A Purple Winter

Chapter 4-2

When I walked out of the Place D’Armes metro station, it was raining hard. Johan was never wrong about the weather, so remembering what he’d said, I’d come prepared. I pushed open my umbrella and hurried up the street, past the fire station, towards the Notre-Dame cathedral.

I remembered my gargoyle. But I couldn’t remember making it. Was I losing my mind? Why were things so blurry lately?

Walking fast, I avoided the cold puddles on the cobblestone street. I was wearing my only good shoes and didn’t want to ruin them. The black shirt I had on was a little snug, but Mom wouldn’t let me work until I graduated, and her five-dollar allowance wasn’t taking me anywhere.

When I’d move into my fabulous home after getting my degree in finances, I’d have a walk-in closet full of suits and expensive shoes. The people at Holt Renfrew would know me by my first name.

The Polish restaurant was somewhere on Rue Saint Paul. I’d looked it up in the yellow pages. After a few minutes, I came right up to it. Because of the rain, the street wasn’t busy, aside from a few people strolling around under black umbrellas. I’d been here before, but I couldn’t recall when.

This whole street—the old port—seemed so familiar. I gazed down at the cheery street lined with shops and restaurants and felt like I was home. How could that be?

Snapping out of my daydreaming, I peeked into the window, glimpsing a crowded dining room full of Tiffany lamps that hung low from the ceiling. Well, I’d come this far.

“Excuse me,” a woman said. “Are you going in?”

Was I?

I was standing in her way. Flustered, I moved and let the woman by. As she entered the restaurant, voices and music came spilling out into the quiet rainy street.

Get in there.

Startled, I blinked and looked around. I couldn’t remember opening the door, but I was inside and it was warm and noisy.

“Reservation?” a young man asked, his dark eyes sizing me up. He wasn’t much older than I was, but confident and good-looking, clad in a black on black suit. His name tag read Andy.

“I—I don’t—I didn’t—”

“Are you dining alone?”

I nodded.

“Well, I’m sure I can squeeze you in somewhere.” He tipped his head to the busy dining room. It was a beautiful room furnished with antique furniture and the walls were made of big gray stones. In the back, a young woman was playing the piano. I recognized Chopin, my mother’s favorite. I followed the young host through the room, avoiding chairs and trying not to bump into people. I couldn’t see Nick anywhere.

“And look, you get a window seat.” The young man winked and left.

It was nice. I had a view of the street. With clammy hands, I fiddled with the cutlery, looking around without actually looking at anyone.

Then I heard Nick’s voice behind me and froze in my seat. He was taking someone’s order a few tables away at my right. The window was to my left and I could see his reflection in the rain-streaked glass. He was so statuesque in his crisp white shirt and sleek black pants. His hair was in a tight bun, slicked away from his face. I listened to his voice, his intonation and words, surprised at how different he sounded here. He was being charming and talkative. The women were laughing, clearly affected by his s*x-appeal.

This was a side of him I’d never seen. It made coming here worthwhile.

But what would he think of me being at his work place? I still couldn’t figure out how I’d gained the courage to show up here. It was almost…eerie.

Nick walked away, to the kitchen I supposed. I was pretty sure I was sitting in his section. A few seconds later, he came back with a basket of bread, and walking past my table, stopped mid-step and stared at me. Without a word, he went to the other table and set the basket of bread down for the women.

I sat up straight and took a deep breath. I’d brought my inhaler.

Nick paused by my table again, looking down at me, his cheeks coloring a little. “You—you came.”

He’d stuttered. I felt strong all of a sudden. I looked straight into his eyes. “Yes.”

Nick ran his tongue over his lips and frowned a little. “Cool.” His waist line seemed even narrower in those dress pants, his shoulders wider in the starch white shirt.

I tried not to look at the shape of his d**k in his pants. “What do you su—suggest?” I asked, forcing my eyes up to his face.

“Hmm, well, everything on the menu is half decent.”

I looked down at the white table cloth.

