Marcel took special pride in his tartes aux poires, with the delicately sliced pears topped with custard, caramelized ever so slightly. They had been the first item to sell out the last two years, ever since Marcel had secretly tweaked the recipe. "A touch more vanilla makes almost anything better," he'd said that day.
He brushed the flour from his apron, frowning as he looked himself up and down. Before the first customer arrived, he had changed. His crisp, white apron bore no evidence he had done any work that morning.
Three times, or was it four? No matter. Several times, Papa had scolded him to take his head out of the clouds.
"But why?" he finally retorted midmorning, waving a hand toward the Mediterranean sky, "is it so grey, so moody today? What better place for my head?"
"So moody, he says. But look, here comes your girl again, just as we have sold our last." Papa chuckled. "Bonne chance."
The dampening of her stray curls served only to add to her allure as she appeared through the mist, wearing that same pale green skirt she'd had on the first time he'd seen her. Her eyes, as always, wide, inquisitive. This time, neither turned their gaze.
After what seemed a long time that he held her gaze, holding back a grin, Papa blurted something in broken English, waving her off. She slumped her shoulders, like any other day, and slinked away, her skirts clinging just enough for Marcel to notice her legs, the hint of ankle.
Like every other day, she glanced over her shoulder. Papa laughed, slapping at Marcel's back.
But Marcel had sprung to the counter in the back of the shop, grabbing the empty flour tin in the corner and pushing past his father into the street.
"Wait! Wait! Wait!" he called, knowing the girl could not possibly understand him. She did not look back, stopping only when Marcel had jogged all the way around her, facing her, head and shoulders over hers.
Opening the tin, he gently produced the tarte aux poires, the finest of the morning's batch, and held it out to the girl. He tried again to catch her eye. He picked up a hint of the clean neroli eau de cologne on the seaside breeze at her back. The scent, tinged with orange blossom, had once been popular with the English tourists, though it had largely gone out of fashion the last few years. He'd smelled it often in his youth.
Tentatively, looking away, the girl received the tarte, her other delicate hand slipping into her reticule bag.
"No, no… it's yours," he said, speaking as slowly and gently as he would have to baby John. Knowing no other way to say he would not accept the coins she had retrieved, he shoved his hands deep into his pockets.
She took the smallest of nibbles, the corners of her mouth curving into the slightest of grins, her eyebrow arching. She lifted her chin, and Marcel thought he would catch her eye, so close now, when the clouds decided they were done teasing for the day.
Suddenly soaked, the girl turned and scurried off, cradling the tarte. Marcel watched her disappear into the rain, the patter of her feet drowned by his father's chortling in the distance.