Didier’s remark that La Bohème wasn’t attracting the local bobos had stuck with Jeanne. She ended up convincing Pierre to start a “happy hour” between five thirty and eight in the evening, serving cocktails at half price. After three weeks the bobo customer stats hadn’t budged. But the measure turned out to be a huge success among office workers who now flocked to the bistro en masse for a quick drink and a bite before going home.

Tonight had been no exception. When, around eight thirty, the crowd began to thin, Amar joined Jeanne behind the bar for a short break and a cup of coffee. As they both closed their eyes, inhaling the aroma of their brews, Amanda walked in and headed straight to the bar.

“Working late again?” Jeanne asked.

“I don’t mind as long as you serve me one of your vodka Tatins at the happy-hour price,” Amanda said.

Jeanne grinned and turned to Amar. “Lesson number one hundred sixty-nine. Don’t let friends take advantage of your position. Your motto must be ‘Business is Business.’ ”

“Got it,” Amar said.

“And never mind what I charge her for her cocktail. This is a theoretical lesson.” Jeanne began to shake Amanda’s drink.

When Jeanne was done, Amanda took a sip and lifted her eyes skyward in appreciation. “Ah. I love it. You’re the best.” She turned to Amar. “Be a darling and fetch me some peanuts.”

“I’m off duty,” Amar said with a nonchalant shrug. “And business is business.”

“Cheeky kid. Anyway, tell me, how come you’re working on Fridays? Isn’t this the day when all immigrants go to the mosque?”

Amar looked her over and shook his head. “You’re one of a kind.”

“I know. But, please, enlighten me.”

“First, even though my parents are from Syria, I was born in France, which makes me French—not an immigrant. Second, I’m an agnostic.”

“So you don’t believe in God?” Amanda asked.

“I didn’t say I was an atheist. Agnostics reserve judgment until they can see proof of God’s existence or nonexistence. Atheists believe there’s no God. To me, they aren’t so different from religious fanatics—their philosophy is based on belief, not facts.”

“Wow. A Cartesian immigrant, um . . . immigrant-born Frenchman.” She turned to Jeanne. “I’m impressed. If it weren’t for your protégé, I could’ve died now knowing the difference between an agnostic and an atheist.”

Jeanne shrugged. “I’ve been telling the Ministry of Health people they should subsidize us.”

Amanda furrowed her brow. “I’m not following. Subsidize you for what?”

“For providing psychotherapy for the price of an espresso.” Jeanne sighed. “Now I realize the Ministry of Education should sponsor us, too. For spreading knowledge.”

Amanda gave her a dazzling smile. “So what else is up?”

“La Bohème is participating in the annual Paris Waiters’ Race tomorrow,” Amar said.

“That’s yesterday’s news, my boy,” Amanda said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Is it still you and Didier running?

Amar nodded.

“But hadn’t you sustained some kind of injury that made you quit professional sports?”

It was Amar’s turn to act surprised. He turned to Jeanne. “Wow. I’m impressed by your friend. She actually pays attention to what people tell her.”

Amanda tapped the side of her head. “I can’t help it. My brain stores everything I hear or read. Including the most useless and insignificant information. So, what about that injury?”

“It’s not a real race. Nobody can run with a loaded tray. I’ll be fine.”

“What about you, Jeanne? Why didn’t you enroll?”

“With those two participating and Pierre cheering, someone has to mind the shop. I’ll serve them chilled beer after they’re back.”

“Oh come on, can’t you leave that chubby waitress in charge? I’m sure she’ll manage like a pro.”

“Manon isn’t chubby,” Amar said.

Ignoring him, Amanda looked at Jeanne with dreamy eyes and said, “We could do the American-style pom-pom thing.”

“Seriously?”

“What? We’re both still young and good-looking. I’ve always regretted we don’t have that tradition in France. I would’ve made a fantastic cheerleader.”

“Maybe you could ask Manon to join you?” Amar said, his face lighting up.

“We’re not doing it,” Jeanne said to Amanda before turning to Amar. “But I’m sure Manon will be there to support you.”

“I’ll be there, too, supporting La Bohème.” Amanda beamed.

Jeanne cleared her throat. “Um… Rob is going, too. With Lena.”

“You know what? I don’t give a hoot. I’ve decided I’m no longer going out of my way to avoid them. It’s too much hassle. It’s their turn to do the avoiding.”

