The Little Antique Shop Under the Eiffel Tower (14 page)

“I’ll try not to take offense.” He laughed. “I don’t often get to cook in a kitchen so well supplied. Moving around from hotel to hotel doesn’t allow much opportunity for that.”

The bench was covered in flour, and he had a fingerprint dusting his cheek. Under the crook of his arm, he hugged the glass bowl tight, as he whisked soufflé mixture with fierce determination.

It was almost as if we’d been here before, in another life, it felt so familiar. I took a sip of wine to swallow down that ridiculous thought, and finally said, “It must be hard moving around all the time, not being able to set down roots.”

He shrugged. “You get used to it. I take a few weeks off a year and head home to my little log cabin in the middle of nowhere. Hike up mountains, take the boat out, which is smaller than a Peugeot I might add, and have my fill of all of those domesticated things, enough that I can head back into the fray, anyway.”

I searched his features, trying to place him in that setting. I imagined his toasty warm log cabin in the woods somewhere, with the river a startling backdrop to a simple life. I wondered if he lived there alone, and spent those weeks in silence, or if he had a barrage of women who wanted to make home sweet for him.

As if he was reading my mind he said, “It gets lonely sometimes, with only a mournful wolf howl for company, but mostly I relish it. I take enough supplies to last me, and the day is my own. Time slows; it’s the most miraculous thing. Like I can just be…”

I folded my arms to keep warm, as the sting of cold still reached some visceral part of me, even though I was inside on a spring night. “It sounds to me like you need more of that. If that’s the place that rights your wrongs, then you should seek it out more.”

“Rights my wrongs?”

“You know, put the world to rights, or whatever the saying is in America.” While my understanding of the English language was more than adequate sometimes things were skewed in translation.

“Yes,” he agreed, and turned away, abruptly as though he didn’t want to pursue that line of conversation. Perhaps he missed home. There were times when I missed the simplicity of the small town my parents lived in where I was raised. That instinctive pull to a place, a feeling, a time where things were easier.

“I don’t know what possessed me to walk that way home tonight. I guess I was distracted, and not thinking. If you weren’t there…” My voice petered off. Why was he always close by?

Wiping his hands on a tea towel, he could read the question in my gaze. “I was hoping to catch you before you locked your shop for the evening. I’ve been invited to the estate sale in Saint-Tropez and wanted to ask your advice on a few pieces. In my haste to get to you before you closed, I somehow got lost. Those laneways are like a rabbit warren at nighttime. Before I turned the corner, I heard a scuffle nearby, and a woman’s terrified voice. It wasn’t until I pulled him away that I realized it was you. I’ve never been so grateful to get lost before.”

I shuddered at the memory. “Thank God you were. It’s like it was fate – one minute earlier and you would have turned that corner. It all happened so fast.” I tried to remember where the mugger walked from, which side of the road he was hiding, but couldn’t quite remember. “Do you think he was following me?” What if the man was waiting for me? Did he know who I was, and that there was a chance I’d have a stack of cash from the shop? I didn’t want to live in fear each time I locked up late at night.

Tristan shook his head. “No, not at all. I think he was a drunk who thought he’d try his luck. You just happened to wander down a badly lit road and he saw an opportunity.”

That reminded me. “Will the gendarmes want a statement?”

He clenched his jaw, and averted his eyes. “I gave them my details and they said they’d call if they needed more information.”

“He won’t get away with it, will he? I mean I’m fine, thankfully it didn’t go any further, but I’d hate to think he’s there lying in wait for the next girl.”

Tristan stood so quickly the table and its contents shimmied. “Trust me, he won’t ever touch another girl again.” A muscle along his jawline pulsed. “Now,” he said brightly, changing the subject along with his demeanor, “French onion soup, that should warm your soul and keep you from worrying.”

He took soup bowls from the overhead cupboards, spoons from the cutlery drawer, and napkins from the bureau. “If I didn’t know better, Tristan, I’d think you’d snooped around…” I laughed as he set the table.

“Of course I did. I’m American. It’s what we do. I didn’t expect to find every single kitchen accoutrement a person could want.”

Laughing, I lifted a palm. “I’m French. It’s what we do.”

