Rooted (Pagano Family #3)(12)
When Rosa had had her fill, instead of whining or bitching, she’d simply said she was getting hungry. She hadn’t even complained yet about her sore feet—though Carmen had seen her fidgeting often enough to know that she was regretting the strappy sandals. Oh, well, little sister. Live and learn.
Carmen knew that she was managing Rosa, who was twenty-two years old and a college graduate, like a spoiled toddler, but Rosa was a spoiled brat. Their father had compensated for his neglect of her in the years after their mother’s death by giving her everything she wanted, whether it was a real desire or a passing whim. Though she’d gone to a storied Ivy League university, she’d still been close to home, and her college experience had not penetrated the bubble of privilege and comfort she’d grown up in. She was a pampered, primped prima donna.
She was also really smart, and, at her core, she was a kindhearted, good person. Watching her with Carlo’s five-year-old son, Trey, Carmen had seen how good and nurturing Rosa was. But that bubble of entitlement had also given her an edge of rudeness, sometimes to the point of being a bully.
Some time back, Sabina had pointed out the ways in which the siblings had helped to create the monster that was Rosa. She’d also pointed out that they had, without seeing it, closed her out of the family in important ways, creating a vicious cycle that was disenfranchising her—spoiling her, not expecting anything from her, and then judging her because she was spoiled and never stepped up.
Sabina, with the clearer insight of someone who was just joining the family, had pointed it out, and then very little had changed. They’d all sort of acknowledged it, vowed to do better, and then gone back to the way things had been. Only Sabina had made any real effort to change things.
Well, enough was enough. Now it was time for Rosa to start her life, and Carmen would be damned if she was going to allow the only other Pagano girl out into the world without the tools to be as fantastic and successful as she could be.
But baby steps. On her first full day out in Paris, Carmen would manage the spoiled brat her sister still was and, hopefully, keep her open to the experiences of the day.
They took the Metro back into the center of the city and found a little café with a view of the Arc de Triomphe. There, in the guise of their waiter, Carmen encountered her first Paris resident whose English wasn’t sufficient to fill in the holes in her French. But Rosa’s French was fresher and stronger, so she let her little sister place their order. Rosa beamed with pride and did the hair-flip thing when the waiter— Frédéric, who was cute in the hipster way that was apparently a global trend—complimented her on her accent. Rosa’s Rhody accent was broader than anyone else’s in the family—it was the cliché, in fact—but she did have a decent French accent, it was true. Though Frédéric was probably flirting just a little.
They sat on the sidewalk and ate their artfully designed salads, drank crystal goblets of sparkling water, and watched the manic bustle of the prémier arrondissement.
“The people are all so pretty here. And really dressed.” Rosa took a sip from her water goblet. Carmen noticed that Rosa’s pinky had developed, since they’d been on the continent, a tendency to stick up daintily when she drank. She suppressed a grin.
“They are. And the shoes!”
Rosa turned to her with a skeptical lift to her eyebrow. “You notice the shoes?”
Carmen’s taste in shoes was boots. She was absolutely a boot slut and had about twenty pairs at home—some even had high heels. But she had no interest in and very little use for pumps, strappy sandals, mules, or anything else. Besides her array of boots, mostly in black and dark brown, her shoe wardrobe included a pair of black ankle-strap pumps, a pair of black ballet flats, two pairs of sneakers, and a couple pairs of discount-store rubber flip-flops. For work, she had a pair of green Wellies and two pairs of waterproof Red Wing work boots (which she included in her tally of boots).
Rosa, on the other hand, seemed to buy three new pairs of shoes a week.
“I noticed. It’s hard not to. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many men wearing designer shoes before.”
Rosa sighed. “I know. They’re so hot. It’s wicked awesome. And makes me want to shop. I don’t suppose…”
Carmen put her hand up to stop that thought in its tracks. “No, way, sissy. The Louvre. I’m gonna culturize your ass this summer even if I have to kick it first. The Louvre today. Shopping tomorrow. And more museums the day after that.”
Rosa stuck out her tongue, but did so in good nature, so Carmen lifted her water goblet in a snarky toast.
When they were ready for the check, their hipster-cute waiter brought a little bowl of berry sorbet to Rosa, and only to her, making a comment to her in French that Carmen mostly missed. But Rosa blushed and beamed and was in a positively beatific mood thereafter.
Carmen wasn’t yet totally clear on the tipping customs in France, but she tipped Frédéric very well.
oOo
They had museum passes, so they skipped the line, and it was a weekday, but the Louvre was still packed with people. Carmen wasn’t a people person, but she didn’t mind crowds. The museum folks seemed to have crowd control down to a science anyway, so she and Rosa allowed themselves to be herded like sheep toward the Mona Lisa, of course tops on their list. Aside from Mona, the Louvre was little more than a good art museum.