“And then I said, ‘Sure, no problem. If you think you can find a better designer who’ll meet your deadline and charge less than us, be my guest. I promise no hard feelings.’ ” Geraldine tilted her head to the side and spread her lips into a disdainful smile, reenacting her standard killer punch for Emma’s benefit.

Emma smirked. “I bet they said, ‘OK, you win, let’s discuss the color palette.’ ”

“Believe it or not, they didn’t! Those cheapskates made a new offer, higher than the first one but still below our quotation.”

“That’s unusual. So you delivered the death blow?”

“Oh yes, I did—and took immense pleasure in it. I looked at the new figure and pushed the sheet back across the table. I flashed them my Smile Number Three and said, ‘Messieurs, it’s been a pleasure, but my time is too expensive to be wasted on useless haggling. Good luck with your launch.’ I picked up my purse and began walking toward the door…”

Somewhere in the middle of Geraldine’s account, Emma tuned out. She was having a hard time concentrating on her sister’s self-congratulatory chatter. She’d had a hard time concentrating on anything lately since the beauty mark episode in Cyril’s kitchen. God, how she’d wanted him to continue touching her! Her body had gone all gooey and hot, and her brain… her brain had rearranged all its neurons to form three short words: Yes. Please. More. The only thing that made her pull back and leave was her fear of destroying the fragile little sprout between them with an excess of zeal.

She couldn’t risk it. Not now, not when she finally had a chance with him.

It was important he get to know her a little better before they became lovers.

Sweet Lord.

The mere thought that making love to Cyril had moved from the realm of fantasy to the domain of possibility was enough to send her pulse into the stratosphere. Was she freaking out? Was she scared she’d disappoint him in bed? After all, he’d dated none other than Geraldine—the woman who claimed to know every trick in the Kama Sutra and emit pheromones during sex that messed with men’s heads. Which was, of course, one hundred percent pure Geraldine-grade bullshit. Unlike Emma’s easily verifiable lack of experience and prowess.

The thought gave her pause. Was this the real reason she had run away from Cyril the other day? Because she’d realized he might touch her like that again and kiss her and… who knew? So she left, afraid to disappoint the man of her dreams—the man she’d loved for so long it had become part of her identity.

Emma had fallen for Cyril at thirteen, on the day sixteen-year-old Geraldine came home with her cute new classmate. The two of them stayed in Geraldine’s room for hours, admittedly studying. But Emma’s room was next door, and she could hear them talk and laugh and fool around. Cyril strummed the guitar he’d brought along and sang songs she’d never heard before. They were funny, sad, silly, superficial, and wise. All at once. They moved with ease from the importance of doodling to bonds of friendship and from there to the meaning of life. They were so melodious she couldn’t help tapping her foot to the beat.

She loved them.

And before she knew it, she loved him.

But Cyril only had eyes for Geraldine. And who could blame him? Unlike most kids her age, Geraldine sailed through her teens without so much as a medium-size zit to tarnish her angelic face. She was confident, witty, luminous, and immensely popular. As for Emma… At the time, she’d been hopelessly self-conscious. She hid her face behind her hair and wore baggy sweatshirts and loose-fitting jeans to conceal her lack of curves. She was still the family’s baby—someone to watch over, patronize, tease, and never take seriously.

And that was exactly what Cyril had done, taking his cue from her parents and Geraldine. He called her Boney Em, as a nod to her thinness and the famed ’70s disco group. Considering how much time he’d spent at their place during the two years he and Geraldine dated in high school, the conversations he’d had with her were remarkably short and few.

The most frequent situation when they talked was when he would ring the doorbell, and she would open the door. He’d smile and say, “Hey, Boney Em. What’s up?” But his gaze would slide over her and travel to the dark hallway leading to Geraldine’s room. He’d peer, trying to decipher if Geraldine was coming out to meet him. His feet would point in that direction. Emma knew it because she always looked down when she talked to him. He would stay put just long enough for her to say, “Hi Cyril. I’m fine. Geraldine’s in her room.” Then he’d nod and head there, offering a polite, “Bonjour, Madame Perrin,” when he passed by the kitchen where Mom lingered.

