Falling for French Kisses: A fish out of

water sweet romcom in the city of love

(Falling in Paris, a Sweet Romantic
Comedy Book 1) Elsie Woods
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 Falling for French Kisses
A FISH-OUT-OF-WATER SWEET ROMCOM IN THE CITY OF LOVE

FALLING IN PARIS
ELSIE WOODS
Copyright © 2023 by Elsie Woods

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and
retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
To the country of my dreams and the parents who brought me here at age thirteen, not knowing
what they started.
 Contents

1. Natalie
2. Natalie
3. Natalie
4. Natalie
5. Natalie
6. Olivier
7. Natalie
8. Olivier
9. Olivier
10. Natalie
11. Olivier
12. Natalie
13. Olivier
14. Natalie
15. Natalie
16. Natalie
17. Olivier
18. Natalie
19. Olivier
20. Natalie
21. Olivier
22. Natalie
23. Olivier
24. Natalie
25. Olivier
26. Natalie
27. Natalie
28. Olivier
29. Natalie
30. Natalie
31. Olivier
32. Natalie
33. Olivier
34. Natalie
35. Olivier
36. Natalie
Epilogue - Olivier

Preview: Enemies to French Kisses

Bonjour from Elsie
How to be French in 101 Rules
Acknowledgments
Also by Elsie Woods
About the Author
CHAPTER 1
 Natalie

“F ORGET RUGGED COWBOYS , LITTLE CUZ.” Annie’s eyes were on fire in a way I didn’t understand.
“France invented romance. They live what we only read about in books.”
Those words changed my life.
Now look where I am. The city of love. Destiny kissing my cheeks, matchmaking me to my future.
Paris.
Nobody would have guessed that Natalie McBride, field hockey enthusiast and fourth-generation
resident of Sage Township, Texas, would be strolling the streets of modern mythology.
Indeed, I can even pretend I didn’t just step in a giant dollop of dog droppings. Nothing a good
swipe on the grass can’t fix.
Cool spring air fills my lungs as I take the deepest possible breath because I still can’t believe
this is happening. The sounds of morning are an unlikely combination of chirping birds, accordion
music, and honking horns.
Tiny cars and limos fly past along the wide boulevard as the morning rush hour rages. It’s not so
different from Houston in that way. But it’s a far cry from Sage, population twelve thousand and forty-
seven souls. Sage is the only place on the planet I’ve ever really known, which was precisely why I
had to get out. For all my childhood, I barely knew there was a world beyond Sage Township.
That was before.
Before Annie Clayton, my first cousin ten years my elder, came home from a summer trip to Paris.
I was thirteen then, and Annie had always been my favorite cousin. I admired the way she walked
with her head held high, ignoring the kids who teased her for learning French. While most of us were
playing hide and seek in haystacks, she strolled in long dresses with a scarf around her neck. She’d
wink at me when I waved hello, always making me feel like I was more special than the other young
cousins.
When she got home from Paris, most of Sage pretended like nothing had changed. But I saw
something different in Annie, and secretly I was dying to know more. I’d always felt like Sage wasn’t
my future, but I couldn’t imagine living like they do in movies. Everything felt too big, too scary,
except for the quarterly trip with my mom to Houston for shopping and a haircut.
But Annie changed all that.
“Annie,” I said, kicking at the dirt as we walked to our beloved Gram’s place so she couldn’t see
the desperation that rumbled inside me. “What’s so great about France anyway?”
She responded with a sigh in her voice. “What’s so great about France?” Then came her famous
words: “Forget rugged cowboys, little cuz. France invented romance. They live what we only read
about in books.”
 She stopped me as we reached the winding driveway to Gram’s house.
“I’m in love with a man in France.”
“You’re what?” I asked like her words themselves were foreign.
“I’m in love, and I’ve got to find a way back to him. I’ll do it too.” She gestured along the stretch
of County Road 72. “This is beautiful in a rustic way. But what I need is adventure. I can’t bear the
quiet that sets in after seven in the evening. Not anymore. Not after what I’ve lived.”
“But—” She sounded totally different, no longer just the classy girl I looked up to. Annie had
become a lady. There was so much I wanted to ask. “Leave Sage… forever?”
Annie took my shoulders in her hands, squeezing them tight. “It’s a big old world out there, little
cuz, and it’s waiting for you. Don’t you forget it.”
In my mind, there was no getting out of Sage. Generations of folks had left for school, for work,
for opportunity. But they always came back.
That’s what I thought ten years ago, until Annie broke wide open a big world waiting to be
discovered.
I’m finally showing them. “Flaky Nattie” who was destined to take over the family tomato farm is
no more. Now I’m “Natalie de Paris”, and I will make my way in this city. I will become one of those
French ladies who struts her stuff without the least concern what anyone else things of her.
“BEEEEEP!” a tiny car honks as I step off the curb and I jump back. Paris is not exactly
pedestrian-friendly. Sage feels a million miles away from the historic buildings and cafés with
awnings that surround me now. It’s hard to believe two places so different can exist at the same time,
but this moment is the living proof.
I wish Gram could have seen me now. She was the only one who understood my need to get out of
Sage. She was a dreamer, but one who had her two feet planted solidly in the tomato farm soil. While
she didn’t want me to ever leave, she also encouraged me to follow my heart, wherever it took me.
God rest her soul.
“How to be French in a Hundred and One Rules”, the bulky book I bought in the airport on our
arrival a month ago, is exactly what the doctor ordered. I felt like an alien descending in the city, and
these rules are keeping me on the French straight and narrow. If I’m going to become one of them, and
I absolutely must if I’m going to prove to them all back home that this year in France was worth it,
this book is my first port of call. I try to read and internalize one rule a day. Also, it’s very French to
walk down the street reading a book.

Rule #34 - Stop and smell the roses.

The gentle spring breeze nudges a big, fat pink rose in my direction. Very convenient. Does
anything smell as divine as a rose in Paris in the spring?
The petals tickle my cheek as the breeze leans it closer toward me. The sounds of traffic dissipate
behind me and I feel this flower and I are old buddies, taking in the sights of this cute mini-park.
The sun rises earlier than when I arrived a month ago, and the April showers might have rained
themselves out already. Paris in springtime rainstorms is less stunning than it is on a day like today,
but the clouds give the city a moody, historic kind of feel.
Still, I’ll take this sunshine over the storms on any day of the week. It’s a big old change from my
part of Texas where we have three seasons: hot, hotter, and hurricane.
Okay, sniffing the roses is lovely and all, but work awaits. And as my mama always says, if
you’re five minutes early then you’re ten minutes late.
“Excusez-moi!” a woman declares when I accidentally brush her arm. That’s what I get for
keeping my eyes too far in the sky.
“Sorry, desolée,” I reply as she lets out an annoyed sigh while moving past.
Considering that French people kiss to say hello —including strangers, by the way—I wouldn’t
have expected an unintentional touch to inspire such disdain. But I still have a lot to learn.
Just look at those ladies over there, chatting as though the coming workday is secondary to
whatever grand discussion they are having in front of the Notre Dame church. They are the picture of
French class, just like the gothic towers of the cathedral behind them. Long slim legs and dressed to
kill even on a Saturday morning, one of them even rocking a French roll.
They talk quickly, engrossed in a serious topic, maybe politics or fashion. But the French language
on their lips sounds like royalty and fine wine. I try to keep up with what they’re saying, but it’s
beyond me. Even after a month, I’m still a fish out of Texan waters, landed firmly in the land of
culture and refinement and croissants. This girl is going to be one hundred percent classy French lady
by the time this year in France is up.
Speaking of croissants, I’m hungry. Fortunately, there is a bakery on every corner.
“Un croissant, s’il vous plait,” I say in my best-possible French accent, but I’m not kidding
anyone. The twang in my voice announces that I’m American, but I choose to believe the Parisians
notice the effort.
The baker winks and passes me a croissant in a dainty paper bag.
Accordion music rises up as I cross the second bridge of the River Seine, and now I know I’m
living the dream. This is exactly how I always imagined it.
A croissant, an accordion, and the Eiffel Tower rising up into the morning sky. This is the life.
From here it’s just a left turn, an alley, and long stroll across the square to my job at Le Bouchon
Noir, a three-star Michelin restaurant.
When I arrived a few weeks ago, I had enough savings to get me through a couple of months, but it
turned out that I didn’t take into consideration that cost of living in Paris is a whole lot more than I
thought, and my budget based on American dollars was way out of line.
I’ve learned my lesson when it comes to currency conversion.
On top of that, I had no idea how hard it was going to be to find an apartment. When my five
friends and I arrived in Paris, we were greeted with an awkward catch-22. In order to rent an
apartment, you need a bank account. In order to get a bank account, you need an address. And on top
of it, you always need a guarantor. It’s like they complicate the whole thing on purpose so that
foreigners can visit, but not stay forever.
It’s a miracle we were able to get this place at all, and it was only thanks to a well-timed plea to
my friend’s boss who has a friend who works in real estate.
Sure, it’s a fifth-floor walkup. And I mean European fifth floor, not American fifth floor.
And sure, it hasn’t been redecorated since Napoleon was kicking around, but once you manage to
get up all one hundred and thirty-three spindly stairs, the reward is an amazing view out a very small
window.
The terrace of the restaurant where I spend every day except Monday comes into view across a
broad pedestrianized square. I take my job at the Bouchon Noir very seriously. I have to—it’s a three-
star Michelin restaurant that regularly hosts the rich and famous.
I had thought finding a job would be easy; I'm a hard worker. I smile in the face of adversity. I
take on any problem no matter how big or small and any business would want to hire me. Even when
my first ten applications were rejected—some of them quite rudely—I wasn’t going to let that get me
down. Coming to Paris has been my dream for ten years. A bit of hardship was only going to make
success sweeter.
But I needed a job.
I never would have considered applying at the Bouchon Noir. With its velvet curtains and brass
doorknob, it felt like I would be batting way out of my league. Never mind that my French remains
beginner level, despite those high school courses. But then I was walking past it after getting a flat out
“non” from a baker, and a sign in the window of the fancy restaurant glowed brighter than the Lone
Star.
In beautiful cursive writing it said: “Seeking hostess, English speaking.”
The Bouchon Noir needed an English hostess? That I could do! I strutted through the door, resumé
in hand, with smiles and friendliness and good old southern hospitality. “Southern hospitality…” the
woman said in a thick French accent. “You will be perfect.”
It was my first great success on French soil.
It turns out, however, this is not just any old hostess job. No, no. I have a very specific duty.
Make the staff nice.
The Bouchon Noir was recently slated in a series of American culinary publications because of
their poor customer service. My job is to turn that around.
I am the face that greets people when they first arrive. I go around the tables of English-speaking
clientele and make sure they are enjoying their meal, and I’m responsible for giving tips and tricks to
the staff on how to offer a better customer experience.
All those years working the five a.m. shift at the donut shop are finally paying off.
Don't think this work is easy, though. It's near impossible to get snooty French servers to smile, let
alone make them customer-friendly. Most days it feels like trying to teach a rock to tap dance. But I'm
not complaining.
Across the square, the rolled-up awning of the Bouchon Noir awaits my arrival like a napping cat,
ready to stretch its limbs in the morning light. The chairs are stacked and the tables folded, all of them
chained together, since stealing outdoor restaurant furniture is a thing here.
I love how the restaurant looks in the morning before the hustle and bustle, before the world-class
chefs have breathed culinary life into the place. At this hour, it just looks like a humble corner cafe
and not the world-class restaurant that it is. It’s hard to be intimidated by a corner café, even knowing
it will transform within hours into the award-winning restaurant that it is. There’s a long origin story
about the Dubois grandmother who started the place, building it from a tiny enterprise into a
gastronomical phenomenon.
I love being among the first to arrive, to wake the restaurant from its slumber and have a few
minutes alone to drink in my new life.
Except that I’m not alone.
Sitting on one of the chained outdoor chairs is a man with a brimmed hat and scarf, like it wasn’t
a sunny spring morning. The only people I’ve seen sitting here before open were homeless folks, but
that’s not this guy. His shiny leather shoes give him away.
His legs are crossed and he holds a newspaper open in front of his face. His shoulders are back
and confidence oozes from him like he’s a textbook gorgeous billionaire. I can’t see his face, but I
don’t need to.
I must be imagining it. You can’t tell a man is magnificent from his chosen sitting position. Right?
But then he lowers the newspaper.
 Hello, handsome, my voice sings, fortunately inside my head. It doesn’t matter that a scarf hides
the bottom half of his face or that he’s wearing sunglasses and a dark hat. His head is tilted to the side
with his full lips slightly parted. The muscles of his arms press against the sleeves of his dark pea
coat like they might burst, Hulk-style, any second now.
Oh, no.
He said something to me in French but all I heard was “I’m a gorgeous French man and I’d like
to sweep you off your feet and adore you for the rest of your life.”
Pretty sure that’s not what he said.
“I’m sorry,” I smile widely, “what was that?”
He lowers his sunglasses down his nose, revealing green eyes like the Mediterranean Sea. “Ah.”
Disappointment drips from his lips in an only slightly-accented voice. “You are American.”
He puts his sunglasses back in place without even a hint of a grin, despite my sweep-me-off-my-
feet-and-love-me-forever smile.
“Coffee,” he says, holding up his paper again.
I blink, imagining him and me flying on the back of a Pegasus over the Mediterranean. The world
is our oyster as he tears off his shirt to let the ripple of muscles bathe in the sunshine.
“Please,” he adds, voice dripping with entitled expectation.
A blur of yachts and a four-piece band and French wine float before my eyes.
He sighs and drops the newspaper to his lap. “Coffee, now.”
“Coffee? Oh! Coffee!” I’m back in the moment, my running shoes suddenly feeling very drab. I toy
with the loose threads in the hem of my jacket that I meant to fix. So not French.
There goes the fantasy.
CHAPTER 2
 Natalie

