accompanied
them.
Amanda must have been five or six
at the time of her Christophe mania, and she insisted that her dad read to her
from those books every night. She just couldn’t get enough of Christophe . . .
who happened to be a little spider. Christophe was funny and curious. He was,
as a matter of fact, her best friend for at least a year until she finally
acquired her first nonfictional buddy, Magalie.
Wasn’t it ironic that she should
remember Christophe when she was considering the least disgusting method of
eliminating the spider in her bathroom? The real-life thing was a lot less cute
than her book hero, and it couldn’t sing or dance. Even if it had turned
around when she told it to stop staring.
Which was, of course, a mere
coincidence.
Hmm, did spiders have brains?
Amanda pulled on her pj’s and
slipped between her crispy Egyptian cotton sheets. To her surprise, instead of
going over her day, she said a clumsy prayer that her voyeuristic bath crasher
move its little ass and vacate her apartment during the night. As she addressed
the universe, she felt her ears flame with embarrassment. Was she getting
sentimental? Was she praying for an arachnid because of her trip down memory
lane?
No way.
She shook her head. Amanda Roussel
had never been too squeamish to flatten a pest. Neither was she a touchy-feely
ninny who would naturally evolve into a crazy spider lady in her old age.
She had hesitated earlier only
because . . . because . . .
She loved her shoes.
* * *
“So I open the bathroom door and
peep in. I have my least favorite shoe in one hand and a dozen paper towels in
the other.” Amanda paused for effect.
“And?” Manon leaned forward.
“It wasn’t there. The little voyeur
was gone.”
“Good.” Manon sat back and drank
from her cup.
It was ten-thirty in the
morning—the quiet hour between the rushed breakfast grabbers and the boisterous
lunch crowd. During this lull, the servers gravitated toward the coziest corner
by the window for a coffee and a chat while Claude—the bistro’s legendary
chef—did his magic in the kitchen.
Amanda’s mouth watered as she read
the name of today’s special Jeanne had written on the chalkboard earlier in the
morning: sea bass en papillote . Mmm. Another hour, and the staff could
enjoy their complimentary serving before setting tables for the lunch guests.
Manon put her hand on her lower
abdomen and pulled a face. “I hate having my period. And this one is heavy.”
“Too much information.” Amanda
frowned before mellowing a little. “Tea is great for cramps. I can make you
some if you want.”
“Really?” Manon gave her a big-eyed
look, barely disguising her sarcasm. “You’d do that for me?”
“Oh, come on,” Jeanne said, sitting
down across from Manon. “Amanda’s not as bad as she seems.”
Amanda turned away and surveyed the
street. “What’s that weird building with the permanently shuttered windows?”
Jeanne followed Amanda’s gaze.
“It’s a Freemasons’ lodge. It’s called Le Grand Orient.”
“Can you believe it?” Manon chimed
in. “These guys didn’t allow the initiation of women up until a few years ago.”
“I have a rule,” Jeanne said,
looking Manon in the eye. “Anyone who joins a secret society must step down
from the headwaiter position and resign.”
Manon cocked her head. “You don’t
mean it.”
“Oh yes, I do.”
“Well, I wasn’t exactly itching to
be initiated . . .” Manon pouted her pretty mouth. “But I did
toy with the idea. Their mission is to serve humanity.”
“Sorry, hon, but rules are rules.”
Jeanne shrugged. “You see, there’s a conflict of interest: you can’t serve
humanity and La Bohème patrons at the same time.”
Amanda snorted. “What other rules
do you have, Jeanne? I wouldn’t want to get fired over a gaffe.”
Jeanne took a deep breath before
opening her mouth. “Let’s see. You can’t check your cell phone during
them.
Amanda must have been five or six
at the time of her Christophe mania, and she insisted that her dad read to her
from those books every night. She just couldn’t get enough of Christophe . . .
who happened to be a little spider. Christophe was funny and curious. He was,
as a matter of fact, her best friend for at least a year until she finally
acquired her first nonfictional buddy, Magalie.
Wasn’t it ironic that she should
remember Christophe when she was considering the least disgusting method of
eliminating the spider in her bathroom? The real-life thing was a lot less cute
than her book hero, and it couldn’t sing or dance. Even if it had turned
around when she told it to stop staring.
Which was, of course, a mere
coincidence.
Hmm, did spiders have brains?
Amanda pulled on her pj’s and
slipped between her crispy Egyptian cotton sheets. To her surprise, instead of
going over her day, she said a clumsy prayer that her voyeuristic bath crasher
move its little ass and vacate her apartment during the night. As she addressed
the universe, she felt her ears flame with embarrassment. Was she getting
sentimental? Was she praying for an arachnid because of her trip down memory
lane?
No way.
She shook her head. Amanda Roussel
had never been too squeamish to flatten a pest. Neither was she a touchy-feely
ninny who would naturally evolve into a crazy spider lady in her old age.
She had hesitated earlier only
because . . . because . . .
She loved her shoes.
* * *
“So I open the bathroom door and
peep in. I have my least favorite shoe in one hand and a dozen paper towels in
the other.” Amanda paused for effect.
“And?” Manon leaned forward.
“It wasn’t there. The little voyeur
was gone.”
“Good.” Manon sat back and drank
from her cup.
It was ten-thirty in the
morning—the quiet hour between the rushed breakfast grabbers and the boisterous
lunch crowd. During this lull, the servers gravitated toward the coziest corner
by the window for a coffee and a chat while Claude—the bistro’s legendary
chef—did his magic in the kitchen.
Amanda’s mouth watered as she read
the name of today’s special Jeanne had written on the chalkboard earlier in the
morning: sea bass en papillote . Mmm. Another hour, and the staff could
enjoy their complimentary serving before setting tables for the lunch guests.
Manon put her hand on her lower
abdomen and pulled a face. “I hate having my period. And this one is heavy.”
“Too much information.” Amanda
frowned before mellowing a little. “Tea is great for cramps. I can make you
some if you want.”
“Really?” Manon gave her a big-eyed
look, barely disguising her sarcasm. “You’d do that for me?”
“Oh, come on,” Jeanne said, sitting
down across from Manon. “Amanda’s not as bad as she seems.”
Amanda turned away and surveyed the
street. “What’s that weird building with the permanently shuttered windows?”
Jeanne followed Amanda’s gaze.
“It’s a Freemasons’ lodge. It’s called Le Grand Orient.”
“Can you believe it?” Manon chimed
in. “These guys didn’t allow the initiation of women up until a few years ago.”
“I have a rule,” Jeanne said,
looking Manon in the eye. “Anyone who joins a secret society must step down
from the headwaiter position and resign.”
Manon cocked her head. “You don’t
mean it.”
“Oh yes, I do.”
“Well, I wasn’t exactly itching to
be initiated . . .” Manon pouted her pretty mouth. “But I did
toy with the idea. Their mission is to serve humanity.”
“Sorry, hon, but rules are rules.”
Jeanne shrugged. “You see, there’s a conflict of interest: you can’t serve
humanity and La Bohème patrons at the same time.”
Amanda snorted. “What other rules
do you have, Jeanne? I wouldn’t want to get fired over a gaffe.”
Jeanne took a deep breath before
opening her mouth. “Let’s see. You can’t check your cell phone during
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