Disarranged (9 page)

"Lee?"

"Yeah, that's the name. Totally threatened me the other night. Told me not to touch you. Like I would even do something creepy like that. He seemed pretty intense about it which is weird, because, you know, you're not his fiancé."

"No," I say quietly. "I'm not."

Felix looks around, and ducks away from me muttering 'shit'. But it's too late. A dark blur collides with Felix's face. Lee punches him so hard Felix nearly staggers hard enough to fall on the floor. Lee pulls Felix up by the collar to snarl in his face.

"I told you. I told you to stay the hell away from her."

"I'm her teacher, man." Felix wrenches out of his grip, gingerly touching his face. For once his monotone voice pitches up and down with anger. "What the fuck is your problem?"

"I know Kiera hired you," Lee snaps. I've never seen him this angry. His eyes are livid and he looks tense, taut, on the verge of snapping. "Whatever it is you're planning to do to her, I won't let it happen."

"I'm not planning to do anything to anyone, okay? I think this is a big misunderstanding."

"You lying piece of -"

"Lee!" I dash in before Lee has the chance to round on Felix again. "Stop it! You're being stupid!"

"Stupid? Do you have any idea what she's capable of, Rose? This guy - this guy isn't who he says he is. They're all liars."

"True. I do lie," Felix says, mopping at his bleeding nose with his sleeve. "My first name's Patrick, but Felix is my middle and, let's face it, sounds waaay cooler."

"Don't try to turn this into a massive joke," Lee snarls. People are starting to stare.

"Hey!" I put myself in front of Lee squarely, trying to block his view of Felix. "Look at me!"

Lee snorts something inaudible and swear-filled, eyes still locked on Felix over my shoulder. I put my hands on either side of his face and pull it down to see me.

"I said look at me!"

Lee's ragged panting slows as his hazel eyes bore into mine. For a moment, it's like the old days. This moment is months in the past, when he still liked me. Maybe love? No. Just liked. But I can pretend I'm about to kiss him, like this, and my body burns with the urge to.

"It's okay," I say softly. "Right now, I'm okay. No one has done anything to me."

"As far as I can tell, Lee," A third voice joins in. Grace saunters up from behind us. "You're the only one who's done anything to her in this room."

Lee flinches, and I suddenly realize how close his face is and let go. I feel Grace's hand on my arm as she pulls me back, away from a confused, hurt-looking Lee and a bleeding, tired-looking Felix. As I get a clear view of the balcony, I see a figure dressed in a white fur-line skirt and shirt, blonde hair in a high ponytail. She smiles, leans on the balcony, and waves with her fingers at me, a silent mockery of my feelings for the man she's marrying.

She's done that to me before, that little wave. The wave that says 'I know more than you do about everything, and I am more than you could ever be'. This time, Lee's anger must've rubbed off on me. Or maybe I'm just sick of being treated like a toy dancing for someone who likes to watch.

I don't ignore it, but I should. But I don't shy away from it, either.

I hold my free fist up, and flip her off.

Maybe she sees it, maybe she doesn't, maybe it’s immature of me, but by the time Grace drags me outside it hardly matters, since I can't see her reaction anymore. Grace is furious, leading me across the parking lot with a ferocious intent and unrelenting pace. She stops at a black, taxi-like car and motions for me to get in. I do, and she gets in, and the driver goes for miles down the mountain before she starts to speak again.

"He's so stupid."

"Lee?" I ask quietly.

Grace shakes her head as if to rid herself of the negative feelings.

"Whatever. Never mind. Tonight is for fun - Ferdinand has been dying to see you, and the village is adorable. There's a bakery I really, really want you to see."

"But, what were you saying -"

"No more idiots. Let's just have a nice night, okay?"