I CLICK BACK TO LIFE, remembering who I am (the hostess of the Bouchon Noir) and what I’m doing
here (supposed to be hostess-ing).
Get it together.
“I'm sorry, monsieur.” Oh look, words are finally coming out of my mouth. “The restaurant isn’t
open yet. However, there are three cafes just over there—”
“I don’t want three cafes just over there.” He buries himself under the hat, sunglasses, and scarf.
“I came here. And I’d like a coffee.”
I will not let his grumpiness rub off on me. In my donut selling days, I handled many men before
their morning coffee. It's rarely a pretty sight.
Even if this man happens to be very pretty…
“That one,” I point at my personal favorite café in the neighborhood, “does a divine double latte,
if that floats your boat.”
“Floats my boat?”
“It’s an American expression. You know, like—” of course, I can’t think of a single example.
“—Yee-haw.”
That’s the example I give?
“I was told that this was one of Paris's best establishments,” he replies, shaking his head. “And
you are sending me away with a ‘yee-haw’. All I want is to enjoy the newspaper with a coffee at this
renowned restaurant. What a disappointment.”
Yikes. I was hired to give great customer service, that southern hospitality. For me, it’s not just lip
service, it’s how I was raised. My Gram was especially particular about it. Southern hospitality is a
way of life, she taught me, and it goes way beyond coffee. But if southern hospitality isn't bending
over backward to get this man what he wants, then what is?
“I have an idea.” I lean in, the sunshine streaming into my eyes. “I’ll go over to the other café to
get you a coffee. This way you can continue to enjoy your paper in the morning sun.”
He sighs and tears off his sunglasses, peering at me straight in the eye. “I travel across the country
to come to one of Paris's finest restaurants, and I can't even get a morning espresso? This is quite
shocking.”
Those eyes… Caribbean waterfalls… matched with the French accent is just…
Stay in the moment, Natalie. The restaurant’s reputation with this handsome and rich (and
demanding and grumpy) man is depending on me.
“You know what?” I stand up tall, hands on hips in the I’m-going-to-make-an-important-statement
way. “You’re right, monsieur. And at the Bouchon Noir, the customer is always right. I'm going to
make you a coffee.” Gram would be so proud. I miss her.
He nods, replaces his sunglasses, and sticks his nose back in the newspaper.
Little known fact: I’ve never made coffee in France.
Day in and day out, I’ve seen people use that big machine to make those fancy little espressos. It
can’t be that hard.
Marie, the baker, is already at work in the second kitchen. She's the only one who arrives at the
restaurant before me, baking the restaurant’s own recipe of homemade bread. She’s also bilingual,
very handy when trying to understand the boss and inconvenient when being snubbed by fellow staff.
This morning I only have time to wave her a quick hello. A very important espresso awaits my
making.
It’s me against the machine. I find the power button; that’s always a good start. I place a minuscule
mug under the spout.
“Here goes nothing…” I hit the button in the middle of the machine.
Miracle of miracles, brown liquid makes its way into the tiny glass mug.
I'm not going to deny that I'm feeling very pleased with myself as I gingerly place the coffee in
front of Monsieur Grump.
“There you go, monsieur—” Don’t say grump out loud. “I hope you enjoy your coffee.”
He lifts a finger indicating I should wait. I don’t want to wait. This coffee drama has reminded me
that even men who appear to have stepped out of my dreams can be total grouches, and I don’t want to
upset my fantasy of romantic French men.
He closes his eyes—so sexy—and takes a sip from the tiny mug. My breath is shallow watching
him lick his lips, and time slows down. He purses his lips, cheeks taut, and not in a good way. He sets
the mug on the table and looks up at me.
“Mon dieu, what have you done?” he asks like I just stomped all over his strawberry patch. “This
isn't coffee, it’s wastewater. Are you trying to insult me?”
My stomach drops. “Insult you? No, no, I promise you I turned on the machine and then pushed the
button—”
“After you put new grounds into it, right?”
“New grounds, huh?” Yeah, totally didn’t do that. “It doesn't do that automatically?”
He raises that eyebrow again, pushing the “coffee” in my direction.
“I'm so sorry,” I say, picking up the cup. “I'll be right back.”
Back through the side door, I go. Marie tilts her head but doesn't say anything at the sight of me
reentering with the coffee.
“I can do this,” I whisper. “I can do this.”
When I look at twisty handle thingy, sure enough, it already has grounds in it. Grounds that were
probably there since yesterday.
No wonder he made a face—I did serve him wastewater.
So much for southern hospitality. Sewage is definitely not the way to a man’s heart.
My hands shake as the grounds land with a splat in the sink, sending a spray of brown drops onto
my blouse.
“Well, hopscotch,” I mutter to myself out of habit. I try not to use curse words at work. The locals
pick up on it way too quickly when I let one slip, like the time I dropped a chair on my toe and let a
big f-bomb fly. For a week, every time I went into the kitchen the staff sang it at me.
“Coffee grounds, coffee grounds. If I were coffee grounds, where would I be…”
Ta-da, as requested, a tub of coffee grinds appears just tucked behind the machine. Fate delivers
yet again. There isn’t much left, but certainly enough for me to do this one single coffee and then get
this man out of my life forever.
Coffee grounds are pressed in the twisty thingy. Twisty thingy clicks in place. Tiny mug clatters
under the spout, and I hit the go button. With a whir and a sense of relief, coffee sputters out. I admit,
it both looks and smells more like coffee than the last one.
The cup shakes on its tiny saucer, making tittering sounds like it’s threatening to fall as I walk past
Marie. She eyes me up but doesn’t dare break my concentration. This man's got me worked up all
because I said I would make him a coffee before we’re even open.
“Here, monsieur,” I say as I round the corner to the front terrace. “This one should be much
better.”
Then, the worst happens. I can't say exactly what, but something got stuck on something. Maybe
the runners in my pant leg, or my toe on a raised patch of sidewalk. But either way, the end result is
that the coffee is now flying through the air in the direction of Monsieur Rich-Handsome-Grumpy-
Customer’s lap.
I gasp and reach, but that isn't good enough to prevent what is sure to be catastrophe.
Disaster is avoided only because the man has the reaction time of a mosquito. He jumps back,
avoiding the steaming espresso that cascades across the table.
“Yes, at least it smells like coffee,” he says, deadpan.
“I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry,” I mumble about three thousand times as I try to swipe the still
burning coffee off the table top with my bare hand. It scalds, but that problem pales in comparison to
the head-shaking bewilderment on the man’s face as I cart the coffee in my palms back to the
restaurant. By the time I reach the door, most of it has dripped through my fingers onto my running
shoes.
I can’t run back inside fast enough, and half-expect the man to be long gone by the time I'm out.
That would be a relief. He can’t hold it against the restaurant’s reputation that I spilled coffee four
hours before the restaurant is even supposed to open. My heart is beating out of my chest.
What if he's actually a restaurant critic? What if this is some kind of test? I've heard about this
before—where people come incognito to put every aspect of a restaurant under the wringer before
writing a review that can make or break an establishment.
Sure enough, Mr. Grouchy-Caribbean-Eyes is still there, reading his newspaper standing up.
“Are you sure you want me to try again?” I ask in hope as I wipe down the table.
“I'm sure.”
Here we go.
If I scrape the sides of the tub, I can just about get enough grounds to make one last coffee. This
time, I don't pat the grounds down too hard. What's the point of patting down the grinds anyway? It
just uses more coffee grounds to make one teeny tiny little cup of coffee.
Take three. Coffee grounds in the twisty thingy. Twisty thingy in place. Tiny mug under the spout,
and I hit the button.
Once it’s brewed, I walk as though my life depends upon successful delivery of this little cup of
coffee. I set it down on the table, my hands trembling, but nothing spills. He removes his sunglasses
and sets them beside the cup.
“It smells decent,” he says, sits back in the chair, and looks up at me.
He is at once arrogant and presumptuous, but I could swear there's a smile in his eyes. An impish
glimmer like this is all a just a joke—and I'm the butt of it.
He takes a sip, his eyes not leaving mine. His chiseled jaw lifts toward the morning sun. My heart
beats extra fast, and everything inside me melts. If it weren't for the fact that he's driving me up the
wall and terrifying me all at once, I could almost declare my undying love for him right here and now.
All time is suspended as he licks his lips.
“This…” he says, his lips parted and his breath making steam in the spring air, “…is awful.”
“Awful?” I grab my head. “How can it be awful?”
If he really wanted such a great cup of coffee, he could have gone to the café I recommended in
the first place.
Get it together, Natalie. Remember Gram, make her proud, God rest her soul.
“Monsieur, I am very sorry you don’t like it. I am doing everything to make you happy, but I don't
know what else you want from me.”
“Did you use fresh grounds?”
“The ones that were there, yes.”
“You didn't grind them fresh?”
“No, I didn't grind them fresh.”
“Well, there we have the problem.” He gestures like it was obvious all along and I’m a
nincompoop for not having seen it coming.
I take a deep breath and steady my stance. Southern hospitality is sure being tested today. “Sir, I
don't know where the coffee beans are. I don't know where the grinder is. I have never made an
espresso before in my life. I'm doing everything I can to satisfy you, but I don't know how to fix this.”
Hold back the tears, Natalie. No need to make a scene this early in the morning.
He tilts his head at me, the corner of his mouth curling into… a smile? He leans back into the
chair as if he just won a battle and lifts the offending coffee as though to toast. “I suppose it's not that
bad.” He takes another sip. “Just not what I would have expected from one of Paris's finest
establishments.”
He then downs the coffee in one noisy gulp, setting the cup loudly back on the table. Just like that,
he folds up his newspaper and marches off.
My mouth ceases to work as his fine backside marches away until I realize something.
“Monsieur!” I call after him.
He turns around, sunglasses on and lips set in a straight line.
“You forgot to pay.” I say it with a smile, because that’s customer service. But I won’t lie; there’s
a challenge in it. Nobody can stiff the Bouchon Noir.
He grins, an infuriatingly smug grin.
“It's already in your pocket.”
“In my…” Sure enough, in my back pocket is a crisp five euro bill. “How did you—”
He’s already walking away but lifts the newspaper in what I have to assume is a grumpy
Frenchman’s way of saying goodbye.
Well, I never.
CHAPTER 3
 Natalie