Had Geraldine been in love with him back then? It was hard to say. One thing was sure: her sister enjoyed having him around. Cyril was undeniably cool, and Geraldine liked everything that was cool.

Then the two teenage lovebirds finished school and went their separate ways. For six years, Emma only saw Cyril when she went to his concerts. Initially, he performed in small bistros and neighborhood cafés. After his first album became an overnight success, he began to sing at trendy places like Chez Luke and L’Espace and lately at Le Zenith and the Olympia Hall.

She had attended his every Parisian performance and a great many concerts in other parts of France. She’d traveled to Belgium and Switzerland when she could. She had even invented a boyfriend in Lyon to explain her frequent trips out of town. Her mom and dad were still upset over her refusal to introduce said boyfriend to the family.

After all, he was the only one they’d ever heard about.

* * *

Emma arrived at the bistro at seven thirty. It was still half-empty and relatively quiet, the dinner service having barely begun. Cyril was already at his usual spot, biting into a delicious-looking hamburger. She stepped in and marched toward him, anxious to cover the short distance before she lost her nerve.

When she halted by his table, he put his hamburger down and turned in her direction, his expression uncertain.

She exhaled, refilled her lungs with air and opened her mouth. But no sound came: Her tongue simply refused to move.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

She gripped the back of the chair in front of her. “Hi. You’re here. What a surprise.”  

Her words tumbled out, rushed and clumsy—not casual and unaffected as she’d intended. Emma rolled her eyes skyward, the temptation to bang her head against the marble tabletop almost too powerful to resist.

He narrowed his eyes. “Laura?”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t expect to see you again after… last time.”

“I just—” She swallowed. “I just stopped here for a quick bite before heading home… after my photo shoot… around the corner.”

Get a grip, woman.

“Did it go well?” he asked politely.

“Yes, thank you.”

Emma was about to inquire if she could sit next to him, when the room erupted in loud noises, high-pitched screams and a few select curses. She turned around. What she saw was the most spectacular case of indoor flooding she’d ever witnessed.

Water had breached the ceiling and cascaded down, showering the unfortunate guests sitting under the crack. Judging by the amount of it, a pipe must have leaked for a long time in the apartment above the bistro. As the customers leaped to their feet and scrambled to get away from the downpour, another hole opened up above the bar area. A second jet gushed down, hitting the counter, knocking the neatly stacked glasses to the ground and soaking the baskets of sliced baguette.

“What’s going on?” Cyril asked.

“The Deluge.”

“Everyone out, please!” Jeanne yelled as she zoomed by with a bucket that she placed under the first leak.

Another server put a big saucepan on the counter to collect the water from the second hole.

“Messieurs-dames, please leave immediately!” the proprietor bellowed. “It isn’t safe for you here. All checks are on the house.”

“I’m not leaving,” Cyril said loudly.

“You’re in the mood for a cold shower?” Jeanne shouted.

He shook his head. “I just received training at Mobility Help on how to respond to home emergencies, including leaks and flooding. I know exactly what to do.”

“That’s great.” Jeanne turned to Emma and gave her an emphatic look. “But you heard what the man said. Out, both of you!”

“You need to shut off the water supply,” Cyril said, unflustered. “Can you locate the valve?”

“Already did.” Jeanne nudged the bucket with her foot. “And Rob called an emergency plumber and the fire brigade. There isn’t much else we can do, apart from praying there won’t be another hole.”

“You better turn off the electricity in the building as an additional precaution,” Cyril said. “Do you know where the main switch is?”

“Must be in the basement.” Pierre cut in. “I’ll take care of it. Rob, come with me. You’ll hold the torchlight.”

When both of them were gone, Jeanne turned to Cyril. “Thank you, honey. But you must leave now.”

