to be exact. The next Berthe Morisot, maybe. But I found out pretty fast that a girl’s got to make a living. There wasn’t much call for my paintings back in Denver, so I moved to New York and talked myself into a job at a design firm. The rest is history.”
Genna laughed. “Let me guess. You rose through the ranks in the design firm, came to the attention of the suits, and got yourself posted to the Paris branch. Am I close?”
“Close enough.” Marsha paused as if trying to decide how much to tell Genna, then shook her head ruefully. “The truth is that I don’t have a job. I came to Paris because of my boyfriend.” When Genna didn’t reply, she rushed on. “I can tell what you’re thinking, and, I know, it’s such a cliché. It’s the twenty-first century! I’m not supposed to follow my man halfway across the globe.”
“You wouldn’t be the first.”
“I know. And he is wonderful! I met him in New York about two months ago. He’s from London, but he was in New York doing some consulting work with the company I worked for. We kind of hit it off right away, and before I knew it, he was asking me to come to Paris with him.”
“Sounds like quite the whirlwind romance.”
“You sound like my mom.” Marsha laughed at the frown on Genna’s face. “Don’t look like that! I wasn’t comparing you to my mother. And besides, I agree with her. It is going pretty fast.”
“Are you all right with that?”
“Oh sure. Colin’s great. I’ve had a few duds in my time, believe me. But when Colin came along, I got the feeling, you know, that he’s the one.”
“I’m sure he is.” Genna smiled at Marsha and drained the last of her café crème. “It’s been lovely chatting, but I need to get going.”
“To visit one of the places you want to include in your book?”
“The Orangerie. I want to see the Monet water lily paintings. Les Nymphéas?”
“Can I come with you? I’ve got nothing on this afternoon until six when Colin and I are going to view an apartment.” Marsha wrapped both her hands around her cup and stared into the last bits of foam, her eyes hooded. “I’d appreciate it.”
Genna wanted to say no. She liked Marsha. Who wouldn’t? But the constant chattering would kill the solitude she counted on to uncover a connection between Monet’s water lilies and a recipe.
“Please.” Marsha eyes brightened. “We can practice French. And I’ve never been to the Orangerie.”
“You haven’t? But you’re a designer! How can you not have seen Monet’s water lilies?”
“I know, it’s inexcusable. But I was waiting to go with Colin. He’s a Monet nut.”
“I’m glad to hear he has good taste, but if you go with me, what will Colin say?”
“Oh, he’ll be okay because I won’t tell him. Please, Genna. Let me come with you. I can’t bear another afternoon in our apartment. It’s ghastly.”