One Paris Summer (Blink) (19 page)

I PULLED OUT
my croissant before I handed the bag to Mathieu. “So what’s so special about this pastry?”

“Try it.”

I took a bite and moaned. “Oh my,” I mumbled with my mouth full. “This is the most amazing croissant I’ve ever had in my life.”

“It’s a
kraw-san
,” he said, clipping the
n
and making the
aw
sound nasal. “It’s French, and you’re speaking French now.”

I laughed. “I’ve already failed my first lesson.”

“We’ll just have to keep practicing.”

He taught me new words all the way to his apartment—
door
,
street
,
dog, baby
,
man
,
woman
,
boy
,
girl. Stairs
, as we climbed the five flights to his apartment—considered to be on the fourth floor, Mathieu pointed out, because the French considered the street-level floor as ground and the second as first. I learned how to say
I hate to exercise
.
I play the piano very well
. And
Mathieu is a wonderful teacher
. (I asked how to say that one.)

My smile fell as an unwelcome memory clicked into place. “I forgot. I don’t have my music.”

He shut the apartment door and walked up behind me. “I think I might still have the
Warsaw Concerto
somewhere around here from when I played it.”

“Really?” I asked. “But I started working on something new yesterday.”

“What is it?”

“Rachmaninoff Prelude in B Minor Op. 32 No. 10.” With anyone else, I would have felt pretentious. But it seemed as normal as asking him
Où sont les toilettes?
“But you don’t have to look, Mathieu. I can play my memorized pieces.”

“You warm up, and I’ll see what I can do.”

I ran my fingertips across the smooth finish on the fallboard as I lifted it. I was still amazed I was here—with Mathieu—playing a Steinway. Both things seemed too good to be true.

I’d played through multiple sets of scales and arpeggios when Mathieu set a small booklet next to me, along with a notebook and pencil, then lifted the lid.

I stopped playing and picked up the music. “You found it.”

“Yes. My mother has a lot of music here. I brought the paper in case you want to write down your finger placement.”

“Thank you.” I picked up the sheet music, which looked new. “I’ll be careful with it.”

He grinned. “I know.”

He left me then, so it was just me, the piano, and the music. Rachmaninoff was notoriously hard, partially because he wrote his pieces for himself and he was known for his large hands. From my practice the previous afternoon, I realized I was going to have to stretch my reach or come up with some creative fingering.

I started to play slowly, picking my way through the notes, trying to ignore the many, many mistakes. I was usually self-conscious of other people hearing my mistakes, but I forgot Mathieu was there as I played a section again and again, slowing it down and working on the timing. Mathieu appeared next to the piano again much too soon.

“Is it time already?”

“Sorry.”

“No! Don’t say you’re sorry. I’m so grateful to have these couple of hours.” I closed the booklet and handed it to him. “And thank you for digging this out. I was hoping to work on this here. I hope it wasn’t too much trouble.”

“No. None at all.” Then he smiled, that dazzling smile that filled me with warm giddiness, and all I could do was smile back. All too quickly, he broke eye contact and disappeared with the music through a set of glass doors to the left of the living room.

I waited for him by the front door, both nervous and excited to walk the six blocks home together. But then I realized how much time I was stealing from his day, and it felt incredibly selfish. “Mathieu.”

He looked down at me, his eyes searching mine.

I swallowed, then forced myself to say, “You don’t have to go back with me.”

He smiled again, this time softer and shyer. “I’m going that way anyway. I would like to.”

Once we were outside he turned to me. “Did you have a good time with your father last night?”

I sighed. “Yes and no.”

He watched me expectantly, waiting for me to elaborate.

“It was great being with him, but it was also a reminder of what we used to have.” I paused. “The two of us were really close before he left. One day he was there and the next he was gone. It came out of nowhere, or at least that’s how it seemed to Eric and me.”

“Your parents didn’t fight?”

“No. I wish they would have. I might have understood it more if they had.”