THE LUNCHTIME PRESSURE is on now at the Bouchon Noir and I've all but forgotten Mr. Love-Me-
Forever-But-After-Coffee.
The restaurant is packed with two lunch services and my job is the seating plan. Every single
table is booked. I've got to get this right or else there's a good chance a diplomat or foreign movie star
might not get their table.
That alone would be grounds for termination.
“Please escort Mr. and Mrs. Montague to table forty-seven,” I say to Alexandra, one of the
servers who is slightly less snooty—hence I’ve made her my unofficial right-hand woman. “Let's
make sure they have a courtyard view.”
Alexandra nods knowingly and takes the menus from my hand. “Mr. And Mrs. Montague. This
way, s’il vous plait.”
The courtyard view is reserved for our most prestigious guests. Mrs. Montague happens to be a
French actress from a bygone era, and rumor has it she was even mistress to the President of France. I
happen to know that she has a rampant social media presence and paparazzi following her
everywhere she goes. I just hope they get a good picture of her in the courtyard window, dining at the
Bouchon Noir.
Gotta love free publicity.
“Your table is ready,” I text the driver of the next customer. At a restaurant like the Bouchon Noir,
I text the folks if their table is ready early. Otherwise, their limousines circle the town until the
reservation time when they are dropped off at the door to be escorted straight to their table.
While I wait for the next customers to arrive—oil moguls from somewhere in the East—the
beautiful sight of culinary delights pass me in every direction. I have never been somewhere that
smelled as good as this restaurant.
Strolling in front of me now is braised lamb swiftly followed by seared swordfish. Can’t forget
the sauteed asparagus, baked eggplant and saffron rice. My mouth is salivating in spite of me. But I
have no time for such cravings, the oil moguls have arrived.
“Natalie,” Camille, the manager and my boss, says in her curt tone of voice. I've been working on
this with her, but the concept of friendliness hasn’t set in. “I need you now on tables six, thirteen, and
forty-one. Too many frowns on the customers’ faces,” she says with a thick French accent. “Too many
frowns!” She throws her hands in the air and then rushes back into the kitchen.
Never fear, Natalie is here, I sing in my head. This is exactly what they hired me for.
“Hello,” I say to the family of four on table six. “My name is Natalie and I just wanted to know if
there is anything I can do to make your experience at the Bouchon Noir even better.”
 “As a matter of fact,” the father lifts his finger, “I was just saying that this water is lukewarm. It
destroys my ability to appreciate the freshness of the cold cucumber soup.”
This is what I don't understand. Here's a man frowning at his table, eating cold cucumber soup
with room temperature water. Why wouldn't the waiter just ask when he saw that the client looked
unhappy?
Oh, yeah. That's because in France, the customer is never right.
A glass of ice water, a fresh napkin, and an extra cushion for the chair and I've got tables six,
thirteen, and forty-one eating out of the palm of my hand.
“What a pleasant young lady,” the old woman from table forty-one says as I leave her table. “They
certainly have improved service by hiring her.”
If only I could get her to say that to Camille.
I've barely had a chance to return to my station when the front door jingles and my best friend,
Laura, rushes in like a gust of wind.
Laura is tall, slim, and more driven and put together than just about any other woman I know. Not
that you could guess that from the way that she looks in this moment. Her hair is blown in every
direction and her clothes are rumpled. Very not Laura.
“It's the plumbing again,” she says. “The plumbing, Natalie! That means six unshowered women
without clean clothes and I have to present our biotech proposal to the Northern Irish Ministry of
Health tomorrow!” How this girl, fresh out of her MBA, landed a top-drawer post in a biotech startup
might be a surprise to some, but not to me. Laura is destined for great things and she doesn’t take flak
from anyone. But an unshowered Laura is another story.
“The plumbing again.” I bury my face in my hands. “The landlord promised he’d fixed it.”
“Yeah, he fixed it, alright. Slapped masking tape on a couple of pipes.”
“I'll take care of it,” I tell her, already texting the landlord. “I just need to get through this shift.
You see how packed we are?”
“Water, Natalie, water,” Laura pleads and I fear she might even get down on her knees. “I didn't
even mention the toilet yet…”
“Laura!” I lean forward, hissing. “Please don't say toilet in a three-star Michelin restaurant. I
promise, I'll take care of it.”
She lets out a sigh as long as the River Seine and leaves me at my hostess podium.
This will become yet another reason why my roommates complain about Paris. I was the
ringleader, convincing them that adventure awaited us. I didn’t exactly twist their arms to come… but
I did have to give it a hard sell to a couple of them. I truly believed that once they were here, they
would be so caught up in the beauty and luxury and romance of Paris that they would forget they didn't
want to be here in the first place.
In a lot of ways, that's how it’s worked out. But a blocked toilet when you're sharing a studio
apartment with five other people can take a major toll on one's enjoyment of a place. Even Paris.
Laura is usually on my side. Our friendship goes back to pre-kindergarten when she shared her
wooden blocks with me. If she's looking desperate, then I don't even want to know what my
roommates are going to say when I get home tonight.
I text the landlord again using as serious a tone as I can muster over text in French.
Raised voices echo across the restaurant, and all thoughts of overflowing sewage flee my mind. I
recognize a Midwestern accent, unmistakable when nestled among the French, German, Middle
Eastern, and North African clientele we serve here. I’d put my money on southern Ohio.
One of the waiters tries to escort the guest out. The American stands and protests the waiter’s
attempts to remove him. I know where this is going, and any time a waiter proposes that a client
should leave, it doesn’t end well. While I can only see the client from behind, his wide shoulders and
baseball hat are a heck of a signature. No one else would dare wear a baseball hat inside a restaurant
like this, except… except… wait, I know that voice.
“Sir,” the waiter continues, “you really must leave. Your demand is an abomination.”
Yikes, it’s worse than I thought.
“An abomination?” He clutches his chest, and I wonder if there’s a defibrillator somewhere here.
“All I did was asked for some ketchup to go on this tasteless pasta with mushrooms.”
“They are not simply mushrooms. They are truffles.”
“They are tasteless!”
Their argument is catching the attention of many other guests at the restaurant. Heads turn and lean
to listen in. I must intervene. This is it, my time to shine.
“Excuse me,” I say with a big smile. “I'm sorry to interrupt, but I wonder if I might be able to
help.”
The man with the baseball hat turns around to face me. And I know exactly who it is.
Manny Trinken, the culinary critic who takes over national radio every Sunday in America. I knew
it. The baseball hat should have been the giveaway.
This business about ketchup on pasta is a ruse. I’m onto you, Manny Trinken.
“I'm so sorry for the misunderstanding,” I say with a big apologetic smile. “Please, sir, have a
seat. Let me take my colleague aside, and I will explain the situation to him.”
“Now that's more like it,” Manny says, giving me a wink. “Customer service, finally.”
“Won't you come with me, Jean-Claude?” I pull the waiter by his sleeve into the back kitchen.
“How dare you entertain the whims of that heathen!” Jean-Claude shouts in the kitchen— the most
English he’s ever said to me—catching the attention of all our workmates.
I cross my arms and narrow my eyes at him. “Jean-Claude, I was hired because of moments like
this. You don't know who that man is, and I do. You just about destroyed our restaurant’s reputation
across all of American radio. Come this Sunday from one to one-thirty in the afternoon, every single
state would have heard about the fiasco that you caused at Le Bouchon Noir. That's what almost
happened. Can’t you see? It was a test.”
Gasps erupt across the staff.
I gesture for everyone to calm down. “What you need to do now is bring that man some ketchup
and apologize. You'll see that he's not going to put that ketchup anywhere near the pasta.”
I’ve stunned the staff into silence, and I can't help feeling satisfied.
Thank Heavens the rest of the lunch goes along smoothly, and even our apartment’s landlord
texted to say he’d come over “immédiatement.”
“Everyone, gather up. Tout le monde, ici,” Camille calls out after the last lunchtime diner has
departed. “Your closing procedures can wait. We need to talk.”
This is unusual. Talking is not something Camille likes to do—she's more of a screamy type. I’m
working on it.
We drag our feet, gathering around in the front entry of the restaurant. My stomach is tense. A staff
meeting isn’t that weird, except that this is only the second one since I was hired. The first one was
all about me and how everyone should listen to me and the advice I had to give.
Yeah, that wasn't awkward at all.
“You need to know,” she begins, and I wring my hands, “that tomorrow the heir to the entire
restaurant chain will be in town. There is no doubt that Olivier Dubois will be spending much of his
time here. Tomorrow everyone must be on best behavior and looking sharp. No one is to be a minute
late. Entendu?”
We nod our agreement, and everyone slips out quietly. The threat of the big boss looms over us
like a guillotine. Everyone's heard of the Dubois family since they are the culinary equivalent of a
household name. You can’t get rich and famous in this business by being warm and cuddly, but could
it be as bad as all that?
“Natalie,” Camille shouts before I can sneak off. “Tomorrow will matter very much for you.”
That doesn’t sound good. “How so?”
“Olivier has been wanting to meet you since you were hired. He made a special point of saying it,
so be sure to be in your game tomorrow.”
“The expression is ‘on your game’.”
“In it, on it,” she waves her hand around, “do whatever you want with it, but know that tomorrow
will decide your future. It could be good, or it could be very bad.”
Nothing like a thinly veiled threat to add another layer of anxiety to a high-stress situation.
“Thanks for the heads up.”
She purses her lips and nods, like tomorrow we’re heading into combat together. “Olivier is a
special kind of man. Put on your big girl socks.”
No need to correct her again, not when the likes of Olivier Dubois are coming to town.
And he wants to meet me.
CHAPTER 4
 Natalie

J UST WHAT IS this Olivier Dubois going to be like?

I ponder it the whole way home. Olivier Dubois, man of the people, or dictator-of-the-fancy-
restaurant heir?
He could be anything.
Maybe he’ll be friendly and warm, complimenting us on our efforts to improve the restaurant’s
reputation. Maybe he'll be aloof. Cool and calculating. He's running a multimillion-dollar restaurant
business, after all. That takes a certain personality type.
How old is Olivier Dubois anyway? I’ve heard of Dubois Estates, because who hasn’t? I feel like
this is something I should have looked up sooner. There’s a château and a vineyard somewhere.
I do the math. The matriarch began it with her home cooking, and she’s the one who transformed it
into its current business. Go granny!
So maybe Olivier is my dad’s age. A kind, fatherly type.
Or maybe… Maybe he'll be the Frenchman of my dreams. Romantic, witty, and did I mention
gorgeous? And he’ll definitely fall in love with me at first sight.
Ha, not likely. But a girl can dream, can't she?
“Bonjour, bonjour,” I call as I enter the apartment. A light layer of sweat has accumulated on my
brow after several stories of stairs.
Five heads turn to face me in the single-room apartment.
“How’s it going, Nat?” Gina waves from the upper bunk. Something about Gina—she was born
with a smile on her face but is shy as the day is long. She’s always the first to cheer on everyone else.
She’s managed to get a series of temp jobs, but poor thing always messes up job interviews.
“Thank heavens you got the landlord to sort out the water,” Annelise says deadpan, looking back
to her magazine. “And good news, this time he used more than a roll of tape to fix it. I think I even
saw a wrench. Remind me when we’re going home?”
Annelise, ever the quick tongue. She fits in perfectly with the French attitude of perpetual
dissatisfaction, but she’s also the most loyal kind of friend one can find. After all, she followed me to
France despite her reservations (which she doesn’t hesitate to share).
“Why have you got that funny smile?” Laura tilts her head at me.
“What funny smile?”
All the girls come closer. Gina, Annelise, and Laura, as well as the twins Chrissy and Jessica.
Chrissy leans toward me, inspecting me like a horse. “She does have a funny smile on her face.
Don't you think so, Jess?”
“Indeed I do, sissy Chrissy.”
 Chrissy smacks Jess across the back of her head. “You can’t call me that in Paris, we had a deal!”
“The point is,” Jess turns to me, “you do have a funny look.”
“It’s nothing, no big deal.” I wave them off. “I just happen to have a massive opportunity, the
biggest one I've had since coming to Paris.” A series of oooohs break out and they lean in. “My
boss’s boss is coming to town tomorrow. And I intend to impress the socks off him.”
This smile is making my cheeks hurt. I am absolutely going to woo Olivier Dubois into believing I
am the greatest thing since baguettes and brie having single-handedly saved the restaurant from sure
destruction by Manny Trinken today. That could mean a promotion or a raise.
But one thing at a time.
“Wait,” Annelise says, sitting up on the sofa. “You don’t mean Olivier Dubois is coming to your
restaurant tomorrow?”
“He is the heir to the whole chain, so yeah. That’s him.”
“Olivier Dubois,” her jaw drops, “one of France’s most eligible bachelors?” She thrusts her
magazine into my face so close I can’t see anything. I hold it back and see what she’s talking about.
Fate steps in again, just as I needed to know more about the boss man, here he is.
OLIVIER DUBOIS, it says over a picture of a man that I have to assume is him. The caption under
the photo says: Olivier Dubois, homme très désiré.
So he’s a ‘well-desired’ man, huh? And no wonder…
Check out that picture.
He's laughing, his head thrown back like he's just heard the funniest thing in his life. With that
chiseled jaw and million-dollar smile and tousled dark hair, it's no wonder the country is drooling
over him. His top button is undone, revealing a line of muscle that descends down his chest. He fills
out the shirt, chest muscles threatening to burst but his figure is lean. A suit jacket hangs over his arm.
Olivier Dubois is the closest thing to a Greek god I have ever seen.
Something about him looks familiar, but maybe it’s just that I've seen him on the cover of
magazines, albeit never quite like this. There are news vendor kiosks with magazine covers posted on
the sides, but I don’t read them. Ever since I got here, all I've read are culinary publications and my
books on how to be French.
Annelise swipes back her magazine with a raised eyebrow and the rest of us get ready for bed in
our scheduled turn. Six women and one bathroom demands excellent organization and a very prettily
decorated corkboard schedule.
Thoughts of Olivier dominate my evening. The stakes for tomorrow just got much higher.
I accept your challenge, cosmic destiny, and I raise you by one really darn positive go-get-em
attitude.
If only I could sleep.
Chrissy and Jess snore away on the other side of the room while I sleep on the bunk under Gina.
As sweet as she is, she tosses and turns like she’s fighting a gorilla in the night.
Those ripples of chest muscles dance behind my closed eyelids.
What are you like, Olivier Dubois?
I’ll find out soon enough.

MY STOMACH IS IN KNOTS .
 Today just might be the first day of the rest of my life, and the walk to work feels extra long.
Thank goodness on Sundays there’s only one lunch service and afterward I can decompress in the
French way—with cheese.
I know what will calm me down. I keep my Rulebook for being French in my handbag for
moments such as this.
“Rule #35 - Take care of your appearance.”
Well, that's a good fit for today. I am decked out in my best French designer outfit. It is absolutely
not this year's collection, and it's probably not even last year's or the year before’s, either. I was lucky
to find it at the “Fripe,” as the French call it, which is the cutest name for a secondhand shop I've ever
heard. It glowed in the window like a miracle, perfectly in my size. There's no way I'd ever be able to
afford it otherwise.
I feel like a million bucks. A million bucks… with a nervous stomach.
Maybe if I stop and smell the roses, like yesterday's rule said, maybe then I can find some of that
classy and cool French demeanor.
The roses in this urban garden are in full bloom. I take in a deep breath… hold it for two, release
it for four… Nothing like some yoga breathing to calm the mind and tummy.
The petals tickle my cheek, the edges moist with morning dew. I’m already feeling better. More
relaxed, relieved… and wet?
There’s a drop on my cheek. And I don’t think that is morning dew. Tell me it’s not rain.
And then another drop.
I checked the forecast. No rain today. Sure, it’s April in Paris, but I checked. Maybe it’s just a
couple drops, maybe it’ll pass by without causing any—
A big old rain drop hits me right smack in the middle of my nose.
I should have been prepared with an umbrella, but it seems I left my Girl Scout attitude back in
Texas.
I’m still at least ten minutes from the restaurant. I could make a break for it, but—
Yep, a full-on rainstorm. Down it all comes, a deluge already overflowing the curb in the streets.
No chance of making it to the restaurant now.
In the ten seconds it takes me to run into the archway of an office building, I’m already soaked.
Super-smart me wearing my cream-colored designer suit. The slacks of which are now showing off
all the cute little flowers on my underwear. What classy French lady buys underwear with flowers on
them? I hold my handbag in front of my panty line as a man ducks into the archway with me.
“Il pleut,” he says in the French statement of the obvious. It’s raining.
“Oui,” I reply with a meek smile, backing against the wall to hide the little lilacs since water is
dripping down my back.
This isn’t how I anticipated starting my day with Olivier Dubois, but at least my fancy outfit is
still in good shape. The crepe has held up well, despite the whole transparency issue.
Now if only the downpour would let up.
It's not. I'm just going to have to go for it. As it is, I'm barely going to be on time. The moment has
come to make a break for it. Three, two, one… run.
“Au revoir!” the man in the archway calls out over the boom of thunder.
I yank open the front door to the restaurant and rush in, praying that nobody has gathered yet so I
can use the hand dryer in the washroom to blow myself a bit. At least for my hair. It’s all stuck to my
face I can barely see a thing.
Lock by lock, I get these tresses back under control—and find that everyone is staring at me.
Everyone. The whole staff stands there, even though the bells are only just now ringing out the eight
dongs.
“Hello, everyone.” My smile is weak, but it’s my go-to in situations like this.
“So you must be Natalie,” teases a deep voice, lulling with a gentle French accent.
I turn slowly. That voice must belong to him.
“Yes, sir?” I say it as a question because suddenly I'm wishing I was somebody else. Anyone but
Natalie. I raise my eyes to meet his, feigning confidence as best I can.
Hold the phone. Tell me this isn’t happening.
“You…” is the only word that comes out of my mouth as my jaw drops all the way to the floor.
It’s Olivier Dubois alright. And sure enough, I know him already.
Just yesterday, I made him three coffees.
CHAPTER 5
 Natalie

HE COCKS his head and crosses his arms. “So, the American hostess can't make coffee. Camille,” he
purses his full lips while continuing to look at me, “I expect you to make sure that everyone who
works in this restaurant knows how to make a proper cup of coffee.”
Camille gives me a look that could kill, so I purposely avoid her eyes.
“As for you,” Olivier nods at me, “I expect everyone to be on time. That means five minutes early.
You barely arrived on the hour.”
Come on, I’m always the first one here. Always… except today.
I bite my lip. “Yes, sir.”
Olivier takes in a deep breath and continues the meeting in French. I catch most of what he says
and then make a face to Marie who nods her silent agreement to explain the details to me later.
“What happened to you?” Camille hisses when the meeting dismisses.
“I thought the clouds might pass.”
Camille grabs her forehead. “This is Paris in April, ma puce. You must always keep an
umbrella.” She looks me up and down and nods her approval. “But I do love the La Baume collection
from six years ago. You are wearing it very well.” She marches off to catch up with Olivier.
I look down at my still dripping self. Dampness aside, even I can admit I look good.
Now to blow dry this hair.

