Famished Night: Part 3 of 3: Dessert

By Toni Juliette Leonetti

Tyler slapped something down. “Pancakes! Not this again. We’re back to breakfast?”

The disc fit on her palm. It did feel like a pancake: crispy surface, tender inside, but only enough batter to coat. At its center, that fragile, ruffled texture of—flowers. A sense more than scent, if you were born to them, waited while they sizzled, craved them for grieving years.

Monsieur plunged her finger into a jar and brought it to her tongue. Apricot.

Summer’s last apricots—not their shadow, chanterelles—simmered into jam. She knew. Knew before she bit into the squash blossoms. Tears spilled down her cheeks, over her lips, as she chewed and swallowed, one pancake after another.

A hand stroked her back. A mouth kissed her forehead, not pausing her.

“Monsieur.” That mouth addressed Tyler. “I’m afraid you spilled on your jacket. Perhaps you’d like to go clean it in the men’s room.”

“I’d like to go anywhere. Will you lead me—”

“Madame will direct you. The blindfold won’t be needed there.”

“About time.” He swore when he stood, bumping into the table. “Then I’ll wait in the car until you’re done, Jules. If you’re ever done.” His sneer receded with him.

Monsieur’s cloth dabbed at her wet face. “Are the flowers as you remember?”

“Who are you?”

From his spot kneeling beside Julia, he removed her blindfold. Revealed his key lime eyes, milk chocolate hair. Dimpled smile. Chef’s coat, straining across his broad belly. Monsieur splayed a self-conscious hand there, where her gaze lingered before meeting his again.

His smile faded. “You don’t know me.”

“I’m sorry. You look familiar, but I—”

“Marc Dumaine. I was sous for Chef Ardot in his cooking classes.”

“Yes!” She snapped her fingers. Snapped back to a February day. “That session on our favorite dishes! Our—” Her voice trailed off as tears welled again. “Our best food memories.”

“Your maman’s squash blossom pancakes with apricot jam. I couldn’t forget how you cried. Or how you tasted everything, like music.”

“How did you get the pancakes so—right?”

“I practiced for your Tante Hélène. She said no one’s made them since your maman.”

“Aunt Helen?”

“Your friend introduced me. Connie. She helped arrange this. She was supposed to say she was sick, have you come alone.”

“She tried.”

“Instead, that imbécile comes! I saw him once, picking you up after class. I knew you’d never look at me. Never see. What Connie did. It was hard to stop her telling you. But I insisted she must let me—my food—say it first.” He waited for her to ask.

“Say what?”

“How I love you.” His hand inched forward, folding hers inside. “Comment je t’aime!”

“You—”

“What’s going on?” Tyler’s roar broke through the curtain before his head did. “This is a scam. There’s no restaurant.” Past their alcove was a dim shell of space. No other diners or tables. Just corner speakers, through which a blur of voices and metal sang with Piaf.

“It is a restaurant,” Marc said. “Getting started. There’s more to finish. But I couldn’t wait any longer—”

“For what?” His stare dropped to their joined hands. “Jules! You know him!”

She looked at Marc. Only at Marc. “Oui. Je le connais.” Yes. I know him.

“You damn cheating—is that it? You’re off me and onto this fat—”

“Gorgeous man. I will be.” She winked. Only at Marc. “In—more or less—thirty seconds. Less.”

She didn’t see Tyler leave. Didn’t hear him stomp away, or the door crash.

What she heard was her shudder of breath, matching Marc’s. She felt his heart thumping against her own, revving it, as she tugged him closer. She grasped his softness and strength. Smelled hours of work, kitchen heat, lemon mint. Tasted blossoms and music in him. “You cook like an angel, Chef.” Their kiss multiplied, like the pancakes she hadn’t been able to stop eating. How many kisses did he prepare for her?

“I’m not so much angel. Désolé, Julia. I played this game—had Connie lie—to bring you here. Took—liberties in the dark.”

“I permitted them. Wanted them. And, anyway. Wasn’t Lucifer a fallen angel?”

“Ah, chérie. Oui. Tombons!” Let’s fall!

Already on the floor, they did.

🩷🩷🩷

Toni Juliette Leonetti is a lifelong resident of the San Francisco Bay Area. Her writings include short stories, poetry, plays, and a mystery novel. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Okay Donkey, Literally Stories, DarkWinter Literary Magazine, and Elegant Literature.