She seems stressed beyond belief just by the tone of her voice, so I let it drop. Pretty soon the car arrives in the village, and the tension the incident in the lobby left me with is pushed out by the beauty of a true French Alps town - every building is made of white-washed stone, with rain-stained tile roofing and old-fashioned windows with heavy shutters. Every gutter and windowsill is puffy and white with fresh snow. Warm squares of honey-colored light spill from the windows and onto the cobblestone streets, and rustic signs in French tip precariously on the tops of rusty poles. Frosted holly and winter ivy lace up the sides of stores and homes. Beat-up, tiny French cars line the streets. Old men in heavy overcoats smoking pipes play chess outside the general store, and women usher their ruddy-cheeked children home and sweep their storefronts clean of slush. It's like something out of a fairytale book, minus the occasional smartly-dressed tourist from the ski resort, and of course, us. Grace leads me down the street, pointing out the dress shop and post office with a lazy black dog sleeping in front of it.

Finally we duck into a narrow door with a bell that chimes over it, and the smell of cinnamon and warm yeast and vanilla extract that hits me feels just like home. It's the best smell in the world, and one I'll never get tired of - the smell of a bakery.

The shelves are lined with fresh rolls on wax paper, fruit tarts dripping with glaze, and pies with crusts so golden Martha Stewart couldn't make them look better. Cake pops and loaves of crispy French bread stick up out of jars, and éclairs, cream puffs, and macaroons glitter with covers of thick chocolate and shredded pistachio flakes. It's heaven. It's a heaven designed just for me. I don't realize I'm slowly walking around gaping at all the goodies until Grace yells to get my attention. I snap out of it and sheepishly wander to her side, where she's talking to a wrinkled older French woman in a billowy white apron that's two sizes too big for her. It looks like it's swallowing her whole, or that she's swimming in it. Her glasses make her blue eyes seem buggy and huge, but her smile is sincere and gentle.

"
Bonjour
," she says. "
Voulez-vous de pain
?"

Grace says something to her in rapid French, but I don't have any idea what she's saying beyond the word 'pain' - bread. I smile faintly and try to nod along to show I'm interested, because I really am. This woman is clearly a master of her craft - I can tell just by the way her choux pastries have puffed up perfectly, by the care and tiny details she's put on her quiche, that she lives for baking. Baking is what she's known for so long, it's like breathing to her. Being in a store full of her mastery is nearly overwhelming. Grace says something and points to me, and the woman scurries behind the counter and comes out with a small chocolate-covered cream puff, and offers it to me. I'm hesitant to do anything with it, until Grace laughs and nods.

"Go on, she says she wants you to try it."

"Merci," I say in shaky French. The woman smiles. I take a bite and relish the sweet confection. I was wrong. This woman hasn't baked for decades. This woman's baked for her entire life. My expression must translate my feelings and the taste of the thing well, because when I look up the old woman's eyes crinkle and she gives a little laugh. She speaks in rapid French, and motions for me to follow her. I duck behind the counter, and Grace follows me.

The kitchen is even more beautiful than the front of the store, if that's possible at all. But to me, the kitchen of a baker is always likes that. A kitchen tells a bigger story of the baker's life, what struggles they've overcome to get here, and whether or not they truly respect the craft. The woman flits about with the sprightly nature of a hummingbird, stirring this and mixing that. It's a small kitchen, but very clean. Not too clean, though, which is just how it should be. Too clean means you devote more time to cleaning than to baking. There's still flour in the corners where the counter meets the wall, and a tiny smattering of sesame seeds scattered around the oven. The oven is gas, of course, but there's a wood-burning one made of adobe against the far wall for true bread baking of the artisanal kind. The woman uses wooden utensils, but electronic mixers to spare herself the trouble of constant stirring, which makes sense for someone her age. But I'm happy to see she kneads everything by hand - with the kind of gentle love of a mother as she does it.

It's the perfect kitchen, in the most perfect place in the world.

I watch her work her magic, Grace whispering in my ear after what feels like five seconds.

"I'm gonna go find Ferdinand. When you're ready, we'll be at the pub. It's right down the street."

I nod, entranced and only half listening. When Grace leaves, the woman motions me over with her wrinkled fingers, and makes a kneading motion on the bread as if to show me. It's a strange way - palm first with fingers later, with a spider-like motion. But as I do it more, it quickly becomes almost natural, and I forget how I used to knead in a matter of minutes. When the bread's done, we put it in a mold and in the oven, the wood-burning one. For a while, while we're in the kitchen at least, it doesn't matter that we speak completely different languages, or that we're not exactly fast friends. Baking is all that matters for the both of us. We can communicate effortlessly with dough.

