“Was it David again?”
“Probably.”
“Look, either turn off your phone or read his message before you start dropping plates.”
Mia took out her phone to read the message, and smiled as she typed her reply.
I’m fine. How about you?
Do you have a minute?
I’m in the kitchen.
It won’t take long.
Fine. But if I call you, it doesn’t count!
Because you asked me to.
Don’t call. I’m on a bench at Place du Tertre.
No raincoat this time.
Are you OK?
Yeah. Can you come?
Give me five minutes.
Daisy, ladle in hand, was watching Mia.
“I’ll be right back,” Mia said suddenly. “I need to run out to the store. Do you need anything?”
“Apart from a waitress, you mean?”
“The tables are all set and there are no customers,” Mia replied, taking off her apron. “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.”
She looked at herself in the mirror above the bar, patted her hair into place, and grabbed her purse and sunglasses.
“Pick up some Krisprolls,” said Daisy.
Mia winced. “Um, I wasn’t going to go to the supermarket. Sorry!”
She walked quickly, passing the caricaturist without saying hello, and finally located the bench where Paul sat waiting.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, sitting down next to him.
“I came to bring you the first chapters of my novel, but, like an idiot, I left them at home. It seemed a waste to leave without at least seeing you, though.”
“That’s nice of you.”
“You look tired. Do you have a lot on your plate? No pun intended.”
“I didn’t sleep much last night. I had a nightmare.”
“A nightmare is merely a dream that has outstayed its welcome . . .”
Mia stared at him in silence.
“Why are you staring at me like that?” Paul asked.
Because I want to kiss you right now, the way you just said that . . .
“No reason.”
“‘An angel passed.’ That’s what the French say about a comfortable silence.”
“Since you forgot to bring me the chapters to read, maybe you could at least tell me what’s going on with your opera singer.”
“She’s fine.” Paul rubbed his chin. “Well, actually she’s not. She has a problem.”
“A serious problem?”
“She wants to become friends with the critic. And he has proven to be very attentive toward her.”
“So what’s stopping her?”
“Maybe the fact that she hasn’t told him the truth about herself yet. Maybe she doesn’t want to admit that she’s just an usher.”
“Why would that matter?”
“That’s exactly what I’m wondering.”
“That kind of prejudiced attitude is outdated.”
“One would think . . . But not for everybody . . .”
“Well, if anyone still thinks like that, they shouldn’t. It’s unfair.”
“I couldn’t agree with you more.”
“You’ll have to give her a different problem.”
“Meanwhile, the critic no longer has any doubt as to her real identity.”
“But she doesn’t know that.”
“True, but how can she ever really be sincere with him, when everything she says is a lie?”
Mia looked into Paul’s eyes and slid her sunglasses down to the tip of her nose.
“Where were you coming from when you called me?”
“Saint-Germain. Why?”
“So you took my advice and gave a copy of your book to that waitress.”
“Funny you should mention that. I did, yeah.”
Mia felt her heart start to race. “And . . . what did she say?”
“I barely even got a thank-you. She must still be bitter about it.”
“And that was it?”
“Yeah, she had lots of customers. She went back to work and I went on my way.”
Relieved, Mia pushed her glasses back up.
“I can’t stay long,” she said. “Is there anything special you wanted to talk about? You look a little run-down.”
“I went to Saint-Germain to meet with my editor. They’ve changed my departure for Korea to an earlier date.”
“That’s great news! You’ll see your girlfriend even sooner.”
“The bad news is the reason for the earlier timing. I have to appear on live television.”
“But that’s wonderful!”
“Wonderful for someone else, maybe. But I feel like I’ve been having a heart attack ever since he told me. What the hell am I going to say? Live TV is terrifying!”
“When you’re in front of a camera, it’s not the words that count but the way they sound. It hardly matters what you say, as long as you say it with a smile. And if you’re nervous, viewers might just find that charming.”
“What do you know about being in front of a camera? Like you’ve ever been on TV!”
“Right, of course I haven’t,” Mia replied with a little cough. “And if it ever happened to me, I’m sure I’d be just as scared as you. But I was speaking as a viewer.”
“Here,” Paul said, taking the ribbon-tied envelope from his pocket. “This is for you.”
“What is it?”
“Open it up, you’ll see. Careful, though—it’s fragile.”
Mia drew out the little note from the envelope and read it.
“‘Three pounds of carrots, one pound of flour, a packet of sugar, a dozen eggs, a pint of milk . . .’” Mia read out loud. “It’s very lovely . . . I guess . . . Does this mean I’m supposed to get your groceries for you?”
“Check out the signature at the bottom,” Paul said with a sigh.
“Jane Austen!” Mia exclaimed.
“Jane herself. I know it’s not her most elegant prose, but you wanted something personal. Even illustrious writers have to eat, you know.”
Without thinking, Mia kissed Paul on the cheek.
“This is so sweet of you. I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything.”
Mia held the little note in her hands, caressing the ink with her fingertips.
“Who knows,” Paul said, “maybe this note will inspire you to come up with a new recipe. I thought you might want to frame it and hang it in your kitchen. That way, Jane Austen would be with you while you cook.”
“No one has ever given me anything like this before.”
“Come on. It’s only a little shopping list.”
“Written and signed by one of the greatest English writers of all time, thank you very much.”
“So you really like it?”
“Like doesn’t cover it. I’ll never let it go!”
“I’m glad. You’d better go—I wouldn’t want the plat du jour to be overcooked because of me.”
“Thank you for a wonderful surprise.”
“But we’re in agreement this visit of ours was totally impromptu? So it doesn’t count.”
“Exactly, it doesn’t count.”
Mia stood up and kissed Paul’s cheek again before leaving.
The caricaturist had watched the whole scene unfold.
He and Paul both watched her walk down the street.
When she arrived outside La Clamada, her phone buzzed again.
Is your restaurant closed on Sundays?
Yes.
You know what I’d love?
What?
To taste your cooking.
Mia bit her lip.
Why don’t we eat at your place?
No strings attached, of course.
Mia looked at Daisy through the window.
My roommate will be there.
Even better. The three of us!
She opened the door of the restaurant.
All right, see you Sunday. You know the address. We’re on the top floor.
See you Sunday!