He shook his head. “
Non
. Before my father left, my parents fought all the time. I felt caught between them. Part of me was sad when they divorced, but part of me was relieved.”

“I guess looking back, I can see there were signs my parents weren’t happy. I just didn’t notice them.” I’d lain awake half the night, reliving the last five or six years, looking for the cracks in my parents’ marriage. It was funny that I could see them now when I couldn’t before. “He told us why he left, and while I understand it now, he still didn’t handle it very well. He should have told us the truth. Instead he ran away.”

“He left you to work on
Sainte-Chapelle
?”

I looked up at him in surprise.

He shrugged. “We all knew about Camille’s new stepfather. Everyone was surprised. Camille’s family was very happy before the accident. We were curious.”

He had to be talking about the accident that killed Camille’s father. I wondered what Camille’s life had been like before he died. It was hard to imagine her as anything but the harpy who was bent on ruining me.

“When did you find out he was leaving?”

“We found out he was moving to Paris the day he left.”

Mathieu’s eyes widened.

“But what I didn’t know was that my mother apparently sent in the application for him. When he got the job, she told him he could either leave for Paris or move out of the house.”

He was silent for a moment. “And you blame him for leaving?”

“At the time, all I knew was that he left us abruptly and then rarely called. What else was I supposed to think?”

“And now?”

We walked several steps before I answered. “I’m not ready to forgive and forget just yet. He should have told us the truth about his job and why he left. And while I realize he was upset last August, it doesn’t explain why he didn’t tell us he was getting married until after he posted his bans. Or why he didn’t take us to his civil ceremony.”

“Maybe he was worried his new marriage would upset you, so he kept it to himself as long as he could.”

I lifted my eyebrows. “By hiding it from us? It hurt worse when we found out the truth.”

“I know he loves you. Camille said she got sick of hearing about you and your brother and how perfect you two are.” He grinned. “She hated you before you ever landed in Paris.”

“So that’s why she hates me?” Somehow that actually made me feel better.

“That and lots of other things. She and her mother became very close after her father died. Then her mother started seeing your father, and the next thing Camille knew they were getting married. She was very upset. She felt like she gave up everything—her mother, her room, her life.”

I started walking again, letting this information soak in. It gave me a new understanding of Camille’s bitterness and hostility.

We walked in silence for a block. “Would you like to come play tomorrow?” he finally asked, shaking me out of my thoughts.

I smiled up at him. This whole trip had made me feel like I was rafting on a turbulent river of emotions, but with him, I just felt happy. He even made me feel better about the situation with my dad. “I don’t want to get you into trouble.”

“Do you like coming over?”

My smile turned shyer. “It’s the best part of my day.”

He grinned, that warm happy grin that twisted my insides into knots.

“What do you do while I play?” I asked. “I get so lost in what I’m doing, I tend to forget you’re there.”

He tilted his head and his smile switched to mock-insulted. “Wow. Thanks . . .”

Horrified, I grabbed his forearm with both my hands. “That wasn’t what I meant! Your piano isn’t the only reason I want
to go to your apartment.” But then the realization that I was touching him washed through my head, and I jerked back self-consciously, immediately missing the warmth and strength of his arms between my fingers.

He stopped and backed up, pressing his spine into the building. His warm grin was gone, replaced with an emotion I couldn’t name. “What
do
you mean, Sophie?” His voice was low, and there was a hitch in it I wasn’t used to hearing.

“Honestly?” I asked. Should I really tell him how I felt? At home I would never have been so bold, but it was almost easy to say the words when he looked at me like that.

He swallowed. “May I share something with you?”

I was a little afraid to hear what he had to say. Conversations rarely went well after an opening like that. But he had said he wanted honesty from me, and I wanted it from him as well. Especially after everything that had happened with my father. “
Oui
.
S’il vous plaît
.”

He smiled at that, the corners of his mouth twisting up ever so slightly. “
Très bien
,” he said softly, studying my face. “You are a very good
étudiante
, not only with
le piano
but
le français
as well.”

