Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 78634 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78634 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
“Right back at you. I love you so much, Bry.”
“I love you, too.” He kissed me again before asking, “Are you excited about this trip?”
“Uh, yeah. I think I’m going to explode! I can’t even believe it’s happening.”
Our pretend marriage had started out in pretend Paris. It only made sense that we were now headed to the real deal.
It was hard to imagine anything more magical than Paris at Christmastime. Okay, so we barely left the bed in our hotel room for the first couple of days. After all, this was our honeymoon. But after that, we finally ventured out and explored the city, which was everything I’d thought it would be and more.
During our second week in Paris, we began the intensive two-week patisserie class I’d signed us up for as soon as I knew we were coming here. For me, this was a bucket list item. For Bryson, it was pretty much a review of what he’d already been taught in culinary school. He said he was learning a few new tips and techniques though, and we both were having a lot of fun with it.
The class took place every weekday evening for two hours. Afterwards, we walked back to our hotel hand-in-hand. Our route took us down a gorgeous boulevard lined with trees that had been strung with white lights. It looked and felt like a fairytale.
On this particular night, a light snow started to fall. I paused and whispered, “Listen to that.”
Bryson turned to me with a smile, flecks of snow clinging to his dark hair. “What do you hear?”
“There’s a hush. It’s like the whole city got quieter all of a sudden.”
He pulled me close and said, very softly so as not to disturb the stillness, “I know exactly what you mean.” His lips felt soft and warm when he kissed me. Then he adjusted the scarf around my neck and said, “We’d better keep going if we’re going to make it to the bakery before it closes.”
This had become our nightly ritual. Our route took us past the most beautiful, elegant pastry shop, and we always stopped in after class. When we reached our destination, Mr. Dupont, the shop owner, greeted us with, “Ah, Messieurs Baudelaire, bonsoir!” I’d decided to take Bryson’s last name a few months back, and it still made me smile every time I heard it.
Since my sexy husband was fluent in French, I stood back in awe and watched their rapid-fire conversation. After a minute or two, Mr. Dupont tried to include me by asking in English, “What did you learn to make today?” I loved the fact that he treated us like locals after only a few days.
“We made croissants,” I told him. “It was so hard to get the dough right! They’re resting overnight, but I don’t think mine are going to puff up when we bake them tomorrow.”
He nodded solemnly, although I wasn’t sure how much of that he understood, and then he produced a box from behind the counter and handed it to me. “These almost run out, so I save two for you.”
We both thanked him, and as Bryson paid for our purchase, they lapsed back into French. I could only pick out a word or two, but I just loved listening to the rhythm and flow.
After we left the shop, I asked, “What did he send with us today?”
“I didn’t ask. He seemed happy when I raved about the Napoleons he saved for us yesterday.”
“Those were crazy-good. I’d say we should try making them for our café, but I bet it’s tough to create all those light, flaky layers.”
“It’s nothing we can’t handle.”
I smiled at Bryson and told him, “I’ve always appreciated your confidence.”
I took his hand again, and as we crossed the Seine on a gorgeous, ornate bridge, I said, “I really hope we come back to Paris someday. I know we still have a few days left, but I feel like we’ve barely scratched the surface.”
“Of course, baby. We can come back every year if you want to.”
“Really?”
“Sure. We’ve learned that the café can run perfectly well in our absence, thanks to our amazing staff, so there’s no reason not to take regular vacations.”
For the first three or four months that the café was open, we’d acted like parents with a new baby and were always there. It was closed on Sundays, and eventually we started taking Mondays off and leaving everything in the hands of our very capable staff.
They did so well that it gave us the confidence to take this month-long trip. We’d closed down custom cake orders while we were away, because I took pride in doing the decorating myself. But other than that, it was business as usual during our absence.
It still amazed me how quickly the café had come together, thanks in part to the previous owner, who’d made great choices and done the majority of the work to build it out. We’d named it Baudelaire, not after ourselves, but after Bryson’s dad and grandfather, and we’d gone to work right away perfecting recipes for our ever-changing menu. Finally, after several weeks of preparation, we’d opened the doors and were astonished by the overwhelmingly positive response.