What If It's Love?: A Contemporary Romance Set in Paris (Bistro La Bohème Book 1) (3 page)

“All Grand-papa has is his
meager pension. He was a crappy farmer when he worked. Brought the family farm
to near ruin.”

“He did tell me last summer
he hated farming,” Amanda said.

“Luckily,” Rob continued, “my
dad was old enough by then to take matters into his own hands. He saved the
farm.”

Mat gave him a concerned
look. “What are you going to do?”

The crease between Amanda’s eyebrows
grew so deep Rob felt he had to say something reassuring. “Oh, I’ll come up
with something, I always do. Guys, I take back that I’m moderately worried. I’m
not worried at all. I’ve even got a plan, I swear.”

He chose not to reveal that
the plan in question was a fishy stint as a spy for a Russian businessman.

That, or an emergency
intervention from a fairy godmother.

Blissful recklessness, my sweet
sin,

My companion—and
ruination!

You have taught me to laugh at
whim,

You have
filled my veins with flirtation.

You have taught me to love—and
to mend,

Drop the ring, if empty of
meaning,

To begin, every time, from the
end,

And to end
before the beginning.

To be iron—and to be silk

in this world where we are so
little . . .

Battle sadness with chocolate milk,

And tend
loneliness with a giggle.

Marina Tsvetaeva

Guidebook, check.

Bottle of Evian, check.

Phone, keys, money, check.

OK, she was all set for
today’s bit of neighborhood recon. On the program was the
quartier
that
stretched from Nortre-Dame de Lorette to Pigalle. Her guidebook recommended
starting from the church, but Lena had already seen it during her first two
walks. So she took the bustling rue des Martyrs directly to the legendary
boutique
of Père Tanguy
.

Or whatever was left of it.

If anything at all.

Her guidebook was
suspiciously evasive on that account, and the photo next to the detailed story
of Père Tanguy showed no more than a sober white memorial plaque.

During one of her visits to
Paris, Lena had discovered Van Gogh’s
Portrait of Père Tanguy
in the
Rodin museum. She loved the air of quiet serenity the Buddah-like man exuded.
Père Tanguy wasn’t a random model—he was the best friend of the
impressionists. The jovial fellow sold them art supplies and accepted paintings
as payment. He then exhibited the paintings, one at a time, in the window of
his tiny shop. On Monday it would be a Renoir, on Tuesday a Monet, on Wednesday
a Pissarro, on Thursday a Van Gogh… 

She
had
to see that
place.

To Lena’s surprise and joy,
the
boutique
was still there, sold Japanese art, and was called Père
Tanguy. After chatting with the friendly manager, she found out the shop had
changed hands and was converted into an art gallery a few years ago.
Considering Père Tanguy’s obsession with Japanese prints, history had come full
circle.

Elated, Lena bought a print
and headed back home. She’d promised herself to write at least three pages of
her theoretical chapter before the end of the day. It was time to get
started…  After she had something to eat.

It was past lunchtime, but
Lena was hoping she could still order a big salad at the downstairs bistro. She
took a window seat at the back. It offered a great vantage point from which to
observe the passersby. Lena stretched her legs under the table and began to study
the menu. She felt mature, self-sufficient, and in charge.

And single, in a good way.

A young woman with dyed pale
blue hair approached her table. “Has mademoiselle decided what she’d like to
order?”

The waitress’s hair, her
gothic makeup, and pierced lower lip were in stark contrast to her classical
French server uniform: a stiff-collared white shirt, black trousers, long black
apron, and elegant black shoes. She whipped out a little notepad and tilted her
head to the side to signal full attention.

“Your Savoyard salad looks
interesting,” Lena said, looking to her for a confirmation.

“It isn’t interesting. It’s
fantastic—our chef’s special. It’s the best Savoyard in Paris, if I say
so myself.”

“Wonderful! Then I’ll have
it, please.”

The waitress shook her head.
“I didn’t mean to lead you on. We’re out of the Savoyard. In fact, the only
salad left is the Niçoise.”

“That’s OK. I’ll have the
Niçoise then, and a pitcher.”

Lena found herself remarkably
unperturbed by the salad situation and pleased that she’d remembered to ask for
a pitcher. During her previous visits to Paris, she had learned it was local
code for tap water. It felt good to showcase that knowledge now, even though
she would have preferred to drink Evian.

“Very good choice,” the
waitress commented with a sly smile.

Lena wasn’t sure if she was
referring to the salad or the tap water.

After finishing her meal and
ordering a cup of tea, Lena turned on her iPad. Thankfully, the café offered
Wi-Fi. She checked her e-mails and saw one from Gerhard. He was complaining
about his current predicament: how to cut a 200-page mammoth of a monograph
down to the seventy required for a master’s thesis. At the end of his note he
suggested that they critique each other’s work.

So Gerhard wanted them to be
thesis writing buddies.
All right
. It would be part of her healing.
Besides, she did need help with her thesis, which at present consisted of only
ten pages of theory and about forty pages of poems. The poems were Lena’s
French translations of Marina Tsvetaeva, her favorite Russian poet. Even though
both Lena and Gerhard majored in translation theory and practices, Gerhard was
more into theory while Lena preferred the practice.

She
wrote back.

Gerhard:

I have an idea. How about
removing all the speculative bits, historic digressions and unnecessary
footnotes?

Try it and I think you’ll
be fine.

Cheers,

Lena

It helped that she knew
Gerhard and the way he wrote so well. It was also much easier to critique
someone else’s thesis than to write hers. She attached to her e-mail her own
anorexic theoretical chapter and asked him for an honest opinion.

She considered sending
Gerhard her translated poems, too—after all, they were part of her
thesis. She was curious to see if her translations would stir an emotional
response in a person unfamiliar with the original texts. Truth be told, Lena
craved feedback on the poems she’d poured her soul into.

