Grace Page 5

  Inside, in the cathedral’s shadows, rows of candles flickered. Sweet incense lingered in the cool air, and shafts of colored light filtered in through stained-glass windows. It was easy to imagine how the author of The Hunchback of Notre Dame had been inspired by this place.

  I reached for Mom’s hand and whispered, “You know how Dad says stones talk, if you listen?”

  “Yes,” she whispered back.

  “Well, I bet these stone walls could tell lots of stories.”

  “I was just thinking the same thing,” she said. “Makes me miss him—and Josh.”

  “Me too,” I whispered.

  For lunch, we headed back along Boulevard St. Germain.

  “Here we are,” Mom said as we approached the café. Customers were seated outside the front entrance, and the sign overhead read Café de Flore in a pretty scroll.

  “It’s one of the most famous cafés in Paris,” Mom said. “Many famous artists and writers have hung out here.”

  Customers sat clustered at green tables with pink-and-green chairs. Mom made her way toward an open table, and I followed, careful not to trip on someone’s purse or cane. As I sat down, my stomach gurgled noisily. I was hungry!

  But when the waiter brought the menu, nothing looked familiar.

  “Want some help?” Mom asked.

  “I’ve got it.” I had my French–English dictionary, and I wanted to prove that I could order for myself. Everything else had gone so well today. I’d seen the Eiffel Tower, and I’d even been inspired by the Pont des Arts bridge to keep going with my dog-walking business idea. I could certainly order my own lunch! All I really wanted was a grilled cheese sandwich, but as I scanned the menu, none of the words made sense.

  When the waiter approached again, the menu blurred before my eyes. I decided to just put my finger on an item and order it. I said, “S’il vous plaît,” and then continued in terrible French, “ragoût de lapin?”

  The waiter smiled. “Mademoiselle, you want rabbit stew? Oui?”

  “Oh no,” I said. “No, not rabbit anything.”

  “S’il vous plaît.” He pointed to the subtitles on my menu—the English words just below the French.

  “Oh,” I said, flushing. I’d been so flustered, I hadn’t even noticed. Then I remembered my manners and replied, “Merci.”

  “I come back,” he said.

  Mom reached across the table and squeezed my hand. “Relax, sweetie. It’s all new, so don’t be afraid to ask for help. When you travel, there really are no mistakes—just good learning opportunities.”

  I exhaled and squeezed her hand back. “Thanks, Mom.”

  When the waiter returned with a neatly folded white cloth over one arm, I ordered the closest thing I could find to a grilled cheese, the croque-monsieur. It was a grilled cheese with ham. It looked a little different from what I usually ordered back home, and I wondered if I’d like the cheese, which had a name I didn’t recognize. But I snapped a photo for my blog.

  Click!

  And I decided I was too hungry not to at least try it.

  I took a bite.

  One wonderful, amazing bite.

  My taste buds filled with butter, ham, and cheese that melted in my mouth. Delicious! I’d have to write about the sandwich on my blog.

  I gazed out at the sidewalk and its ever-moving river of tourists and Parisians.

  I could try to describe the sandwich, but it would never be the same as tasting it here, on the streets of Paris, seated at an outdoor café with my mom. I guess there are some things you can’t learn from a website or a book. Some things, you just have to learn through experience. I gave my mom a thumbs-up and took another big bite.

  That afternoon, when we returned our bikes, I spotted the little dog with the “pirate patch” sitting near the pâtisserie.

  “Mom, that’s her! The one I told you about! Hello, little dog,” I said softly.

  “Oh, I’ve seen a dog like this before. It’s a French bulldog,” Mom said.

  I giggled. “This one is a French French bulldog.” I crouched down and held out my hand.

  “Careful, Grace,” Mom warned. “No matter how cute she is, we don’t know this dog well.”

  “It’s okay,” I said. “Sylvie already knows her and she’s friendly. Just a little shy at first.” The dog wagged her tail, took a few cautious steps, and then stopped several feet away from me. “What’s your name? Where’s your owner?” I asked soothingly.

  She looked back at me with black button eyes.

