Page 11 of It Happened In Paris

SUBTLE SIGNS

VIVIAN

I almost slippedon an icy patch while clearing the sidewalk outside of my bakery, my hand landing on the new van as I steadied myself. She was pretty painted all white almost like the snow. Even Paris said how much she loved the new car smell on the drive to school this morning. But I hated taking a handout like this from Richard, and I didn’t know what to make of it. I wished Chelsea was back from her honeymoon so we could chat about it.

With a sigh, I returned to shoveling the foot of white stuff from the walkway, all part of January in Holly Creek. Famous for its twice-a-year Christmas-themed entertainment, shopping, and festivities, now the town slept under a heavy blanket of snow like most of the upstate. At least this quiet spell of the new year meant we shopkeepers could finally take a breather and prepare for spring when the crowds would return.

After I finished that chore, I headed inside to heat a kettle of water for a hot drink. I reached for a pretty tin tucked behind the sugar bin—the one from Angelina’s in Paris that held a special batch ofchocolat chaud, rich cocoa from Africa. Sadly, it held just enough left for one more cup. With Paris at school, I allowed myself a little indulgence.

Finally, my hot mug in hand, I sat down in the dining area of my bakery at one of the charming wrought-iron tables and chairs. I gazed upon the wall mural depicting the markets at the quaintrue Clerin Paris, like I was magically there. Sometimes the famous street called to me, leaving me longing for my French life. But this small town had suited me well. After my divorce, and my mother’s sudden passing, returning here to raise Paris had been an easy decision.

I loved growing up here and wanted the simplicity of that life for my daughter, too. Thankfully, Adrien had agreed to let us move here, probably all too happy to not have us cramping his style with the return of his bachelor life. We never meant that much to him.

Enough about the past. I had a long list of things to do today and dwelling on the disappointment of our marriage wasn’t one of them. Before I could open my laptop, though, Paris’s school suddenly called.

“Hello?”

“Mrs. Bardeaux? This is Principal Karen Allen calling,” the authoritative voice boomed over the line. I winced at her use of my ex’s last name.

“Please. Just Vivian is fine.” I’d already informed her and the teachers that was my preference. The only reason I hadn’t reverted to my maiden name was that I didn’t want Paris to feel like she didn’t belong to me—silly, since of course she was my baby, regardless of the name.

“I’m afraid Paris collapsed during gym class this morning.”

“Collapsed?” Panic tightened in my throat.

“The nurse has her now, and detected a slight fever present. Could you please come get her for the day?”

She didn’t need to say more. “I’ll be right there.” I grabbed my coat, scarf, and keys, locked up the shop, and drove the van as fast as I could. The entire five minutes to the school, guiltgnawed at me. I had ended up canceling Paris’ pediatrician appointment last week because she seemed fine, and I dismissed it as just a bug, a bit of overexcitement during the holidays, or normal growing pains. But collapsing? That was different.

Then it hit me. I banged my hand on the steering wheel—she’d barely eaten breakfast because she said her tummy hurt. That might explain it; her appetite always fluctuated, sometimes plenty, sometimes none. I hated constantly nagging her about eating, afraid she’d develop a disorder.

Seeing her carried out by the school nurse to the front entrance made it clear this was something more serious. Gone was the usual sparkle in her eyes—pale and tearful as she fell into my arms, her whole body trembled. My maternal instinct screamed that this wasn’t normal. I needed to get her to a doctor right away.

“Mommy,are they going to give me a shot?” Paris asked, her voice a shaky cry from the booster seat as I drove us to the local clinic. I wasn’t entirely sure of the answer, but mustered up my courage and cleared my throat, determined to appear strong and upbeat for her sake.

“I’m sure it’s nothing. Whatever happens, you’ll be my brave girl, right,ma chérie?”

She nodded and met my gaze in the rearview mirror.

I forced a brave smile, exaggerating the happy crinkles appearing at the corners of my eyes, and brightened my tone as I added, “Guess what? When we get back to the shop afterseeing the doctor, I’ll warm you up a cup of Angelina’s hot cocoa. Okay? I’ll even top it with Chantilly cream, your favorite.”

I hadn’t finished that cup before leaving the shop; I’d gladly swap my last mug of it for her to have a healthy diagnosis from the doctor. A small spark lit up in her eyes as she offered a faint smile. I loved how we shared a delight for those little Parisian touches just between us—special traditions, French words, and favorite foods.

At the clinic, I kept our hands laced together throughout the thorough exam by Dr. Stillman, a well-regarded local physician. He had already conferred with our usual pediatrician, Dr. Adler, and together they ordered tests. When the nurse came to draw the blood, I held my little girl tightly and whispered continuously in her ear about how strong she was.

They sent us home, rewarding Paris with a lollipop and stickers for not crying through the ordeal. Dr. Stillman promised to call a few hours later once the lab results were back.

How did other mothers handle this nail-biting wait? Since I couldn’t drop to my knees and pray for hours without alarming my daughter, I did the next best thing—baking, nearly a religion to me.

“Let’s make your favorite French Lace cookies,” I suggested, reaching for our matching aprons. Paris clapped her hands, always delighting in donning the frilly pink accessory and hat, imitating me at the large butcher block island that served as the heart of my kitchen at the shop. Although we lived in the apartment above us, which included a decent kitchen, we always did our baking here, where all the ingredients and tools we needed were right at hand.

We put on my playlist of French music, and, whileLa Vie en Roseserenaded us in the background, she sipped her cocoa and ate some scrambled eggs while sitting on a stool beside me. The rich, buttery rounds with a layer of chocolate frostingsandwiched in between came out perfectly. Watching her smile and giggle snacking away on one with me made it hard to believe that just a few hours earlier, she had collapsed.

Convinced that Dr. Adler’s forthcoming call would bear only good news, I closed the shop for the day to spend quality time with Paris. I’d have her off to bed early so she’d be fresh for school the next morning. Everything would be fine.

Only when the call finally came from Dr. Adler, her voice hinted at concern. “Vivian, how is Paris now?”

“She’s napping next to me on the couch, and seems fine. It’s nothing, right?” I asked.

---