“Makes sense,” Jeanne said.

“So, I’m coming tomorrow. And as a true cheerleader, I’ve made sure you’ll have as many fans as possible along the route.”

“You did?” Jeanne asked, a note of concern in her voice.

“Of course. I’ve been spreading the news for a week now.”

Jeanne narrowed her eyes. “In what direction?”

“Oh, everywhere. I told some colleagues at work, my mom, a few friends . . .”

“Who?”

“Karine—you’ve seen her here a couple of times. Patrick. Mat.” Amanda paused, thinking. “I think that’s about it. They all said they’d come.”

Jeanne smirked. I’m sure he will.

She tried to work up some righteous anger.

Instead, she grew annoyed with herself for feeling so ridiculously happy about the prospect of seeing him again.

* * *

“What makes you think you can win against two hundred professional waiters?” Didier arched an eyebrow at Amar.

They were downing their espressos before heading to the Place des Vosges where the Waiters’ Race was to start.

Amar shrugged. “My youthful audacity?”

“He’s faster than most,” Jeanne said.

“That may be the case, but he’ll be carrying a tippy tray with a bottle of Orangina and two full glasses on it.” Didier turned back to Amar. “You may be the first at the finish line, but if you’ve broken a glass or even spilled too much Orangina, you’re toast.”

“I know the rules, thank you,” Amar said, giving Didier a low-lidded look.

Jeanne rolled her eyes. “Men. I, for one, am happy both of you are running today. It doubles the chances for La Bohème.”

“By the way, why did you sign up for this? What’s your incentive?” Amar asked Didier.

“Same as yours—Orangina’s fat check. Three thousand euros is worth the ridicule.”

“Hey, loosen up, man. This thing is supposed to be fun,” Amar said.

“We may not have the same notion of fun,” Didier retorted.

The entrance door flew open and Pierre walked in, followed by Manon. The young woman wore a yellow wig and pressed a rolled-up white cloth to her chest. When she unfurled it, the cloth turned out to be a hand painted banner that read “LA BOHEME ROCKS.”

“Did you make it?” Amar gave Manon a bright-eyed look.

She nodded, a small smile on her round face.

Jeanne glanced at the clock on the wall. “It’s time. Go get them, boys! And remember to wear your aprons and bow ties.”

Once everyone was gone, Jeanne lost herself in frantic activity. She tended the bar and helped the remaining waiter, Jimmy, during the lunchtime. Whenever she had a moment, she went into the kitchen to give a hand to Claude who’d been alarmingly morose for over a week now. She didn’t sit down until around four in the afternoon when things finally calmed down. Her stomach growling, she headed to the kitchen to eat the plate of cassoulet Claude had put aside for her. Halfway through her meal, she heard loud voices coming from the front of the bistro and went to investigate.

The La Bohème staff, Rob, Lena, Amanda, Mat, and a few other people were singing “We Are The Champions,” taking turns at tapping Amar on the back, and inspecting his medal.

“Our boy won the race,” Pierre shouted over the singing as soon as he saw her. “La Bohème came first!”

Jeanne opened her mouth to ask Didier about his result—and shut it upon seeing his sullen expression.

“I’m closing the bistro off until seven, and opening our best champagne to celebrate this historic event,” Pierre announced.

“Jeanne, you so should’ve come!” Amanda dropped on a chair next to Jeanne. “There were thousands of people at the Place des Vosges and along the route, everyone chanting and cheering. Great energy. I really enjoyed myself.”

“I’m sure I’ll hear so much about it I’ll end up feeling like I was there,” Jeanne said.

Amanda shifted in her seat. “Um . . . I’m not sure what the etiquette is when customers mix with waiters like this . . . Do you think I can ask Didier or the chubby girl to get me a glass of sparkling water?”

“How about I pour you some from the tap?” Jeanne offered.

Amanda sighed theatrically. “OK. I hate tap water, but these are exceptional circumstances.”

Jeanne handed Amanda her water and then moved closer to Amar, waiting for her turn to congratulate him.

She didn’t look at Mat. Not even once.

“I couldn’t miss the chance to cheer La Bohème during the race,” she heard him tell Rob.

Rob rolled his eyes.

She kept not looking at Mat.

