What If It's Love?: A Contemporary Romance Set in Paris (Bistro La Bohème Book 1) (12 page)

“Lena, we count on you.
La Bohème
needs you. You’ve become part of
the . . .” Jeanne hesitated, looking for the right word.

“Decor?” Lena offered. “I don’t mind. I like it at
La Bohème
.”

“Well, if you do, then why don’t you haul your nerdy ass downstairs for a
nice long coffee between girls? I’ll even share with you the last slices of Mom’s
amazing apple pie.”

Lena cocked her head to the side and said innocently, “I thought your
coffee break was only ten minutes long—that’s what you said, didn’t you?”

“What break? Who said anything about a break?” It was Jeanne’s turn to
fake innocence. “I’m not working until five. I’m here as a patron to have a
coffee with a friend.”

Lena hesitated. “Is . . . Rob there?”

Jeanne shook her head. “He starts at five today.”

Then she put a hand on her hip and delivered her final argument in a deep
voice with a terrible Italian accent. “And remember this,
ragazza
: My
friends never, ever refuse my offers—unless they have a death wish. You
won’t disappoint me now,
bella
, will you?”

When the coffee was served and the pie unwrapped, Jeanne repeated her
earlier question. “So, what’s wrong, Lena? And please don’t give me that
bullshit about writing and translating. This is about Rob. What’s the deal with
you two?”

Lena took a bite of the apple pie and gave in to the temptation to spill
the beans. Jeanne was a friend, her only friend in this city. With a sigh she
told her about their kiss and his confession about spying on her.

Jeanne listened, eyes round, and mouth agape.

“Turns out I’ve been falling for the wrong guy. So now I just need some
time and distance to lick my wounds and try to get over him,” Lena concluded
her tale.

“Ooh la la
—our Rob, a homegrown spy,
huh?” Jeanne
shook her head, before asking, “Tell me, when was the last
time you looked at a price tag?”

“I’m sorry?”

“You know, the little ticket that tells you how much an item you want to
buy costs.”

“I don’t buy expensive stuff—” Lena began to protest.

“I know.” Jeanne winked. “I’ve noticed. So, let’s imagine for the sake of
the argument you’re buying something from that sweatshop outlet down the
street. Would you look at the price tag? Not because you’re curious to see how
much they’re charging for that crap, but because you want to make sure you’ll
have enough money at the end of the month to pay rent?”

“What are you saying, Jeanne? Do you think that lack of money justifies
taking advantage of people’s trust?”

“No, that’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying that when Rob signed up to
spy on you, you were nothing to each other. There was no question of trust or
affection or anything like that.” She glanced into Lena’s eyes. “Don’t get me
wrong—what he did isn’t pretty.”

“Ah, good. I was beginning to wonder if the French had a totally different
value system from the rest of the world.”

“But he did come clean after you guys kissed, didn’t he?”

That much was true.

“Listen, Lena, I’ve known Rob for two years now, and I can tell you this:
He’s a good guy. In spite of this slipup . . . and his looks.”

Lena finished her slice of apple pie and licked her fingers. “My
compliments to your mom. This
was
an amazing pie.”

Jeanne swallowed the rest of her coffee. “I’ve got to run—have some
errands in town. I hope you figure out this thing with Rob pretty soon, so we
can all go back to normal.” She pushed back the coins Lena had placed on the
table. “This one is on the house, honey. I’ll tell Pierre it was an investment.
Ciao
!”

Lena was about to leave too, when her phone rang. She glanced at the
caller ID—it was her dad. Lena braced herself for bad news: He didn’t
normally call in the morning.

“Pumpkin, I’m going to have to cancel my Parisian vacation in August. I’m
really sorry.”

Lena began to panic. “Is something wrong?”

“Not at all. Quite the contrary, I have wonderful news.” Anton cleared
his throat. “Anna and I decided to advance our wedding date to August. So, we
will
see each other as we’d planned; only it will be in Moscow and not in Paris.”

“Oh. OK. I’ll come for your wedding then! Wow, Dad, this is moving
superfast.”

“Sweetie, we advanced the date because Anna is pregnant. You’re going to
have a little brother or a sister before Christmas.”

