11. Bud

"Doyou think he's thinking about me right now?"

I was filling up buckets with a watering can during a mid-afternoon lull, while Maggie was trying to hone her skills on the register. "Geez, I don't know," she replied. "Remind me again what you said to him last night? Something about ‘you're male, you're stale' and what was the other thing?"

"‘And you fucking slurp snails.'" I cringed.

Maggie giggled to herself. "Now that's what I call crossing the fine line between snark and psycho. Hell, you didn't just cross it. You snapped it in two like a sprinter breaking the ribbon on a finish line."

"You never told me there was a fine line between snark and psycho. God, he's never gonna wanna talk to me again. He hasn't come out of the patisserie all day."

"How do you know?"

"Because I keep watching through the window."

Maggie whistled. "Like I said. Psycho."

"Okay, okay, I'm a little distracted. But why do you think he hasn't shown his face?"

"Maybe he's busy. I saw some delivery guys loading a bunch of stuff inside this morning. Maybe he's been cooking all day. I know when I'm working on a batch of puppy chow, I lose all track of time. It's a process that demands total concentration… cooking and taste-testing… cooking and taste-testing. I go into a zone."

"Are you sure it's a zone and not a coma?"

"Whatever it is, nothing disturbs this chef when she's creating. Maybe it's the same for Kermit the Frog next door."

"Or maybe he thinks I'm a total loser." Desperately I needed something to cheer myself up. "I think I need to get some air. Are you okay to hold the fort for a few minutes?"

"Sure thing, boss." Maggie continued to tinker with the register. "Consider this fort held."

"Fuck it, you know what, I think I need one of Clarry's ice creams. You want me to bring you one back?"

Maggie's face lit up. "Does the Pope shit in the woods? Of course I do. I'll take one of his honeycomb and hazelnut hokey pokies. No wait, I'll take a strawberry shortbread swirl. No, no… make that one of his triple ripple caramel cream and cookies."

"Why don't I just get all three scoops."

"Great idea. In a choc-dipped cone. With rainbow sprinkles on top. But if he offers you any marshmallows, just say no. I'm trying to watch my sugar levels." The register chinged. "Ope, wrong button. You might wanna remind yourself to subtract one million and seventy-three thousand dollars off today's sales when you round off the register. My bad."

As I left Maggie in charge, I stepped out onto the pavement. Looking left I saw Pascal's Patisserie, looking bold and brilliant in the colors of the French flag. I yearned to turn that way, to knock on his door, to apologize for being such an idiot the night before.

But I knew I'd made enough of a fool of myself for now.

Instead, I turned right and headed along Riverside Promenade to Clarry's Ice Cream Parlor.

Mitch and I had gone to school with Clarry.

He was always the shy kid, kinda short and stocky, sitting by himself as he ate his lunch which always consisted of some sweet concoction he'd invented himself. Being orphaned at an early age, Clarry was raised by his grandparents who owned the town's only ice cream parlor. It was never exactly a thriving business, serving only vanilla, strawberry and chocolate ice cream to the odd tourist who happened upon Mulligan's Mill while taking a scenic drive through Wisconsin. But when his grandparents passed away, Clarry took over the business and turned things upside down with flavor combinations that made Clarry's Ice Cream Parlor one of the town's most popular businesses, especially during spring and summer.

As I walked up to the small pink-and-white-striped building—with Clarry's ice cream cart parked to one side and his ice cream van out front—I heard the friendly sound of Clarry's voice call out to me.

"Bud! Oh, my golly goodness, your flower shop is doing amazing business! Every customer I serve has a bunch of sunflowers or daffodils in their hand. You must be so happy."

"I am. Thanks Clarry."

I saw his chubby-cheeked smile fade a little. "You don't sound so happy. Everything okay?"

"Oh yeah, everything's great. The business is doing amazing. I'm loving the scent of flowers over the stink of burnt-out motor oil and worn-out brake pads."

"Then why is it you look like you need a complimentary scoop of funky fudge choc deluxe before your frown falls off your face?"

Clarry quickly put a chocolatey scoop of deliciousness into a little paper cup and handed it to me, along with a little wooden spoon.

"Thanks," I said, taking a mouthful of Clarry's goodness before mustering up the strength to say, "Clarry, I think I might be in love."

