Page 17 of Host for the Holidays
For the jet lag, the note says.
I smile and take the things with me to heat water in the kettle. Once the tea is steeping, I head back to the couch and pick up the remote. It has a note next to it too.
L’Histoire du Fromage. Look it up on Netflix.
It’s been a long time since I took French classes, but I haven’t forgotten enough that I fail to recognize Rémy is suggesting I watch a documentary about the history of cheese.
That ought to put me out right quick.
NINE
MADI
I wakeup to the sound of a door closing. It’s dark, and a quick search with my hands tells me I fell asleep on a couch. The TV is still on, and there’s a message displayed. It’s not in English, but I’d know that humiliating text anywhere:Are you still watching?There’s an empty cup of herbal tea on the coffee table in front of me and a piece of paper beside it.
And then I remember. I’m in Paris. Josh came over last night. I’m wearing Rémy’s sweats. And I watched an entire episode about the early history of cheese. At 3 a.m. Yes, it’s a multi-episode documentary. And yes, it was in French, so I had to read subtitles. It was surprisingly engrossing.
I check my phone. It’s just shy of 7 a.m., and I have a bundle of texts from Siena. Her texting motto isWhy say something in one text when you can say it in ten?
I wish she was here with me right now. She would appreciate everything that’s happened. She wants to hear all about the follow-up to our teary (on my end) conversation, and she’s sent me a calendar appointment for a FaceTime together this afternoon. I love her.
When Rémy comes out, he’s already dressed for work in a navy blazer, a crisp white button-up shirt with the top two buttons undone, and gray slacks. His hair still looks wet, but it might just be whatever product he uses to style it. Either way, I’m worried about the fragile hearts of the high school girls in his class. They were not made for this sort of onslaught on their wild hormones.
I, on the other hand, have bedhead and bad breath, and the waistband of the sweats I’m wearing has shifted so that the crotch seam is somewhere on my hip. This is a good thing. Rémy is my host, not someone I’m trying to impress. Besides, Josh has seen me worse than this, and he still loves me. I’m so lucky.
I think my need to impress Rémy is just wanting to make a good impression on behalf of all Americans. It’s like our nation’s reputation is on my shoulders. I’m the U.S. ambassador to France.
Yikes.
“Rough night?” His eyes go to the TV.
I pick up the remote and turn it off. “Despite what Netflix is implying, I only made it through one episode.”
He doesn’t believe me. “It’s okay to be fascinated by cheese. In fact, it’s more than okay.”
I shoot him a look. “How did you know I’d be up in the night?”
“My dad made a lot of business trips to Chicago when I was younger, so he watched a lot of TV in the middle of the night. I would sneak out of my room and watch with him sometimes.”
The image of Rémy sleeping on his dad’s lap in front of the flickering TV lights presents itself to me. It’s a tender image, especially since I have so few memories of my own dad.
“Want me to show you how the washing machine works?”
I nod and get up from my makeshift bed. The moment he turns away, I yank the sweats into the right place on my waist. “Sorry I fell asleep on the couch. I know I’ve only paid for servant quarter accommodation.”
He laughs and crouches down by the washer. “I don’t mind if you sleep on the couch if it’s more comfortable.”
It is, but I still don’t feel like I can do that.
The washing machine is the most complicated machine I’ve ever operated, which is saying something after that electric shower, but I’m more concerned with shoving my clothes inside before Rémy can smell them than I am with trying to understand all the settings.
“It’s supposed to be sunny and pretty warm today,” he says as he shuts the washer door, “so you should be able to hang them outside your window when the cycle finishes.” He stands up, and I follow suit just as a loud beep sounds.
I jump, just like I did last time—full on, hand-over-the-heart fright jump.
Rémy smiles. “You’ll get used to it.” He goes over to the doorbell phone and answers in French. What follows is an incomprehensible exchange that has me staring at Rémy’s mouth, because how in the world can he manage to make all those beautiful but unintelligible sounds look so effortless?It’s like the baguette situation all over again. How dare anybody call anything a language that doesn’t sound like what Rémy’s speaking? The rest of us are grunting like cavemen in comparison.
“Good news,” he says, buzzing the guy in. “It’s your suitcase.”
