Free Paris Cravings: A Paris & Pastry Novel by Kimberley Montpetit Page A

to come out of the oven.”
    “Sure! Please. Don’t stop for me. I’ll just do my thing. See you later!”
    Cool, nonchalant, that’s me. When I return with some suitable clothes for dough rolling, I’ll ask if I can help. Jean-Paul retrieves my crutches so I won’t have to climb the steps. He brushes away my thanks. “Come back in one piece,” is all he says with a wave of his hand.
    Madame Dupré tells me goodbye, kissing me on both cheeks, as if I’m going to be gone for the rest of my life, even though I’ll be back in ten minutes.
    “ À bientôt ,” I call as she holds the door open for me to a clear summery afternoon.
    Madame Dupré stands there watching me, then greets an older gentleman coming up the sidewalk. “ Bonjour, Monsieur Allard ,” she says. He tips his hat, replying, “ Bonjour, Madame Dupré ,” and then they both take off in rapid French, losing me instantly.
    Too bad the doors hadn’t been opened wide like that this morning. I wouldn’t have missed my bus. I try to imagine what I’d be doing right now, but it’s difficult to picture. All I come up with is me wandering through lots of ornate castle rooms while trying to read a pamphlet.
    When I get to the next corner, I see a debit machine. Maneuvering my handbag and crutches is tricky, but finally I get my card out and stick it in the machine, punching in my PIN and the amount of money I need.
    Insufficient funds.
    No way.
    I try again, pressing the numbers more carefully to make sure I haven’t accidentally made an error. A line forms behind me. One of the crutches clatters to the sidewalk and a gentleman reaches down and picks it up for me.
    “ Merci ,” I murmur, getting more self-conscious as the line grows longer.
    Insufficient funds blinks at me again. Then the machine starts beeping, as if I’m doing something illegal which makes me jump and I nearly fall over.
    “ Pardon, mademoiselle ,” a voice says impatiently.
    “ Je suis désolé ,” I say, realizing that I seem to be saying that a lot lately.
    I take my card and shove it into my bag, hobbling off again. The crutches are starting to annoy me and so does my handbag which bumps against my thigh relentlessly. I want to throw the crutches into the nearest fountain.
    When I pass an outdoor café, I sit down at one of the tables farthest from the restaurant. Maybe they’ll take pity on a crippled girl and let me have a few minutes before trying to get a drink order out of me. Not that it’s required, but it’s the polite, French thing to do. If you use a café table—order a drink, Robert strongly advised.
    I get out my cell phone and call my mother again. She has to put some money into the bank. Like now. I feel so stupid wearing this awful skirt and jacket in public, and I wish we weren’t so broke—and I wish I wasn’t losing my phone when I get back home—and I wish I could talk to Mathew. And I wish Jean-Paul and Paris weren’t so perfectly beautiful.
    I give a sigh, listening to our home phone in New York ring and ring and ring. There’s no answer. Is Mom in the shower? Has she called the police? There’s no predicting. If my mother took one of those Ambien pills the doctor prescribed to help her sleep after Dad died, she might not even hear the phone at all. I’d definitely given her an anxiety attack this morning.
    I try to think calmly. Why is there zero money in the bank account? Has this class trip really used it all? I know that my mother doesn’t get paid again until royalty statement time. If it’s on time. And if the statement includes a check. A lot of “ifs” when it comes to book publishing.
    “Darn, darn, darn,” I repeat, rummaging through my bag again. There are a couple of coins at the bottom, but that’s it. Why didn’t Mom tell me sooner we were so broke?
    Madame Dupré might have something I can wear, but she’s so short and wide I’d have to glue the pants to my hips so they didn’t slide off my derrière . Maybe I’ll