  “Mom, see? She doesn’t even have a collar. She’s a stray,” I said sadly.

  “Grace, I’m sure she has a home somewhere.”

  But I wasn’t so sure. The next time I saw this little dog, I’d have something in my pocket to give her, just as Sylvie had done. It was the least I could do.

  ventually, my body started getting used to the time change. Instead of feeling wide-awake in the middle of the night, I started sleeping when it was dark and waking up in the morning.

  Unfortunately, though, after a few days of trying new foods, learning new words, and exploring the St. Germain arrondissement (or neighborhood), nothing much had changed between me and Sylvie. Instead of feeling like a pair of cousins, we seemed more like a pair of mismatched socks.

  One morning I woke up early, only to find Sylvie’s bed empty. I wandered sleepily to the kitchen, the apartment unusually quiet.

  Mom sat on the couch reading. Napoléon rested above her on the back of the couch, with one paw on Mom’s shoulder.

  “Mom, where is everybody?” I whispered.

  Mom’s dimples deepened with her big smile. “Your aunt had a baby last night!”

  “Here?”

  “No, sweetie. Uncle Bernard took her to the hospital just before midnight.”

  “Oh! Where’s Sylvie?”

  “She’s there now. Her dad returned an hour ago to take her to the hospital to meet her new little sister.”

  “A girl?”

  Mom nodded.

  “What’s her name?” I asked, feeling as if I’d missed out on Christmas morning.

  “They haven’t decided on one yet.”

  I felt more than a little jealous that I hadn’t been woken up, too. I would have loved going with Sylvie to meet her new sister.

  The cobwebs finally started to clear from my brain. “Wait,” I said to Mom, “I thought the baby wasn’t due until the middle of July!”

  “She was,” said Mom. “But she decided to come early. She arrived at quarter to three this morning.”

  As I took in this big news, I poured myself a glass of orange juice and lathered a croissant with butter and apricot jam. Before I sat down at the table, I blurted, “Mom, things aren’t getting any easier with Sylvie. I feel like she doesn’t even want me here.”

  “Oh, Grace,” said Mom, setting down her book. “I’m sorry you feel that way. I think Sylvie is just going through lots of changes right now. That can be hard.”

  Yeah, well, what about me? I thought grumpily. I’m in a new country, far away from my friends, and staying with someone who won’t even try to speak with me.

  I gazed out the window toward the gray buildings, some with gargoyles, many with bright shutters and flower boxes. I didn’t want to be in a bad mood. I was in Paris. And Aunt Sophie had just had a baby. That meant I had a new baby cousin! “I want to meet the baby,” I said as brightly as I could.

  “Me, too,” Mom said with a smile. “I’m sure she’ll be beautiful and delightful, and she’ll bring lots of joy—along with change—to this little family. We’ll go this afternoon, okay?”

  I nodded, hoping Mom was right about the “joy” part. Something had to change between me and Sylvie. I crossed my fingers, hoping this baby was it.

  Her name is Lilou. “Lily” for short. And since she came home from the hospital, I hadn’t been able to take my eyes off her.

  I’d never seen such tiny fingernails and toenails. When she was sleeping, such sweet expressi
ons came over her rosy lips. She was as perfect as a rosebud!

  “I think you and Dad should have another baby,” I said to Mom as she held Lily in her arms on the sofa. I snuggled close on one side, breathing in Lily’s sweet baby scent.

  Mom laughed. “We have you and Josh,” she said, “with enough wonderful memories of you two as babies to last us a lifetime.”

  “Thanks, I guess,” I said with a sigh. “Just thought I’d try.”

  Aunt Sophie was great about letting me hold Lily, too. I had to be seated, and when she handed the baby to me, I made sure to support her head. I was very, very careful. And I was head-over-heels in love with her!

  For the first day or two, both Sylvie and I spent hours beside Lily’s bassinet, just watching her and talking to her—me in English and Sylvie in French.

  But then Lily discovered her lungs, and everything changed. When she cried, everybody in the house heard her. With the windows open much of the time, half the neighborhood probably heard her, too!

  I slept with my pillow over my ears.

  Sylvie did the same.