Manon hugged Amar and gave him a peck on the cheek.

Amar grinned like a Cheshire cat.

Jeanne still didn’t look at Mat.

Lena walked over to Amanda. “Hi. It’s good to see you. Really.”

Amanda flashed one of her landmark not-quite-reaching-the-eyes smiles. “Yeah, well. I’d hoped you’d figure out it was your turn to take a rain check. I think I’ve skipped enough events over the past year.”

“I was hoping we could stop . . . skipping,” Lena said.

Amanda shrugged. “I’m not the forgiving type. But I’m willing to pretend I’m OK with being in the same room as you and Rob if you make sure to stay out of my hair.”

Lena nodded and left her in peace.

Jeanne kept her gaze trained on Amar.

“Come, I need to tell you something,” Lena whispered to Jeanne, heading down the stairs.

Jeanne followed her to the restroom.

“I’m pregnant,” Lena said without bothering with an introduction.

Jeanne blinked several times. “Oh. My. God. How far along are you?”

“Three months.”

“Wait a minute, so you were already pregnant during the wedding?”

“Yep. Only I didn’t know it. I missed my period in March, but I didn’t think much of it. My menses aren’t regular.”

Jeanne gave her friend a bear hug. “I can’t believe it. This is huge! How does it feel to be pregnant?”

“It’s weird, actually. I’m still having a hard time accepting there’s a living creature growing inside me.”

“Like in the Alien movies.”

“Oh no!” Lena grinned. “It’s actually a good feeling. Weird, but good.”

“You and Rob are going to have a sweet little family,” Jeanne said.

“You’re next. You caught my wedding bouquet.”

“Did I have a choice? You hurled it at me.”

Lena chuckled.

When they walked out of the bathroom, Mat was hovering by the door. Lena gave him a small smile and walked past him toward the dining room.

Jeanne followed in Lena’s tracks, her head down . . . until he moved in front of her, blocking her way.

Shit.

Slowly, she looked up.

Double shit.

He was even hotter than she remembered from a month ago.

Must be my imagination.

Mat stared at her in that fierce way that made her knees go weak.

“How’s life?” he asked after a while.

“Same old,” she said.

They peered at each other for another long moment, and then Mat took a step toward her. His chest rose and fell, and his eyes turned the color of dark slate.

If I don’t say anything, he’ll kiss me.

It was tempting to let him.

And then she remembered something. She’d thought about Mat last night, but not in the way she usually did. She’d thought about him in connection with Daniela, and that horrible boyfriend of hers. In spite of his new job and promises, the fights hadn’t stopped. The concierge denied being battered, even as she wore big sunglasses inside the building. The woman needed help.

And Mat enjoyed helping people.

“I have a neighbor whose boyfriend is violent. I’ve heard them fight, and I’ve seen her with bruises several times,” she said.

He ceased drawing closer, but he didn’t retreat either.

“A friend of mine put her in touch with a Help Center, but it didn’t go down too well.” She threw her hands up. “I don’t know how to convince her to report him. And to jilt him.”

Mat took a moment before speaking. “She should learn Krav Maga.”

“What in hell is Krav Maga?”

“An extreme form of self-defense. Several martial arts plus a bunch of dirty tricks rolled into a technique that’s diabolically effective.”

“Wow. Sounds like something I wouldn’t mind trying myself. Are you an adept?”

“I’ve been practicing it for the past two years. In addition to the weight lifting.”

“I see.”

“If she takes a class twice or three times a week, in a month she’ll be able to knock him out.”

“No kidding?”

“I’m serious. Besides, it will do wonders for her self-confidence.” He smirked. “Remember me four years ago?”

“I thought you were Cécile’s handiwork,” she said archly.

“I’m a multivariate equation.” He counted on his fingers. “Cécile’s handiwork plus weights plus Krav equals the perfection standing in front of you.”

She burst out in laughter. “Why do I have the impression you’re only half joking?”

He whipped out his phone and scrolled through his contacts. “I know an instructor who gives Krav Maga classes in the 18th, just a few métro stops from here. I’ll send you his phone and address . . . if your number hasn’t changed.”

“Still the same.” She shifted from one foot to the other. “I’ve got to go back and congratulate Amar.”

“Of course,” he said and stepped aside to let her pass.

