In the Bag (13 page)
I knew her the second I saw her. She was standing under a clock. Her brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She was wearing my white shirt and carrying
Walden
.
She smiled at me.
I wanted to kiss her right then and there.
I
never would’ve guessed it was him. He looked so European!
He was wearing a crisp white shirt—possibly new—with perfectly decrepit Levi’s and Chuck Taylor shoes. He even had a scarf around his neck, like all the French guys wear. It was only when he got closer and started to unwrap the scarf that I realized it was my peasant blouse.
“Blouse Girl?” Webb said, handing me my blouse.
“Yes, it’s me,” I said. “Hi!” I extended my hand to shake his, but he leaned in for a kiss.
“Aren’t we supposed to do this?” he said, kissing both sides of my face in a funny, noncreepy way.
I laughed. “You’re totally right.”
“I think it’s a great custom,” he said.
“I know,” I said. “It’s like,
great,
right?”
He was smiling at me. “Yep, great.”
“Totally great,” I added.
Why was I repeating everything he said like an idiot?
“Are you exhausted? I can’t believe you’ve been on a train all day.”
“It wasn’t bad,” he said. “In fact it was kinda nice.”
“Really?” I asked.
Why couldn’t I think of one freakin’ interesting thing to say? Why hadn’t I prepared a funny little story to tell him?
“Hey, did you know the guillotine wasn’t invented by Dr. Guillotin?”
“Seriously?” he said. “Who invented it?”
“Uh, I’m actually not sure. Dr. Guillotin just sorta, y’know, improved on the original design.”
We stood there, staring at each other. Or at least I did. He seemed like Mr. Super Casual Cool while I apparently was working on my Girl Scout guillotine badge.
“What a cool train station,” he finally said, looking around. “Why don’t we have train stations like this at home?”
“I know,” I said. “It’s actually . . . great.”
Ack! Mom was right about actually. It sounded stupid. I sounded stupid.
“Did you want to just hang here for while or . . .” he began.
“Oh, no,” I said. “We can actual—, I mean, we should go back to the apartment. Are you hungry or tired? Do you want to get something to eat or just walk around the city?”
“Yes, yes, yes, and yes,” he said. “And if I missed one, yes to that, too.”
I laughed. “Well, you’re certainly easy.”
Oh God. Did I really just say that?
But he was laughing.
Thank God.
“I don’t know about
easy,
” he said, smiling. “But I am starving. And I’m dying to see Paris. C’mon. We’ve got eight hours till my train leaves.”
I
should’ve known. Because it’s always the same.
The day before an exhibit opens, nothing
—absolutely nothing—
is right. But by show time, the art gods always smile down, and the opening reception is an unqualified success. Bad dress rehearsals make good opening nights and all that.
This show was no different. The exhibit area was filled with well-dressed Madrileños who were clearly enjoying the show, judging from their smiling faces, which were illuminated by the tiny blue twinkle lights I’d used to set off the space.
A successful opening always felt good, though I was too exhausted to enjoy this one. I looked for Webb among the crowd of cell-phone-carrying art patrons navigating through the
Spin the Cell Phone
installation. The pulsating techno beat was unbearable. I wandered off to the side with a piece of sweet, golden pastry and tried to ignore the epilepsy-inducing music.
Solange saw me from across the room. She walked over, a thin grin creeping across her face. “I just spoke with the art critic from
El País,
” she whispered in my ear.
“Oh, yeah? What’s the verdict?”
She grabbed the pastry from my hand and took a bite. “Impressive, exciting, and energetic,” she said, still chewing but savoring every word.
“Nothing about the functioning toilets in the ladies’ room?”
She smiled. “Andrew, you know your job is to draw attention to the art, not to the space. And no one does it better than you.”
“Thanks.”
“And I am sorry I have been such a dictator these last few days,” she continued, eating my dinner. “I have never worked for this museum board before. Most of my clients, they are in France and Belgium. So this was new and—”
“Say no more. I understand. With a new client, there’s a zero margin of error.”
“Exactly,” she said. “And for a while, it looked like the whole thing was going to go
pouf!
Tumbling down. And then when the caterer quit on Sunday, I thought I would have the nervous breakdown.”
“Right,” I said, remembering one of the few problems that wasn’t mine to solve. “You didn’t ask the caterer to miss his father’s funeral, did you?”
She smiled and wiped a dusting of powdered sugar from her lips. “No. I have the wonderful friend who just happens to be a chef. It is my luck that she was on vacation in Paris.”
“That’s not luck,” I said. “That’s kismet.”
“What is the
kismet
?” Solange asked, making a face.
Just then, a strangely familiar-looking woman walked past us carrying a tray.
“Solange,” she said, “you know what
kismet
is.”
“I do?” Solange said. “Remind me.”
“It means fate or destiny,” the woman said.
“Of course,” Solange replied. “My brain has gone to merde. Daisy, you have met Andrew Nelson, the designer of the space? Andrew, this is Daisy Sprinkle. She made the . . . what do you call this?”
“Gooey butter cake,” the woman said, smiling. “Nice to meet you.”
Even her voice was beautiful. Her hair was swept up. She was wearing a black silk blouse and the same wide-legged black slacks she’d worn on the plane.
