Paris Cravings: A Paris & Pastry Novel by Kimberley Montpetit Page A

like I’ll be whining if I ask. “Um, you don’t think he might be waking up?”
    “Poor baby was absolutely exhausted. He’s full-time now for his Uncle Mario.”
    Poor baby? Mathew is six feet three inches tall and a hundred and ninety pounds.
    “Full-time?” I echo. I don’t recall Mathew telling me his Saturday job changed to full-time work. Being gone ten days suddenly feels like a month.
    I place a hand to my chest. My heart is squeezing like it’s got cramps. I know I’m jumping to conclusions, but I can’t help thinking about Parvati and how much Mathew has seen her the last ten days. For months now, that girl—an old friend of mine—has been turning into a professional flirt in tight sweaters.
    I’ve left Mrs. Perotti hanging. “I just called home and my mom isn’t answering,” I say, trying to breathe normally.
    “Perhaps she’s out with friends?”
    “Um, I don’t think so.” As soon as I say the words, I realize how long it’s been since my mother went out with a friend. She mostly stays home, watches soaps (research) and writes a few pages on her current novel or WIP (work-in progress).
    Guilt needles my conscience again. My mother gave up attending the RWA—Romance Writers of America—national summer conference in San Francisco so I could go to France. She might have lost a little bit of her sense of humor at the same time we lost my dad, but I really do have a great mother. I probably need to tell her that more often.
    “Call your mother again,” Mrs. Perotti suggests. “She’ll feel better after she hears your voice and knows you’re alright. Now you take care of that foot, dear.”
    I punch the Off button and depression slaps me like a wet towel. I needed to hear Mathew’s voice and know that he still wants to have our talk when I get home. I need to know that he hasn’t changed his mind about staying together. I hate Mrs. Perotti for not waking him up. Couldn’t she tell I needed to talk to him?
    My phone rings and I jump, flipping it open again. “Mom!”
    She’s crying so much I can hardly understand a word. “Chloe, where are you? I’m so worried! I’ve been calling the tour company, the Embassy, everyone I could think of!”
    “I’m okay, Mom,” I quickly insert, but she’s not finished.
    “I get a phone call telling me my daughter missed her bus and they have no idea where she is! She’s just— not there ! Forgotten in Paris! Alone halfway around the world!”
    “Mom—” I try to tell her that Paris is not halfway around the world. I think Zimbabwe in Africa would be the halfway point, but I don’t think she wants to hear that.
    She keeps wailing. “Every horrible scenario flashed before my eyes.”
    “ Mother !” It suddenly occurs to me that I also have horrible scenarios flashing before my eyes. About Mathew and Parvati.
    “Chloe, you have to come home this instant! ”
    Like I can hail a cab and be there in thirty minutes. Her crying gets me crying. I wipe my nose with the back of my hand because there isn’t a single box of tissues in this bedroom. I hop into the bathroom on my good foot and yank off a piece of toilet paper, still holding the phone to my ear.
    Finally, the explanation of where I am and the whole ankle / bus thing starts to kick in. My mother gets it, although she doesn’t like it. I guess I can’t blame her, but I am still alive, and I’ll be home in less than forty-eight hours. I’m not worried, why should she be?
    “The thing is, Mom,” I say slowly, when she’s calmed down to an occasional hiccup. “I have to buy some clothes because mine got sort of wrecked, and my suitcase is on the bus. I’m sorry it’s going to cost more money—”
    “You’re out of money?” she breaks in.
    “I’ll get a job when I get home. Promise, cross my heart! There’s enough money in the account, right?”
    A moment of silence. “Um, Chloe, I went online and checked our bank accounts like you showed me. It seems we don’t have