  Nobody was really getting enough sleep, except for Lily, who had her nights and days confused.

  Mom was right. A baby changed lots of things. Aunt Sophie’s delivery had required surgery, so she couldn’t lift anything for weeks. That meant Mom was on full-time duty—making meals, changing diapers, and bathing Lily—as Aunt Sophie built up her strength. Mom was too tired to stick with her running schedule.

  With Mom’s help, I changed a few diapers, but I honestly felt more in the way than helpful. And it didn’t make things easier for me that Sylvie still disappeared downstairs to the bakery most of each day.

  I started to feel really homesick—for Dad, Josh, Grandma, and Grandpa.

  I longed to be back in my own home…with my own bed…and with my own friends, Ella and Maddy. Part of me wanted to go back to the start of summer and not go to Paris—to stay home instead and start up a business with my friends.

  But then I gave myself a talking-to. I didn’t want to spend the rest of my visit sulking. If I wasn’t happy, it was up to me to change things. I had to come up with an idea—a way to start having more fun. But how? I would just have to keep my eyes open for possibilities.

  One evening at dinner, Uncle Bernard apologized for being gone so much. He said this was the busiest season at the pâtisserie. “I am happy you are here to help with the baby,” he said to Mom.

  But then an idea came to me.

  “Uncle Bernard,” I said. “I love helping at the bakery back home with Grandma and Grandpa. I’d like to help at your bakery—the pâtisserie—if you’d let me.”

  At first he waved away my suggestion, as if it would be too much trouble.

  “Papa,” Sylvie said with a nod of encouragement. “S’il te plaît?”

  He looked from me to Sylvie and then back again. “Oui, Grace. The pâtisserie is very busy. You will stay close to my Sylvie and to Colette, our summer intern.”

  I flashed a grateful smile to Sylvie, and she smiled shyly back. She did want me here after all!

  With bright, round eyes under straight-cut bangs, Colette greeted me with a kiss on each cheek. “Bonjour, Grace!” She wore a short floral dress and knee-length leggings, but it was her orange-and-purple ruffled apron that I admired the most.

  “Bonjour, Colette!”

  With the grace and energy of a dancer, she flitted and spun around the bakery, pointing out the bakery oven, the stand mixer, and other appliances in a rush of English and French. I followed very little, but I could tell that Uncle Bernard’s bakery employed at least three bakers—one woman and two men. They were all busy rolling, shaping, baking, slicing, and decorating. Each glanced up with a brief nod of hello, but clearly, it was time to work. One of the women grabbed a large tray of strawberry tartes and headed for the swinging door, where customers were waiting to purchase the creations. As the tray passed, I admired how the berries glistened, each artfully placed on the tartes.

  In the kitchen of the pâtisserie, the smells transported me back home to First Street Family Bakery. I felt a sudden pang of homesickness for Grandma and Grandpa and their bakery, with its heavenly spices and wrap-you-up warmth from the ovens. Now I understood why Aunt Sophie was drawn to work in a French bakery. It was similar to Grandma and Grandpa’s and yet quite different, too.

  The bakers worked like artists, paying attention to every detail. At an amazing speed, they cut dough into triangles and rolled them into croissants. Though Colette was an intern and was still learning, she glided from task to task with ease. Even Sylvie skillfully arranged small glazed strawberries points-up on the tartes.

  From the ovens came delicious-smelling treats that Colette named for me: pains au chocolat (chocolate croissants), chaussons aux pommes (apple turnovers), and pains aux raisins (raisin bread).

  At the counters, the bakers worked on chocolate éclairs, macarons, and lemon meringue pies. I wished Grandma and Grandpa could be here to see all of this!

  At first, because Colette asked me to, I just watched everyone else work. I kept scooting out of the way—back toward the walls, back toward the corners. After an hour passed, I began to feel, well, useless. But I knew that wasn’t true. I helped out plenty at First Street Family Bakery. I just needed something to do.

  Colette turned from whisking eggs at the counter and motioned to me.

  At last!