“Oh, s**t, I didn’t get you a menu.” He walked away and came back seconds later with a large folded menu. “You want something to drink?” He was already stepping back. He’d been asked to another table.

“I don’t—I don’t—”

“A beer maybe?” Nick smiled, his blue eyes lighting up. “Good Polish beer here. It’s on me. They won’t ask for your ID.”

I’d had half a beer with my Aunt Fran last year. “Yeah…okay.” I smiled back at him. “Thanks.”

“Yeah…” Nick hesitated a little and then left.

Later, I decided on the barszcz soup and traditional bigos because the names were the easiest to pronounce. The soup was sort of like Helga’s soup with beets and a lemony taste and the bigos turned out to be cooked cabbage and a mix of savory sausages. I rarely ate meat, because of my decision to slowly become a vegetarian, but I loved the meal. Nick would pop up once in a while, but we could never talk. I took my time between courses, wanting to make the evening last as long as possible. I didn’t know what time he got off. Though I was eating alone, I didn’t feel as awkward as I thought I might. People weren’t paying any attention to me and I enjoyed the atmosphere of the dining room, soaking in the energy and sounds. Something about plates and forks clinking, of people talking over plates of food, reassured and soothed me.

It sure beat eating a Spam sandwich at home.

I mentally added up my meal and decided to skip dessert. I wished I could have had another beer, but I’d bust my budget, and besides, I was a little tipsy from the one.

When at last I spotted Nick, I waved him over. It was exciting to have him at my beck and call. I was planning on leaving him a huge tip.

“Do you, uh, want dessert?” He was distracted. I noticed his jaw was tense.

“Are you…okay?”

He ran a hand down his shirt and his eyes strayed to the back of the room. “That f*****g prick.”

I wanted to ask who, but instead, watched his beautiful face, fascinated by the look in his eye. He was beautiful when he was angry.

“Oh, man, I quit. Yeah…I’m done with this place.” Nick looked down at me. “Wait outside, by the door.”

“Yo—you’re q—quitting right now?” A thrill ran through me.

He picked up my empty plate and beer bottle. “Wait outside, O’Reilly.”

“What a—about my b—bill?”

“f**k that.” Nick walked away.

It was pointless to try to stop him. So I stood, threw my old coat on, and walked out of the dining room, then the restaurant. Outside, the night was colder and the rain had turned to fluffy snowflakes that hung in the old-fashioned street lamps. It was magical. I felt warm and peaceful.

Until Nick bolted out of the restaurant. “Let’s go!” He grabbed my arm and we ran until we stopped by his car on the street. “Get in. Get in.”

I did. I sat and calmly strapped my seat belt on.

Nick turned the key in the ignition and the engine roared. With a screech of tires, he drove out into the street, racing down to the river front, turning left on Commune Street. He checked his rear-view mirror. “Oh, s**t. Wow.” He laughed. “That felt good. He deserved that.”

I stared at him, at his beaming eyes and excited expression, and decided I liked him best this way. Wild and reckless. I was sure he’d done something back there, in the kitchen, that was wrong or even dangerous, but somehow, I didn’t care.

After a few minutes, Nick slowed down and we drove up some busy street, heading for downtown, I believed.

“Sorry you didn’t get dessert,” Nick said, unfastening the first button of his shirt. “God, I can’t breathe in this f*****g thing.”

I shifted my weight in my seat, hoping to conceal my physical reaction. I fantasized about seeing Nick out of that white shirt. If only he’d let me, I’d spend hours discovering every inch of his golden skin.

“I’m gonna get another job.” He shot me quick glance. “At Fleur de Sel. The chef there, Chef Helen, well, she’s willing to try me out in the kitchen. You know, as garde-manger.” He sniffed. “Well, it’s just soups and salads, mostly, but I’ll work my way up.”

I was certain of that. “You o—owe me a dessert,” I said, smiling at him.

Nick kept his eyes on the road, but there was something in his face that told me he wanted to look at me. “Okay,” he said, after a long pause. “I’ll make you something at my house.” Then his eyes met mine. “How’s that sound?”

I gave him a thumb’s up.