A Day at the Cafe'

Simple, quaint, and engaging! That is how he often described this quiet little cafe to his family and friends. Their responses were the typical promises to “try it out... if they had time.” If they ever tried to make the time, more like it.

Maybe that was why he liked it. You could lose all sense of time here. There was nothing like sitting here taking in the morning scenes of sunlight streaming across the cherry wood tables. Patterns of ivy leaves, flowers, and lattice work shadows dancing amongst the table decorations and patron clutter. He enjoyed the nostalgic aroma of the fresh baked croissants, tarts, and scones all blending into the clean smell of the fresh flowers outside on the patio. The café sat right in the middle of a cobblestone street, dwarfed between a tailor’s live-in shop and a hotel. Like Moses had split the buildings apart and the café had nestled itself in. From up and down the road, came the idle clatter of the surrounding shops opening up all along the street. Their owners unfolded wooden signs and unlocked front doors, bells chiming as they swung them open for the first time. A fruit cart rolled past. The rhythmic clop of hooves and rattle of wheels filtering into the morning ambiance. It was his favorite spot in all of northwestern France.

He adjusted his glasses a little, lifted his book off his lap, and with his other hand brought his cup up under his nose for a delightful inhale before taking a sip.

A familiar creak of the old, weathered door opening pulled his attention to the next customer entering. A young woman—tall, slender, with short raven hair in a boyish cut—slid in with her familiar petite gait. As always, she wore a hat with a matching sweater. She was a regular at this cafe and he saw her quite often. Maybe it was her ever-present cheerfulness, her jade green eyes, or possibly the unique thin scar on her nose, but he couldn’t help but be captured by her. His book would slip down, his fingers adjusting his glasses as his gaze trailed her movements until she sat. Periodically repeating this procedure to ensure her presence had not altered. 

As if the movements were choreographed and practiced every day, she walked up to the counter, gave the owner the expected kiss on the cheek, and asked him about his kids in her sweet native French voice. Everything about the moment happened as it did a hundred times before, and he knew would culminate in her getting an espresso, a tart, and then strolling over to the corner table under the bookshelf.

His eyes darted ahead of her future route and noticed that the corner table was occupied today by an elderly couple amicably chatting. A quick scan of the room and he noticed all the tables were full.

He paused at the sight of this new predicament, and briefly contemplated what she might do. Would she leave? A weight fell from his throat to his stomach and settled there, hanging from inside his chest.

His attention returned to her just as she turned towards her usual alcove and discovered the same. Her lips pursed as she quietly examined the room. Mechanically, he followed her gaze before coming back to her.

And stopped.

Her eyes were locked on him.

They glanced over at the open seat at his table and back to him. The emerald in them seemed to light up with playful questioning.

A heat from inside him crept up his neck, over his cheeks, and settled in his ears as she began moving his way.

"Excusez-moi, monsieur." (Excuse me, sir) Her voice flowed over him like flower petals softly caressing his ears. "Puis-je m'asseoir ici?" (May I sit here?)

Time hung in the air as he struggled to remember how to speak. Her pencil-thin eyebrows rose at his delayed response, and he shoved the words out.

"O...O...Oui madame. Je vous en prie, asseyez-vous!" (Y... Y... Yes ma'am. Please sit down!)

She bit back her lips and smiled coquettishly as she took a seat. "Je m’appelle Jeannette." (I’m Jeannette) She said while holding a hand of delicate fingers to him.

"William." He reached out in greeting and took her hand in his. As if an invisible pin pricked them simultaneously, their fingers jerked at their touch. It was quick, slight, nothing. Yet maybe it wasn’t. Their eyes met again, and this time he saw something more. There was joyous wonder in her wide-eyed stare. Playful curiosity was jumping out of her with a smile that said, “I want that to happen again.” He let his hand continue on its own, and hers almost flew to him in response. This time the grip was earnest, imploring, magnetic. As if they would remain attached like this for the rest of their lives.

Jeanette let out a sigh. The type one exhales after a fulfilling meal. Satisfied, content, happy. For a moment all she did was look at their hands, then she looked up at him gleaming.

“What are you reading today, Monsieur William?”

The question enveloped him. His name had never sounded so pretty.

“It is a book I picked up a few days ago at the store two blocks down. It is called Les Misérables.”

“Ooh.” She crooned. “I love that one. A man fights for his adopted daughter and saves her lover from the gendarmes during the Insurrection de Paris.”

“You know the book?”

“Oui, I love the stories of the revolutions. There is so much history.” Her eyes danced from him to the book and their hands. “Did you know, William?” His name was soothed into her sentence, “This very café is said to have once been a meeting place for young revolutionaries, Napoléon’s soldiers... and their lovers.”

“This café?” It was impossible to not match her excitement and look around the room. Not with her holding his hand, not with the exuberant smile she held on him, and not with his heart leaping at every word she spoke. The café looked so different now. Walls seemed to echo whispered promises of return, floors and counters held hidden letters beneath their wooden slats, and candles exposed couples holding each other in longing embraces.

“Jeanette.” He spoke her name to feel it on his tongue. “What secrets could this place hold?”

Her mouth opened as if in mock surprise, but her joyous smile remained plainly visible. Almost in answer to his question the owner approached with two pastries. As he placed them down, he leaned in and said quietly, “So many secrets.” The low tenor of his voice holding a wealth of mystery. “There is a story of a young American soldier.” He glanced knowingly at William. “Bound for the Somme, who met a charming young woman here in the very spot you’re sitting.” He stood and winked at Jeanette. “Perhaps, I can tell this tale later tonight after I close up?”