* * *

“So. Liviu is at a friend’s place. I’m free all evening. Where is it you want to take me?” Daniela asked, letting Jeanne into her tiny loge.

“You’ll see when we get there.”

In the métro, Jeanne noticed Daniela eyeing her voluminous backpack with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. At one point, the concierge opened her mouth to say something but then closed it, shooting Jeanne a haunted look.

She finally spoke when they resurfaced at Château Rouge. “I don’t think I can handle another session with a bunch of moralizing old ladies like the ones you set on me last time.”

“I’m really sorry about that,” Jeanne said. “My friend who recommended them sincerely believed they’d help.”

“I’m sure they sincerely wanted to. Only they made me feel so . . . ashamed of myself and of my life. I couldn’t bear the idea of seeing them again.”

“I understand.” Jeanne said, feeling her ears burn.

This time we’ll try something entirely different.

Daniela adjusted her sunglasses on her nose. “I only agreed to come because you threatened to report Nico to the police.” She touched Jeanne’s sleeve. “How about we go to the movies? I haven’t done that in years.”

Jeanne shook her head and halted in front of an incongruous building that said Dojo in Asian-style red letters. She pushed the entrance door open and turned to Daniela. “Et voilà. Follow me.”

As they made their way through the hallway, Jeanne read the signs on the doors: Karate, Judo, Kung fu, Kickboxing, Ballet.

Really?

The next one said Krav Maga.

She knocked on the door. A few seconds later a big man in his midforties opened the door and ushered them into the large room with padded flooring.

He pointed to the two visitor chairs by a small desk in the corner of the room. “Jeanne, right? And . . . ?”

“Daniela,” Jeanne answered for the concierge who looked completely overwhelmed by the turn of events.

“My name’s Dominique. Please, sit down,” the instructor said. “I’ve been expecting you. The beginner class starts in fifteen minutes. You can try it after our chat, if you brought the right clothes.”

“I have everything we need,” Jeanne said, pointing to her backpack.

Dominique delivered a short introduction to his martial art. He particularly stressed how it allowed a smaller and physically weaker person to overpower a larger and stronger one.

“It’s great exercise, too,” he added in conclusion.

Jeanne opened her backpack and pulled out her checkbook. “I’d like to pay for both of us, for three months.”

Dominique gave her a surprised look. “What do you mean? Oh, I see—he didn’t tell you. Mat stopped by a few days ago and paid for the two of you. For one year.”

Jeanne blinked, processing the information. The class was far from cheap. She’d examined her budget carefully, determining what expenses to cut to free up the funds for it. Mat was no doubt doing well for himself, but even so, a year’s fee for two was a substantial amount of money. Especially considering the two in question couldn’t even be called his friends . . .

“I’m not sure about this . . . ” Daniela said, interrupting Jeanne’s musings. She screwed her face up and glanced at Jeanne then at Dominique.

“Something’s bothering you. Will you tell me what it is?” Dominique asked.

“I don’t want to beat anyone up,” Daniela said.

He smiled and shook his head. “You don’t have to. Hopefully, you won’t need to. But, believe me, you’ll feel so much better knowing that you can.”

Daniela stared at him for a moment and then nodded. “OK. Let’s do it.”

Soaking in her bathtub later that night to relax her aching muscles—including a few she hadn’t known she had—Jeanne wondered about Mat’s gesture. It was generous, no doubt. But it was also too extravagant. Was he trying to impress her, to make her feel grateful to him so she’d sleep with him?

Jeanne pinched her nose and sank under the water for a few seconds. When she reemerged with a white hat of foam on her head, she told herself Mat wasn’t the kind of person to pay for a woman’s favors. The guy she remembered from four years ago wouldn’t have even thought of that.

But then, he was no longer that guy. He’d transformed both outwardly and inwardly into a different kind of man. The kind she’d sworn off after her embarrassing affair with Fred. Jeanne stared at the wall as a bitter, tangy taste spread in her mouth. The truth was this man, the new Mat, didn’t have much in common with the geek who used to worship her. Gone were the messy curls and the ugly glasses, but also the vulnerability and the goofiness. He was now a self-confident politician, full of ambition and promise. He was so driven, so sure of the path he’d set for himself.

A path that didn’t intersect with hers.

Wasn’t it cruelly ironic that she’d waited until this metamorphosis to finally fall in love with him?