  She smiled and made a motion with her hand toward the broom next to the sink. Sweep? I’d rather learn how to bake French treats, but I suppose everyone has to start somewhere. I definitely knew how to operate a broom and dustpan. In dusty patches, flour had spilled across the ceramic tile floor, which I knew from experience could be slippery.

  As Colette disappeared into the customer service area, I started to sweep, quiet and curious as a cat. I swept behind the bakers’ backs, careful not to disturb their concentration, yet keeping an eye on what everyone was doing. I’d prove I could be trusted with simple tasks, and from there, I’d soon be learning the skills of master French bakers. I swept and swept, building up a good pile of dust, flour, and sugar.

  But the very moment I bent down with a dustpan, a breeze blew in. And not through just one door, which might not have been so bad, but through two open doors, creating a cross-current.

  Colette returned from the customer area, and at the same time, a delivery person stepped through the back door. A gust of wind whooshed in, picked up my pile, and tossed it like confetti into the air. I watched it swirl, drift, and land—all across baking trays of croissants and bowls filled with cream and meringue.

  “Non, non!” Uncle Bernard called out, wagging his finger at me.

  My face crumpled. I froze in place. Suddenly, I couldn’t even find words in English.

  Colette dashed to my side, took the broom and dustpan, swept up quickly, and deposited the floor dustings in the garbage. “Sweep? Non.” She pointed to the counter with dirty pots and pans and the nearby sink. “Wash, Grace. Wash.”

  I’d misunderstood her instructions—I thought she had motioned to the broom. I wanted the earth to open up and swallow me whole.

  But that didn’t happen.

  Everyone stared at me for hours—or what felt like hours—and then looked around at the damage.

  “C’est dommage,” said Uncle Bernard, shaking his head. Then he set his shoulders and said, “Recommence! Begin again.”

  I felt like such a failure! I’d only wanted to help, but my mistake was costing the bakery time and money by having to start all over.

  Glad to turn my back and not have to speak to anyone, I reached for the faucet. I filled the deep stainless steel sinks with hot water and cool rinse water. As I sunk my hands into the hot, soapy water, I squeezed back tears. I scolded myself for not knowing better, for not understanding Colette’s sign language, for not understanding French. I washed and scrubbed until my hands turned to wrinkled cranberries. Then I rinsed, dried, and stacked dishes o
n the nearby counter.

  When I turned around, everyone was busy again.

  I walked quietly toward Colette. “May I go outside for a few minutes?” I asked.

  As her eyes met mine, I blinked back tears.

  Colette gave me an understanding smile and patted my shoulder. “Oui.” Then she made a closing motion with her thumb and forefinger. “Short time?” she asked.

  I nodded.

  I hurried out the back door, which opened onto a narrow cobblestone street. Across the street, neon green letters formed a word I understood: PHARMACIE. I was pretty sure they sold everything you could need for a sore throat, a runny nose, or an upset stomach. I wondered what they would say if I went in and asked, “Do you have something for when you feel like a failure?”

  But then, I didn’t know enough French to ask the question.

  Or to make a joke.

  I leaned against the stone wall of the building. I had wanted to cry, but the moment had passed. Instead, I drew in deep, full breaths as a throng of tourists biked by, laughing and speaking a language I didn’t understand. I knew I was supposed to be having a great time here in Paris, but…

  Across the street, a gray cat sunned itself on a window ledge, beside a leafy tree. It stretched, arched its back, and then crawled out onto the branch. It dropped to the sidewalk and sauntered off to my left, flicking the tip of its crooked tail.

  I drew another breath. So you made a mistake, I told myself. At least you won’t make that one again. At a bakery, sweeping is for the end of the day, not for in the middle of things.

  Suddenly, from my right, approached the little black-and-white dog. Head high, she trotted right toward me.

  “Bonjour, petite chienne,” I called softly.

  I held my breath, hoping she wouldn’t dart off. I needed her company today more than ever. “Know what? I just destroyed a morning’s worth of work in there,” I confided in her.

  She sat a few feet away and cocked her head, looking through her pirate’s patch with those big eyes.

  But then a flash of gray fur caught her attention, and she darted across the street. I breathed a sigh of relief that no cars had been coming.