I headed down the street and pretended to admire a stained glass lamp in a store window. When she entered the bakery, I hustled to Luc’s van. The rear double doors swung open. He was holding a worn wooden crate in his arms, full of bags of flour and blocks of butter.
“Hi. I hope you speak English.” I smiled and waved.
“I do. I recognize you from the bakery. Can I help you?”
“Actually, I wanted to help you.”
And with those words, I set my matchmaking machinations into play.
Twenty-Nine
My parents are marrying me off to Liselle Goulet. I’ve been going to dinners at their house since I was a child. The business arrangement is set.” He lifted the crate onto his shoulder. “I can’t disappoint my parents.”
“Do you love this Liselle?”
He hesitated, then blurted out, “It doesn’t matter if I do.”
“That doesn’t sound like true love to me. After all those mandatory dinners, I’m sure you see her more as a sister than a wife.” My comment prompted a long sigh. Had I been in his situation, I’d be rebelling against the whole notion of a business merger through an arranged marriage. “Allow me to put it this way: If Ines was getting married tomorrow—and it’s not to you—how would you feel?”
A deep flush of red traveled from his cheeks, past his short beard, and down his throat to the neckline of his shirt. “Miserable. I love her, but I can’t go against the desires of my family.”
“You’ve decided to be miserable then. A woman like Ines isn’t going to wait forever. If you want her, you need to choose her.”
He looked away and didn’t answer.
I turned and headed into to the bakery, Luc following three steps behind.
As we entered, Aunt Evelyn frowned. I was sure she suspected what I had done. I blushed and joined her near the counter while Luc made his delivery. He spoke little before making a hasty exit. I hoped what I’d said had made him think about what he wanted.
My aunt muttered under her breath, “Interfering with lives is a dangerous game.”
“I’m helping them. Unless you’ve seen something that says I should stop.” I glanced at her. She remained silent. “No? Good, then I’m going to continue what I think is right.”
Her dark eyes creased at the corners. If she were one of her teakettles, she’d be boiling now. “You have to think about what can go wrong.”
“And what about what could go right? It’s not too late for them.”
Before she could respond, Ines took a folded piece of paper from her pocket and handed it to my aunt. “Do you know about this?”
Aunt Evelyn read the flyer. Twice. A wispy ring of smoke rose above her head. Her internal temperature resembled a red copper pot left on the stove overnight. She said something in French and, judging by its inflection, cussed.
“What are you planning to do?” Ines asked. “How can I help?”
I reached out and touched my aunt’s arm. “What’s going on?”
“Girard is plotting a boycott of my business. He claims my teas are inferior and imported. He’s appealing to French pride, to patronize only true Parisian businesses.”
I rolled my eyes. “That’s racism disguised as nationalism.”
Ines snorted in agreement and crossed her arms.
“If this gains traction, though, it’ll ruin the tea shop.” Aunt Evelyn folded the bulletin in half and ripped it—an abrupt, satisfying sound of paper carnage. “Do you know how far these were distributed?”
“A few neighborhoods, including the cafés and hotels. Though I’d think most of your allies are there. I worry about Madame Hebert and Monsieur Chirac. They’re close friends and admirers of Monsieur Renaud.” Ines picked up the discarded paper and tossed it in the trash behind the counter.
“I know them.”
Since I couldn’t contribute to the discussion, I listened, and gathered as much information as possible. This boycott made me more determined to mend the rift between Girard and my aunt. He longed for her still. Only the hurt caused by unconsummated passion could lead the man to take such lengths to rid himself of her.
“Auntie?” I asked, interrupting the discussion by the counter. “I’m guessing he wasn’t like this before?”
“Combative? Unreasonable? Extreme?” Aunt Evelyn offered.
“Bigoted.”
Both women pressed their lips into thin lines. The grooves at the corners of their mouths deepened.
“I mean,” I continued, “let’s call this boycott what it is. We know you use locally sourced ingredients: lavender from Provence, honey from local hives, etc. France doesn’t grow tea leaves. All tea is imported. To accuse you of this is to accuse every other tea peddler in the country. I bet he wasn’t like this when you dated. I can’t see you associating with this kind of crap behavior.”
“You were involved? Oh my,” Ines said, her mouth agape as she cupped her cheeks in her hands. “That would explain much. Up to this point, Monsieur Renaud has had a sterling reputation in the city. This is very vindictive.”
“No, he wasn’t like this.”
“Why don’t I look into this?” I asked.
Aunt Evelyn looked at me with a raised eyebrow. “How?”
“Marc works for Girard as a pastry chef. He would know more about this.”
“Marc Santos?” Ines smiled. “Oh, he’s quite handsome. You and Evelyn have good taste in men.”
My aunt and I both thanked her at the same time, prompting a giggle from Ines. She finished packing up the madeleines. “I will do my part and keep an eye on the business owners on this street. I’ll make sure the lies don’t spread.”
“Thank you, Ines. Give my love to your mother and father.” Aunt Evelyn leaned in and they exchanged a set of cheek air-kisses.
I carried the box of cookies as we left the bakery.
The moment we stepped outside, my aunt uncorked her pent-up rage. “Of all the things he could do. The man’s determined to drive me off the continent.”
“Have you considered that this might not have come from him?”
“It had his name on it. Girard is very careful about how his name is used. He would never allow something like this to be circulated without his endorsement.”
My eyes didn’t deceive me that night at the restaurant. He still loved her, had always loved her. They belonged together. Even if they themselves questioned it, I didn’t. With my life littered with uncertainties, there were few things I was sure of, but this was one of them. I was as certain of this as I was that my favorite color was pink. It wasn’t logical, but it was true.