Page 72 of Double Fault

“Hungry.”

“Good, because we’re going to the best café around.”

The next thing I know, the car is taking off at light-speed, and I’m gripping the dashboard. Beside me, Ebba laughs, apparently amused by my panic.

“Warn a girl next time.” With a hand to my chest, I gulp in oxygen, worried my lungs got left behind at Noah’s house.

Ebba only laughs harder. “Relax. Just wait until you encounter the F1 drivers are around here.”

“F1?”

She slams on the brakes just in time to avoid hitting the car in front of us. “Oh, sweetie.” She pats my knee. “You have so much to learn.”

Five minutes later she parks in front of a café. It’s adorable, not that I can appreciate it, since I’m still trying to locate my heart. I’m fairly positive it flew out of my chest on the way here.

We find a table on the small patio with bougainvillea climbing alongside the building and over the pergola above us. The setup is simple but gorgeous, and based on the look of wonderment on Maddie’s face, she agrees.

“Order whatever you want.” Ebba sets her purse in her lap. “My treat.”

After a cursory look at the menu, I realize every word is in French, so I snap it shut and set it in front of me. “You can order for me.”

“Are you sure?” She pushes her sunglasses into her hair like she needs to see me better in order to be certain.

“Yeah, I have no idea what any of this is.”

With a nod, she puts her glasses back in place, and a slow smile creeps across her mouth. “I’ll take care of you.”

I’m not sure whether I should be grateful or mildly terrified.

Maddie, the world traveler that she is, straightens beside me. “I won’t need help.”

The smile Ebba gives her is less calculating. Then she turns back to me. “Do you like coffee?”

“Yeah.”

“Likecoffee-coffee. Not the mostly milk stuff people claim is coffee.”

I purse my lips and hum. “I’m of the more-milk, less-coffee variety.”

“All right.” She taps her light pink painted nails on the table. “I’ll get one for you to try anyway.”

When our server appears, Ebba orders for the two of us, then Maddie very eloquently orders for herself inFrench.

My eyes practically bug out of my head, and when my charge is finished speaking, I grasp her wrist. “You speak French?”

A frown mars her sweet face. “And Spanish.”

“How did I not know this?” I mutter. She’s never brought it up, and apparently her dad didn’t think to mention to me that his little girl is a multi-lingual child prodigy.

Maddie picks up her water glass. “You never asked.”

“Do you speak anything else?”

She looks down at her lap. “I wanted to learn Italian too, but when Mom got sick…” She gives a shrug.

That ache in my chest is back. The one that hits me every time this little girl’s sadness surfaces. I want to scoop her up and hold her, but before I can, she straightens and changes the subject.

I tried to learn Spanish in high school, but it was harder than I thought it would be, and I eventually gave up. It’s one of a very few things I’ve ever given up on like that. As a kid, I did everything I could to succeed, hoping that if I was smart enough, accomplished enough, maybe my parents would love me.

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