“Seriously? This is fantastic!”

Lena felt like jumping with joy and giving a bear hug to someone. She
wasn’t even sure if she was happier for her dad or for herself. Having a
sibling had been her number one wish throughout her childhood, and it was
finally coming true now that she was twenty-three.
Well, better late than
never. Infinitely better.

She hung up, grinning. As she thought about what it would be like to have
a sibling, it hit her that the baby would divert most of her dad’s excessive
solicitude. What a terrific and unhoped-for boon! She was still smiling when
her gaze fell on the couple sitting at the opposite end of the terrace. The
woman faced her and the man had his back to her. She couldn’t hear them, but
the man must have said something funny, because the woman threw her head back
in laughter. The man took her hand, and she didn’t withdraw it.

The man was Rob.

 * * *

Lena’s smile slipped and her muscles tensed. The scene was painful to
watch, and yet she did as if hypnotized. She couldn’t see Rob’s face or hear
the conversation, but her imagination readily filled in the gaps. Was he doing
this to make his point? To make her jealous? Or was he over her in just one
week? Had he ever been into her at all? The last thought made her wince.

But then Rob entered
La Bohème
, gave Lena a nod, and sat at a
table not far from her.

Lena’s fists unclenched, and her whole body went limp with relief. She
looked at the couple again. It was now so obvious that this guy wasn’t Rob. In
fact he looked nothing like Rob, apart from the similar hair and clothes. His
shoulders had a different slant, his back was thicker, and his neck thinner.
Lena felt the color warming her cheeks.

How embarrassing
.

She glanced at Rob and her cheeks went from warm to burning. He was
looking at her in the same dark, nearly palpable way he had done a few weeks
ago by the Seine. His eyes bored into hers with stark intent, as if she were
the only woman on Earth. As if the world around them had dissolved into
nothing.

Her undoing was averted by Pierre, who unwittingly sat next to Rob. “Waiting
for someone?”

Rob shook his head. “Just chilling.”

“I must be doing something right if my staff comes here on their free
time. First Jeanne, now you. Do you mind if I
chill
alongside you for a
few minutes?” He waved at Didier. “Two espressos and sparkling water, please.”

Profiting from the distraction, Lena stood up and left the bistro. She
almost ran the few feet to the building’s entrance, up the stairs and into her
apartment. Her mind reeled. Rob hadn’t forgotten her. He wasn’t over her. He
wanted her and he wanted her to know it. She thought about their kiss and what
it had done to her. In her two years with Gerhard she hadn’t experienced
anything that could remotely compare to that. Even now, her mouth was hungry
for his lips, his taste, and her body ached for him. But could she trust him
again? And if he broke her heart—or rather,
when
he broke her
heart—would she be able to handle it?

Lena went to her little desk and opened her laptop.
She found a file with unfinished translations and scrolled down to the one she
had been struggling with for a few months now. As she read the original poem
again, the French version poured out of her, as if of its own volition. Lena
began to type frantically, afraid she would forget the words. It was magic—like
a locked door suddenly unlatching. When she finished and reread her translation,
she knew why the poem had opened up at this precise moment.

Curled up under my fluffy
blanket,

I’m summoning that pesky
dream.

What was it? Whose triumphant
gambit?

Whose
loss? Whose win?

You’re gone, and both of us
are safer.

Except . . .
this thing I’m thinking of,

This funny thing I have no
name for,

What if it’s
love?

In our silly competition

Who threw the bull’s-eye dart?

And who, on a misguided
mission,

Hurled forth a
heart? . . .

* * *

Rain poured down in noisy and resolute showers. Lena had planned a trip
to the Versailles Gardens for this Sunday, but that plan no longer made sense.
According to Météo-France, it was going to be like this all day. She pressed
her forehead against the window and tried to motivate herself to get out of the
apartment, go somewhere, do something. After a while, she gave up and admitted
that the weather had the upper hand. Dark skies and rain often made her feel
lonely. This time round, they also made her nostalgic for the excitement of her
first days in Paris and the heady mixture of freedom and possibility they had
brought. Why couldn’t she maintain that state of mind? How did she let that
sense of freedom slip through her fingers? How did she end up with a heart
heavy with want and longing—when she had promised herself to keep it
uninvolved?

