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“Anglophone,” Olivier whispers over the counter to her, and the woman nods deeply in reply.
“So, she’s an English woman,” the baker says. “I do love so many English.” Her smile is at least three teeth short, but that doesn’t stop her inner sunshine from showing. “Welcome to France!”
“Thank you, merci. You’re very kind.” I step further into the bakery, the smells of sugar and dough making my mouth water.
“This American,” Olivier emphasizes with a raised eyebrow, “has never tasted a mille-feuilles.”
The baker gasps. “How did she live so long without it? We must fix this problem right away.” She reaches over the counter and touches Olivier’s arm, her tone changing from chipper to soft. “Your mother did love her mille-feuilles.”
The baker turns to pack up the pastries as Olivier looks longingly at his hands.
“She certainly did.” His eyes have a crinkle in the corner, but it’s more nostalgic than a real smile.
“You came here with your mother?”
“Every trip we stopped here, until I was too old to be seen with my mother in public—or so I thought.” He pauses, his lips parted and his smile reemerging, timid though it is. “To think I wanted anything but to be with my mother, and what I’d do to have her back now.” He takes in a deep breath and exhales with the words quickly rolling out of him. “She passed away too young and before I realized how special she was.”
“Voilà!” the baker lady announces before I have a chance to find the right words to console my boss. “Two mille-feuilles, for the boy with a sweet tooth and the other for his sweet girlfriend.”
“I’m not—” I begin, but Olivier whisks me out by the arm.
“Merci, Bernadette!” He waves to her while whispering in my ear. “She has worried about my future since my mother passed. If she thinks you’re my girlfriend then she’ll stop trying to set me up with her milkmaid granddaughter.” He continues to smile and wave.
We turn the corner and he lets my arm go, leaning against the wall like he just ran from the police. “Phew. We made it through. Now we get to enjoy the spoils of our conquest.”
We make another turn and find ourselves at the church steps, the village below us and a valley of fields stretching into the horizon. The sun is warm and the sky is even bluer than in Paris, but that might be an optical illusion from all the nature.
“A mille-feuilles for you,” he passes me a pastry wrapped in silk-like paper, wavy around the edges, “and a mille-feuilles for me. Let me warn you, they are addictive. That’s why I only allow myself to buy them in perched villages off the beaten path. Ready?” He holds the pastry in front of his mouth, and I follow his lead, albeit with caution. This tower of pastry is taller than my mouth.
“Set…” he brings it closer and laughs. “Don’t look so afraid!”
“You have to promise not to judge me if I make a mess.”
“No promises. Go!”
We both bite into the flaky, buttery, sweet piece of heaven. Custard drips down my cheek but I catch it before it lands on my shirt and swiftly get it in my mouth, because this is too good to waste.
“What says the jury?” Olivier asks, taking a big bite.
“Jury says…” I take a bite myself. “Mmmmmmm.”
“I had a feeling. Mother was right, even the hardest of souls melts for a mille-feuilles.”
“Sounds like a fun lady,” I say, licking my lips.
“More than anyone else I’ve ever met…”
I take another bite, waiting for him to continue. I’m only just beginning to see this other side of Olivier Dubois. And I like it.
But his face turns downcast. Has our detour pulled up painful memories?
He offers me a quick smile, but his voice is serious. “Let’s not keep Marcial waiting.” He stands from the church steps and heads for the car at a pace I cannot keep up with, and I don’t try. He needs this moment alone.
* * *
“We are nearly there,” Olivier whispers in my ear, which is the first time I realize I’ve been asleep.
“Nearly there… where?” It’s one of those moments when I’ve completely forgotten where I am and what I’m doing. The side of my head smashes against the window of the Mercedes-Benz as we go over a bump in the road, and it all comes flooding back. “Sorry, I think I was tired.”