THE MINUTES PASS like years because Olivier Dubois is watching my every move. I know it, because
when I turn around quickly, I catch him staring.
I don't like it one bit.
This isn't anything like I imagined. If only I had read more rules from the book, maybe I’d know
what to do in a situation like this. I’ve read hundreds of magazines and tour books and never even
mind the piles podcasts saved on my phone. But none of them told me what to do about a shockingly
overbearing boss who’s built like a superhero.
I’m about to clean the grounds disposal bin from the famous coffee machine when I once again
find him sizing me up with crossed arms and an infuriatingly attractive raised eyebrow.
“Can I help you?” I keep my tone genuine, but I put my hands on my hips. I'm sure I read
somewhere that hands on hips is very French. But there’s a certain way to do it. Oh, I think the hands
need to be high on my waist. Like this.
 His brow scrunches and the corners of his mouth curl. “No, no, I don't need any help at all. But it
seems you do.”
“No,” I reply. “I'm fine.”
He puckers his lips and nods toward my hands, where I have unknowingly smeared coffee
grounds all over my La Baume collection crepe pantsuit.
“Oh, fuddlebug.”
I am pant-less in the staff restroom when Camille comes in with a question mark on her face.
“What is happening to you, Natalie? You are the one who holds it all together under pressure. And
today you are… how do you say? A big mess.”
“I know, I know,” I reply as I gently wipe the remainder of the coffee off my slacks. “I just wanted
to make a good impression.”
“Then don't try so hard,” she says poking her finger into my shoulder. “Just be you. And perhaps
buy less floral underwear.” She struts out with her chin high.
Don’t try so hard. Easy for Camille to say. She is exactly what I'm talking about when I think of
being a real French woman.
For me there’s only one option. Fake it ’til you make it.
I'm a new woman when I emerge from the washroom. I can handle Olivier. I’ve handled all kinds
of men in all kinds of situations before. The rude customs officer, the dismissive landlord, the cranky
butcher…
“Here comes the drowned rat.”
Olivier mutters it loud enough for me to hear, though there's no one else around.
His chin is set in a challenge and his eyes sparkle the same way they did when I brought him his
coffee yesterday.
The sound of teeth clenching echoes in my head because I will not let him get the best of me.
I just have to get through this shift. I just have to get through this shift.
And yet everywhere I turn, Olivier is there, making some snide little comment or running his
finger along the table I just wiped down.
A full lunch service keeps me distracted, and now I'm back in my element. That's right. I am
Natalie, the cheerful. Natalie, the patient. Natalie, the so-darn-smiley-that-you-can't-possibly-fault-
her. That's me. Sweeter than honey is this Texan girl.
Alas, when the last of the customers leave, I find myself alone again. With Olivier.
“It seems you have a gift with the clients,” he says to me as I gather the tablecloths for laundry.
“Especially if you don’t have to make them coffee.”
I’m pretty sure there was a backhanded compliment in there. “I try to give them a human
experience as well as a gastronomic one. It's nothing,” I shrug.
Of course it's something. I should be convincing him that I am the best possible employee he
could ever have. I’ve got to overcome the bad impression I made this morning. Never mind the
wastewater coffee. Why am I downplaying myself?
“I can see that even the French customers warm to you in a way that they don't to the others.” He
leans against the bar, sizing me up with a quick glance. “It’s not what I would have expected after
yesterday’s performance. But I am always willing to be pleasantly surprised. This southern
hospitality adds a new dimension to the Bouchon Noir.”
Here's my chance. I can make a comment about all of the cultural research I've done over these
last years since I dreamed of coming to France. Show him the investment I’ve made in personal and
professional development.
 But I don’t. Instead, I say: “You think so?”
Where have all my words gone?
“I do think so. And that’s despite you coming in here wetter than a cow in the limousine.”
“Excuse me?”
“Wetter than a cow in the limousine,” he repeats.
“A cow,” I echo back, “in the limousine.” He seems confused by my confusion. “Either that
expression really doesn't translate well or it's definitely time for me to go home.”
He looks baffled, and then his eyes open wide. But it doesn’t matter. I’m going for my handbag
and the door because this day just has to be done.
“No, no! Limousin is a part of France, where it rains a lot. It's very agricultural.”
“Yeah, yeah, I'm sure it is.” I swipe my coat but it’s stuck on the hook. “I've got to go. I’ve got to
test the plumbing at home.” I tug the coat, but the loop is wrapped around the hook and I’m not tall
enough to reach it. It’s a WWF wrestling match with a wall hook and I’m losing. Why did they install
them so high?
“No, but…” He unhooks my coat. Him and his stupid tall handsomeness. I march toward the door
as he chuckles. “Yes, I suppose you do need to go home.”
I stop before going out the door. He is the boss, after all, and I can’t leave without a polite and
respectful goodbye. When I look back, I expect to see the kind of glee that dances across the school
bully’s face, because that's Olivier Dubois. Nothing more than a great big super good-looking bully.
Instead what I see is fire, smoldering eyes that don’t belong on a boss with his employee. Like
he’s a man in a desert and I’m a drink of cold water.
I do not understand one little bit of what’s going on here.
“Goodbye, sir.”
I run out the front door as fast as my little legs in a fancy French pantsuit will take me.
CHAPTER 6
 Olivier

AN EMPTY RESTAURANT is not so different from a theme park after closing hours. A sense of life hangs
in the air even after every plate has been cleared, every chair pushed back in place, and every setting
prepared for the next day.
Il était une fois… Once upon a time this restaurant was a third the size, having belonged to a
cobbler who had passed away decades earlier. The space had been unused, abandoned. Grandmother
arrived in the big city at the age of twenty with big dreams and empty pockets, her parents telling her
she either had to get married or become a nanny as their little winery couldn’t support them all.
Grandmama bought the place with ten francs, the same price as a metro ticket at the time. The owner
was eager to pass the place along, as City Hall was collecting taxes on the empty shop.
Grandmama transformed that sliver of a boutique into a warm and welcoming lunchtime
restaurant, having painted the walls and installed the tile herself—something she vowed she would
never do again after a can of glue tipped over and she had to cut her long hair into her now signature
bob cut.
For an uneducated girl from the country, Grandmama knew what she wanted and she went for it.
Grandfather didn’t stand a chance when she’d set her eyes on him.
Soon, lunchtimes were overflowing, so she added dinners and Father helped during his school
vacations and weekends. And when the lineup went out the door and across the square, she bought the
shop next door to expand (and hired someone else to knock down the separating walls and do the
décor). Father met Mother, and the business became a true family affair. He took over daily
management while Grandmama moved to the countryside and built what had been her parents’ small
winery into what is today “Dubois Estates”.
And when Le Monde gave its glowing review, she bought the shop next door again, and that has
become the Bouchon Noir as it is today.
So much history here, so many memories of my late mother, of happy times we spent here when
my brother Sebastien was a toddler.
Even now, the walls vibrate with the laughter and conversation that filled the air just hours
earlier. Laughter breaks out again,. It’s Natalie. She laughs with Camille before catching me watching
her. Her smile fades and she offers a demure nod before rushing into the staff room.
I’m not accustomed to women catching my eye. With the way the tabloids splash my face at least
once a season, it’s hard enough to avoid the women coming after me for all the wrong reasons.
But that’s not Natalie.
She marches away as though her life depends on it. She doesn’t get far, though, before raindrops
fall in quick succession. Now she’s running, her white pantsuit flowing around her legs. A white outfit
in the rain was not her best decision of the day.
It makes me chuckle. Natalie McBride is something of an alien at the Bouchon Noir. Even though
she was clearly off-balance—probably in large part due to my antics yesterday with the coffee—she
smiled and laughed as easily as breathing. Never have I heard of such enthusiasm, such delight,
bounding its way through these four walls. Not since Grandmama was working in the kitchen.
Those were the good old days. Natalie has that same feistiness, and yet she’s refreshing, authentic,
determined. And so fiery.
The whole lunch service, I tried to throw her off guard. Not enough to make her to slip up, just
enough to keep her attention. She didn’t reproach me, not overtly anyway. But I felt her assessing me
with every glance, evaluating my every demand.
She wasn’t letting me get away with anything, even though she didn’t say a word. That’s the kind
of woman who makes me wonder. And I’m nothing if not a man in pursuit of the world’s most
wondrous things.
The restaurant feels particularly empty without her here.
Ghosts of my past fill the space instead. I used to run through the legs of these chairs, hiding under
tablecloths and sneaking cutlery for my fort in the garden back home. Papa reprimanded me for it, but
not with any degree of seriousness. He took such pleasure in my brother and I enjoying the place. It
was always his dream we would take the business over one day.
His dream, not mine.
Those were the days before our restaurants became an international sensation. There weren’t even
restaurants. There was only restaurant, a single one. This one. It was from these tiles that our family
legacy was built.
And now that legacy is under fire.
So many hours of the day are consumed in trying to find a way out of our present circumstances.
I suspect our little American Natalie will help with some of the optics, but she won’t be enough.
Competition is high. I know our potential is great, but how do I tap into it?
What I’d do for a vacation, the one I keep planning and never take. Or even just to be at our
country home, breathing in the fresh air, maintaining the vines, swimming in the pool under the stars.
Life is so fleeting. I’ve seen firsthand the fragility of life, first with Grandfather, then with Mother.
The tabloids splash my seeming life of luxury over their pages— wouldn’t that be nice.
If only my life were half as carefree as the magazines make it sound. But I can’t let go now;
Grandmama dedicated her whole life to these restaurants. Never has the world seen such a force as
she. Every moment she’s lived has been for us. I must find a way—for her and for us all.
The air is humid and fresh from the spring showers, a breeze brushing against my face. Images of
Natalie sneak in— the way she ran down the street, desperate for the metro, getting drenched once
again. It’s easy to imagine her running up and down the streets of Paris, a wild Texan deer who has
taken the city by storm.
Not at all a drowned rat, though how I loved seeing the fire light in her eyes when I called her
that. Natalie is wild and free, not beholden to the standards and rules that so many French women in
my circle feel rule their lives.
As I gather my things and lock up the restaurant, the night air whisks by my cheek. Paris under the
streetlights remains magical, even if I remain partial to the country air.
The walk to the Metro will do me good, for my mind is rushing with thoughts of the day gone by
and the girl who has captured my imagination. I can picture Natalie as if she were in front of me, a
free spirit prancing about with her hair stuck to her cheeks and her dress clinging to her every curve.
 It seems the new American girl made quite an impression on me. I only wish I didn't have to wait
until Tuesday to see her.
Here comes the rain again, though I knew enough to bring my umbrella. Imagine she were under it
with me now, us strolling together through the wet Paris evening.
It’s a harmless dream of a harmless girl. One who cannot make coffee to save her life.
CHAPTER 7
 Natalie

