The Devil's Own Chloe (Bistro La Bohème Series) (3 page)

Five

While
I studied in Paris to become an architect and Hugo worked in his parents’
bakery in Nîmes, we stayed in touch via Facebook. We commented on each other’s
pictures, mine taken at parties, his on hiking trips. I “liked” his three
girlfriends—successive, not concurrent—and he periodically asked me
if I was still single.

I
replied each time that I was and that I intended to remain so.

As
Hugo’s ass-saving van makes its way through dense Parisian traffic, I reflect
on my “digital footprint” and decide it is as far removed from my actuality as
fairy tales are from reality. The sum of my posts creates a “painted veil,” a
cheerful smokescreen for my sad little soul. I may be feeling suicidal, but
then I post a grinning pic from the party I went to last Saturday, and that’s
the image Claire, Charles, Diane, and the rest of the world will have of my
life.

I
often wonder if Hugo, too, buys my put-on hedonism.

When
we halt in front of my apartment block in the 14th arrondissement, there’s a
vacant spot big enough for a van right across the street.

Miracles
do happen.

Hugo
parks the van, glancing at me as if to say, “I
have
to, given how
improbable this was.”

“Want
to come upstairs for a drink?” I ask.

It’s
OK. Diane should be home, editing her digital photos and uploading them to
various image banks.

“
Mercé
,”
he says in Provençal.

He
doesn’t really speak it—hardly anyone in Provence does these
days—but he enjoys peppering his speech with southern words.

As
I open the door, Diane cries out from the living room, “I’m heating up a pizza
for dinner!”

Hugo
halts on the doorstep, shifting from one foot to the other.

“Come
on in,” I say.

“I
don’t want to intrude on your pizza night.”

“It’s
pizza night almost every night,” I say. “And we never finish it. Your help
would be much appreciated.”

He
nods and steps in.

Diane
and Hugo give each other a hug and launch into reminiscing about our school
days. Diane being only a year younger than Hugo and me, the three of us have
spent a lot of recess time together.

We
finish the pizza and then attack the ice-cream tub.

Diane
is in good form, and the evening turns out to be so much fun that I wish I
hadn’t told Fabien to meet me later tonight. Especially since our meeting won’t
be a pleasant one.

Breakups
never are.

“Your
orthodontist did a great job with your braces,” Diane says to Hugo with an
appreciative nod.

“Thank
you.” The corners of his lips curl up. “You sound like a dentist.”

Diane
rolls her eyes. “I could’ve been one. But luckily for me, and for everyone
who’ll ever need a filling, I came to my senses after a year in med school.”

“I
see.” He gives her a sympathetic look. “What made you see the light?”

She
shrugs. “Boredom, I guess. It was OK in the beginning until one day, I admitted
to myself I really didn’t want to spend eight hours a day, five days a week for
forty-five years sticking my fingers in people’s mouths. It was Mom and Dad’s
dream, not mine.”

“You’re
a photographer now, aren’t you?” Hugo asks.

Diane
nods.

“She’s
very talented,” I say. “The problem is it’s hard to make a living as a
photographer, no matter how talented you are.”

Diane
clasps her hands in a prayer position. “Chloe, please! I know you worry about
me but, really, you shouldn’t.”

“I
don’t worry—” I begin.

She
waves off my protest. “I’ll do more than art photography, I promise. I’ll
immortalize weddings, baptisms, and all other wonderful celebrations that put
butter on a photographer’s baguette. And I won’t abuse your hospitality for
much longer.”

“You
can stay as long as you want,” I say. “And you know it.”

“How
are Claire and Charles doing?” Hugo asks, thankfully changing the topic.

“Mom’s
OK,” Diane says. “Dad had a stroke six months ago.”

“Damn!”
Hugo frowns. “Why didn’t anyone tell me? Is he OK?”

By
“anyone” he means me, of course.

He
looks genuinely upset, even if he hasn’t seen Charles in years.

“Sort
of,” Diane says. “Considering. He still can’t move his right arm, and the
doctors aren’t sure he ever will.” She turns to me. “You should visit him again
sometime soon. You know how much he cares for you.”

I
do.

Which
is precisely why I intend to stay away from Marseilles, where he’s settled now,
for as long as I can. Charles and I talk on the phone from time to time. Diane,
who worships her dad, keeps me up to date on every aspect of his slow recovery.

Poor
Charles!

First
the bankruptcy, then the divorce—and now this.

I
can’t begin to imagine what it feels like to be in his shoes. A successful
businessman, a family man and a pillar of the local community for two decades,
he’s now back at square one. Uprooted, handicapped, and alone.

And
it’s my fault.

“What
the f—” Diane blurts before censoring herself. “Why in hell is it
your
fault?”

Crap.

I
must’ve said it out loud.

“I
didn’t mean it literally,” I say quickly. “It’s just a manner of speaking.”

“Ah.”
Diane slowly tilts her head up. “OK, then. Because I know exactly whose fault
it is, and I’m going to make him pay.”

I
squint at her. “What are you talking about?”

“Nothing.”
She stands and flashes me a cursory smile. “A manner of speaking, as you said.”