"You are? Holy molies, Bud, that's awesome! Is it someone in town? Do I know them? Who is it?"

"Nobody you're expecting it to be."

Clarry let out the sigh of a hopeless romantic. "Isn't that the best kind of person to fall in love with?"

I looked at him curiously. "Are you speaking from experience right now?"

"Me? Experience?" Clarry gave an awkward laugh. "What the heck would I know about experience. I'm just the guy who makes ice cream, remember?"

I licked another spoonful of funky fudge choc deluxe and replied, "You don't just make ice cream, my friend. You make sheer happiness and joy."

"Thanks. But enough about me. God, I hate talking about me. Tell me about this person you're in love with." I could see on his face he realized he may have been putting too much pressure on me. "Oh, but only if you want to. You don't have to tell me anything if you don't want to."

I shrugged like I had nothing else to lose. "Oh, what the heck. It's the guy next door to the flower shop. He's the one I think I'm in love with."

"Wait. What? Did you say ‘guy'? Are you telling me…?"

Another shrug. "That I'm gay? Yeah, I guess I am."

Clarry's rosy-faced grin spread even wider. "Oh Bud. I'm… so… flipping… happy for you! Tell me all about him. What's his name? What's he like? Have you kissed yet?" Again, his grin quickly vanished and I could see him back-pedaling those questions in his mind. "I'm sorry, that was so rude of me. You don't have to tell me that either. Not if you don't want to. I don't need to know. I mean, I'd love to know. I'm living vicariously through you right now. But only tell me if you want to tell me."

I gave him another quizzical look. "Clarry, are you in love with someone yourself?"

"Me? Little old me?" He giggled a pitch too high. "That's crazy talk. Now stop asking questions and tell me all about you and… what's his name?"

"Pascal. Monsieur Pascal Dupont."

"Oh my God, he's not the Frenchman who bought Mr. Flannery's old bakery, is he?"

"That's the one."

"You're kidding me."

"I'm not."

"Oh, my golly goodness! Is he taking you to Paris to marry him? How romantic!"

"What? No! God, I can't even talk to him without making a complete ass of myself."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, he makes me nervous… and excited… and seriously hot under the collar. And he's so sure of himself… and I'm so unsure of myself… and I feel like he's way out of my league."

"Why?"

"I don't know. Maybe because he's so smart… and sophisticated… and French! Every time I try to talk to him, I make a complete fool of myself. I tried to get lessons from the snark squad, but I totally botched that up too."

"Maybe you need to meet him halfway."

"How do I do that?"

"Well… maybe you could show him how much you like him by learning his language."

"You think I should learn French?"

"Well, not all of it. Just some of it. Like a few words, just enough to show him you've made an effort."

Clarry's suggestion filled me with hope and happiness, just like his ice cream always did. "Clarry, my friend. I think that's a great idea."

"You do?"

"Yes. Here I was trying to get him to respect me more, when maybe I'm the one who needs to show him a little respect by learning his language. Only…" I felt an obvious obstacle rising in front of me. "How the heck do I learn French when he's the only French person in town?"

"I think Old Man Raven might have some language tapes or something like that in his store… somewhere."

"He does? Woohoo! That's awesome! I'm gonna go there as soon as I close the store this afternoon. Clarry you're the best!" I began to rush away when I suddenly remembered, "Oh, I need to take an ice cream back for Maggie. Only I can't remember what she wanted now."

"Let me guess. One scoop of honeycomb and hazelnut hokey pokey, one scoop of strawberry shortbread swirl, and one scoop of triple ripple caramel cream and cookies, all on a choc-dipped cone with rainbow sprinkles on top, but no marshmallows because she's watching her sugar levels."

I stood back, impressed. "Wow. How did you know?"

"Because she comes by here every day after you close the shop. She's not the only one who's happy she switched the stink of burnt-out motor oil and worn-out brake pads for the scent of flowers. I wonder how poor old Mike is doing at the mechanic shop all by himself."

"Oh, didn't you hear? Old Man Raven's son River is finally coming home."

Clarry's chubby-cheeked smile suddenly turned into a little donut hole of shock. "Oh really?" Quickly he started scooping up Maggie's ice cream order.

