“Oui,” she said. “We can walk Vincent back to the shop,” she added quickly. “
It’s not that far.”
“Très bien,” he said, and signaled for the check. I offered to pay my share, but he wouldn’t hear of it. Afterward, we started out for his family pastry shop.
I could see he was more relaxed. It hadn’t occurred to me that he might have felt he had to prove himself to an American teenager, but I thought that was part of what had been happening. I felt a little flattered that I mattered that much to him, enough for him to want to impress me. As we walked, we talked more about literature. He was well versed in what had been known as the Beat Generation in America. Many of the writers and poets had lived in Paris. I knew almost nothing about it, but he saw that as an opportunity to talk about what was obviously one of his favorite topics. Every once in a while, I glanced at Denise. She seemed more and more unhappy, drifting behind us at times, distracted.
“Denise tells me you’re a poet,” I said.
“That’s yet to be proven. I just need editors of magazines to agree with Denise,” he said.
“What?” she asked.
We both laughed. She looked more upset now than earlier, because she was left out of so much, but when we reached the shop, she brightened.
“My mother will be surprised to see us. I didn’t tell her you were meeting us, Vincent,” she said.
“Oh, I gave it away already,” he told her. “I used Emmie as an excuse to get my father to give me more time for lunch. He complains about the American tourists who come into the shop, but he envies them. He’s always saying if he had an American business partner, he’d have a franchise by now.”
“I would think a franchise of a restaurant or a pastry shop would be abhorrent to the French owner. It would lose its authenticity.”
Vincent paused and looked at me, his smile now more of admiration than humor. “That’s true. How do you know that?”
“I told you. My mother was French,” I said, as if that would explain everything.
“You surprise me, Emmie. You’re older than you look, older than your age.”
“Not by choice,” I said.
And he lost his smile. He understood.
And in that moment, I thought he wasn’t as self-centered as he appeared.
Flying Too High,
Melting the Wax on My Wings
It was a very busy pastry shop. Because of its location and the quality of the breads and cakes, there was a constant stream of customers, both locals and tourists. One thing my uncle Alain had told me long ago was that the difference between the French and the Americans when they entered a shop was that the French spent more time. There was that “How are you?” exchange, sometimes becoming more than a few words, and then the ordering. The tourists who came in demanded items immediately and seemed in a rush. I watched and smiled to myself as this proved true.
Vincent put on his apron to go into the kitchen. “Here, try this,” he said, offering me a chocolate cookie with nuts.
I did. “Delicious,” I said. “Sinfully so.”
“Only a health-minded American girl would say that,” he replied.
His father broke free from his work and approached us. Vincent quickly introduced me.
“Enchanté,” I said. “You have a beautiful shop,” I told him in French.
“Merci,” he said, but it sounded more like a grunt.
He looked at Vincent and then at Denise, who stood by watching us. He asked me where I was from. I complimented him again on his shop, and he nodded without any modesty and returned to his work. I noticed he didn’t acknowledge Denise at all. Her mother was busy at the counter. When she glanced our way, I thought she looked quite unhappy. She rarely smiled at anyone she served, and when she could pause to speak to Denise, she had only some criticism of Denise’s hair and the wrinkles in her dress. Between customers, they spoke a little more. Whatever Denise was saying wasn’t making her mother happy, however.
While they spoke, Vincent returned to me. “Are you busy tonight?” he asked.
“Busy? No. When?”
“I don’t get out until eight,” he said.