I
shake my head. Diane is such a child! At twenty-four, she’s still as reckless
and immature as she was at fourteen. But she’s not fourteen anymore. She holds
official documents certifying that she’s entitled to make a mess of her life.

“Did
you say you live in the 20th?” she asks Hugo. “I’m headed in that direction.
Will you give me a lift?”

He
glances at me with an unspoken question in his eyes.

I
shake my head.

Sorry,
my friend, but our evening together ends now.

“I’ve
got some urgent stuff to take care of before tomorrow,” I say, not bothering to
sound apologetic.

He
says OK and leaves with Diane.

Ten
minutes later, I grab my purse and rush out into the dusk.

*
* *

Six

This
morning I’m very pleased with myself—and for a good reason.

Two,
actually.

I’m
relieved I ended my affair with Fabien, who was becoming more trouble than he
was worth. As expected, the breakup was ugly. The things he called me before I
left the bar were even uglier. But it’s done now, and we’ll both get over it in
no time.

The
second reason I’m pleased is stacked in cardboard boxes in front of me. I’ve
found the perfect floor tiles. They’re hard wearing, anti-slip, and gorgeous.
When laid end-to-end, they form a fake 3-D pattern of cubes in black, gray, and
white, inspired by Escher’s optical illusion art.

I
crouch in the center of the room and set a dozen tiles out on the floor.
They’re truly a thing of beauty. Unable to peel my eyes off them, I stare for a
long moment as if mesmerized.

“Have
you lost something?” Jeanne asks. “I can help you look for it.”

I
turn toward her voice.

She’s
a few steps behind me, looking down with concern.

“Leave
her alone,” Hugo says. “Can’t you see
ze boss
is in the middle of
something?”

I
hate it when he calls me that.

“Of
what?” Jeanne asks.

“A
brisk nirvana,” he replies as I stand up.

Jeanne
gives her brother a quizzical look.

“Also
known as a
beauty appreciation moment
,” he explains. “But don’t worry,
she won’t work herself up into a full-blown trance over these tiles.”

“Oh,
good.” Jeanne’s lips quirk with amusement.

Hugo
sucks on his teeth. “Mind you… I won’t put money on it.”

“ ‘Beauty
appreciation moment,’ huh?” I grin at him. “Haven’t heard that one since high
school.”

He
grins back, his eyes full of warmth that envelops me snugly like a duvet on a
winter night.

“I
see,” Jeanne says. Her gaze travels from Hugo to me, and then a funny
expression flashes in her eyes as though she just realized something.

I
point at the tiles. “What do you think?”

“I
love them,” she says without hesitation.

“Your
headwaiter is of the same opinion,” Hugo says, looking pleased. “Even your
gloomy chef muttered something that sounded like ‘nice’ when he stopped by
earlier.”

“Hallelujah.”
Jeanne hands me the bathroom catalog I gave her last night. “I’ve marked what I
like.”

She
takes off shortly afterward, leaving Hugo, René, and me to our work.

Come
to think of it, René is the only person who didn’t say anything positive about
the floor tiles. But then René isn’t a positive sort of guy.

“Murphy’s
Law,” he declares, emerging from the kitchen we gutted yesterday.

I
give him a half smile. “You’re referring to what, exactly?”

“The
damn cold wave from Greenland. It had to reach Paris the day we dismantled the
heating system.”

“Ah,
that.”

He
exhales a puff of condensation to substantiate his statement.

“Get
another fleece,” Hugo says, hauling a huge bag of debris past us.

He’s
stripped to his T-shirt, panting and a little flushed. It certainly doesn’t
look like he gives a hoot about the Greenlandic cold wave.

I
take in his muscular arms, linger on his broad chest and shoulders, and feast
my eyes on his strong neck. The reason why this Hercules of a man doesn’t look
intimidating, even to a stranger, is his open face framed by thick, rusty-brown
hair.

It
is my deep conviction that the Greenlandic cold wave will freeze hell over
before Hugo Bonnet uses that overflowing strength of his to intentionally hurt
another person.

I
ogle his frame a little longer. When he’s out the main door, I turn away in
shame, reminding myself he’s not my type. Hugo is too much of a Thor—too
hefty and too… good. I’m Team Loki. Bad boys are better suited for the kind of
relationships I do. Skinny, nervous men with sunken cheeks and sleek hair are
my type.

Men
like Fabien.

Not
Hugo.

Repeat
after me, Chloe
:
Hugo’s not my type. Men like Fabien are my type.

Good
.

Now,
where were we? Oh right, the cold.

I
turn to René. “Jeanne’s fetching her portable heater.”

“Tell
her not to bother.” He breathes out another puff and watches it expand into a
tiny cloud. “It won’t make a difference.”

“Yes
it will.”

René
is right, of course, considering the size of this place and the temperature
outside. But I won’t admit it.

“Besides,”
I say, “the cold wave won’t last. We’re still in October.”

Hugo
returns from his van and stops next to us. “We’re in for at least a week of
this weather. I saw the forecast last night.”

I
bunch my eyebrows. “
Et tu, Brute
?”

“What?”
He smiles. “It’s always better to be prepared.”