"Yeah, really. He's already teed up a job with Mike at the mechanic shop. Everyone's expecting him to ride into town on that big old motorcycle of his any day now. The Mill's long lost war hero is finally returning home. It'll be awesome to have him back, don't you think?"

"Oh yeah. Oh sure. Who are you talking about again?"

"River. River Raven." I looked at Clarry a little puzzled. Why the hell was he acting so weird all of a sudden. "You know River. We all went to school together, remember? You know… that hot, hunky, heartthrob who joined the Marines."

"Doesn't really ring a bell. Oh look, my butterscotch glitter glob-bombs are melting. I really should get them into the freezer."

"Are you sure?"

"Oh yeah, they're totally melting. If I don't get them into the freezer now these glob-bombs will be blob-bombs!"

"I mean, are you sure you don't remember River?"

"Yes. No. I don't really know, but I do know I better go." Clarry handed me Maggie's triple-scoop ice cream. "This one's on the house. Congrats on opening the shop. And good luck with the French lessons, Bud! I really hope you find a happily-ever-after. That's something we all want, huh? I guess ice cream only goes so far."

Before I even had a chance to thank him, Clarry disappeared into the frosty back room of the ice cream parlor to save his butterscotch glitter glob-bombs.

I turned with Maggie's towering ice cream in my hand, excited about the thought of learning a little French to impress Pascal.

To perhaps earn his respect.

And maybe to even woo him.

Ooh-la-la!

Whenever anyone stepped into Raven's General Store, they were met with the same strange mix of smells—dust and old wood, animal skins and candy, beef jerky and the yellowed pages of romance novels from the 1970s, the kind with a handsome, long-haired pirate on the cover with his shirt blowing open in the breeze and his saber ready for action.

Nobody ever knew where Old Man Raven kept anything in his store, so there was never any point looking for yourself. Of course, there was never any guarantee that Old Man Raven knew either.

"Well, hey there, Bud. How are things on the other side of the river? I hear the flower shop is doing great."

"Hey Mr. Raven. Yeah, things are doing pretty good. Say, I have a strange question for you."

"Does it have anything to do with spirit animals?"

"No."

"Star people?

"No."

"The secrets of the Universe?"

"No."

"Good, 'cause I'm all tapped out trying to explain those things to white people. That's big picture stuff. You're too stupid to understand and I'm too tired to try and explain it. I have enough trouble just figuring out how to change the printer settings from black-and-white to color. Otherwise, I'm certain that ‘2-for-1' sign on the Tab machine would be pulling a lot more customers. People are drawn to vibrant colors, you know. We're simple like that. How we ever got to the top of the food chain is beyond me. Anyways… how can I help?"

"You don't happen to have any books on how to learn to speak French, do you?"

From behind the counter, Old Man Raven looked at me, curious. "You planning on taking a trip? That new fella opening up that fancy bakery is French. Maybe he could teach you a thing or two. Mind you, he doesn't seem like the friendliest person I've ever met. If you ask me, he's kind of an asshole. In fact, he's a total asshole. Come to think of it, I wouldn't ask for his help at all. Let me see what we've got here. I think I might have just what you're looking for."

As Old Man Raven shuffled his way up and down the aisles, I followed him, until eventually he bent down, pushed past some tins of tuna in brine and a mound of woolen mittens to retrieve a box that, when he blew the dust off it, read—Learn to Speak French. Cassette Tape and Authentic French Baguette Included.

"Voila," said Old Man Raven, looking rather pleased with himself. "I knew we had one of these somewhere. Although I wouldn't eat the baguette if I were you."

"This is great!" I opened up the box to see the cassette tape and instruction manual, along with the stale crumbs of a baguette. Thankfully a mouse had beaten us to it. "There's only one problem. I don't own a cassette player."

Old Man Raven wagged a finger in the air. "Not yet, you don't. Let me see what we've got here. I think I might have just what you're looking for."

After shuffling up and down a few more aisles, we stopped in front of a shelf containing decks of playing cards, jars of pickled onions, several boxes of ballpoint pens and—low and behold—a portable cassette player that looked as though it had been put on the shelf sometime during the Reagan era and hadn't moved since.

"Here you go. Just like the sign in the window says, ‘Whatever you want, you'll find it at Raven's'."