We stared at each other over steaming bowls of aromatic French onion soup, and it struck me this was something I yearned for but didn’t admit it even to myself. Someone to break bread with, to sip soup with, in the heat of the kitchen. Someone you could trust, and feel safe with. Someone to laugh and love with.
Someone to laugh and love with?
The poor man had stumbled upon me in the shadows, and stopped to help, that’s all. I couldn’t shake the feeling that tonight and what might have been was a lesson in learning to really live again. I’d been so desperately heartsick over Joshua that I’d taken pains to protect myself by hiding away, but I couldn’t protect myself from everything without living in a bubble. Tonight proved that.

When Tristan relaxed his whole face lit up. He took our bowls to the sink, and continued with the next course. “Trust me, this is going to be the best cheese soufflé you’ve ever tasted,” he said. “You’re lucky I’m even letting you watch me make it. It’s a secret recipe passed down from generation to generation.”

I raised a brow. “Is that so? Tell me about your maman and her secret recipes.” I leaned against the counter, eager to hear about his family.

His eyes clouded and the smile disappeared from his face. “OK,” he said, “I’ve fallen at the first hurdle. It’s not really a secret recipe, it’s stolen from the internet, and claimed as my own with a tweak or two.” His voice lifted, becoming too jocular, forced, and I wondered what’d provoked the change. Asking about his maman? From the tense set of his shoulders it was obvious my question had bothered him.

For me, cooking was filled with memories: family celebrations, maman teaching me from a young age how to slice carrots, which herbs matched which dish, as I got older how to perfect the balance of flavors. Each moment in her kitchen had been a part of my education and I treasured them. She’d be cooking dinner for Papa right now, fussing over the wine choice, checking on her bubbling pots. Perhaps he wasn’t close to his maman? Maybe family memories conjured up hurt for some reason. While my family weren’t all living the same little town anymore, we were still so close, and I felt sorry for people who weren’t the same. Family meant everything to me. I didn’t press Tristan for any more details in case I cast the evening in a dark cloud, though I was curious.

Forgoing my rules and regulations for one night, and deciding to live in the moment, I turned up the music, and refilled his wineglass. “You have some flour…” I touched the spot on his cheek that was dusted white, my finger lingering longer than necessary. What was I doing? I had never been the one to initiate contact with Tristan; it had always been him leaning in for a kiss in greeting or goodbye. I didn’t even know this man at all, yet here we were in this domestic scene as if we’d been friends forever.

It was a friendship, I reasoned, and that was OK, wasn’t it?

“You just wanted to touch me,” he joked.

I rolled my eyes, happy to diffuse the swirling emotions with humor. “It’s true. There was no flour there; I made the whole thing up.”

Tristan added the cheese to his egg mixture, and folded it through before pouring it slowly into ramekins.

“You’ll make someone a good husband one day,” I said, watching him. He was paying close attention to each step. That fierce concentration was back. I wondered if that’s what he was like in business. Focused, driven, ambitious. But what exactly was his business? Why couldn’t he be more upfront? I was the reserved one, yet had shared a number of things with him.

“Are you offering to marry me?” he said arching his brow, which I hastily rewarded with a scoff.

“I haven’t tasted it yet.” I indicated the soufflés, which I knew would puff up and rise to perfection because he’d followed each step precisely, after I saved him from beating the eggs to death.

“Hold your marriage proposal until then…”

He put the ramekins in the oven and moved to sit at the dining room table. “Do you see yourself getting married?” I asked, realizing we’d jumped from light and breezy to the nuts and bolts of real life. After the scare in the laneway, it felt normal to discuss our private lives, as if we’d bonded quicker than usual because of it. Even though Tristan clearly loved cooking, I couldn’t see his type settling down, kids clutching his ankles as he baked soufflés, and I was keen to know what he’d say to such a question. I was certain the novelty of a domestic life would wear off if it was routine. I knew men like him. They chased rainbows, not realizing they weren’t tangible. Just pretty colors, and hot air. For some reason, Tristan seemed like the type of man who would thrive on excitement, the thrill of the chase, spontaneity.

“Yes.” He stretched out his legs and leaned back in the chair, cradling his wineglass in his hand. “I’d like to settle down and have kids, go to their football games or ballet classes…the whole shebang. But with my job, it’s not that easy. I travel, and haven’t really been able to stay in one place for any length of time.”

