Twenty

Paris and Palo Alto. Separated by a continent and an ocean, a language and a culture, yet the human condition—and its foibles—transcended all barriers. Each customer who bought tea also left with an unsolicited prediction. Some were minor misfortunes: a sprained ankle, a dislocated hip, appendicitis. But there were also three affairs, two marriage proposals, one inheritance, and another death.

Their faces paralleled the gamut of volatile emotions I experienced. Fortune-telling connected the fortune-teller to the people whose futures we witnessed. Death left an indelible mark, one you couldn’t wash away, forget, or run from.

As each prediction escaped my lips, the familiar pressure eased like a slackening rope. The emotional energy, ever present, lingered less and faded faster. The headaches had all but disappeared. Compelling predictions had changed something inside me. Aunt Evelyn’s drastic methods were working.

By noon I was exhausted and hungry. From across the shop, my aunt heard the sounds from my stomach. She giggled. “I suppose you’ve built up an appetite after all your hard work. There’s a bakery a short walk from here known for their wonderful sandwiches.”

She handed me a piece of paper and shooed me out the door.

The narrow streets of Paris retained their dominating aura of antiquity despite the encroachment of modernity. Time crawled slower across these cobblestone roads when compared to avant-garde Shanghai or Tokyo, cities that married the archaic with the contemporary, where ancient temples and glass and steel high-rises jostled to pierce the firmament. Paris had never suffered extensive damage from war. Its buildings maintained their vibrant link to its past.

How could anyone resist Paris’s intoxicating, sugary perfume? Hints of brioche, baguettes, pain au chocolat, and mille-feuilles dusted the air. I could have found a bakery guided solely by smell.

A golden sign hung above the bakery my aunt had directed me to. The sans serif font spelled out Les Trois Chats in crisp white letters. A procession of painted cats chasing one another in an endless circuit framed the storefront window. Below, colorful daisies bloomed in a long robin’s-egg-blue planter box. A beautiful brunette wearing a sunshine-yellow apron stepped out of the glass-paneled front door. She smiled at me.

“Hello! You must be Madame Evelyn’s niece. She mentioned you were coming by today,” she said in French-accented English. Her voice had a musical lilt. “I am Ines de Beauvoir.”

“Yes, I’m Vanessa. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” I held out my hand.

She grasped it in a firm handshake. Her short, cropped hair and luminous brown skin glowed in the sunlight. I strove to conceal my envy.

“Come on in.” Ines held the door open. “We have the best sandwiches in Saint-Germain.”

Baskets bearing baguettes and various loaves and round breads faced one wall while glass-domed trays of cookies, tarts, and smaller treats lined the counters. Behind the main counter a giant chalkboard listed the menu in swirling script along with a doodle of the product, helpful for an English speaker like me.

She raised one of the domes. “You must try these. They are called langues de chat. I pulled them out of the oven five minutes ago.”

A long, thin, golden cookie sparkled with its generous dusting of fine sugar. The grainy texture crumbled into a pile of buttery richness on my tongue. The citrus zest of the lemon added a bite to the creaminess of the vanilla, balancing out the sweetness.

My fingertips brushed the stray crumbs from the corners of my lips. “Oh, this would be so good when paired with my aunt’s teas. Can I get a box?”

“Of course,” Ines replied. She began packing them into a brown paper box with the bakery’s logo. “You also want lunch, yes? I can put the order in for the croque monsieur and croque madame. Your aunt ordered them the last time she was here.”

“How do you know my aunt?” I asked.

“My mother met her at the farmers’ market a year ago. Evelyn mentioned that she had been to Málaga, where my mother is from. They became fast friends.”

“Did she ever mention why she decided to open her tea shop here?” I asked.

Ines wrote something down on the lid, which I presumed was the name of the biscuits. Tucking her pencil behind one ear, she cupped her chin. “She said she wanted to be here for decades. That this is her chance to be happy.”

I didn’t understand what that meant. I’d never questioned my aunt’s happiness. She appeared content or, at least, never appeared miserable. What was she missing back home that could be found here?

Ines must have noticed my confusion. She leaned against the counter. “Oh, don’t worry. Old people have their personal mysteries, which they keep locked up in their chests. After all, they spent a lifetime accumulating all sorts of regrets and wishes. My grandmother once told me that my grandfather wasn’t her first lover! He died without knowing the truth. I’d like to think he was happier for it.”

Her raspberry lips broke into an impish smirk. I laughed.

The scent of melted Gruyere made its way from the sizzling grill in the kitchen. In my brief time in the city, I learned that the difference between the croque monsieur and the croque madame was the egg atop the croque madame. It would have been wonderful if my gorgeous former tour guide could have continued to expand my culinary and epicurean knowledge.

“How long will you be staying in the city?” she asked.

“A few weeks. I’m helping my aunt in her shop. There’s something I need to deal with while I’m here.”

The tiny bell above the front door rang. A handsome man with a long, dark ponytail carried a large wooden box and stepped inside. Ines tucked a stray curl behind her ear. He set the box on the counter and leaned toward her.

I didn’t speak their language, but I understood their body language. His hazel eyes studied her face as if every word she spoke was precious oxygen. She watched him under a thick sweep of her curled lashes. Their hands moved with their voices in a tantalizing dance where the briefness of a touch sent sparks of gold into the air.

I moved away and pretended to browse the crispy baguettes in the baskets until the handsome stranger left.

“I’m sorry about that,” Ines said.

“Are you two . . . ?”

She shook her head and giggled. “No, Luc and I aren’t dating.”

“Can I ask why not? You have an obvious connection. Is he married? Are you married?”

“No, it’s not that. It’s complicated.” Her dark brows furrowed. Someone called out from the kitchen. She excused herself and returned with two takeaway boxes. “There are frites in there as well. It was a pleasure to meet you, Vanessa. Please stop by again and relay my regards to your aunt.”

I waved goodbye.

As I left the bakery, a single blue morpho butterfly hovered before my face, darting in a spiral pattern. Another arrived. The pair fluttered away, came back, left, and returned, as though waiting for me. Magic was in the air. Only the jaded could ignore it. I followed the dancing couple. Soon more butterflies joined the company. They undulated in the air like a sea of cerulean petals, urging me onward.

Three days ago, I followed a flying scarf. Today, a flock of perfect blue butterflies. They led me down a side street, past a chocolaterie and an antique bookshop. I followed them through large teal wooden doors into an open white courtyard with slender trees and little round tables. The congregation stopped at a restaurant a few blocks from Ines’s bakery, swirled in a tight formation, and then vanished high into the sky.

A floral garden mosaic dotted with hummingbirds graced a large wall behind the outdoor seating area. Gold letters blazed in the noon light above the stained-glass-accented glass door. I took a picture and made a note of the address. Perhaps my aunt and I could dine here tonight.