"I can't say I've ever noticed that sign."

"Damn those printer settings."

"But this cassette player is perfect!" I looked at it then thought to ask, "Does it actually work?"

"Of course it works. Although you better take one of these too." He pulled a ballpoint pen out of one of the boxes on the shelf and handed it to me.

"What's this?"

"It's a pen."

"I know that, but why do I need it?"

"It's an essential tool of the trade. If it sounds like a bunch of alien chipmunks have taken over your French lesson, just eject the cassette, stick the pen in the spool and turn it till all the tape ends up back inside the cassette where it belongs."

"That works?"

"Like magic."

"If it doesn't, can I return it?"

Old Man Raven shook his head. "No can do, my friend. Like the sign in the other window says, ‘No refunds. No returns.' But if you like I can give you two pens for the price of one."

"Deal."

I closed the curtains.

I plugged the cassette player in and sat it on the wagon wheel coffee table in front of me, along with the How to Speak French cassette and one of the ballpoint pens in case of an emergency.

I slid the cassette into place with a clack, closed the lid and pressed play.

After a short pause, a woman with an elegant French accent began to speak. "So, you want to learn to speak French, oui?"

"Oui!" I replied to the cassette player.

"Then let me guide you through the steps that will allow you to wander the streets of Paris, speaking so effortlessly and fluently that everyone you meet will think you are a son or daughter of France. Is that what you would like?"

"Yes! I mean, oui! That's totally what I would like."

"Very well. To begin, we have divided these lessons into two parts, each being on either side of this cassette tape. This side of the cassette, Side A, will cover some fundamental basics such as pronunciation and phonetics, grammar, pronouns and verbs. We'll also cover some day-to-day conversation topics such as how to chat about the weather, how to ask for directions to the Louvre, and how to find the nearest lavatory. Be sure not to get them confused. Meanwhile, on Side B of this cassette you'll find subjects that will cover French for lovers, including asking someone out on a first date—"

I hit the eject button so fast that the cassette tape literally sprang into the air.

I quickly caught it, and with fumbling fingers I flipped it over and shoved it back into the player.

"Wait, I think I have to fast forward now. No, I have to be kind and rewind. Or maybe I fast forward. Shit, life used to be so complicated."

Eventually I figured out that flipping the cassette meant I had to rewind it to the start of Side B. When it was done, I hit play.

"Bonjour!" said the voice on the tape, only the elegant woman had now been replaced by the deep, dulcet tones of a Frenchman who sounded so damn sexy he might as well have had a rose between his teeth. Not that it's easy to talk when you're biting down on a thorny flower stem, but once the picture was in my head it was hard to get rid of.

"Welcome my friends. Now that you've covered all the essential things there are to know about grammar and pronunciation—"

"Yeah, yeah, just get to the good stuff," I mumbled.

"— it's time for a lesson in lurve."

"Finally."

"If Cupid has fired his arrow and struck you straight through the heart, you may want to ask the one you desire out on a date. Begin gently, like the night itself, and say—‘Bonsoir. Quelle charmante soirée!' This means, ‘Good evening. What a lovely night.' Now why don't you try saying it?'"

I straightened myself on the sofa and repeated, "Bonswah. Kell sharmont swaray!"

"Very good," the sexy man on the cassette told me. "Now a compliment to follow. Try saying— ‘Vous avez un très joli sourire.' This means, ‘You have a very nice smile.'"

I did my best. "Voo savay untreasurely suvee yay."

"Excellent," the cassette remarked.

"Thanks," I replied proudly.

"Now, let's take things to the next level and say— ‘Voudriez-vous d?ner avec moi un soir?' This means, ‘Would you like to eat dinner with me some time?' Now you try it."

I had to admit I was a little nervous, asking the tape player out to dinner, but I gave it my best shot. "Voo dree-air voo din-air avek mwah un swah?"

"Good work," encouraged the man on the cassette. "Now, once you're sitting down at a nice candlelit table in a fancy restaurant, you might remark—‘Oh la la, j'ai faim! Préférez-vous de la viande ou des légumes?' This means, ‘Oh my, I'm hungry. Do you prefer meat or vegetables?'." Can you say that?"

