I stooped to her level. “Tu vas bien, petite?”Are you okay, little one?
She sucked in a shaky breath, her head coming up slightly. Her brown eyes were red rimmed, and a steady flow of snot dripped from her small nose. Her features were so slight in contrast to her hair. Sunshine surrounded her, making her delicate ears glow a furious red, the skin so thin I could see every capillary beneath.
“Non!”
Her voice caught me off guard and I almost fell backwards. If her body was slight, her voice matched her hair. It was full bodied and impassioned with French flair. She had the face of an angel and the voice of Lumiere fromBeauty and the Beast.
I had to hide my amusement. “Que puis-je faire pour aider?”What can I do to help?
She hopped up from her place, as graceful as she looked. She wrung her hands together, moving up and down the street, a tirade of booming French coming from her petite mouth.
I watched her with equal amounts of sympathy and amusement. When she’d turn her back, I had to smile, when she turned toward me, I pursed my lips—reacting to her serious tone.
“Let me get this straight,” I said in French. “You want to dance, but you cannot?”
“Oui! C'est ce que je viens de dire. N'avez-vous pas écouté?”This is what I just said. Have you not been listening?
I didn’t think she had looked at me, truly looked at me, once. She seemed content to prattle on, a willing ear her only requirement.
On a particularly sharp turn, she heaved out a great sigh and went for the wall instead of the straight line she had been worrying. She threw her body dramatically against it, arm to her forehead.
“Pauvre de moi!” she grunted.Woe is me!
The smile fell from my face. Gentle flutters in my stomach stirred in such a way that caused my heart to beat unsteadily, and that beautifulhmmmmmmdanced in my blood, tickling bone. My entire body felt like a weightless sigh. When my smile resumed, it stretched from ear to ear.
“Baby,” he said, sliding his hands against my waist. The look on his face asked the question he didn’t.Did I worry you?
“No,” I shook my head, patting his hands. “I knew you were all right.”
The little girl had stopped crying. Her face had gone pale, stark in contrast to the ruddy tone of her eyes and nose.
Brando nodded to her. “Who’s this?”
“Well,” I said, “I’m not too sure, exactly.Quel est votre nom, petit?”
“Cerise,” she breathed out. But it still came across as a gust instead of a wisp.
I smiled at her. “It seems Cerise is having some trouble with dance.”
“Mon Dieu,” Cerise said, shaking her head. She looked at Brando, her eyes a bit wild. “Sais-tu qui est-ce?”
“She growled at me,” he whispered in my ear.
I laughed, shaking my head. “No, she wants to know if you know who I am.” I asked her if she spoke English. Her head bobbed up and down—yes. I also told her that Brando didn’t speak any French.
She raised a hand toward me, an awed countenance hiding that Barry White bass underneath. “Sheis Scarlett Rose Poésy.”
“She knows,” Brando grinned.
“Sheis anÉtoile!”
“She knows that too.”
I jabbed him in the ribs and he made a noise that sounded likeoof!There was no way that I had hurt him. He liked to pretend that I did.
“But…but…Mon Dieu!” She slipped down the wall. “Doyouknow?”
“I doubt she’d let me forget.”
