Finding It Read Online Free PDF Page B

feet?” Poppy finishes my sentence.
    We both laugh.
    “I think we shall be great friends, Vivia.” Poppy raises her glass. “That is, as long as you leave the hailing of cabs to me.”
    A short dark haired man strides confidently up to our table, his strong Gallic nose tilted at an arrogant angle. I recognize the haughty expression immediately—the upturned nose, the slightly hooded eyes indicating boredom and disdain. Il est Français !
    French haughtiness used to piss me off. Now, I find it endearing and humorous.
    “ Bonjour , Mademoiselle Worthington.”
    “ Bonjour , Michel,” Poppy says, prattling on in flawless French. “ J'espère que cela ne vous dérange pas que j'ai amené un ami avec moi aujourd'hui... ”
    I nod my head as if I understand what Poppy is saying even though I am only able to translate every third word. Despite Rosetta Stone’s emphatic promise —“You’ll start communicating quickly and have fun doing it!” —I butcher the French language like Michel with a side of beef. I want to learn to speak French fluently—I really do—but I think I have Language Alzheimer’s. Jean-Luc or Fanny will teach me a word. I will practice saying the word, repeating it several times a day, but as soon as they quiz me, my mind goes blank, and I stare wide-eyed, mouth agape.
    Both Michel and Poppy are staring at me. I am too embarrassed to admit I zoned out and have no idea what they asked me, so I whip out one of the few French phrases I have managed to master.
    “ Je voudrais commander un café au lait, s’il vous plâit .”
    Poppy blinks. Michel stares as if I were a fly in his béchamel. I have been on the receiving end of that expression—that patronizing, my-family-home- ees -older-than-your-country expression—more times than I care to admit.
    “ Je voudrais commander un café au lait ,” I nervously repeat.
    I would like to order a coffee with milk. I learned that handy phrase while listening to Earworms, a French language CD that uses catchy tunes and repetition. I don’t know how handy the phrase is, actually, since I don’t even drink coffee.
    “Michel asked if you had any food allergies, Vivia,” Poppy explains. “Though I am certain we can get you a coffee with milk.”
    Prickly heat spreads from my cheeks to my toes like a California wildfire. I want to go limp, slide off my chair, and pretend I am suffering from a fit of the vapors. Victorian women worked the vapor swoons, so why can’t I? Generally speaking, the Victorians creep me out, but I could get behind a swooning revival.
    “I’m sorry,” I mumble. “My French is rusty.”
    Michel rolls his eyes. “Pfft.”
    What the…? Did he just pfft me? I might not speak fluent French, but I can translate pfft. He just dismissed me as a creature beneath him. Pfft means, “Naturally, you are just another sad, ignorant Américaine .”
    I am tempted to tell the little chef to stick his ladle in his pompous French ass, but I don’t want to embarrass Poppy. Instead, I tell him I am allergic to mushrooms. Ha! That oughta throw a little cayenne into his crock-pot. What French chef cooks sans mushrooms?
    Michel narrows his eyes.
    I totally lied. I am not allergic to mushrooms—not in the strictly, grab-an-EpiPen-STAT, medical sense—but I do gag and retch like a cat yukking up a furball whenever I am forced to feast on fungi. It’s not a pretty site.
    Michel pivots on one foot and stalks back to the kitchen.
    Poppy rolls her eyes. “The French really take the biscuit, don’t they? They’re self-impressed and right temperamental. They completely disintegrate if we don’t wax poetic about their Camembert or rhapsodize over every bottle of Burgundy they uncork.”
    I think of Jean-Luc. I always think of Jean-Luc when someone mentions France, or speaks in French. Thinking of Jean-Luc—his ripped, tanned body, his smoldering gaze—always makes my chest constrict. The thought of him literally takes my breath away.
    “My