"Ooh-la-la, shay far! Pray-fay-ray voo della vee-on do day lay goom?" Oh, I was getting really good at this, I could tell.

"Wonderful. You're making excellent progress. Of course, no dinner date is complete without a sweet finale. Why not finish off with—‘J'aime les bananes à la crème au dessert?' This means, ‘I like bananas and cream for dessert'."

"Jem le benene ala crema deez-air." The words simply rolled off my tongue.

"Magnifique!" exclaimed the man on the cassette, only his voice slid into a weird, high-set pitch at the end of the word. As he continued to speak, all his words suddenly turned to indecipherable squiggles of sound until I realized—

"Oh no! Alien chipmunks! Alien chipmunks!"

I jabbed frantically at the eject button.

Like a pilot bailing out of a fighter jet in a nosedive, the cassette launched itself into the air, trailing a tangled ribbon of tape behind it.

"No, no, no, no, no!"

The tape landed on the coffee table.

I snatched it up, grabbed the ballpoint pen and stuck it into the spool, turning it madly only to see even more tape unravel. "Shit, which way does this fucker go?"

I turned the pen back and forth.

The tape started to twist and knot.

I plucked at the messy loops and coils but I only managed to pull them tighter.

I tugged it here, I yanked at it there, until soon I was left with a bunched-up bird's nest of shiny brown tape.

"Fuck!"

I tossed the cassette aside before jumping to my feet and trying desperately to remember the French I'd just learned. If I was going to give this a shot, I needed to do it now before all those precious words and phrases slipped away.

I ran to the bathroom and straightened my shirt.

I raised one arm, then the other, and sprayed deodorant directly onto the underarm fabric.

I squeezed some toothpaste onto one finger and rubbed it straight onto my teeth.

Then, gathering all my nerve, I hurried downstairs, out the door and into the night.

The Wet Paint sign that had been taped beside the patisserie door was gone. Nevertheless, I knocked cautiously just in case.

When Pascal opened the door, the sweetest, most delicious fragrance wafted from inside the patisserie. At first I thought the irresistible scent was coming from Pascal himself, until I looked over his shoulder and saw the display cases filled with mouth-watering treats.

I noticed the tables and chairs were set up inside.

I saw that a menu board was up.

I realized he was ready for business.

"Oh wow! Are you opening the patisserie tomorrow?"

He gave me a rather steely look. "What does it look like? Of course I am. And I'm doing it without the brash fanfare of your grand opening. I don't need pomp and ceremony to draw customers. My precious pastries will do that all on their own. There will be no balloons at Pascal's Patisserie."

"I didn't think so. I remember what happened to the last balloon."

Pascal sighed impatiently. "What is it you want, Bud? I'm tired and I still have a lot of work to do."

"I won't keep you. I promise. I was just thinking… well, hoping actually… that maybe…" I tried my best to recall my first sentence in French. "Jay voo-dray voo mon-jay a dee-nair."

The words sounded so sexy rolling off my tongue that I couldn't help but beam with pride.

Pascal, on the other hand, looked less impressed. In fact, he looked downright confused. "Je voudrais vous manger au d?ner." He repeated after me… only better. "Did you just say you want to eat me for dinner?"

I panicked. "Did I? No, that's not what I meant. I meant to say…" I summoned up my next attempt at French. "Jay soo-ray a vo treasure vee-on."

Pascal looked even more befuddled. And somewhat amused. "Je souris à votre très jolie viande. Is that what you just said?"

"Yes? No? Why?"

"Because you just told me that my meat makes you smile."

"What? I did? No! I mean, I'm sure your meat is totally worth smiling at, but… Jay far de votrah benan."

"J'ai faim de votre banana?" He repeated. "You're hungry for my banana?" He was starting to chuckle now. "Which would you prefer, my meat or my banana?"

"Neither! Both! Fuck! Jay-ma-ray votray deli-zoos crema cum deez-air."

"J'aimerais votre délicieuse crème comme dessert." He couldn't stop the laughter from slipping out. "So you'd like my lovely cream for dessert, huh?"

"No! Oh no!"

My face was on fire again.

I felt so queasy I wanted to throw up.

And once again, all I could do was run and hide, bolting back to the flower shop and scurrying inside before I could open my mouth and say another stupid thing.