The question hung open like a gift freshly unwrapped, delicate and full of promise. From the enthusiastic smile on Jeanette, William knew what the answer was.

The moment flew into a whirlwind of giddiness. The rendezvous was set, they promised, planned, and eventually departed ready for a night unlike the rest.

Tonight, never left Williams mind the rest of the day.

              The evening was warm, quiet, and full of questions. Lamps up and down the streets glowed circles of yellow gray on the dark cobblestone. The lantern above the café entrance sent shadows of the ivy across the brick and wood features. And just under the sign of a painted cup and spoon, was Jeanette. She had changed into a summer dress and sandals. No hat tonight. Her hair seemed to curl in waves around her head to her left ear with a delicate white flower accenting the silky black. A shiver ran up his spine despite the warm air.

It was her smile.

It shone out of her face with radiant joy. In an instant heat engulfed his body and he could feel the sweat building on his brow. He wiped his forehead with his handkerchief as he approached, forcing himself to take a few steadying breaths. As he stepped up to her, the café door opened as if the owner had been watching for him.

Inside, only a few lights remained on. The normal smell of baking dough was gone, and the tables had been cleared of all their decorations.

All except one.

It was lit by a single candle and fit with a pure white cloth. Two settings glinted in the flickering light. The owner gripped William’s arm approvingly and guided him forward, and he then disappeared into the back.

William understood, moved quickly ahead of Jeanette, kicked the edge of a chair, stumbled, recovered, and pulled her seat out for her. She politely covered her mouth and stifled her laughter to a short chuckle and took the offered seat.

As William took his, the owner returned with two warm cups of espresso. He then moved to the bar and produced another cup that he took a sip from while eyeing William. He nodded towards Jeanette and brought a hand up to his face while making a comically cute pose and batting his eyes. William blinked absently for a second and then picked up the meaning…

“You look gorgeous Jeanette.”

She bit her lip shyly and glanced down at her figure and said nothing. As if speaking had opened a deep compartment within him, his mouth continued almost on its own.

“You always do.”

“Always?” Her eyes implored him for more.

“Always! You bring so much beauty into this room every time you enter. I… I can’t help but watch.” The admission caught him off guard and he swallowed. It felt like his heart was beating in his neck, ready to break out.

“I know, William.” She let her eyes fasten to his. “Every day, I search for your blue eyes. When they find me, even for a moment, I feel more beautiful than I ever have. Just as I do now.”

It was impulse, or maybe it was instinct. His hand began to cross the table, seeking hers. She let it find its prize and gave his hand a squeeze that desired more. More than just love, more than touch, but a longing for a future. A never-ending request for more of what they held.

From the depths of both their eyes, they answered that request. More would come!

A gentle cough brought them out of their reverie, and the owner came over.

“The American had held Celine’s hand just as this over twenty years ago.”

The story unfolded of a young American soldier. Paul had met Celine only a day after arriving in this village. The war had not reached this town, and they had one blissful week of love before his unit marched on. On the last day, they had met at this café and held each other and cried. They promised to send letters and that he would return here for her. The letters came, and she often brought them into the café to read. After one month she came in crying and quite upset. She was pregnant. She asked if she should tell him or wait. Everyone told her to let him know. When the news had reached him, he was ecstatic and showered her with any meager gift he could send. Months went by, and the expectant mother got closer to her date. Then a letter came to the café owner. It instructed him to keep this letter for the baby, to pass it on when the child was old enough. Fate is unfortunate, cruel, and loves irony. The day the baby girl was born, Paul was killed in battle, and the mother died of complications from the birth. A close friend of the owner took the child as her own and raised it.

The name of the friend was Louise.

Jeanette jumped.

“My mother’s name is Louise!”

The owner pulled a faded tattered envelope out of his pocket and handed it to Jeanette.

Jeannette’s hands shook as she opened it. William could feel the moment stretching, something shifting in the air. This was more than just a letter—it was a voice from the past, waiting to be heard.

Dear child,

              I am your father, and I want you to know that I loved you before the world. I pray that we are together, but if we are not, then I pray for a future where you are loved and happy. It is sad in the world today, but may it never be so for you. Death surrounds me and seeks me. My wish is that you never live in the fear that I do. May you grow strong, smart, and surrounded by friends and family that cherish you. May someone come along that holds your heart the way I hold your mother’s. That they make you smile, and laugh, and shed tears of delight. Some days will hurt, but I believe you will grow beyond them. I want life to be a beautiful flower that opens more and more each year till it is the blossom of unimaginable joy and fulfillment. If I could, I would wrap you in a warm hug now, and kiss you non-stop. I love you beyond telling and will never stop. Live life well my child.

                                                                                  -Your father, Paul

Tears streaked down Jeanette’s cheeks as she tried to stem them with her arms. In a moment of clear certainty of what he needed to do, William came over and held her. His comfort provided strength and soothed this sudden hurt, and she leaned into him. It felt natural and fitting.

The owner stepped up to them and laid his hands on their shoulders.

“I’m sorry. This was the end of a very long burden of mine, mon p'tit chaton (my little kitten). A terrible end that I never wanted to give.”

They both looked at him as he stifled a soft sob, holding a kerchief up to his face.

“This.” He said, embracing them both. “This is the beginning that you deserve!”

He squeezed them tighter.

“Live life well!”