UNBELIEVABLE .
It’s like a single cloud followed me all the way home. Places on the pavement were dry until I got
there. It seems my luck with divine intervention finally ran out.
Not only am I dripping, soaking wet, marching up a hundred and thirty-three stairs, but the big
boss of the Bouchon Noir was both grumpy in the morning and insufferable the rest of the day.
It’s unbearable having to control my every move, knowing he was watching me like a hawk. It
was almost as though he was looking for an excuse to fire me.
But he won’t. The Bouchon Noir needs me too much. That’s not just me tooting my own horn. At
this Friday’s big wine reveal, there will be international journalists, critics, and connoisseurs alike
flooding the place. It’s a great opportunity for reputation building, which is the very reason I’m there.
If Olivier Dubois wants to fire me, he will definitely wait until the wine reveal has passed. After
that, all bets are off. Maybe that’s why he showed up early yesterday, putting on the whole show about
coming especially to visit this restaurant.
The hundred and thirty-three stairs go by in a flash because when I’m in this kind of mood, I could
argue with an empty house. I throw open the door to the apartment with superhuman strength.
“Ouch!” someone screams from behind it. “I was standing there.”
It was a serious design flaw that the kitchen counter is directly behind the door.
“I could’ve cut myself, you know.” Jessica pokes her head around. “Whoa. What happened to
you?”
“I am not in the mood, okay?” I toss my bag onto the sofa with poor aim and Chrissy has to swat it
away from her face.
“Natalie’s not in the mood,” Gina whispers to Laura, as if everyone couldn’t hear her.
“Not in the mood for what?” Annelise asks from behind her magazine. “I wasn’t in the mood for
coming to France and I did it anyway.”
“Yeah, but you’d whine that the world’s biggest diamond was too flashy. When has Natalie ever
said she wasn’t in the mood for something?”
Laura emerges from the bathroom, her hair in a towel. “Ooh la la,” she says, “Natalie’s not in the
mood? It must be bad.”
“As I was saying,” I continue, “I am not in the mood to talk about my horrible day with my
horrible boss who is a horrible, arrogant, frustratingly gorgeous fancy-pants Frenchman.”
They exchange a series of glances with a look I recognize too well. This studio apartment is full
of the people I know best in the world.
“Don’t look at each other like that. I’m being serious.”
 “You’re also soaking wet.” Laura tosses her towel to me. “And we know you want to talk about it.
You always want to talk about it.”
“About him? No, thank you. He thinks he can just march in and make fun of his staff, play mean
little jokes, and then expect us to be at his beck and call. I, for one, won’t take it.”
“You’re going to quit?” Gina’s eyes widen. “But you love this job.”
“I’m not going to quit the job, but I am going to quit being Little Miss Nice Guy.”
Chrissy and Jess exchange a look.
“But that’s your brand,” Chrissy says. “Don’t you think that’s her brand, Jess?”
“It sure is. Natalie, they specifically hired you to be Little Miss Nice Guy.”
“I can be nice to the customers. I can even be nice to the staff. But as for Olivier Dubois, he will
only get the professional, cool, calm, and collected Natalie McBride. He called me a drowned rat!” I
toss my hair back, casting drops into Gina’s face. “I don’t care if his eyes are like emeralds floating
on the Mediterranean Sea during the full moon. That is no reason to track my every move during my
shift at the restaurant.”
Their heads turn to each other.
“Why are you doing that again?”
“Because,” Laura says, “first of all, you do look like a drowned rat. Second of all, men in general
—and Frenchmen even more so—have very strange mating rituals.”
“It’s not like that.”
“Maybe it’s exactly like that, huh? Also, you haven’t gotten this worked up about anything since
Ms. Cunningham accused you of cheating on the eleventh grade math final exam.”
“I didn’t cheat!”
“That’s exactly my point.”
“The lady doth protest too much,” Annelise adds, looking at Laura. “I think you might be on to
something there.”
“That’s it. I’m going for a shower.” I throw down my bag and march for the bathroom.
“Hey, I was in line next,” Chrissy calls out.
“And then it was supposed to be me,” Gina says, but I give them all a sharp look.
“Yes, fine,” Chrissy says, “you deserve the hot water. But no leg shaving. I want to shower before
the picnic.”
“Picnic?” I gesture to my wet self. “Do you have any idea what the weather’s like out there?”
“Have you looked out the window?” Gina asks with a cheeky smile.
Well, I’ll be darned. Full sunshine. The heavens were playing a trick on me.
“Listen,” Jess says, standing in the door of the bathroom as I try to peel off my crepe pantsuit.
“You’re coming to this picnic with us. Don’t even try to say otherwise. We’re going to have a great
time. We’ll get your mind off of everything that’s going on over there at the Cochon Noir.”
“It’s Bouchon Noir.”
“It is? But Cochon sounds so good.”
“Except that Cochon Noir means black pig.”
“Ohh.” Jess frowns. “I thought it meant black cushion. Sounded awfully fancy. Now go wash up.
We’re leaving in an hour.”
I am still soaking wet, having just stepped out the shower, when my telltale ringtone echoes
throughout the apartment.
Yes, it’s the Titanic theme song, and yes, everyone judges me for it.
But when we moved into this little place with six iPhones, we needed to each have our own
sound. Every time something beeped, buzzed, or dinged, six of us would jump for our phones. I didn’t
need to battle anyone for the use of “My Heart Will Go On” as my ringtone.
“Where is it?” I call into the room. “Someone grab it. It’s probably Mom and Dad.”
The next problem with a closet-sized apartment is that noise echoes in all directions and our stuff
is everywhere.
“I think it’s over here,” Gina calls as she lifts a sweater. “Nope. Not here.”
“I’ll check in the kitchen.” Annelise drags herself from the sofa to glance into the corner with a
fridge that we call the kitchen. “Nope. Not here.”
“Got it.” Laura holds up my phone in triumph just as it finishes ringing. “Sorry,” she says, the
silent phone in her hand.
“No problem.” I urgently dry myself. Mom will call back in a minute.
I’m pulling my shirt over my head when, right on time, the Titanic flute sings out again. I answer
on FaceTime.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Hello, lovely. Hi, girls,” Mom sings out.
“Hi, Mom,” they all sing back. It’s a habit we picked up when we all got our first cell phones.
“Ah, you just got out of the shower. That’s why you didn’t answer.”
“That’s right, Mom.” No need to go into the details.
“Heading out?”
“Soon. We’re having a picnic.”
“Under the Eiffel Tower,” Gina calls out.
“A picnic under the Eiffel Tower! Oh, how exotic. Did you hear that, Chuck? They’re going for a
picnic under the Eiffel Tower. It’s a dream come true,” Mom says, pulling the phone close to her face.
“But you just be careful. Keep your bag on you at all times. Do you wear that money belt I gave you?”
“Yes, Mom.” It’s a white lie but it makes her feel better.
“And the restaurant?”
“Fine, but we really have to get going for this picnic…” No need to tell her it was anything but
fine with obnoxious Olivier Dubois staring over my shoulder. I prefer that Mom thinks that I’m having
only the best time of my life, which ninety-nine percent of the time is true.
“We’ll catch up during the week. We have to talk specifics about your father’s and my trip to the
Big P!”
Super cringe. “Paris, Mom. No one calls it the Big P.”
“Really? I was sure I heard someone call it that on T.V.”
“Definitely not. But yes, can’t wait to talk about it. You’re going to love Paris.”
“You go have a delightful picnic, then. Bye, girls,” she sings out.
“Bye, Mom,” they reply.
“Love you, dear.” My screen goes black as she covers the camera with her finger. “Where’s that
hang up button,” she mutters to herself so I save her the trouble and disconnect the call like I do every
time. It’s cute.
Laura locks the door behind us and we trek down the five flights with baskets and blankets in
hand.
I know I’ve said this before, and I’m probably going to say it a thousand times more, but is there
anything more beautiful than Paris in the spring?
With the sun out and the clouds all but cleared away, the esplanade below the Eiffel Tower is lush
and green with the fresh burst of the season.
 The ground is a little damp, but leave it to Laura to think of everything.
“A tarp,” she calls out before we dare to lay down the picnic blanket. “Can’t have our little buns
getting moist now.”
“Ew,” Annelise cries out. “Don’t say that word.”
“Which? Moist?”
“No, buns.” She grimaces at our laughter.
We aren’t the only ones with the idea of a picnic under the Eiffel Tower. The stretch of grass is
full of happy picnickers. Every bench has at least one elderly person on it, most of them filled with
two or three folks telling jokes and chuckling. Everyone knows the sunshine won’t last. We have to
make the most of every second.
Gina grunts. “Why does this sausage have to be so delicious but so darn hard to cut. It’s like it’s
taunting me.”
“Give it here. I might hate most things about being away from home, but this sausage is too good
to pass up.” Annelise takes the mini cutting board and steak knife. She tosses the knife in the air,
catches it, and slices the dried sausage like a martial arts star, much to our gawking surprise.
Laura raises her eyebrows at me as she pours rosé wine into little picnic glasses.
“Pass the tomatoes,” Jess opens her mouth and Chrissy launches a cherry tomato right on target.
“Another one, Sissy Chrissy!”
“Quit it with that stupid name!” Chrissy whips the tomato into Jess’s cheek, sending us all
laughing.
“Excuse me,” a man’s voice interrupts.
From our spot on the ground, we all turn to see who dares to intervene in our moment. The sun is
behind him, his silhouette tall as he scratches his head.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he says and shifts his position so we aren’t squinting at him. “I couldn’t help but
overhear you speaking English.”
It’s Adonis. That’s right. Adonis has risen from the grave and recreated himself as a twenty-
something Frenchman, and he’s standing in front of me right now.
Don’t drool, Natalie. It’s not polite.
“Are you American?” he asks.
We say nothing. Clearly his superpower is shutting up a group of chatty girls with just one look.
Someone elbows me.
“Yes,” I finally reply. “American, we are.” Because now I speak English like Yoda.
“Ahh, I am so glad to hear it. You see my friends and I”—he gestures to a group of equally
stunning men— “we are learning English for a big trip to America.”
“You don’t say,” Laura jumps in. “Well then, you better just join us over here on our picnic
blanket, huh? Set your little selves down and let’s chaw the rag.”
He looks confused. I better save him.
“I’m sorry. She was talking Texan, but we promise to only speak English with you and your
friends. Come on over.”
It’s like seven brothers for six brides. A guy with dark clean-cut hair sits beside me.
“I am sorry,” he says. “My English no is so good.” He smiles in embarrassment, and my heart
melts a little. Yes, this was one of the other reasons that I’ve come to France. Annie found her great
love, why shouldn’t I? Eiffel Tower, beautiful day, fabulous friends—and more cute men with French
accents than I can count.
“Hey, Natalie,” Annelise calls from across the blanket. “Michel here is curious about your
rulebook.”
“Is he now?” I lift an eyebrow in his direction.
“Is true,” Michel replies in a thick accent and poor grammar. “All I want to know is how is the
next rule. Because we must abide it.” His eyes sparkle almost as much as his smile.
“Well, Michel,” I say, pulling out my book from my satchel, “Let’s have a look.”
I clear my throat and dramatically flip to the page. “Rule number thirty-six. Only drink wine at set
hours of the day.”
“This is perfect,” Michel declares. “Right now is the set hour of the day!”
I slam the book closed without reading another line. “Well, that is perfect. Cheers, everybody.”
“Cheers!” they all reply, raising their little plastic glasses of excellent, inexpensive rosé in the air.
CHAPTER 8
 Olivier

