Catherine placed a plate of Tunisian salad on the table in front of an older gentleman with tan skin and graying hair. “Here you go,” she said with a smile. “Can I get you anything else?”
“Another glass of beer, please.”
Catherine whirled around and strode to the bar. “Another beer for Mr. Hassine, please, Abdul.”
The chef-owner handed her a glass of beer without a word. Abdul wasn’t a chatty sort, but at least he didn’t hit on her. She’d worked here as a teen, before moving to the south of France. And he’d happily—well, as happy as Abdul ever showed–taken her back now that she’d moved home to Paris. She’d become friendly with another waitress, Charlotte, a petite blonde, who always wore her hair in a high ponytail, like some kind of American cheerleader. And Charlotte had worked here for several months, and claimed Abdul had never hit on her either.
This was a trait Catherine appreciated in a boss.
Placing the glass of beer on the table in front of Mr. Hassine, she looked out the front window to check on her handful of customers sitting at sidewalk tables. Speaking of Americans, the couple of tourists at the table right in front of the window pushed back from the table, the young man putting his hands over his belly.
That’s my cue, she thought, marching outside. Pasting another smile on her face, Catherine looked from the young man’s pleasant face to the joyful face of his female companion. “Can I bring you anything else?”
“No, thank you,” the young woman said with a bright smile. “This was delicious. I’ve never had Tunisian food before. I hope we can find this at home.”
“Where is home?”
“Massachusetts,” the young man said.
“Oh, Boston?”
The young woman shook her head. “We’re from western Massachusetts, a small town outside of Springfield.”
“It houses the basketball Hall of Fame,” the man said. “Have you been to Massachusetts?”
“No,” Catherine answered. “I’ve never been to the States. In fact, I’ve never been outside of France.” The young woman patted Catherine’s hand. “You’ll get there someday, I’m sure of it. Your English is great.”
Catherine wasn’t so sure. She wasn’t exactly raking in the money as a waitress. And she’d be damned if she asked her father for any help. In fact, she hadn’t even seen her father yet since she’d arrived in Paris. She was a little afraid to. But she knew she couldn’t avoid him forever. If she was going to stay here in Paris, she’d have to make up with Dad. If nothing else, her cousin Dany and the rest of their family would force her to.
The young man spoke and pulled Catherine’s attention back to her job. “Is there anything you can recommend we see that’s off the beaten path?”
She gave it some thought. “It depends on what you’re into. There are smaller museums dedicated to different authors and artists, or there are lesser-known neighborhoods with a lot of charm that are architecturally different from other parts of Paris. Or you could just walk along the river and see what you find.”
The young couple shared a smile.
“Here’s your check,” Catherine said, pulling it from her apron.
She glanced up then and toward the street. A man was walking by, a familiar man, but she couldn’t place him. He saw her, too, and his steps slowed and his features hardened into a glare. She remembered that glare. She’d seen it only a couple of weeks ago in Aix. He’d been in the middle of the protest near the restaurant where she used to work before she returned to Paris, and he glared at her then, too.
Why was he always glaring at her? She opened her mouth to say something, anything, but he started walking again at a quick pace and was soon out of sight among the many other people walking on the rue de Rennes on this busy, warm weekend day.
“Miss, are you okay?”
Catherine startled out of the haze of memories and turned back to her customers. “Sorry, I’m fine. All set?” She took the bills they handed her, wished them a good day, and hustled back inside the restaurant.
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