Her phone beeped. It was a text message from
Jeanne.

Hey, any plans 4 2nite? How about a nite in with a movie
& popcorn? If interested, please confirm availability of DVD
player/computer & microwave. We’ll bring the film & popcorn. 7 pm?

Hug, Jeanne

Lena replied immediately.

Computer, check; microwave, check.
7 is fine.

Looking forward to it,

Xo, Lena

It was amazing how a short text message could lift your spirits. Lena
didn’t feel lonely any longer, and her heart lightened. She was going to spend
the evening with a friend.

The friend in question showed up at her doorstep, accompanied by Pepe, at
seven o’clock on the dot.

“Nice to see you, Pepe,” Lena said, then turned to Jeanne. “I thought the
‘we’ in your text was you and your boyfriend.”

“He’s out of town.” Jeanne went to the microwave and began to fumble with
the buttons.

Pepe made a throat-slashing gesture to prevent Lena from asking further
questions, then opened his backpack and took three beers and a bottle of apple
juice out.

As they sprawled on the couch, Jeanne introduced the film. “On the
program tonight is a French spoof that I doubt either of you has seen. It’s
called
The Joy of Singing.
Ring any bells?”

Lena and Pepe shook their heads.

“Thought so. It wasn’t a huge box office success even in France, but it’s
one of my favorite movies.”

Pepe turned to Lena. “Says the woman with blue hair and holes in her
lips. I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

Jeanne snarled at him before continuing her presentation. “Just remember
there’s no point in trying to figure out who’s doing what, with whom and why.
It doesn’t matter. What matters is that the movie is hilarious. Especially the
leads, Marina Foïs and Lorant Deutsch.”

“I know Marina Foïs!” Lena said. “She’s so funny.”

“They play undercover agents who join a singing class to get information
about trafficked uranium. Or something like that.” Jeanne started the movie. “You’re
in for one absurdist, joyous romp, my friends.”

Pepe passed the popcorn around, and Lena put on her glasses.

As the movie began, Jeanne raised her index. “Almost forgot: If either of
you have a problem with nudity, let me know so that I can tell you when to
close your eyes. Which is going to be a lot of the time.”

“I thought it was a thriller slash comedy,” Lena said.

“And so it is. But remember, it’s a
French
thriller slash comedy,”
Jeanne said. “
Noblesse oblige
.”

The movie was everything Jeanne had touted it to be and more. To the
girls’ surprise, Pepe did close his eyes a few times. During a particularly
risqué love scene, he walked out of the room, ostensibly to get some water.

“In spite of his best efforts to pass for a jaded Parisian, Pepe is a Boy
Scout at heart,” Jeanne said.

“Well, I’m glad there’s more to him than the Nordic blonde obsession,”
Lena said.

Finally, after the required amount of thrills and chills, ludicrous
murders, eccentric lovemaking and deadpan humor, the film ended.

“Wow. This was . . .” Lena paused looking for the right
word.

“Indescribable? Weird? Bizarre?” Pepe offered.

“Yes, but also original and very funny. Jeanne, thanks for picking this
movie! I don’t think I would have ever seen it otherwise.”

Pepe furrowed his brow. “And that would have been a great loss for your
personal development?”

Lena smiled at him. “Actually, the movie does help to better understand
the French and their . . . mores.”

Jeanne put the DVD back into its case. “Let’s not make sweeping
generalizations. I can assure you that in their majority the French aren’t this
promiscuous. Or this good at singing.”

Pepe nodded energetically.

“Take me—I don’t sleep around. Or Rob, for that matter.” Jeanne
turned to Lena. “You may not believe me, but he’d never hit on a customer. That
is, except
you
. And he hasn’t had a girlfriend since Camille, who he
broke up with like a year ago.”

Pepe rolled his eyes. “Lena, what Jeanne is trying to say is that Rob is
a candidate for sainthood. In fact, he’s sworn off women because he’s about to
be ordained. His business school is just a cover—he doesn’t want people
to know he’s preparing to become a hermit monk.”