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Café

Paul

I have the perfect café in mind. The mom-and-pop diner in New York was a great taste of local flavor, and I want Vivianne to experience Parisian fare.

My first thought is to treat her to the culinary wonders the city is famous for—a top chef presenting his works in an intimate five-star restaurant.

I have several favorites but sense Vivianne expects me to take her to an exclusive restaurant. I don’t enjoy being predictable, which leads me to make a different choice.

The Métro is a gamble, but it will give me more time in her company. Besides, I’d love to take her to my studio.

Watching her enthusiasm at the museum stirred my artistic passion. I want her to see my work with the same adoration she gave the masters.

Merlin would say I’m being arrogant—again.

I disagree. I’ve earned the right to be proud of my work. Speaking of painting, Vivianne would be glorious in a nude. I must convince her to pose for me.

It’s a necessity.

“Come.” I guide her past the eyes of the watchful guard and toward the exit.

Outside, the sun has set. A blanket of clouds hides the stars, and the light of the moon barely shines through the few gaps revealing the night sky.

The predicted rain fell during our time inside, leaving the streets glistening and the air full of the musty scent of freshly fallen rain. Streetlights spread their pools of light, giving Paris its signature evening glow.

“The Métro is not too far,” I say.

We walk in silence. Vivianne seems happy. Her face glows as she takes in the city’s lights as night deepens around us. I need to explain the auction and the expectations she will have to meet.

A part of me hopes she might naturally gravitate in that direction, but in the little time I’ve spent with her, it’s clear her familial ties are strong.

For the auction, she will need to act contrary to her father’s expectations, and I have concerns about her willingness to do so.

Vivianne breaks her silence after I purchase her ticket.

“I’ve wanted to ride the Métro but was too hesitant yesterday.”

“We have one of the safest rail systems in Europe, but be mindful of your purse.” I make a show of pulling out my wallet from my back pocket and settling it deep inside the zippered interior pocket of my jacket.

“Of course.” She places her clutch to the front of her body and holds it with both hands. I nod with approval.

“Our stop is not too far, and the Métro is so much quicker than driving.”

“What do you have in mind for dinner?”

“Ah, now, that’s a surprise.”

The corner of her lips tilts up into the beginning of a smile.

“I love surprises.”

I hope she does.

“I have a particular place in mind. I hope you don’t mind a casual café.”

Vivianne gives a start, confirming my suspicion, and I can’t help but enjoy taking her by surprise.

“A café sounds great. Not what I was expecting, but it sounds wonderful.”

Pausing by one of the many displays, I explain how the rail system is laid out.

“It’s really quite simple, and even though it’s mostly in French, you don’t need to understand French to get around.”

I want to make certain she feels comfortable riding alone, although if I have any say in it, she never will.

The Métro takes us back to Montmartre. We wander the twisting streets, admiring the eclectic atmosphere until Le Consulat restaurant appears around the bend.

Set in the touristy area behind Sacré-C?ur, tourists and locals alike enjoy the vibrant scene. I love the friendly staff and don’t mind the street noise.

The lumbering of buses and other traffic only adds to the ambiance. The food is basic Paris café fare, but the wine selection makes this one of my local favorites, as does the impromptu entertainment. It isn’t unusual for a guitarist to play on the front patio, singing to the customers.

A golden glow streams out of the large windows, and the soft strumming of a guitar lifts above those gathered for an evening meal. Most of the tourist buses have stopped running at this time of night, but one latecomer chugs up the hill, its diesel engine growling as it passes.

The café is a narrow three-story building, bound on both sides by winding streets. A red-and-green striped awning spans the entrance, and tables and chairs sit on the sidewalk.

A few people huddle over small, round tables, sipping coffee and enjoying the night.

“Is this where we’re eating?” Vivianne asks.

I hold the door open and usher her inside. “The food is quite nice. I think you’ll love it. They’re famous for their rabbit dish, but if you don’t enjoy rabbit, the duck is exquisite, too.”

“Mmm, smells amazing.” Her eyes close, and she breathes in deep. “I haven’t had rabbit in a long time. Not something I would normally pick.”

“How adventurous do you feel?”

“I’m willing to trust your taste.”

I want her to trust a whole lot more than my food choices. With a wave, I catch the attention of the hostess. The pretty brunette comes over.

“Monsieur de Gaulle, allez-vous?”

“Très bien,” I say. “Et vous?”

“C’est une bonne soirée,” she says. “Très occupée.”

The café is nearly full. I indicate the corner table by the window. I switch to English. “Can you seat us there?” I couldn’t have asked for a more intimate location.

“Mais, oui,” she says and seats us. With a smile to Vivianne, she takes our drink orders.

Vivianne glances at the menu and then sighs.

“I should’ve paid better attention in high school French.”

I laugh and take her menu. “Your dining fate is in my hands.” There’s no need to look at the menu, as I come often enough. “Do you trust me?” I’m not talking about the food. It’s time to discuss the auction.

She makes a sweeping gesture.

“If the food is half as good as it smells, I’m not worried.”

I order the rabbit to share, French onion soup, and a salad for each of us. Now, how to begin a conversation about the women I’m known for bringing to such events?