I grinned. “I see what you’re doing there. Now you’re slipping in random French words hoping I’ll pick them up.”

His eyes danced with mischief. “Is it working?”

“Mathieu est un merveilleux professeur
,” I parroted back the phrase I’d insisted he teach me at the top of the stairs in his apartment building. He
was
a wonderful teacher.

“Oh, Sophie.” He sighed, looking less happy.
“Pourquoi dois-tu d’être si parfaite?”

I wasn’t sure what that meant, but it didn’t sound good. “You were going to tell me something.” I nudged his arm, eager to get this over with. He liked me—that much was obvious. Yet there was a giant
but
hanging in the air. At least we hadn’t crossed any
weird boundaries that would make it impossible for us to be friends, because even if I didn’t get the chance to play his piano, I wanted to be his friend. I liked being with him.

“Camille and me . . . she was
ma copine
.”

I squinted, then shook my head. “
Ma co-peen
. What is that?”

He sighed and scrubbed his palm over his eyes. “My girlfriend.”

We stood in such perfect silence for the next few seconds, I could have sworn I heard his heart beating.

“She
was
your girlfriend or she
is
your girlfriend.” Then something ugly rose up inside of me—jealousy, plain and simple. “See what
I
did there?” I asked. “That’s English verb tense, and the correct usage is
very
important at the moment.”

He grimaced. “Was . . . but
c’est très compliqué
.”

Thankfully for me, the translation of “complicated” in French was obvious enough for me to figure out on my own. Crap. My life was chock-full of other people’s complicated love lives.

I was still trying to salvage this. “Was it serious?”

“Non.”

“Did you end it or did she?”

He rubbed his eyes again, then lowered his hand. “We were only together a couple of weeks. We work better as friends.”

“And how’s
that
working out?” I asked, trying not to sound angry. I’d seen them together, and they definitely weren’t friendly.

He shrugged.

“So what’s so complicated? You were together a couple of weeks before you broke up. Camille has moved on, in case you missed the display at Musée Rodin a couple of days ago.”

“And last night at the club.”

Oh, mercy. I could only imagine what she and Dane had done at the club, making me even more grateful I hadn’t gone. “When did you break up?”

“In May.”

It was the beginning of July, so barely a month ago. I couldn’t stop the groan that rose in my throat. “Did you break it off or did she?” I asked again.

“Why does it matter?”

“Why won’t you answer the question?”

He studied me, his eyes full of sadness. “Me. I was the one who broke up with her.”

“She still wants you back?” I whispered.

He pushed out a heavy breath. “
Non
.
C’est compliqué
,” he repeated.

He was right. This
was
complicated. “Mathieu, if you only dated a few weeks and both decided it wouldn’t work, what’s the big deal? I don’t care if she’s pissed off at me for seeing you. I don’t care what she thinks.”

“But
I
do.”

“That’s really sweet,” I said, “But I can handle her.”

“
Non
,” he said, getting frustrated. “I care about what she thinks about
me
.”

“Why? Do you love her?” I asked in horror.

“
Non!
” He sputtered out some French, and while the words were unrecognizable, the tone was not. He was slightly angry and very frustrated.

“Then what’s so complicated, Mathieu?”

“Her mother . . . she’s a banker. I need her.”

He needed Eva? “Why? Do you have a lot of money you need to invest?”

“
Non.
Her bank has
le stage en entreprise
. I need Eva’s recommendation to get it.”

I shook my head. “What’s a
stage entre-preeze
?”

He flung his hand to his side in frustration. “When you work at a place before you graduate . . . I don’t know the word!”

“An internship?”

“Yes! I want to study international banking, and Eva’s bank has a program for students the summer before they go to university. I need her recommendation to get in for next summer.”

“Didn’t she already give it to you? Wasn’t it in the envelope you picked up?”

“
Non
, it was only the approval to apply.”