Bon Appetit by Sandra Byrd Read Free Book Online Page B

later Simone slid by me. She smiled nervously in my direction, not making eye contact, and went to the cool room, where Patricia had returned to the cake.
    A few minutes later I heard a roar of laughter. It was Patricia! Simone glided by and glanced at me again, looking very relieved. She gave me a genuine smile. I didn’t know what had happened, but I was glad to see her relaxed toward me again. I had enough stress and few friends here.
    After placing the beans into a lidded bin, I cleaned up the area and prepped the butter for the next day’s baking. I measured carefully. Extremely carefully.
    What went wrong today?
I allowed myself to think about it for the first time all day. I was so exact. Could I have used the wrong butter? But I didn’t see any American butter in the cooler, and even if I had, it would have been drier, not greasier, as American butter has a lower fat content.
    My failure was especially painful because cakes were my specialty. I liked baking them best and prided myself on their success.
    I took the garbage to the commercial waste bin in the back, and as I did, I noticed a chalkboard on top of the bin contents. It looked like the ones I’d seen in every café and even here in the bakery. Two hooks at the top held a black plate that listed the day. There was a plaque for each day,
dimanche
for Sunday,
lundi
for Monday, and so on. I pulled it out and set it aside. It looked used, but in very good condition.
    I went back into the bakery and saw there was a new chalkboard up front with today’s specials written across it. The one by the waste bin must have been an old one. I’d ask Patricia if I could keep it.
    I glanced at the clock. It was nearly time for me to take the train back to the village. Tomorrow I’d be in Rambouillet for school, and then I’d work at the village bakery for the rest of the week.
    I untied my apron and went back to the cool room. Patricia was grinning.
    “I’m leaving soon,” I said.
    “Bon,”
she agreed. “Working at the bakery in the village this week, then here all next week, right? We have special orders next week and can use the extra help. The village bakery is a bit slower”.
    I’d noticed. I preferred working here anyway.
    “I found a chalkboard in the garbage bin. May I keep it?”
    She shrugged. “Sure. Maybe you can use it to write down French words”.
    I cocked my head, not understanding. “Have I made a mistake?”
    She grinned again. “Do you know what
faux amis
are?” she asked.
    “Oh, yes”. I’d learned about them in French class long ago and tried to keep up with an ever-growing list. “They’re false friends. Words that sound similar in French and English but have a very different meaning”.
    “Bon,”
Patricia said. “I think there is one false friend that you are not aware of”. She handed me a piece of paper.
    Preservative
–ingredient that delays or retards spoilage
    Préservatif
–a condom, used to protect from disease or pregnancy
    My face went cold. “Oh no! I told Simone we used
préseratifs
in our pastries at home. No wonder she was horrified!” And no wonder I had heard that burst of laughter from Patricia.
    “Oui,”
Patricia said. “I explained
faux amis
to her, and she was very relieved to hear your baking practices were not as barbaric as she feared”.
    “Should I talk to her about it?” I asked.
    “Non
, she’s very old-fashioned. I think to bring it up again would be embarrassing. But, Lexi,” she said to me, “thank you. I have not had a laugh since I got back from Provence last month”.
    If we’d been friends, I’d have asked her what was wrong. But we weren’t really friends, and I knew better, now, than to get too close too soon. However, I had never seen that vulnerable of a look on her face. She ducked away and went back to work.
    “I will see you next week, Lexi,” she said softly, a kind but definite dismissal.
    On my way out, I passed the office and looked at Céline bent over her book.