THE PEACEFULNESS OF MONDAYS , the only day of the week we’re closed, gives me space to breathe.
It’s easy to forget the pace of Paris after spending a couple of days in the countryside. My studies in
advanced hospitality management and the brief internship at the Cordon Bleu have set me up to
succeed in this breakneck business. The problem is that the business is changing, and the classic
approach of French luxury restaurants has to keep up.
If I could only take that vacation to America I’ve been planning for two years…
And here I go again, thoughts drifting back to the wet American girl running through the rain.
I usually love this quiet time, but not today. The restaurant is too quiet.
The ping of my phone interrupts that unhelpful train of thought, particularly since I know who it is.
I flip the phone over so I can pretend I didn’t see it. Camille, the only other person besides the
chef here this day of the week, heads over and drops a magazine loudly on the table in front of me.
“Voilà,” is all she says with pursed lips.
Staring up at me from the cover of the magazine is my own face. A long sigh escapes my lips in
spite of myself.
I don’t have to read it to know what it says. The life of a playboy, a modern culinary prince.
Days filled with limo rides to important gatherings. Nights full of parties, champagne, and caviar.
The paparazzi love it when I lean close to a woman to have a conversation, setting alight rumors of
who Olivier Dubois’s lover might be.
They couldn’t be more wrong.
That might be the life I wish I led, and from the outside, it looks glamorous. But what is glamor
when it’s shrouded in obligation and duty?
The tabloids don’t see that side. They’re not interested in what happens behind closed doors, nor
the truth. To them, I am just a character in a story they love to tell, the one that sells magazines.
Instead of living luxury, I’m spending my Monday reviewing marketing proposals from firms who
have promised to help Dubois Estates take over the world. They speak of dancers, of great reveals, of
royalty gracing our restaurants to draw in a new crowd. Stacks and stacks of marketing proposals,
each one like the next, with glossy pictures, swirling fonts, and empty promises. All of this comes at a
cost we just don’t have available with our current cash flow. Father’s model for the restaurant always
relied on procuring the best ingredients in the world. And that comes with a price tag that only
increases year on year. But it would be easier to repaint the Eiffel Tower with a ten-foot ladder than
to get Father to change.
My phone pings again, and I am tempted to put it on silent. I’m not interested in anything she has
to say right now. She, like the paparazzi, creates her own story that is loosely based on reality.
Simone has not changed since we were children; I never knew if she was speaking the truth or just a
version of it.
I try to focus on the proposals, though I don’t know that any of them are going to make a
difference.
They all think the purpose is to take Dubois Estates to the next level. What they don’t know is that
we need to swim out of the quicksand. Between the rising costs and the bad publicity, we’re
struggling more than we ever have in our history, though only the family knows how bad it has
become.
The phone pings again.
I flip it over to find six unread messages from Simone. No, Simone. Not today.
The phone rings in my hand, sending me nearly flying off the chair. I answer before I can stop
myself.
“Olivier!”
“Simone. What a pleasure.”
“Don’t you ‘what a pleasure’ me. You’re ignoring me, and I know it.”
“I’m just very—”
“Busy. I know. Busy, busy, busy, and yet the restaurant’s books continue to be unbalanced.”
“I’m trying to—”
“Do what you must, Olivier, but remember that we have tickets for the opera. The Bettencourts,
Pinaults, and Wertheimers are all going to be there, and we must be among them on arrival if we are
to reap the publicity benefits.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Your father has already approved the plan.”
Leave it to Simone to go behind my back to create social plans with my father that implicate me
without my approval. Father is too petrified that I’ll be a permanent bachelor and give up the family
business that he bends to anything Simone says.
And then holds me to it.
“Wear your Gucci sunglasses. They look good in photos.”
“It will be nighttime…” I say to an empty phone.
As I’m about to flick the switch to silent, the phone rings in my hand, once again sending my heart
into my throat. My father’s image fills the screen.
“Hello, Father. How is Italy?”
“Olivier,” he says in that tone of voice I know means I’m about to get an earful of everything he
thinks should happen, could happen, would have happened, and will happen regarding the Opera and
the wine event on Friday.
He’s nervous, I get it. It’s been hard for him to let go of managing the restaurants himself, but he
had to. His heart simply could not deal with the stress of managing a multi-million dollar business. It
was time for his to rest. It was a privilege for me to take up the reins from him. Now I need him to
step even further back and let me lead the way that I feel best.
“Olivier, Olivier.” He shakes his head as I tell him about my plans. “No, no, no.” The next twenty
minutes are overtaken by his anxieties. What if no journalists come on Friday? What if those who
come already have a preset idea about who we are and what we’re trying to do? What if the wines
aren’t received with the grandeur they deserve?
I do my best to reassure him, but after the recent scandals—which had nothing to do with the menu
but rather with our service to customers—we have had to pivot. A fact I remind him of. At last, Father
nods.
“That will do,” he says and hangs up abruptly.
Pivoting is a modern concept and father is old fashioned. In his mind, we’re still in the golden
days of the Michelin restaurants where the chef was always right and the customer had the privilege
to experience culinary delights beyond the imagination. Customer service did not even have a
translation in French.
But times have changed, and now we have Natalie.
Natalie.
I thought I could put that girl out of my mind, but she has a way of weaving herself back in. Could
she be thinking of me like this?
No, certainly not. A young woman discovering the pleasures of Paris. What am I to her? Just her
boss.
Ever since Camille told me she hired a girl from Texas, I had to put that famous southern
hospitality to the test. The charade with the coffee barely destabilized her, just as I’d hoped. She
maintained her composure, didn’t second-guess herself. Had I pulled that same stunt at a typical
French café, not only would I have had to pay for three coffees, but they would not have allowed me
back.
To be fair, she did serve me wastewater.
Natalie…
I try not to be consumed by thoughts of her now. The countdown to Friday’s event is on. The
whole thing is exhausting. Maybe I just need to put my head down for a moment, visualize success,
imagine the glowing reviews that will be published around the world when our new wine varieties
take the gastronomic world by storm…
Yes, I can see it now. Glasses raised in celebration and smiles on everyone’s faces. Their eyes
close as they sip what can only be described as the taste of dreams…
A tapping on the window rouses me. Camille, her eyebrows raised, waves goodbye and I notice
it’s dark outside. How long was I out? I’m sure I was imagining the taste of dreams only a moment
ago.
Midnight. I have to be back here in eight hours. If only I could do what I did when I was a child
and curl up in the corner until Mother lifted me into her arms to take us home.
At least Paris in the midnight streetlights is a glorious sight. I do love the country home, but
there’s nowhere in the world like Paris.
I take in a deep breath and lift my face to the sky, and feel something hit my face. What was that?
I’m sure I just felt a—yes, a raindrop. And another. And another. I can’t help but laugh as I run toward
the metro station. Seems Natalie and I have much in common, as despite the forecast, I am without my
umbrella.
I still can’t get the idea out of my mind, of her and I running together through this storm. That I
could take her in my arms and swing her around, her face full of delight with that wide smile of
reckless abandon that only an American girl can have.
What a dream.
Another random document with
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beheld it in a sombre hue. The heavens were overcast, the mist, once of a
dazzling whiteness now took a dusky tint, and hung over the cataract like a
mourning veil. It was more in accordance with my feelings than to have
bade her adieu while she was smiling in the ‘bright garish eye of day’—one
might fancy she was sad at losing such true worshippers. But you cannot
understand such feelings now, they no doubt seem ridiculous—come here,
and you will experience the truth of such emotions. At two o’clock, soon
after dinner, we sat out on the rail road for Buffalo. The road for some time
is laid along the river bank, and gives us a fine view of the islands, rapids,
and other objects of interest, as Fort Schlosser, and Chippewa,—and then a
long low wooded island floating upon the bosom of the broad stream was
shown, as Navy island, the head quarters of the Canadian revolutionist in
’37 and ’38. The band have however now dispersed, and the island has
returned to its parent, promising never to do so any more. It contains 700[5]
acres of good land. The river now begins to expand from one mile to eight,
including Grand Island in the centre. This is twelve miles in length, and
contains 17,384 acres of rich land and stately timber. A neat village called
White Haven stands upon its shore, containing among other buildings, a
steam saw mill which furnishes ship stuff from 20 to 70 feet in length. A
fine situation, for such an establishment, as there is plenty of the raw
material for this manufacture in sight all around.
There are 15 or 20 islands between the falls and Lake Erie, some of them
very pretty, adorned with clumps of maple, oak, or cedar. Upon one of
them, Tonawanda isle, is a fine mansion with cultivated grounds and fields
around it. Our road lay through a village of the same name situated upon
Tonawanda creek, a small place through which runs the Erie canal. We had
sufficient time to survey the beauties of Rattle-snake Island at our leisure,
for, when just opposite, a part of our engine gave way, and we came to a
sudden pause. The male passengers were soon out, to discover the cause,
and came back with a report that we could proceed no farther, as the injury
was very great. We were declared to be ‘in a pretty fix.’ A horse was
procured from a house in sight, and a man was despatched upon it to
Buffalo about eight miles distant. Many of the passengers sat out to walk to
Black rock 4 miles a head, where they could procure carriages to take them
to Buffalo. The rest of us remained seated in the coaches, with a hot July
sun streaming through the windows. What should we do—scold at the road,
or the train, or the engineers? No, an American never vexes himself about
such things—he is calm and indifferent under every circumstance. Some of
us fell to reading, some to napping and some to rambling. We undertook the
latter, but as we were only surrounded by ploughed fields soon returned to
the coach, where I busied myself in writing the above. Pray read on if it is
only to repay me for my sufferings those two hours in the heat. I think I had
better abuse this rail road a little, for it deserves it. Do not, however,
suppose I am vexed at being left thus ‘sitting on a rail!’ The iron is ripped
up in several places, causing a jolt when we strike against these land snags,
and a man rides beside the engineer with a hammer to nail them down. It is
the worst rail road I ever travelled over: however, as it is only used a few
months in the year when Niagara is fashionable, perhaps it may not yield
sufficient profit to allow much expense upon it. Something is seen coming
up the road—all heads are out, and we hope to be released from our captive
state—it turns out to be the return train which had been waiting for our
engine and cars, and now has been obliged to take horses instead. As it was
impossible to pass us, the passengers and their baggage were turned out,
and placed in our coaches, to the Niagara end of which their horses were
fastened. They looked very sourly at us while this was passing, thinking
perhaps of the maxim of Pythagoras to his scholars—Do not remain in the
highway. They wondered at us for sitting in their highway, depriving them
of their engine, and condemning them to the loss of a fine afternoon at
Niagara. Some of them perhaps might have been of that whisking class of
tourists who intended to return the next morning early, and to them it would
be quite a loss.
A joyous shout announced the appearance of our horses, and we were
soon on our way again. We passed through Black Rock, a considerable
village, and then followed the Erie canal for some distance. The last two
miles were upon the borders of Lake Erie which stretched away a mighty
mass of green waters, to the horizon. As this was our first view of our great
‘inland seas, we gazed upon it with much interest. There are many
handsome villas in the vicinity of the town commanding fine views of the
lake and city; one of them, a large Gothic stone mansion, promises to be
quite an ornament to the country if ever finished. At Buffalo we drove of
course to the American Hotel, as its fame had reached us at home. It is a
large stone building, well kept, and elegantly furnished. The drawing room
is as handsome as any in the country, and the dining room is a large airy
commodious apartment lighted with five large gilded chandeliers. The
staircases and halls are of oak covered with copper in some places—the
bedrooms, private parlors, table and attendance as good as we could find in
our boasted city. There is here also a public room, hired sometimes, for
concerts and lectures, which is well lighted with chandeliers and set round
with green silk couches. In fact every thing is good and neat.

June 28th.—Sabbath morning—that blessed day of rest, given in mercy

as a moment of repose in the wearied journey of life to the ‘world’s tired
denizen!’ We felt its benefit, and rejoiced no stage horn could hurry us
onward, and no bell, save the ‘church going bell’, could summon us forth.
The presbyterian church is a plain building, but handsomely fitted up inside,
and very comfortable. Rev. Mr. Lord is the minister, an able and pious man.
We heard in the morning a very interesting discourse from Mr. Stilwell of
the American Bethel Union. He delivered it in a Baptist church in which the
Rev. Mr. Choules officiates when in the city. It is a neat, commodious
building, the pews made of the native black walnut cushioned and lined
with horse hair. A choir of good singers accompanied by instruments led the
music. The society to which Mr. Stilwell belongs devotes itself to the
sailor’s interest. The state of the boatmen upon the Erie canal he reported to
be very wretched. There are about 25,000 boatmen and sailors employed
upon the canal and in lake navigation, who were of the lowest and most
worthless class of men; seeming inaccessible to all efforts for their
reformation or conversion. These, mixing with the lower population of
Buffalo, and other towns on their route, exerted a baneful influence. The
Bethel Union attempted to send missionaries among them, but they were
abused, insulted and almost discouraged. Still, as they felt it their duty,
these self-denying men persevered every Sunday in addressing the men
along the canal, and in presenting bibles and tracts. They soon began
however to have some hope, for when the canal closed last autumn there
were only two men who had refused tracts, and only three who insulted
them. With this success, small as it was, they were excited to go on, hoping
the Lord was smiling upon their labors. The minister most successful
among them had once been a canal boy himself, and while sitting upon his
horse dragging the boat, employed himself for hours in inventing new and
strange oaths to surprise his fellow boatmen. The men now readily listened
to him. They were conscious of their degradation, knew they were despised
by all good men, and never hoped to rise. Seeing now, one of their number
so bright and shining a light, they trusted a boatman’s name would not
always be an object of scorn. These poor men complained to him, that they
had no day of rest, as there was as much forwarding upon the Sabbath as
upon any other day. The Captains of the lake boats were also obliged to
struggle against this evil, and in some instances had renounced their trade
upon that account, or upon remonstrance had been turned adrift for some
less scrupulous Captain. The fault then seems to lie upon the forwarding
merchants, whom Mr. Stillwell addressed, begging their forbearance in this
respect.
It is to be hoped this address produced its intended effect, and the
merchants who claim a day of repose for themselves, have granted the same
to the unfortunate boatmen.[6]

June 29.—This morning we sent for a carriage and sat out to see the city
and make some visits. Buffalo, although suffering with all our cities in the
stagnation of trade, seems to be doing a great deal of business. The rows of
shops, and handsome ware-houses, seem to contain every article necessary
for comfort or luxury. It is a larger city than Rochester, but has not its air of
elegance and neatness. The town was burnt by their neighbors, the
Canadians, in 1814, but has since been rebuilt. The streets are wide and
airy, Maine street, the principal avenue, is more than a mile in length. The
churches are neat buildings, one of them, a catholic, promises, when
finished, to be handsome. The court house is a solid well built edifice
having pillars up to the roof. The markets are very good also. The city is
well situated upon ground rising gently from the lake, the upper part being
covered with handsome private dwellings, which thus obtain fine views of
the lake and surrounding country, and secure for themselves room for their
gardens which are very prettily laid out. There is here also a military station
for the United States troops, whose barracks, comfortable brick buildings,
are built around the parade ground and surrounded by a good wall. Our
friend’s cottage was upon elevated ground looking down upon the green
Niagara river, and enjoying a view of the lake in front, and behind an extent
of country covered with the untamed forest. It was the first time I had seen
a forest landscape, and I looked with much interest upon this vast plain of
green leaves reaching to the distant horizon; a smoke curled in one spot
telling of some settler clearing his way through the green wood. The
handsomest private dwellings here do not affect the Gothic or Grecian,
which had prevailed along our road, but were substantial square stone or
brick buildings, having a marble portico in front, an cupola upon the top,
surrounded by a fancy railing. Our drive around Buffalo was very
interesting, and we wondered, as we marked such a mass of solid buildings,
and depots of articles from every region in the world, and such throngs of
human beings deposited in a wilderness, but a few years redeemed from the
Indian, the buffalo, and the bear. What industry, what energy, has been
employed to bring hither all these materials. Buffalo is a frontier town, and
grand portal of the west, through which is flowing a constant stream of
travellers and emigrants. This mixture of all nations in the streets, give them
an unique appearance. Here you see the Indian beau with his tunic bound
with a crimson sash, his hat surrounded by a circle of feathers; his deer skin
pantaloons richly embroidered in barbaric patterns, while ribbons and
tassels swing out from his dress at every step. After him will pass a band of
United States soldiers; then a rough back-woodsman, upon a horse looking
as wild as himself, its uncut mane and tail waving in the wind as he gallops
violently through the streets. Then follows a party of comical German
emigrants; a scarlet clad British officer; a Canadian; a Frenchman; a wild
looking son of Erin; a sturdy ruddy, gaiter legged English farmer; a
Tonawanda squaw with her papoose upon her back; and lastly the dainty
lady traveller with her foreign abigal, and fantastically dressed children.
Among the crowd I observed a curious figure—a one legged negro, wearing
an old uniform coat with ruffled cuffs, ringing a bell most energetically. The
old English custom of sending a bell-man to proclaim the loss of any
article, prevails here, as in some of our other towns, I believe. ‘What is lost,
Sambo?’ inquired a person. ‘Your wits, massa,’ he replied quickly, setting
his juvenile train off in a fit of laughter. To another inquirer, he replied, ‘My
leg is lost, don’t you see’ holding up the stump. He is, I suppose a
privileged wit, who, if he cannot set the table, no doubt does the street in a
roar. The Buffalonians are a gay social people. The unamiable fashion of
exclusiveness being very little known here, for, living where the population
is continually changing and where strangers are constantly claiming their
hospitality, they have acquired an easy unsouciant manner, and are ever
forming social meetings to entertain the stranger. Our letters procured for us
much kind attention, and we had an opportunity of witnessing this free
hospitable spirit. In the afternoon one of our friends called, and we drove
down where a fanciful yacht awaited us, and a pleasant party of ladies and
gentlemen, for the purpose of taking us over to the ruined fort opposite the
city. This is a favorite picnic haunt of the young citizens. Fort Erie is upon
the Canadian shore, opposite Buffalo, just at the point where the Niagara
river runs out of lake Erie. It was destroyed during the war of 1812.
I have scarcely enjoyed any thing so much as that sail over Lake Erie.
The lake is here five or six miles broad. The water rushes swiftly past, as if
eager to accomplish its glorious destiny of plunging over the rocks of
Niagara, there to be a spectacle which nations come from afar to gaze upon.
We caught the excitement which seemed to animate the water, as we were
tossed upon its wavelets with quick, gay, tilting motion; and gazed with
much delight at the novel objects around us. The city, with its numerous
domes and spires; the bright Niagara rushing and gurgling at a rapid rate
over the ledge of rocks which once was Erie’s barrier ere the waters burst
their bounds—the gulls wheeling above us, or floating upon the waves; and
above all, that immense lake, that mighty mass of sparkling emerald water,
stretching far into the mysterious west. The air, breathing from the fresh
forest and cool lake, was so refreshing that I was almost sorry when we
reached the shore. Landing upon a sandy beach, we repaired to the fort,
where under the shadow of a ruined wall, we seated ourselves upon the
green sward, and while refreshing ourselves with the contents of our
provision baskets, our discourse fell upon the hapless fate of those whose
blood had dyed the fair turf around us; or upon other scenes which occurred
during that border war. But now all this is over; conqueror and vanquished
are both beneath the ‘clod of the valley’; the echo of the war trump has died
away; the green earth smiles again as peacefully as if it had never drank the
blood of the dying, and wall, and bastion, are fast crumbling into their
parent elements. The lake, the sky, the shore, are no longer vexed with
sights and sounds of strife. Alas! whence come wars and fighting among
us? Must these things always be? Must earth’s children ever thus hack and
tear each other? And we who are brethren, whose homes are in sight upon
either shore of this bright lake, can we not dwell in unity? They who have
opposite creeds, who differ in dress, in manner, in language, may and will
rival, dislike, detest, fight and exterminate each other; but we, who are sons
of the same father, who speak the same tongue, Oh, must we be ever thus at
enmity?
[7] Though ages long have passed
Since our fathers left their home;
Their pilot in the blast
O’er untravelled seas to roam,—
Yet lives the blood of England in our veins!

