He frowned. “This is the bare minimum and absolute least I can do.”
“Distract me.”
He redirected the conversation to our classmates, and we dissected who we thought they were and the places they might call home. Chef hadn’t wasted any time on icebreakers, so we had very few clues. Hypothesizing passed the time, and before I knew it, our destination came into view.
I removed the photograph from my handbag and raised it toward the restaurant on the corner, lining up the views. “Oh my gosh,” I whispered. “I think this is really it.”
Lucas parked, and we met on the sidewalk, then appraised the dark brick walls and large glass windows. The sign on the roof matched theone in the photo, though the one before me was nearly a half century older, more rusted, sun bleached, and worn.
“Before we go inside, would you like a photograph taken here?” Lucas asked. “Like the one with your mother?”
I nodded, speechless and eternally thankful for his thoughtfulness. I wouldn’t have thought of it on my own and would’ve missed the opportunity.
“Chin up,” he said, demonstrating the move, then smiling. “There.” He took the photo with his phone, then forwarded it to me by text.
“Can we take a selfie with the two of us?” I asked. “Is that weird?” It seemed strange not to commemorate the fact we came together.
He slid by my side and swept an arm around my back. I leaned against him on instinct, comfortable and safe. We took turns capturing the memory with our phone cameras.
I closed my eyes and absorbed the moment, drinking in the crisp fall air and rich, buttery aromas wafting from the restaurant.I made it, Mom,I thought.I found the spot where you had your last carefree summer. I wish you were here with me, but I also think you kind of are. Thank you for telling me about Sébastien and giving me this chance.
“Ready?” Lucas asked, moving toward the door. “Deep breath.”
I obeyed and followed him to the threshold.
“I didn’t say it earlier, but you look very nice tonight,” he said. “That shade of blue is your color.”
My cheeks warmed. “Thank you. I’m glad you think so. I’m kind of a mess, in case you can’t tell.”
“I think you’re doing great.”
I led the way through a set of tall wooden doors with brass handles that opened onto a sea of vintage black and white octagonal tiles. A service counter centered the room, and tables lined the walls and windows. Overhead lighting shone through an array of old-fashioned bottles on shelves, casting rainbows over the space. We’d taken a step back in time.
Dozens of candid photos filled the space beside the door. The images all featured people standing outside the building just as Lucas and I had a moment before. I wished I had an instant camera, so I could add our photo to the collection as well. I opened my mouth to say as much, and then I saw him.
A small square photo near the collage’s center featured Sébastien Allard. He looked just as he had in the photo with my mom, minus the apron. I raised my photograph to compare the two versions of him.
“That’s him,” Lucas said, confirming my suspicion.
In the photo a group of people in matching aprons stood at his side.
“He worked here,” I whispered. Then, scanning the other photos, I saw him everywhere, and watched him age before my eyes. The group varied year to year, but Bastien was in every photo. His clothing and hair style changed most notably at first, then his posture and size. He grew tall and broad, gained facial hair, then lost it. Became thin again and eventually a little stooped.
I wouldn’t have recognized him in the latter pictures if I hadn’t noticed him in the first. But now, I thought I’d know the eyes anywhere. I thought they looked a little like my eyes.
A willowy woman in a black dress and shoes approached, greeting us in French.
I wanted to ask if she knew the people in the pictures, but I needed a moment to think.
Lucas responded congenially, speaking briefly in French before changing to English, for my benefit, as he had the entire trip so far.
She nodded and led us to a nearby table for two. “I’ll be back with some glasses and water.”
My heart pounded as I admired the dining area and chatting patrons, immediately in love with the energy all around us. The atmosphere reminded me of Chez Margot. Though the aesthetic was completely different, the feeling of connection between the staff and guests was obvious and strong. The man behind the bar called out to families as they entered or left.
I slid my gaze to Lucas, suddenly too timid to pose the questions I’d traveled from America to ask. Maybe he would do it for me. I could hide under the table and wait.
Lucas set one giant hand atop mine on the place mat. My eyes widened unintentionally at the unexpected touch.
