Bon Appetit Read Online Free Page A

said.
    “Ah, it’s not my place to say,” Philippe said. “I am sometimes at this bakery, sometimes in Provence, sometimes at the office running the numbers. My father is the real
patron
, the boss, of the familybusiness. He agreed to bring you on at Luc’s insistence. Luc said you had promise and that, since we were working in America, it would be good to bring an American here too”.
    I could have imagined it, but I was paying close attention to every inflection when people spoke to me in an effort to perfect my French, and Philippe’s voice hardened when he mentioned his father. I had yet to meet Monsieur Delacroix. Maybe I didn’t want to. I hadn’t known that Luc had insisted I come.
    “I will have to thank Luc again,” I said.
    “You can do it soon,” Philippe answered. “He and Marianne will be here next week”.
    Maman came up from the bakery to see what I was doing. She said nothing, simply looked at me.
    Philippe understood the look too. He grinned and winked. “Back to work, eh?”
    I smiled back.
“Alors …”
    “I will see you soon,” Philippe said.
    “Oui,”
I answered.
    Odette rushed up to Philippe and restarted her conversation until a customer demanded her attention. I watched Philippe politely disengage, take Céline by the hand, and walk out the door.
    He was kind. He and Céline were somehow different than most of the other French people I’d met so far.
    I walked home that day, running my hand against the long stone wall, tired but feeling like I was breaking through the ice and beginning to find a place here. I saw a car in Maman’s driveway, but didn’t recognize it.
    A few days later, I saw it back again. I peeked through my own lace curtains this time, thankful for the privacy they afforded, and began to feel much more French in that matter. Philippe was putting suitcases into the car’s trunk, and Céline loaded up toys and books.
    Normally, I am not a kid person. If someone had asked me a few months back what I thought would be appropriate gear for a road trip with a child, I’d have said a muzzle and some restraints. Depending on the kid, maybe pepper spray. But I didn’t feel that way about Céline. Maybe it was because she was my first real French friend, despite her young age. Maybe it was something else.
    I opened my armoire the next morning and pulled out a clean uniform, pausing to run my finger down the navy dress. Smiling, I closed the armoire door and walked through the misty dawn toward work.
    Once inside I was seduced by the warm, buttery air, sweet with dark chocolate and vanilla cream. Odette ran the register, and I pulled the croissants off the cooling racks one by one, then stacked them in the display case. The village bakery wasn’t fancy, but it was much more appealing than any small bakery I’d seen at home. The only really lovely bakeries in Seattle were owned by the French—Luc’s two and one other that, in my opinion, wasn’t even comparable. Instead, we had coffeeshops with cases stuffed with over-processed, overpreserved breakfast breads that tasted like something made by Hostess. Every resident of even the smallest French villagewould not expect to eat bread more than six hours old. Many of our customers came to get bread in the morning and then again before dinner.
    I was getting to know them, but they still hadn’t warmed up to me. Maybe it was because my uniform had no name. Maybe everyone knew what that meant. I was the only one in the bakery who had a plain uniform. It felt like a naked badge of shame.
    In the back of the bakery, the friendly baker, Kamil, was rolling out dough. He grinned and waved. I waved back.
The angel was making the croissant
.
    I looked to my left, where Odette was refilling the coffee machine. She grimaced. I smiled.
The devil was making the coffee
.
    A few hours later, I was bent over a large mixing bowl, pouring in the exact measurements Maman had left, when I heard a voice.
    “Alexandra!”
    I turned