Was it possible she didn’t recognize me? Had she really not seen me bump her arm while boarding?
I smiled back. “Nice to meet you.”
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” she said. Then turning to Solange, she added: “Can I borrow your cell phone again? I want to check on Coco.”
N
on, non, et non,” Solange said. “You will not call Coco now. It is late. Let the poor child sleep.” She turned to the handsome designer and added: “I am the girl’s godmother, so I am entitled to an opinion.”
“I see,” the man said, smiling.
He was tall. Dark hair with flecks of gray. Nice haircut. Friendly eyes. A kind smile. Lean but not skinny. He was wearing a lightweight gray flannel suit with a white shirt. Midfifties, maybe? I was surprised Solange hadn’t told me about him.
“I knew it tasted familiar,” he said. “I grew up on gooey butter cake. It was practically its own food group in St. Louis. I’d forgotten how delicious it is.”
And he was nice, too. Good for Solange.
“Daisy made red velvet cake, too,” said Solange. “She is calling it nostalgia predigital cuisine—or something like that.”
“What about Rice Krispie treats?” the guy said. “Let’s not forget those.”
“Oh, God. I
did
forget those,” I said, laughing. “And they would’ve been great. Or maybe not. French marshmallows are a little too good. For Rice Krispie treats, you really need those cheap, rubbery marshmallows like we have back home.” I paused. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”
“Andrew,” he said.
Good name. Solid. Classic. And so much better than Andy.
“And what about mock apple pie?” he asked. “Remember the recipe on the Ritz cracker box?”
“I made that once!” I said. “For my Girl Scout troop.”
Now he was laughing.
Nice teeth. God, this guy was adorable. Why hadn’t Solange told me about him?
I planned to get Solange in a headlock when we were alone and grill her on her new catch. He was such an improvement over her last boyfriend, Jean Claude, the photographer with an ego the size of Notre Dame.
“Anyway, sorry to interrupt you two,” I said again, excusing myself. I had dozens more chocolate-chip cookies in the back room. And my professional waitstaff had professionally disappeared promptly at eleven o’clock.
I walked through the thinning crowd back to the private room Solange had set aside for me. After slipping my hands into plastic gloves, I began arranging the cookies in artful patterns on the empty trays. The door opened.
“Oh, good,” I said, not looking up from my work. “At least I’ve got one waiter left. Let’s get rid of these. Just grab any full tray. Tell people to take the cookies home to their kids.”
“Oh,” a voice said. “All right.”
I looked up. It was Andrew.
“Oh, God, I’m sorry!” I said. “I thought you were one of my waiters.” I cringed at the thought of what I must look like in the harsh light of the utilitarian room. Haggard and witchy, no doubt. An old bag.
“I can help,” Andrew said, smiling.
“No, no,” I said. “I really thought you were one of the—”
But he’d already grabbed a tray of cookies.
“Thank you,” I said. I grabbed a tray myself and headed back to the dwindling crowd in the reception area. I made a beeline for Solange.
“I cannot
believe
you didn’t tell me about Andrew,” I whispered. “He’s fabulous.”
“Yes, he is nice,” Solange said distractedly.
“
Nice?
Hello? He’s so damn
nice,
I’m jealous.”
Solange stared at me. “Jealous? Of what?”
“Of
you
,” I said.
Solange looked puzzled. “Me and Andrew?” Then she smiled. “Daisy, I have been seeing a sculptor named Maria Luciana for six months.”
“Maria?” I said. “Luciana?”
“Yes. You’d like her.”
I didn’t know what to say. Fortunately, we both started cackling at the exact same second.
“You know what?” I finally said. “We don’t talk enough anymore, do we?”
“No, we do not,” Solange said. “But if you are interested in Andrew, go get him. He is over there, serving your chocolate
chimps
.”
I
somehow forgot about my idea to give Coco a sparkler the first time we kissed. Then again, I hadn’t planned on kissing her on both cheeks. I was just going with the flow and following my instincts.
“I can carry that,” Coco said, as we were walking out of the train station. She was eyeing her bag.
“Don’t be crazy,” I said. “I’m the guy.”
I was trying to sound funny and macho, but it fell flat.
Less instinct,
I thought.
More thinking. Think before talking.
“Do you have anything special you want to see?” Coco asked. “Or do you want to just wander around?”
“Um, well . . .”
Should I let her lead the way? Or should I tell her what I want to see?
“Is the Eiffel Tower cool?” I asked.
“Umm,” she said, running her hands through her shiny brown hair. “You know it’s kind of a tourist trap, right? When it was first built, Parisians hated it and wanted it torn down.”
“Serious?” I said. “I didn’t know that. Okay, what about . . .”
“But if you
want
to see it, we could take the Metro over there. It might be too late to go up in it, but—”
“No, let’s . . . um . . .”
Damn. I should’ve given this whole thing more thought. Why didn’t I do a Wiki search on Paris?
“I’m pretty much up for anything. My dad brought me here once when I was like nine or ten, but I don’t remember anything.”
“My mom did the same thing, when I was even younger,” she said. “But I’ve read all the guidebooks and memorized the maps. Let’s take the Metro to Saint Michel and just wander around the Latin Quarter.”
“Cool,” I said.
Why did everything I say sound so dumb and uninspired?