And
that was precisely why she couldn’t send them to Gerhard.

As she packed her iPad away,
a nerve-racking sound startled her. A motorcycle screeched to a halt in front
of the bistro, its engine filling the street with a hideous stench and roar.
Lena wasn’t sure motorcycles were allowed on pedestrian streets, but the biker
looked like he wouldn’t give a hoot if they weren’t. His helmet half concealed
his face. He sported a tattoo on each arm, and another one peeked from under
the collar of his black T-shirt. He wore black jeans and huge black combat
boots along with bulky signet rings on his hands. If appearances could talk,
his was shouting that a metrosexual he was not.

A few seconds later, the
blue-haired waitress came out and stood next to the biker with her arms crossed
over her chest. She said something Lena didn’t catch. The biker tapped his
helmet but didn’t remove it.

“You were gone for more than
an hour with some chick,” the waitress shouted. “People asked me who she was
and if you were coming back to the party, and I had to tell them I had no clue.
And then, just as I was about to leave, you show up and behave like nothing’s wrong!”

The biker muttered something
Lena couldn’t make out.

“I don’t care that she
doesn’t mean anything to you!” The waitress yelled, clenching her hands in
fists. “I want to know what
I
mean to you. After all this time, do I
mean anything at all?”

Lena couldn’t hear the
biker’s reply.

The waitress shook her head.
“You know what? Just go away. Right now I can’t stand to look at you.” She spun
around and marched back into the kitchen.

The biker started the engine
and drove away, leaving stench, noise, and smoke in his wake.

* * *

From behind a tree Rob raised
his gun, took aim at the mobster he had been paid to execute, and pulled the
trigger. As he watched the bullet perforate his target’s chest, the mobster
transformed into a petite young woman with dark hair and big brown eyes. Rob
froze. There was no mistake. He’d just shot Lena Malakhova, the girl from the
bistro. Suddenly, his head started to ring, the sound getting louder and
louder.

He woke up drenched in cold
sweat to the deafening peal of his telephone.

“Hello,” he rasped, grabbing
the receiver.

“Rob, it’s Maman. Did I wake
you? How’s my boy?”

He shook his head vigorously
to dissipate the image of Lena Malakhova, sprawled on the ground with a big red
stain spreading across her chest. “I’m fine, M’man. What’s up? How’s everyone
back home?”

“We’re all OK,” Rose said.
“Grand-papa is organizing a chess tournament for the Fourteenth of July
celebrations. It’s put him in a good mood.”

“That’s great.”

“He even went to Besançon to
order a special prize from a craftsman for the winner. We’ve been bugging him
about what it is, but he only says ‘wait and see.’ I fear the worst.”

Rob laughed. “I bet it’s a
chess set with topless mermaids as the queens. That, or topless firefighters as
the kings. Or maybe both to make sure to embarrass madam the mayor.”

“Oh yes, Bastille Day won’t
be a success unless your grandfather has embarrassed madam the mayor!”

“How’s my little sister? Is
she finishing the year well?” Rob asked.

“Caro’s been smack in the
middle of her class since January. I suspect she’s so comfy there she’s made it
a question of honor to uphold that position,” Rose said with a sigh.

“I’ll talk to her.”

“But there’s good news, too.
Your sister has declared we’re no longer to buy her anything pink, rosy, or purple
because it’s
not cool
. Her favorite color from now on is black. Please
take note.”

Rob smiled.
Caroline—Caro to friends and family—was an outgoing, happy child.
He wondered if she would retain that personality through her teenage years. She
loved to be outdoors. As a result her skin was golden and her wild hair
bleached by the sun. Being her elder by twelve years, Rob had logged a record
number of babysitting hours up until he left for Paris. As a matter of fact, he
may have spent more time with his little sister than both his busy parents
combined.

“Note taken—pink is
not
cool.” He gasped dramatically. “Oh no.”

“What is it?”

“I need to replace my entire
wardrobe.”

As his mother chuckled, Rob
stuck the handset between his ear and his shoulder, rubbed his eyes, and got
out of bed. “How’s Papa? And what about you?”

“Same old. We’ve been really
busy for the past couple of months, but things are calming down a bit.”

“Will you visit me then?” He
knew there was little chance of that happening, considering how much his
parents disliked big cities in general, and Paris in particular. They hated the
traffic, the noise, the ubiquitous dog poo, and the weirdoes in the
métro
.
He couldn’t actually remember a single thing they liked about Paris.

“There’s still some urgent
work to finish here. Besides, we’re both on the organizational committee for
the intervillage Olympic Games and the Firemen’s Ball. It will be special this
year, you’ll see.”

During his six years in
Paris, Rob’s parents visited him only three times and complained about Paris
for months after each visit. So, he went to them whenever he could. That is,
whenever he managed to get a weekend off at the bistro, book cheap train
tickets, or find an offer to car pool.

He walked into the kitchen
and poured himself a glass of water. “Well, then I guess I’ll see you all in
Saint-Fontain in mid-July. Say hi to everyone.”

His mother promised to do
that and made Rob promise to eat well and stay away from cigarettes. It was how
they ended each of their conversations for the past six years, and Rob had
grown to appreciate the reassuring invariability of that ritual.

He hung up and went to the
shower. As warm drops hit his shoulders and back, his thoughts turned to
yesterday’s exchange with Lena Malakhova. They’d gotten off on the wrong foot.
So he’d need to start over… if he were to accept the job.

I can do this.

He would fix their bad start
and get Lena to relax around him. And then he’d get close enough to her to
eavesdrop on her conversations without raising suspicion. And if he could
manage to hold this gig throughout the summer, his little tuition problem would
be solved without any need for a fairy godmother.