Page 20 of Host for the Holidays
Rémy:You have to press the silver keyhole with your thumb, then turn the handle and push.
Madi:Press it?! Who would think to do that? Aren’t keyholes meant for actual keys? Or did your country run out of the enormous, rusty ones?
Rémy:*window emoji* *thumb emoji* *French flag emoji*
Madi:*window emoji* *key emoji* *American flag emoji*
Rémy:See you soon, Madi
Smiling and still somewhat suspicious, I hurry back upstairs to test Rémy’s theory. It works. What devilry is this? It’s intentionally misleading to put a place for a key that’s actually meant to be pushed. Where I come from, we call that false advertising.
The window doesn’t open very wide, which makes reaching the laundry lines tricky, to say the least. I sling my clean yoga pants, shirt, bra, and undies on the lines as carefully as I can manage with cold fingers. It’s sunny, like Rémy said it would be, but the courtyard is still in morning shadows, so it’s also chilly.
Once that’s done, I submit to the growlings of my stomach and feed it orange juice, baguette, and more Camembert. Cutting that baguette myself only makes me appreciate even more how easy Rémy made it look. It isnoteasy. That delicious crust is a castle wall, letting through only the bravest of souls to the heavenly interior. But I’m a brave soul now that I have tasted what’s on offer.
After eating half the baguette like any proper American would, I check my phone and scramble up from the chair at the table. It’s a quarter after twelve, which means Rémy will be here pretty soon, and I haven’t showered. After the last couple of days, I need a nice, hot, uninterrupted one.
Plus, I’m determined to show Rémy that I can be more than a travel-worn, sloppy American.
TEN
RÉMY
I’m early.I probably could have spent another half an hour at the school preparing for tomorrow, but I was feeling a bit anxious to get home, despite how short the day was. Wednesdays the students’ classes end at lunchtime. I only teach once, which means I can choose whether to spend the afternoon grading and working on lesson plans or—if I’m feeling irresponsible—to call it a day.
Today I choose the latter. Whether that’s because the Christmas holiday is so close I can taste it or because of the prospect of going to the museum with Madi, I don’t know. I’m going to go with the former, because Madi is a woman with a boyfriend—a boyfriend who asked me to take her around, though, and I’m a man of my word.
I set down my shoulder bag on the entry table just as I hear the water turn on in the bathroom. Apparently, Madi is just hopping in the shower. I might as well make some lunch while I’m waiting—maybe for the both of us in case Madi hasn’t already eaten.
I step into the kitchen and note the baguette bag on the counter, much smaller than it was when I left this morning. Curious, I open the fridge and pull out the Camembert, smiling when I see that there’s less of it too. Why is it so satisfying to know Madi chose those things over the bread and cheese (I use the terms loosely) she bought?
Using the veggies, mozzarella, and balsamic vinegar I bought, I rustle up a salad, then put my efforts to making two croque-monsieurs with the sliced bread, cheese, and some of my ham. As they’re cooking on the stove, I glance up at the closed bathroom door. Is Madi going for the longest shower in history? It has to have been almost half an hour, and the water is still going.
I load up two plates with the food and am just slipping the second croque-monsieur in place when there’s a little shriek, and the water turns off.
I dash from the kitchen toward the bathroom. “Everything okay, Madi?”
“Rémy?!” she responds. “Um . . . help?”
I burst through the door and find Madi holding the shower curtain to cover herself. Her hair is matted to her head, sopping wet. She’s looking at the floor with wide eyes, and I follow her gaze.
The tile is covered in water, creeping toward me in the doorway with each second.
I swear in French and grab the towel hanging on the wall, throwing it over the water like a picnic blanket. Praying there are a couple of extra towels, I turn toward the small, nearby closet.
There are two towels inside, which is a miracle because there is really nothing else in there.
“I’m so sorry,” Madi says as I emerge back into the bathroom. She looks like she just accidentally launched a missile. “Can I help? I—”
“No,” I blurt out, seeing her try to crouch down while still keeping the curtain in place. I’m doing a decent job of seeing her as a friend, but testing those limits is not a wise idea. “I can manage.” I get down on my hands and knees, wiping at the water with the three towels I have to work with. “Just try not to throw any shampoo bottles at my head.”
She groans. “Paris hates me.”
I glance up at her as she pushes a portion of her hair over her bare shoulder to keep it from dripping onto the already wet floor. I can tell it’s killing her not to be able to help.
I give her a reassuring smile before refocusing myself on my task. “Paris just isn’t used to women who shower for thirty minutes.”
“I don’t! At least, not usually. It just felt so good after the last couple days, and the water was so warm, it almost felt like I was back in California.” She looks at the base of the shower. The lip to contain the water is only a couple inches high, and since it’s just a shower curtain on two sides, it’s easy for water to escape even if you’re being careful. “I’m not used to having to worry about water getting out, so I didn’t even notice when . . .”