I cocked my head. “Can’t you change the way your job works? Set up a base somewhere, employ others to travel? You’re in charge aren’t you? It’s your business. I’m still a little muddled as to what it is you actually
do
for work…” I’d thought he was a collector, and then a dealer, and now I wasn’t sure he was even
in
the antique trade. Maybe he just liked acquiring beautiful things. Somehow he wangled getting invited to all of the auctions, and that only happened if a person was well known by the establishment. Tristan spoke in riddles, and I never quite got the full story about any aspect of his life. Was it an American quirk? Something I was missing in the language?

“It is a muddling sort of existence, truth be told.” He played with the stem of his wineglass. “I answer to a lot of people, so while I’m in charge, I’m only a puppet, really. And the strings get pulled every which way, and I bounce from place to place, fixing things.”

“What does that even mean?” I laughed, shaking my head. “That’s not an answer.”

He nodded, his eyes sparkling with amusement as if he liked toying with me. “I’m a consultant for businesses, which basically means flying around the world and reading their data, finding solutions to problems and moving on again. Truthfully it’s not the most exciting job going around. The travel side sounds glam, but aside from that, it’s a harried lifestyle, with no routine. Collecting antiques is a way to alleviate the monotony of reading spreadsheets and crunching numbers. They’re a memory of each place I’ve been, and I like beautiful things…”

Blushing, I brightened a little. If he wasn’t in the antique trade, perhaps his interest in me was genuine. Maybe he was a lonely traveler who just wanted to stop, and take a breath, and buy some treasures to remember his time in the city of love. It
could
happen.

“What about your social life?” I asked. “Do you make friends in each place? It seems a lonely nomadic existence if you don’t.” Flying around the world had its merits, but not if you were constantly alone with no one to touch base with. Even the most solitary person needed a friend, though Tristan didn’t strike me as the solitary type. Maybe he had a girlfriend in each city – who knew?

“My close friends are all in America. I’ve got a house that’s hardly lived in, a car that doesn’t get driven, and fish that someone else feeds while I’m away. It’s only recently I’ve realized I want more out of my life. And I don’t know how I can fix it.” He blushed. “It’s hard to explain.”

A sadness filled his eyes. “You should do what makes you happy. It’s a cliché but life is so short. That’s why we French sleep in, have a leisurely breakfast, a longer lunch, wine with most meals – day-to-day life shouldn’t be hurried or endured, it should be relished, each and every minute, in case tomorrow never comes.”

He sipped his wine, gazing at me over the rim of the glass. “Your life is heaven compared to mine. After this job, things just might change with me.”

The room filled with the delicious scent of the soufflé, making my stomach rumble. I cleared my throat hoping to mask the sound.

“Looks like your body is betraying you.” He laughed. “There’s nothing wrong with focusing on work if it’s what you enjoy. You don’t have to conform to anyone’s idea of what life should be. I know I certainly don’t conform, but the difference is, sometimes I wish I did.”

“And lose the playboy persona? Never!”

“Yeah, I’d miss my private jet, not to mention my yacht.” He smirked at me from over the rim of his wineglass.

I threw my napkin at him. “Yes, of course you would. My swaggering American friend.”

He let out a volley of laughter. “If only you knew. Let me seduce you…with my cheese soufflé.”

“All right, Romeo. Let’s see what skills you’ve got…in the kitchen, of course.”

Our flirtatious words tumbled out. Instead of blushing, or fumbling, I rolled my eyes and made a joke of it. Innocent fun between two adults.

After he left, I went straight to bed, bone weary from the long day. But the past wouldn’t let me forget how a heart can be broken. While Tristan was double-take gorgeous, muscular, with a knee-trembling presence, it wasn’t
that
I admired, it was the quiet times, when he wasn’t aware I was observing him. The light in his eyes changed color, his features softened, and I could see him as he’d age, and what kind of man he’d be, the type who dreamed of real love, and having a family, lingering over the little things in life – or maybe that was just wishful thinking on my part. Lilou came home, banging the door nosily, and laughing with Henry. I’d completely forgotten about them, and was now grateful they hadn’t been home to gatecrash our dinner. I scrunched up the pillow, and closed my eyes with a sigh, as shards of moonlight filtered through the curtains.