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

much left at all.”
    I sink onto the lid of the toilet, wondering what we’ll do if there’s a real emergency. My mother avoids words like “Budget” and “Bills” and “Balance.” Once a month we organize all the monthly bills on the kitchen table, complete with a book of stamps and return address labels, rock out to music while eating chocolate chip cookies, and get it done together.
    Mom adds, “Actually, darling, your cell phone won’t work after next week. I’m turning off the service for the rest of the summer. I can’t afford it until this next book gets approved by Marsella.”
    That stops me. No phone? No communication with my friends, or with Mathew? Being broke sucks. I guess I really do need to get a summer job when I get back.
    “But we still have five days left so use up all your minutes!” Mom adds cheerfully. Now she gets a sense of humor.
    “I just hope my passport is in my bags,” I say, thinking out loud as I hobble back to the bedroom and spot my purse on the quilt. Wrong thing to say.
    “Somebody stole your passport, too? When did that happen? Were you robbed? Are you hurt?”
    “Mom, I wasn’t robbed! I’m sure it’s fine. Forget it.” But I truly can’t remember the last time I saw my passport. I kept thinking it would show up again. I can picture my new yellow bathing suit in the right corner under my socks. I hope that’s not lost. I know it’s selfish to think about bikinis when money and passports are much higher up the worry scale, but suddenly I want to go to the beach with Jean-Paul wearing my new swimsuit and see if I can create that look in his eyes again. Shivers run down my arms and I fall backward on the bed, my face growing hot. I am a terrible person. How can I think those things when all I want to do is talk to Mathew? Maybe Jean-Paul just makes me miss Mathew.
    Maybe I’m just too tired to think straight.
    Maybe—
    “You need to find that passport, Chloe,” my mother’s voice demands in my ear. She’s sounding very in control now. “Call the Embassy, call the police—”
    “ Mom , stop, already. I just remembered I put it in my zippered makeup bag in my carry-on,” I say, telling her a straight-out lie. “I’ll get it when my group gets back.”
    Of course, the tour group is supposed to come back into Paris just in time to sleep and get up again at the crack of dawn for our flight. Tonight’s hotel is somewhere in the Loire Valley and I think that valley is a really big place. Like hundreds of miles or something. Will I have to find my own way to the airport at five o’clock in the morning on Monday? I’m going to need a wad of money to make it through the next day and a half on my own. Food, clothes, airport cab fare. Maybe I’m in bigger trouble than I thought if the bank account is nearly empty.
    “If you say so.” My mother speaks slowly, as if trying to figure out whether she can trust me or not. “But where are you right now? Where are you sleeping tonight?”
    I pause, wondering how much to tell her. “Some very nice people in the La Patisserie shop helped me all day today. I’m totally and completely good. Soon I’ll be reuniting with the tour group.” Quickly, I change the subject before she can argue again. “Put on some music, Mother, eat some chocolate, and everything will be fine, I promise.”
    “If only Jerry were here . . .”
    “Don’t think about him,” I warn her.
    She sniffs and I know she’s dying to call him even though we made a pact that she wouldn’t. “Choose your man carefully,” she tells me. “That’s all I have to say.”
    “Work on your rewrites. Don’t you have a deadline? Like next week?”
    “You’re such a drill sergeant.”
    “I’m partial to three meals a day,” I tell her, and when I laugh she actually laughs with me. “I’ll call you later this afternoon. Your afternoon. Night for me.” I make a mental note not to forget. I might get very busy today.
    I hang up and stare at the