Maybe in Paris by Rebecca Christiansen

Author:Rebecca Christiansen
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Sky Pony Press
Published: 2017-05-17T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

In the morning, Levi refuses to get out of bed. I get dressed and cross the street to our bakery. Maybe fresh bread can wake him up. And croissants, and cookies, and marzipan animals …

I tug on the door handle but it doesn’t budge. The store is dark. The glass case that holds all the miraculously delicious things is empty.

I glance at my phone to check the time—maybe I’m ridiculously early?—when the date jumps out at me. Sunday, August 30. Sunday.

Everyone is Catholic and in church today.

While I’m still standing there, probably looking desperate, the woman who runs the bakery emerges from a door behind the counter, in pajamas. She’s looking for something around the cash register when she glances up and sees me. She rushes to open the door.

“Ma chérie, je suis désolé, we are closed!” she exclaims.

“I know, I just realized,” I say with a laugh, my cheeks starting to burn. I must look so stupid. “We’ll have to find something else.”

“No, there is nothing open,” she says. “Reviens! Come back in one hour. I will make your breakfast.”

I try to protest, but she won’t take no for an answer. She bustles off, saying she must get her lazy brother on his feet and baking as soon as he opens his eyes.

I’m as selfish as Marie Antoinette. I’m ecstatic at the prospect of freshly baked goods, made just for me, on a lazy Sunday morning. I feel horrible for disturbing them, too, but come on. Those croissants.

I go back to the hotel and wake Levi, telling him about our luck. “Isn’t that nice of her?” I say as he yawns cavernously. “We’ll have to think of something to do for her in return.”

“Why aren’t they open on Sundays?” he asks.

Oh boy. He hates religion.

“A lot of people in France are Catholic.”

“They’re just lazy,” he scoffs. “All businesses should be open all day. Twenty-four hours, if feasible. It’s the most convenient.”

“Not for the people who you would have work twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.”

“Uh, it’s called working shifts.” He frowns in irritation.

“I’ll pass on your business advice to the entire working world, then.”

If he hears the sarcasm in my voice, he doesn’t acknowledge it.

We get dressed and go down to the bakery. The woman ushers us in with her big smile and shows us to our usual table.

“Sit, sit! The croissants are ready. The rest will be ready soon.”

“The rest?” I repeat. “You didn’t bake us the entire works, did you?”

“Only a few things,” she says with a wave of her hand.

She won’t let me say another word. She brings us a plate of croissants drizzled with chocolate, still steaming. Their buttery flakes call to me like the One Ring calls to Sauron.

The owner, nothing to do since her business is not actually open, putters around the front counter at first, but ends up pulling up a chair at our table. I push the plate of croissants toward her. She smiles shyly.

“Oh, I could not.”

“Of course.

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