“What about the furniture?” Cyril’s voice was full of concern. A little too full. “The wooden chairs, the marble-top tables... I bet they’re vintage.”

“How did you know?” Jeanne asked.

Cyril ran his fingertips over the back of a chair. “The shape. The texture…” He stroked the tabletop then gripped its edge and tipped the table a little. “The weight.”

“They’re from the 1920s and 30s,” Jeanne admitted. “Pierre’s been buying them for the bistro over the past twenty years.”

“Well, then he wouldn’t want them damaged, would he?” Cyril paused, then added, “I could help you take them out…”

If his last words weren’t a desperate plea, then Emma didn’t know what was. She peered at Jeanne, praying the waitress would understand what this meant to him, how much he needed to feel useful, competent, in charge.

Jeanne threw her hands up in resignation. “How do you propose to do that?”

Thank God.

“If someone—you or one of the other waiters—could give me a hand, we’ll push the furniture away from the water.” He leaned in, enthusiasm palpable in his voice. “And then we’ll carry it all out to the terrace.”

“I’m in,” Emma said. “The artist in me can’t bear letting such fine pieces be ruined.”

He smiled. “Thanks, Laura.”

“OK,” Jeanne said. “I need to help Claude and Didier take care of the electrical appliances and empty the pantry under the bar. So I’ll let you guys salvage the furniture.”

“Don’t touch anything that’s plugged in until Pierre is back,” Cyril warned.

“Yes, Mom,” Jeanne said and winked at Emma.

When she was gone, Emma touched Cyril’s hand. “Follow me.”

For the next thirty minutes, they pushed dozens of chairs and tables toward the entrance door and then evacuated them outside. During that time, the firefighters and the plumber arrived. Pierre and Rob returned from their mission and started explaining the situation to the professionals. Men in uniform ran to and fro, carrying toolboxes, equipment and ladders. A group of onlookers gathered around the terrace, watching the show.

Emma registered all of that in a strangely detached way, as if she were watching a 3-D movie. Her immediate reality was the hot jolts of pleasure that shot through her body each time her hand brushed Cyril’s. It happened when she guided him to a piece of furniture that needed moving, when they lifted a table together or when she handed him a chair to be carried outside.

As they shuttled between the front room and the terrace, Cyril looked concentrated and purposeful. But Emma noticed—unless her heightened senses were messing with her brain—how his expression changed when they touched. And how he didn’t rush to break the contact.  

When they transferred the last chair to safety, she found comfort in the hope that he’d suggest they have a well-deserved drink at another cafe or at his place. They would talk. She’d be sure to encourage him to touch her again like he’d done last time. And she wouldn’t run, no matter where his exploration led them.

Jeanne emerged from the kitchen, shook Emma’s hand and then Cyril’s. “Thank you, guys! Your selfless heroism will become legend, like Claude’s 2006 tiramisu. It’ll be passed on from one generation of servers to the next.”

“It was fun,” Cyril said. “What’s the story with the tiramisu?”

Jeanne took a theatrical pose. “On July 27, 2006, Claude made a tiramisu that gave all of the female guests a deep, multiple orgasm at the first spoonful.” She paused for effect. “Unfortunately, he never managed to find the exact same proportions of mascarpone, coffee, brandy and ladyfingers. And that is how the 2006 Orgasmic Tiramisu became legend.”

Emma giggled.

“When do you expect to reopen?” Cyril asked.

“In a couple of days,” Jeanne said. “As soon as the ceiling is patched up and the apartment upstairs drained.”

“I’ll hold you to it.” He smiled at Jeanne and then turned to Emma. “Thank you for supporting me! Jeanne wouldn’t have taken me seriously if it weren’t for you.”

“I’m glad I could help,” Emma said.

He picked up his cane. “I’d better be going. See you around, Laura.”

“See you around,” she murmured, doing her best to hide her disappointment.

He walked down the street, disappearing behind passersby and reappearing for brief moments, until his distant silhouette completely dissolved into the evening crowd.