She lets me take over the filling of a new batch of cream puffs. They're so delicate and thin - perfectly cooked all the way through - that I'm almost afraid to ruin them with my clumsy handiwork.

And that's when I see them - sitting on the shelf is a rose-patterned set of mixing bowls, measuring cups, and flan dishes, all made of enamel, and all very high quality.

Those are the same dishes Lee gave me as a surprise gift last year.

I stare at them until the woman nudges me. She follows my eyes to them, and takes them down gingerly, placing them on the counter. She says something in rapid French, but I can only shake my head and repress a watery sniff.

"I got rid of them," I say. "I got rid of them after he left. I couldn't take seeing them anymore."

The woman says something, this time softer, and puts a hand on my shoulder. I don't know what it is about her warm grip, but it blows through the ironclad dam I'd kept over my sadness for so long like a typhoon through a straw hut. It's over. All the defenses I put up aren't shattered by Lee, or Kiera, or any of them. It's this little old woman in a French bakery with warm hands and an understanding smile.

If there's any place I feel at home, it's baking. I feel safe here.

I can cry here, most of all.

Chapter Five

In Which Rose Jensen Falls For A Trap

It takes me a while to calm down, but the old woman is nice the entire time. She doesn't try to kick me out, even if I'm a strange American girl who came in randomly on a Tuesday night and started sobbing for no apparent reason. At least not one she could understand, anyway. I thanks her and leave, but not before she puts a loaf of French bread into my hands. I get out my wallet, but she pushes it back at me and shakes her head, murmuring in French. Before I can protest, she opens the door and beckons me out, but not in an 'I'm kicking you out' way. It's more of a 'go out and confront your fears and then come back and see me again' way. I turn back to look at the bakery as I'm walking down the road - La Cigogne. The sign has a tiny crane of some kind painted on it.

The pub is the only place still open, save for La Cigogne. It's a brightly-lit square on the rapidly darkening street, with a small crowd of people hovering around the entrance and shouting joyfully. I squeeze my way between two beefy guys shouting swears in French. You can always tell when people swear, even if it's in a different language. Something about the tone just rings savage and casual. They don't seem worked up, though it seems like the entire village is in this one pub blowing off steam. There's a thick layer of sawdust on the floor, the barstools are ragged with the passage of many raucous butts coming and going, and the walls are covered in photos of celebrities current and long dead drinking at the bar, shaking hands with the thin man who, presumably, is owner. The same thin man is at the bar, slinging mugs of beer and cocktails with equal skill. Not a single thing escapes him - not the tiniest spillage, not the merest nod for another round. He has a perfectly-trimmed mustache and long arms, and when I walk in he nods at me. I try a smile, but it feels almost out of place in the crazy, loud laughs and grins surrounding me. A woman in the corner plays the guitar, and a massive game of poker is going on in the opposite corner.

"Rose!" Grace's voice pierces through the din. She's about two tables down from the poker game, with the glasses-wearing, terribly fashionable Ferdinand sitting opposite her. Ferdinand hugs me, kissing me three times on the cheeks, and we sit. Grace offers me her wine but I refuse, and Ferdinand tries for a good twenty minutes to get me to try the blueberry beer. I don't feel like drinking. We catch on everything - Ferdinand's latest work in Vogue, Grace's potential to walk for Commes de Garcon in Paris fashion week.

"You should come back, dear," Ferdinand says, now slightly slurring from the beer. "You'd have to lose those few pounds, of course -"

"Ferdinand!" Grace hisses.

"It's fine," I laugh. "It's true, I really have put on some weight."

"You can lose it easily, darling. There are pills -"

"No pills!" Grace thumps the table. "Christ's sake, Ferdy."

"The offer's generous." I smirk. "But it doesn't sound like the kind of world I'd fit into. Or even want."

"Understandable, understandable." Ferdinand waves his hand and downs the last half of his beer in one huge gulp. "No hurt feelings here. I've had perfectly great potential walk out on me before. I'll live!"