And still from either beach

The voice of blood shall reach,
More audible than speech,
“We are one!”

I have said this is a favorite place of resort, and here a party of gay
young people came to avoid the noise of the city, and spend a quiet day
with their books and work, upon the fourth of July. Their little feast was
spread under the shade of the fortress, and they were in the act of drinking
to the day, when they were suddenly taken captive by a band of English
soldiers. It was at that unhappy time when Canada was disturbed by
revolutionary projects, and it was naturally imagined they had come there
purposely to insult them. It was an imprudent frolic, and they paid dearly
for it; they were marched off three miles to a military station, where, after
being fully examined and no signs of revolution being found upon them,
they were suffered to depart and return as they best might. I relate the
anecdote to show how easily we may mistake each other’s motives, and
how soon ill-blood may be brewed between those who are suspicious of
each other, and ready to take offence.
While we were thus discoursing, the sky grew gradually dark, and a veil
of blackness was let down over the lake, giving token of a thunder shower.
We were soon in the boat which tossed very much, but we had able young
seamen who landed us safely just as the sun, bursting forth, smiled at our
idle fears. An evening of social pleasure ended our agreeable day.
June 30th.—This morning we were again employed in rambling about
the city. The situation of Buffalo is calculated to make it a great commercial
mart. It is upon the high road to the west, and will command much of the
business of the lakes, while the great Erie canal connects it with the
Atlantic. This canal is indeed a ‘herculean achievement.’ It is three hundred
and sixty-three miles in length, forty feet wide, and four deep; contains six
hundred and eighty-eight feet of locks; is crossed by several fine aqueducts;
and all this was completed in eight years. There are other canals connected
with it. This great artery, bringing up the produce of Europe to the west,
through this city, must increase its prosperity[8] and population.
At twelve o’clock this morning embarked in the steamboat Constellation
for Chicago, through lakes Erie, St. Clair, Huron and Michigan, a distance
of twelve hundred miles, for which we are to pay twenty dollars, ten each.
The wharves as we left them presented a busy scene. We counted forty
steamboats and canal boats, beside several large vessels. Among the latter
was the Queen Charlotte, a stately ship of war belonging to Canada, but
degraded to the ignoble fate of a Buffalo trader. She had, it is true, lost some
of her original brightness ere thus fallen, for she had been twenty-three
years under water, having been sunk in a naval fight on Lake Erie, and
lately raised. The wharves were loaded with produce and merchandize,
while carts, boats, and men, were loading and being unloaded.
We left Buffalo with regret. Its majestic river and noble lake—its back
ground of forests, gay streets, and social people, have left a vivid and
pleasing picture upon our memories. A fine pier, or breakwater as they call
it, of solid mason work extends 1100 feet, protecting the wharves from the
waves. A light house stands upon the end of the pier. When the city had
completely faded into the distant horizon we turned our gaze on our
companions. Upon one corner of the deck was a promiscuous heap of
chairs, children, pots, kettles, men and women, being a family moving west.
That old man with a cocked hat, and large metal buttons, the young man in
a blue frock, and women with embroidered stomachers and indescribable
caps, sitting upon a pile of strange looking articles of husbandry, and huge
unwieldy chests, is a band of emigrants from central Europe. A party of
English gentleman from Canada were there, bound upon a hunting
expedition to Wisconsin—another of Buffalo young men, were going to
while away the summer months in a fishing excursion upon Lake Superior,
a long light skiff being part of their travelling luggage. There were also
tourists for pleasure, information and health like ourselves, and some few
going to inspect lands which they had bought unseen. Our steamboat is a
very fine one although not of the first class. There is a handsome saloon for
the ladies surrounded by a circle of state-rooms opening upon the deck—
below are the eating rooms and gentlemen’s cabin, the whole fitted up with
comfort and elegance. There are about 53 steamboats upon lake Erie, some
of them of six hundred tons, and fitted up with every luxury and elegance,
many costing from $15,000 to $120,000 each. They are built upon a fine
model, and are well finished. The upholsterer’s bill sometimes amounts to
$4,000. They are generally built very strong to resist the waves that run
high here. The complement of men for one of these boats amounts to 40;
the captain receiving $100 a month. After an excellent dinner we ascended
to the promenade deck which, like our Hudson river boats is the uppermost
deck, surrounded with seats. We were out upon lake Erie, and gazed around
us with wonder and delight. The water was a fine dark green, which as the
wind was high, was tossed in waves crested with white foam, or sparkling
spray. The shores were in some places low and wooded, alternating with
gentle elevations, at whose foot ran a line of yellow sand—a sky of purest
azure dotted with fleecy clouds was above. What a lovely scene—

“Where shall we find in foreign land

So lone a lake, so sweet a strand?”

asks Sir Walter. This lake however is rather larger than his Scottish lake, it
being 290 miles long. It has the character of being the most tempestuous of
all the lakes, a fact we were soon able to verify, for in the afternoon the
wind increased to a gale, and the waves dashing against our vessel gave us
each time a shock as if she had struck a rock.
The ladies soon began to feel the effects of such tossing, and one after
another retired to their berths quite ill. Forty-five miles from Buffalo we
stopped at the town of Dunkirk, which is the termination of the New York
and Erie rail road. It commences at Hudson river 25 miles above the city of
New York, a distance of 450 miles from its end. This town, under these
circumstances, is rising rapidly. It has a fine circular bay having two
projecting points which protect it, one and a half miles across—and is one
of the best harbors upon the lake. There is also a pier within the shelter of
which five large schooners were moored. We observed a rail road depot
ready for the future engines and train—a church, tavern and a few stores.
Several little boys came on board with pails of cherries for sale, which they
disposed of at four cents a quart. Here we landed a passenger, an inhabitant
of Dunkirk, who, during the voyage, had been vaunting the advantages of
his town. The day would soon come, he said, when he should no longer
resort to Buffalo for his goods, as the new rail road would bring all the trade
to Dunkirk. Darkness drove us to our state room, which we found replete
with every convenience—a circumstance much to our satisfaction as we
were to spend a week in it ere we reached our destined haven. I would
recommend you if you ever travel this way, to choose, as we did, a state
cabin looking towards the shore, for these boats stop at every considerable
town, and of course keep near the coast. In consequence of this
arrangement, we could, if inclined, sit in our cabin, and through the open
door, or window, behold the scenery at our ease; while those upon the
opposite side, gazed out upon an uniform waste of waters without a shore. I
thus obtained a sight of the town of Erie where we stopped during the night.
Aroused by the noise, I looked from my window and saw the town
distinctly by clear starlight. This town is in Pennsylvania, and is the
termination of the Pittsburg and Erie canal. In the canal basin, beside canal
boats, I saw a large steamboat and several schooners. Presque Isle defends
the harbor. There was a large hotel brightly illuminated, and some stage
coaches, awaiting the arrival of passengers. Erie stands upon a high mass of
Schistose rock surmounted by a stratum of clay—the whole forty feet above
the lake.[9] There is said to be here a neat court house, and several pretty
houses surrounded by trees—the streets are at right angles, and the trade
considerable. There was a bridge spanning the canal, which I hoped was the
one where the revered La Fayette was feted. It was formed into a large tent
by sails and flags, which had waved in the battle upon the lake, under which
was a fine collation. Several ships of war have been built here. You will
surely give me credit of being a first rate correspondent when I leave my
slumbers to collect items for your amusement and edification.