My
stomach knots at those words, and nausea rises to my throat.

He
shouldn’t have said that.

I
reach for my tote bag sitting on a lone chair by the wall and dig out a pack of
cigarettes.

Hugo
frowns. “I thought you’d quit.”

I
arch an eyebrow at him.

When
we were seventeen, a comment like that would have earned him a nasty quip. But
now I just grab my jacket and march out.

Halfway
through my cancer stick, I admit to myself that coming out for a smoke was a
dumb idea. The cig may help a bit with the queasiness but it’s useless as a
repellent for the memories crowding my head.

My
foster brother, Lionel, had used the same phrase, “It’s always better to be
prepared,” as his life motto. He’d say it for both important and unimportant
things, jokingly and seriously, when it was warranted and when it wasn’t.

All
the freaking time.

“It’s
always better to be prepared,” he’d declare when he insisted I pack a Swiss
Army knife for the many hiking trips Claire and Charles took us on. He’d repeat
those words when he taught me how to swim and how to kick a man where it hurts
most. A determined expression on his face, he’d utter them when he quizzed me
before an exam.

That
phrase also prefaced the heads-up he gave me about his illness, explaining that
it might finish him off any time over the next ten years.

Lionel
died at twenty-two, and I knew I was to blame for it.

True,
he’d already had his cystic fibrosis when I entered his life. He’d had it since
birth. But I’m sure he would’ve lived into his mid-thirties, like half the
patients do. Maybe even into his forties, buying him enough time to achieve
something and leave a legacy. Enough time to enjoy a woman’s love and perhaps
even the love of a child. But he wasn’t given that extra time.

Because
of me.

A
few months after Lionel’s passing, I graduated high school and moved to Paris.
It wasn’t an escape, regardless of what Diane said on several occasions. Quite
the contrary. It was an attempt to limit the damage.

I
left Nîmes seven years ago to protect the headstrong brat and her parents from
my Midas touch.

Unless…

It
was to protect
myself
from the frostbite of their sorrow.

I
rub my forehead. Could Diane be on to something? Is it possible that I ran from
the Petit family because I couldn’t handle their grief? Was it a flight just as
much as it was a rescue?

The
sound of someone approaching breaks me from my thoughts.

Hugo
steps out and gives me an apologetic look. Looks like he’s figured out why I’m
acting weird.

“I’ll
be there in a sec.” I show him what’s left of the cigarette.

“There’s
no rush,
boss
,” he says.

“Stop
calling me boss.”

“What’s
wrong with that? You
are
my boss right now.”

“Not
really, no. We’re business partners.”

His
eyes crinkle with amusement. “You want me to call you
partner
?”

I
roll my eyes.

“I
guess not.” The corners of his lips turn up. “Or would you rather I called you
pichune
like I used to in high school?”

Pichune.
The southern
word for “little one.”

It’s
true, he did call me that for a while.

And
I loved it.

“That’s
a big leap from
boss
,” I say, arching an eyebrow.

“You’re
right.” He nods solemnly. A little too solemnly. “It’s too familiar. We are
professionals.”

I
try not to smile.

“I
think I’ll stick to
boss
,” he says. “It’s short and clear. Besides, it’s
funny.”

“Funny
how?”

“Can’t
you see it?”

I
shake my head.

He
points to himself. “I’m Hugo.” A pause follows, during which he screws up his
face as if to say,
Come on! You
must
see it.

But
the penny won’t drop.

“I’m
Hugo,” he repeats, finally taking pity on me. “You’re Boss. Together,
we’re—”

“Oh,
please!” I give him the hardest stare I’m capable of right now. “This is dumber
than the dumb jokes you made in Madame Durand’s class.”

He
smiles. “I know, but it’s funny.”

“No,
it isn’t,” I say, knitting my eyebrows.

It
really isn’t.

If
only said eyebrows would agree and knit with a semblance of conviction!

“You’re
right,” Hugo says. “It was a dumb joke.”

“Hmm.”
I put out the cigarette in the outdoor ashtray.

“It
won’t happen again,”—he presses his lips together, a twinkle of mischief
in his eyes—“
boss
.”

He
titters, quickly closes his mouth, and swallows. Then he tilts his head back
and looks skyward, visibly struggling before cracking up in earnest.

Jesus
Christ.
The
man doesn’t need much to be entertained, does he?

I
begin to roll my eyes, but my traitorous mouth turns out to be even less
cooperative than my eyebrows. It spreads into a toothy grin, and I emit a
cackling noise that sounds very much like laughter.

René
sticks his head out. “Which of the walls is to serve as a picture gallery?”

“The
long one in the front room. Let me show you.” I turn to go inside when I catch
a glimpse in my peripheral vision of someone familiar standing by the kiosk on
the other side of the street.

Fabien.
What the hell?
I spin around to take a better look, but there’s no one
by the kiosk.

Great
.

I’m
having hallucinations now, paired with a delusion of being followed. This is
ridiculous. It would imply I’m worried about my safety and afraid of getting
hurt.

But
I’m not.

I
have no reason to be.

I’m
the Devil’s spawn, remember?

*
* *