The Devil's Own Chloe (Bistro La Bohème Series) by Alix Nichols Read Free Book Online Page A

again.
    “Mobile
knees,” she explains. “It’s the key. I teach African Zumba, so you need to
forget your stiff-backed salsa moves, OK?”
    As
if I had any salsa moves, stiff-backed or otherwise.
    The
headband-wearing brunette shouts, “OK!”
    “As
I said,” Tiff continues, “I don’t want to see any Latin moves today. I want to
see you shake it the African way. My way!”
    Her
ruddy complexion and flimsy blond hair is such a stark contrast to her
profession of faith that I can’t help smiling.
    Two
black women in the front row giggle and give her a benevolent, “ Oui !”
    With
that, she turns the music up, and the class begins.
    The
four of us and all other women in the room spend the next hour energetically
wiggling and shaking various body parts to the best of our ability. We also
jump, clap, punch the air, tap our feet and, shedding the last remains of
dignity, do the Gangnam Style horse-riding move until our leg muscles beg for
mercy.
    We
also giggle a lot, especially when Tiff explains her “trademark” shower wave.
    “Picture
yourself facing the shower column,” she says, standing sideways. “Now turn the
shower on and let the water hit your face.”
    We
dutifully turn our profiles to her and tilt our heads up.
    “ Only the face!” Tiff glares. “Keep the rest of your body out of the way!”
    We
push our butts out.
    Tiff
smiles. “That’s more like it. Now bend backward a notch so the jet lands on
your chest.”
    She
shows us the exact degree of the bend.
    We
execute.
    “Continue
the wave and feel the water touching your tummy,” Tiff instructs, jutting her
croissant-lover’s belly out. “And finish with your thighs.”
    Manon
tries her best to do the perfect shower wave while Jeanne, Diane, and I titter
and goof around.
    Our
fearless leader plows on with unique gracelessness, peppering her demos of each
new routine with shrill commands to “sing along,” “smile,” and “say yes.” These
appear to work on exactly ten percent of the students, made up of the portly
brunette and her two sidekicks.
    Not
only do they respond to every motivational call, they also cheer one another in
a heavily accented French. Could they be sisters? Or maybe longtime besties
who’ve grown to resemble each other the way old couples do? They’re dressed in
identical tracksuits and have died black hair held back with terry cloth
headbands. All three suck at African Zumba, but they stop and high-five after
every massacred routine.
    As
the class winds down, Tiff takes us through a few stretches and then demands
that everyone smile and shout “African Zumba rocks!”
    Everyone
does, more in recognition of her indomitable spunk than of her debatable skill.
    In
the changing room, Jeanne marches up to the headband set and tells them they’re
her heroes.
    “I
would’ve never made it through this class without you,” she says. “And I’m not
sure Tiff would’ve survived it, either. Thank you for being so generous!”
    The
brunettes look mighty pleased, and an animated exchange ensues, during which
Jeanne establishes the ladies are childhood friends who hail from Portugal and
have been working as concierges in the 9th district for almost twenty
years.
    Jeanne
insists they come with us to La Bohème for a quick coffee among
neighbors. The bar area has been finished since Monday. I can totally see how
the barista in Jeanne is itching to inaugurate it. Two of the three accept the
invitation, and I’m grateful, because it means I’ll enter the bistro with
boisterous company and a legitimate excuse to spend at least ten minutes
chatting with them while enjoying Jeanne’s top-notch espresso.
    That’s
ten more minutes to brace myself before I face Hugo. Maybe in those ten minutes
I’ll have an epiphany and figure out a way to restore our relationship to its
pre-hand-rubbing state.
    Or
maybe I’m just grasping at straws.
    * *
*

Nine
    Jeanne
hands me my cupful of cinnamon-flavored ambrosia. That’s not at all