P.S. from Paris(49)
“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!
Thank you. Signed, Mia Austen ?
“Did you find what you were looking for?” Daisy asked, coming out of the kitchen.
“We need to talk.”
“Yes! Finally.”
Daisy categorically refused to take part in Mia’s little scheme.
“Don’t you dare leave me in the lurch. I can’t possibly have him over here, just the two of us!”
“And why is that?”
“Because it might push us straight into one of those gray areas—into the danger zone!”
“You ask me, you’re already in the danger zone.”
“No, we’re not. He hasn’t said or done anything ambiguous.”
“I wasn’t talking about him. I meant you.”
“This is the beginning of a friendship, and that’s all. I’m not over David yet.”
“You don’t need to tell me that. I can see the look on your face whenever your phone starts vibrating. Still, you have to realize you’re playing a dangerous game.”
“I’m not playing any games at all, I’m living my life. He’s funny, and he’s not trying to get me into bed. He has a long-distance girlfriend. We’re just fighting off the loneliness.”
“Well, tomorrow, you continue your fight without me.”
“I don’t even know how to make a proper omelet!”
“Just break some eggs and beat them with a bit of cream.”
“There’s no need to be mean. I’m asking you for a favor, that’s all.”
“I’m not being mean. I just refuse to take part in this charade.”
“Why do you always assume the worst?”
“I can’t believe what you’re saying! You are planning on telling your friend the truth at some point, aren’t you? Have you immersed yourself so deeply in your role as a waitress that you’ve forgotten who you really are? What will you do when your film comes out—when you have to promote it with your husband?”
“Paul’s leaving for Korea soon. Probably for good. When the time comes, I’ll write to him and confess the truth. By then, he’ll be back with his translator and he’ll be happy.”
“Life isn’t a movie script, Mia.”
“Fine, then I guess I’ll have to cancel.”
“You’re not going to cancel anything—that would be rude. No, I imagine you’ll play your role to the end, no matter the consequences.”
“Why are you torturing me?”
“Because!” Daisy yelled before going out to meet some customers who had just entered the restaurant.
13
Mia had just thrown her third omelet in the trash. The first had burned, the second was too bland, and the third resembled a sorry attempt at scrambled eggs. How did the French do it?
At least the table looked good. It was set for three—Mia preferred pretending Daisy had stood them up at the last minute rather than having to explain her absence—with a bouquet of flowers in the center, along with a basket of pastries. So at least there would be something edible. Her phone buzzed. She washed the egg yolk from her hands and forearms, opened the refrigerator for the tenth time, and prayed that it was Paul telling her he couldn’t make it.