Parisian croissants, but they’ll do in a pinch. Nibbling the crusty pastry, Héloïse wanders through the four lanes of food, trinkets, arts and crafts before at last arriving at Ben and his books. She finds him kneeling on the cobbles, sorting through a large cardboard box.
“ Bonjour , Ben.”
He looks up, frowning, but instantly upon seeing her he grins and stands.
“Lou, you’re back! It’s great to see you.”
For a second they stand together, then Ben pulls Héloïse into a hug.
“I’m sorry about François,” he says softly into her shoulder. “We all miss him.”
When they pull apart, Héloïse nods. “Yes, me too.”
“How are you doing?” Ben asks, casting an eye up and down her. “You look beautiful as ever, I must say. But then you are the most glamorous person I know.” He glances down at his own scruffy T-shirt and jeans. “I’ve never had the touch for glamour myself. I didn’t know when you’d come back. I’m glad you have.”
“Thank you, so am I. How is your papa?”
“He’s well. I’ll send him your regards.”
Héloïse nods. “Please do.” She steps toward the planks of wood covered with books that form his shop. Gazing at the jumble of colors and words, she runs her finger along some of the spines and feels herself starting to breathe more easily. What is it, Héloïse wonders, about the comfort of books? Just by touching the printed words she already feels sparks of excited curiosity begin to wake up her brain. She picks one up and holds it out to Ben.
“Any good?”
He nods. “I stayed up till four o’clock in the morning finishing it.”
Héloïse smiles. “I can’t remember the last time I did that.”
Ben scuffs his feet in the dirt. “Well, I suppose you’ve had other things to…”
“Yes, I suppose I have.” Héloïse holds the book, her hand hovering to slip it back among the others. Then, changing her mind, she presses it to her chest.
“I’ll take it,” she says. “It’s about time I stayed up until four o’clock in the morning for a reason other than just missing my Frankie.”
—
“Hey, Cosi, is it seicento grams of ground almonds instead of flour?”
Knocked out of bitter thoughts about Tommy (who’d called the night before to say that he was going to try and make a go of it with the harlot for the sake of the baby—Cosima had hung up on him), she glances up from her mixing bowl to see her sous chef, Marcello, standing in the doorway. She hired him for his Sicilian roots and huge brown eyes. The female customers adore him. They gaze at him when he asks for their orders, lost in those eyes, imagining whether their future children would have his thick black hair and olive skin. He draws a crowd when he flips dough in the kitchen, women gathering on the pavement outside the windows to watch, nudging one another and giggling like schoolgirls. But sadly, for all his beauty, he lacks brains, so his genetic code is wanting. Ten times a day Marcello asks for clarification on her recipes and she’s had to throw out dozens of batches of lemon-basil biscuits because he burned them. Still, Cosima can’t bring herself to fire him.
“Instead of flour, Marc, otherwise the cake’ll be too dry.”
“ Ah, certamente ,” Marcello says with a smile, “ perfetto . Grazie .”
When he’s gone, Cosima opens her special cupboard and removes a glass jar filled with one of her special spices. Twenty-one glass jars sit in her cupboard, each unlabeled, though Cosima knows what’s in every one. Now she sprinkles a dash of fennel flower (strength), scabiosa (unfortunate love), and striped carnation (I cannot be with you) over her orange and poppy seed muffins, mumbling a little incantation. This is the tenth batch of enchanted biscuits she’s baked for George—in an attempt to undo this first spell, the one that has him mooning over her every lunchtime—and she hopes against hope that this might at last be the one that works.
“I know,
“ Bonjour , Ben.”
He looks up, frowning, but instantly upon seeing her he grins and stands.
“Lou, you’re back! It’s great to see you.”
For a second they stand together, then Ben pulls Héloïse into a hug.
“I’m sorry about François,” he says softly into her shoulder. “We all miss him.”
When they pull apart, Héloïse nods. “Yes, me too.”
“How are you doing?” Ben asks, casting an eye up and down her. “You look beautiful as ever, I must say. But then you are the most glamorous person I know.” He glances down at his own scruffy T-shirt and jeans. “I’ve never had the touch for glamour myself. I didn’t know when you’d come back. I’m glad you have.”
“Thank you, so am I. How is your papa?”
“He’s well. I’ll send him your regards.”
Héloïse nods. “Please do.” She steps toward the planks of wood covered with books that form his shop. Gazing at the jumble of colors and words, she runs her finger along some of the spines and feels herself starting to breathe more easily. What is it, Héloïse wonders, about the comfort of books? Just by touching the printed words she already feels sparks of excited curiosity begin to wake up her brain. She picks one up and holds it out to Ben.
“Any good?”
He nods. “I stayed up till four o’clock in the morning finishing it.”
Héloïse smiles. “I can’t remember the last time I did that.”
Ben scuffs his feet in the dirt. “Well, I suppose you’ve had other things to…”
“Yes, I suppose I have.” Héloïse holds the book, her hand hovering to slip it back among the others. Then, changing her mind, she presses it to her chest.
“I’ll take it,” she says. “It’s about time I stayed up until four o’clock in the morning for a reason other than just missing my Frankie.”
—
“Hey, Cosi, is it seicento grams of ground almonds instead of flour?”
Knocked out of bitter thoughts about Tommy (who’d called the night before to say that he was going to try and make a go of it with the harlot for the sake of the baby—Cosima had hung up on him), she glances up from her mixing bowl to see her sous chef, Marcello, standing in the doorway. She hired him for his Sicilian roots and huge brown eyes. The female customers adore him. They gaze at him when he asks for their orders, lost in those eyes, imagining whether their future children would have his thick black hair and olive skin. He draws a crowd when he flips dough in the kitchen, women gathering on the pavement outside the windows to watch, nudging one another and giggling like schoolgirls. But sadly, for all his beauty, he lacks brains, so his genetic code is wanting. Ten times a day Marcello asks for clarification on her recipes and she’s had to throw out dozens of batches of lemon-basil biscuits because he burned them. Still, Cosima can’t bring herself to fire him.
“Instead of flour, Marc, otherwise the cake’ll be too dry.”
“ Ah, certamente ,” Marcello says with a smile, “ perfetto . Grazie .”
When he’s gone, Cosima opens her special cupboard and removes a glass jar filled with one of her special spices. Twenty-one glass jars sit in her cupboard, each unlabeled, though Cosima knows what’s in every one. Now she sprinkles a dash of fennel flower (strength), scabiosa (unfortunate love), and striped carnation (I cannot be with you) over her orange and poppy seed muffins, mumbling a little incantation. This is the tenth batch of enchanted biscuits she’s baked for George—in an attempt to undo this first spell, the one that has him mooning over her every lunchtime—and she hopes against hope that this might at last be the one that works.
“I know,
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