July 1st.—Early this morning we found ourselves off Conneaut, which

we looked upon with interest as belonging to the great state of Ohio. It is a
small place, at the mouth of Conneaut creek near the boundary line between
Pennsylvania and Ohio—is a small but flourishing place. The next town we
passed was Ashtabula, or rather its landing place, the town being some
miles in the interior. A wooden breakwater defends the harbor. A river of
the same harmonious Indian designation empties itself into the lake sullying
its pure acqua-marine, with a dark brown tint which could be distinctly seen
a mile from the shore. The day is lovely—our boat glides swiftly upon her
course. On one hand we have a line of green waving forest coast, where the
oak, the elm, the linden, and the maple, and stately yellow birch are
standing in pretty groups, or gracefully bending over the water—upon the
other we have a shoreless ocean. For miles there are no signs of human
existence, and then some little village appears with its invariable
accompaniment, a pier, lighthouse and schooner. We passed Fairport, at the
mouth of Grand river, and from thence the ground begins to rise, being a
band of argillaceous schist, which extends to Cleveland. This is a beautiful
town standing upon this formation mixed with sand and pebbles elevated
sixty or seventy feet above the lake of which it commands a fine prospect. It
was a pretty object in our view as we approached, its steeples and buildings
crowning the summit of the picturesque cliff. We lay here some hours
taking merchandise, thus enjoying sufficient time to examine it. The
steamboat passed up, the Cuyahoga river through two piers each 1200 feet
in length. Upon each side the ground arose from the river covered with the
buildings of two rival towns, Cleveland and Ohio city. The business streets
are upon the banks of the Cuyahoga river, and the wharves were lined with
vessels, merchandise and native buckeyes, as the Ohio people are called
after their beautiful tree. Cleveland is built upon a plain; the streets running
at right-angles, wide and airy with a pretty square in the centre. There are
six churches, a neat court house, banks, public library, and many handsome
dwelling houses. The population is 7,000 and several newspapers and
periodicals are published here.[10] It is 170 miles from Buffalo. We had
been a day and a half reaching it, on account of our frequent stoppages.
This being the northern termination of the Ohio canal a great deal of
business is done here. Their trade in flour and wheat is very great, they
having exported nearly a million of barrels of flour in one season—cotton,
tobacco and other southern merchandise has passed up from the Ohio river
through the canal. This canal runs the whole length of the state of Ohio to
Portsmouth upon the Ohio river a distance of 309 miles. It is forty feet
wide, four deep, and has 152 locks.[11] The Cuyahoga river is sixty three
miles in length, and running down over the sandstone ledges which abound
in that region, it has a fall of 240 feet, affording a fine water power. From
Buffalo to the borders of Michigan there is a band of alluvion upon the lake
shore from three to twenty miles in width. This is bounded by a ridge of
rocks 40 or 50 feet high once, according to Darby and Schoolcraft, the
original boundary of the lake, thus giving another proof that these lakes
were once higher than at present they are. This ridge is composed of
micaceous limestone, and schistose rocks, covered with farms, and groves
of beech and oak which attain to a large size. Yesterday afternoon while
sailing upon the lake, we observed these hills making a pretty back ground
to the towns on the shore—now it trends too much to the interior to be seen.
In this ridge arise waters which flow each way, some into lake Erie, and
others, as the Muskingum and Alleghany, into the valley of the Ohio. This
last river, becoming the Ohio, falls into the gulf of Mexico ‘upwards of
twelve degrees of latitude from its source.’[12] Successive ledges or steppes
of sandstone rock lead down to the lake, over which the rivers flow in
rapids or falls, making the scenery in that region very beautiful. We took in
at Cleveland several barrels of flour, and nails, and Selma salt, and boxes of
merchandise,—landed several passengers, and then left this interesting
town. It must, I imagine be a very delightful place of residence. The
Cuyahoga could be distinctly traced some distance from the shore in a long
dark line.
The swell in the lake still continuing, most of our passengers had
become too ill to leave their berths. A horse which was at the other end of
the vessel also became affected. Our German emigrants felt it least, as they
had been seasoned by crossing the Atlantic. I saw them seated upon their
packages, eating brown bread and cheese as merrily as ever. Their passage
costs them little as they provide their own frugal fare, and sleep upon their
goods on the deck. Several others pursued this economical plan. The
emigrants from the German and Swiss nations are invaluable to us and
ought to be warmly received, for in industry, economy and patience, they
set a very excellent example to our extravagant people. They always
succeed; their settlements and farms present an admirable order and
neatness, and yield a rich reward to their patient labor. The restless spirit,
the excitement, caused by a hope of rising in the world, of seeing no one
above him, which animates the American bosom, and many of our
transplanted brethren, never agitates them. Where they plant themselves
they remain, and in labor and social duties, pass the even tenor of their way.
The motion, rendered it impossible to walk, or even stand unless supported,
and instead of being unpleasant to me, I have seldom experienced
sensations so novel and delightful. My companion being an old traveller felt
no ill effects from it either. Leaning over the railing, we watched the vessel
as she surmounted one huge wave to sink again as soon. The fresh western
breeze, breathing perfume from the forest clad shores, exhilerated our
spirits, and spread forth our star-spangled banner in a bright canopy over
our heads. Two noble steamboats filled with passengers from the ‘far west’
passed us with their banners flying, the bells of the three boats ringing out
their friendly salutations to each other. They are gone—the white foam of
their track alone remaining to show where so many human beings had just
been wafted away. How glorious was that sunset on lake Erie! Dark and
stormy clouds had gradually gathered from every quarter, and now dropped
down as a veil over the west concealing the sun from our view, and the lake
is one vast gloomy abyss. But see—some fairy hand has touched the clouds
with gold and purple and every gorgeous hue—the surface of the water is
streaked with rose, and every wave is gilded. The towers of Cleveland now
distinctly painted against the dark horizon, are glittering as if cut from
jewelry. Our fears of storms are vanishing, when suddenly a black terrific
cloud spotted with fiery blood color, appeared in front of us, as if the Indian
Manitou had arisen from the lake to arrest our progress and forbid our
farther entrance into his dominions. Larger and larger it grew, until the
heavens were covered with inky blackness, A terrible blast lashed the lake
into fury—the waves arose in their might as if to reject us from its bosom—
our vessel careened fearfully upon one side, and confusion ensued. Men
hurried forward to remove the merchandise to the other side and trim the
vessel—women’s heads were, from the cabin doors asking ‘what’s the
matter’ and torrents of rain are surging over the deck. The awnings are
buttoned down—all is proclaimed tight and right, and we retired to our
state-room to listen to the wail of the wind, and write our promised journals.
 LETTER VI.
July 2, 1840.
Dear E.—Rocked by the tempest we slept soundly, but arose in time to
witness a glorious sunrise scene upon lake Erie. We were in the centre of
the lake—no land was visible on either side, save two lonely islands, one of
which was just vanishing upon the distant horizon, while the other one was
only a short distance from our vessel. Suddenly a dazzling radiance shot up
from the east, and in a few moments the sun came rushing from out the
water as if in eager haste to greet his favorite lake. A flood of glory lighted
up the green depths of Erie; tinging the foam with a thousand prismatic
hues, and tipping with gold the white plumage of the birds which were
soaring over our heads. The dark alleys of beech, maple, and hickory which
covered the island, and its pebbly shore covered with diamond spray, were
illumined with the morning rays, receiving new beauty from every touch.
We were stretching from Sandusky bay upon the Ohio shore to the Detroit
river; many islands were passed, some of them quite large. Cuningham
island contains 2,000 acres. They are of limestone rock covered with forest
trees. Here was the scene of the famous naval battle upon lake Erie, and
these peaceful glades once echoed with the cannon’s roar. I regretted not
seeing Sandusky, a large and pretty town, situated upon a river and bay of
the same name. Here also is the mouth of the Maumee river, or the Miami
of the lakes, northern termination of the great canal which commences at
Cincinnati, and is connected with the canals of Indiana.
Land began to appear upon our western quarter, and soon the State of
Michigan became visible. The mouth of Detroit river was soon after seen
here, five miles wide from the Canadian shore to Michigan. At
Amherstburg, a small Canadian town, we stopped about seven o’clock, for
the purpose of taking in wood. The flashing of bayonets and the red
uniform, as the sentinel walked up and down the wharf, told us we were in a
land belonging to another nation. Fort Malden is passed soon after. Upon a
platform, in front of the fortress, a file of soldiers were going through their
exercises, their brilliant scarlet dresses and arms, prettily flashing back the
morning sun. A boat, filled with red-coated soldiers, was passing over to an
island to relieve the guard which stood upon a romantic point, near his little
sentry box. A large ship came rapidly down the river, with all its sails out,
looking like a huge bird of prey winging his flight to the shore, adding to
the variety of the scene. Detroit is a beautiful river, connecting lakes St.
Clair and Erie. Its width is generally about a mile—opposite Detroit city
three-fourths of a mile. The shores are very beautiful, cultivated upon each
side, with several pretty islands in the centre. Upon the Canadian side we
observed several French settlements, their windmills upon every point
giving a novel and unique effect to the scene. We did not reach Detroit until
ten o’clock, although it is only 19 miles from the mouth of the river, owing
to our delay in taking in wood. The city appeared well, covering a plateau
of ground elevated 40 feet above the river. Three steamboats were in sight
as we approached, one being a ferry boat to the town of Sandwich,
opposite. As we were to remain here some time we landed and walked
about the city. The city stands upon a plain which commands an extensive
view of the river and surrounding country. A broad street runs through the
centre called Jefferson avenue, lined on each side with shops and hotels. At
the upper end are several handsome dwellings surrounded with gardens.
The churches are common in their appearance, except the catholic, which I
must say was uncommon. It is a large building of unpainted wood, having
two odd looking steeples exactly alike, in the centre of the front; at the back
is a dome having on each side a belfrey. Adjoining this is the residence of
the Bishop, a large brick building. I was disappointed in the appearance of
this city. It was built by the French, you know, in 1670, and being so much
older than Rochester or Buffalo, we naturally supposed it would be larger
than it is. But the same causes do not operate here which influence the
prosperity of the other cities. It has not the old and settled state of New
York behind it, nor the great canal. Michigan, of which Detroit is the
capital, has been recently settled, and that only in the southern parts. The
fur trade was for years its main dependence, and that has of late fallen off
very much. As man invades the recesses of the forest, the animals retreat
before him. Detroit has, however, felt the wind in her sails, and is rapidly
following after her southern sisters. Of this, the increase of population is
one proof—2,222 being their number in 1830, and 1839, 9,278. Several
railroads are planned out, which, when the river and lakes are filled with
ice, will be of much service. Of these, the Detroit and St. Joseph are the
principal—leading from this city across the State to lake Michigan, a
distance of 194 miles; 33 miles are completed. Many persons take this route
to Chicago, in preference to the more extensive one around the lakes.
Besides these, there are in contemplation the Detroit and Pontiac; Shelby
and Detroit, &c. Michigan will soon fill up, as its population has increased
since 1830, seven hundred per cent.; then it was 28,600, and now, in 1840,
they count 211,205. Detroit will then be the great depot of the lakes, and
bids fair to rival the neighboring cities. Here we landed our German
emigrants, who were bound to the rich plains of Michigan. Upon the wharf
were men busily engaged packing white fish salted, with barrels, fifty of
which we took on board. The white fish is a delicious fish, something the
form of our shad, averaging from 4 to 10 lbs. and sometimes weigh 14 lbs.
There is a great trade of this fish upon the lakes. 30,000 barrels were
exported from Cleveland this season. While passing the city, when we had
resumed our voyage, we observed several rows of handsome ware houses,
many of which seemed as if newly erected. We also noticed a large brick
building erected for the hydraulic works which supply the city with water, it
being in these lakes fit for cooking, washing and drinking. This city is the
scene of one of Pontiac exploits. He was one of those brave and haughty
spirits who cannot accustom themselves to the yoke of the white men. Of
these, a few have appeared in latter years; Black Hawk being the last. The
French he had become accustomed to, and suffered their presence in his
realms, but when another nation appeared he determined to root them out
the land. They were at peace apparently, but a deceitful peace, for Pontiac
was organizing a confederacy against the English, who then occupied
Detroit. ‘There was no sounding of the tocsin, no alarm of war given, no
motion of the waves were felt,’ to quote the words of McKenney—‘In this
moment of stillness, a scout returned bringing the intelligence that a large
body of Indians were crossing lake St. Clair in canoes, and coming in the
direction of Detroit, while numerous bands were appearing at every point.’
Pontiac appeared in the neighborhood with 3,000 warriors, who, in a
friendly manner approached the fort, erected their wigwams, and
commenced their Indian games, to lull all suspicion. That very band,
unknown to the English, had just returned from the bloody massacre of Fort
Michilimackinack, which they had surprised in the manner they now
intended. Major Gladwin, however, suspected them, and admitted only six
Indians at a time in the fort. The wily Pontiac at length succeeded in having
a council held at the fort, and was permitted to attend with thirty-six chiefs.
Their rifles were cut short and hid under their robes, with which they were
to shoot down the officers and seize the fort. Were it not for the fidelity of a
squaw to her master in the fort, the plan would have succeeded. As it was,
they suffered severely from famine, and many were cut off who came to
reinforce them, before the Indians finally retreated. Ten miles from Detroit
the river gradually expands into lake St. Clair. A pretty lake—a most sweet
lake—appearing small among its larger sisters, and yet it is 90 miles in
circumference. The waters are cool and transparent, fringed with the
graceful ash, the linden, ‘tasseled gentle,’ the beech, and the stately
lioriodendron, and many other varieties. We felt reluctant to enter and ruffle
the glassy surface, and disturb the profound repose which reigned around.
The shores are low and there are no houses in sight. A wood cutter’s hut,
and at its extremity, a light-house, were the only signs of life we saw. The
trees were throwing their flickering shadows upon the placid water, or
leaning over, as if to admire their own reflection so perfectly painted upon
the mirrored surface,—

In which the massy forest grew,

As if in upper air;
More perfect both in shape and hue,
Than any waving there.

If you do not choose to emigrate to any of those charming spots I have

mentioned along the road; if Auburn, or Rochester, or Cleveland do not lure
you, perhaps you would like to come to the picturesque shores of St. Clair,
and weave you a bower ‘in some sweet solitary nook’ under those trees of
‘ancient beauty;’ or erect a picturesque hermitage with a pet skull, and
moralize and spiritualize your hours away. I have heard many declare they
could better worship their Creator in the fields and woods than in temples
made with hands, and can ‘look from nature up to nature’s God.’ I fear such
are greatly deceived in the nature of their feelings, and many a lonely
anchorite has thus mistaken adoration of the beauties of creation for
worship of its Creator. His heart may be filled with the most elevated
emotions while contemplating the glory and grandeur of God’s works, and
he may be subdued to tears of tenderness while reflecting upon that
kindness and mercy which has adorned the residence of man with such
exquisite loveliness; but will that regenerate his heart? will it give him a
knowledge of his Savior; shew him the mysteries of faith and redemption,
and subject his will to that of Christ? If so, let him live upon a mountain
top, and gaze at will; but I much fear these sentiments are but the
‘semblance of sacredness.’
The shores of St. Clair, being low, display the rise which has taken place
in these northern lakes. That there is a rise and fall in this singular mass of
fresh water has been observed for many years; and many opinions have
been hazarded as to its cause. Some of the Indians declare there is a regular
rise and fall every seven years; while the scientific traveller, Darby, tells us
there is a rise once in fifty years. A person, upon whose knowledge we
could rely, told us at Buffalo, one year, while he resided upon the banks of
the St. Lawrence, the current ran out of lake Ontario at the rate of ten miles,
and the next year the lake had unaccountably risen, and ran thirteen miles
an hour. It must have been one of those extraordinary floods, of course
much higher, which caused the lakes to overflow, as I have mentioned
above—that is, if it were not a diluvial torrent. The captain of our
steamboat, who had navigated these lakes for several years, a man of
intelligence and integrity, agreed with the Indians in the belief of a gradual
rise and fall in seven years. During these last two years the water has risen
to the height of five or six feet. Our captain pointed to many spots, upon the
shore, where the water had overflowed the land. Upon one pretty place a
farm house had been abandoned, and a fine apple orchard, standing two
years in the water, had been destroyed; and now, while all around was
green, their limbs were bare and leafless. A very intelligent man, a settler
upon the river St. Clair, pointed to several noble maple and beech trees, as
we passed the Michigan shore, whose gradual decay he had watched, while
making his spring and fall trips in order to purchase goods in New York. It
was pitiable, he said, to behold such goodly trees, ‘green robed senators of
ancient woods,’ sinking beneath the subtle destroyer, as some noble heart
withering away at the touch of affliction! He watched them with an interest
he would a friend consuming under a slow decay—their glorious beauty
dimmed and faded, until a lifeless skeleton alone remained.

“a huge oak dry and dead,

Still clad with relics of its trophies old,
Lifting to heaven its aged hoary head,
Whose foot on earth hath got but feeble hold.”

This man’s history interested us much, and I will relate it for your
edification. He was a native of our city of New York, one of a large family
straightened for means. While quite young he had married, and struggled
for years to support his family respectably, but sickness and ‘bad times’
rendered his lot a gloomy one. Hearing so often of the happiness and
prosperity of ‘the west,’ he resolved to remove thither, and accordingly
bought a tract of land upon St. Clair river, then farther west than it now is.
He came here twenty years since, with a wife and several young children,
and a mere trifle in money. A little village has now risen around him, of
which he is the owner. He has built a good tavern for travellers, which he
rents out; has erected a saw-mill; a few shops and houses, and a little
church. His children are married and settled around him; and he is, as he
expressed himself, ‘independent of the world.’ Once a year he goes to New
York or Buffalo, to purchase goods for his shop. How much better is this
state of things than to remain, struggling for a morsel, among the hungry
crowd of a large city. I asked him if he never repented renouncing a city
life. ‘No, indeed!’ he answered—‘I go there once or twice a year to transact
business, but hurry away, for I feel as if in prison. I want elbow room, and
never breathe free until threading my green lakes and vast forests again. I
am glad to leave such fictitious existence, where each man models his
conduct upon that of his neighbor, and dare not act as his spirit prompts
him.’ We had passed into St. Clair river, and about sun-down dropped this
man and his goods at his little village, which was seated upon a green slope,
cut out of the forest, upon the Michigan shore. The houses were surrounded
by little gardens and seemed comfortable.
The sign of the village inn was swinging in the summer breeze; a
traveller had just alighted from his horse in front of the piazza, and the
steam from his mill was rising high above the trees tinted purple in the
evening light. From a shop door a young man, probably his son,
accompanied by a neighbor, stepped forth to greet him; while, from the
honeysuckle-covered porch of a neat cottage a woman, whom I fancied his
wife, was looking eagerly out to watch his approach. Every thing denoted
industry, cheerfulness, and independence.
Soon after leaving the village of Clay, we observed a ship at anchor near
the shore, quite a picturesque object. It proved to be the Milwaukie, a ship
of three hundred tons burthen, bound from Buffalo to Chicago. It was
waiting for wind, or steam, to enable it to enter lake Huron, as this lake
pours into the river St. Clair with so strong a current, that vessels can
seldom stem it without a strong wind. She was soon attached to our
steamboat, and we both passed swiftly along. What a superb western sky!
The sun has long left us, and yet we scarcely miss its light, so golden and so
brilliant is the mantle he has left behind him. It is nearly nine o’clock, and
yet I can see to write this, but fatigue drives me to my cabin, and forces me
to say adieu until to-morrow.

July 3d.—Still in the river St. Clair. We stopped some hours in the night
at Newport, to take in a supply of wood. The captain purchased eighty cords
at $1,50 a cord. He told us it was his opinion the steamboats upon these
waters would soon be obliged to burn coal, although surrounded by such a
world of trees, as there is so much time wasted in stopping for it. I did not
regret our detention, as I was anxious to lose no part of a scenery to me so
novel and pleasing. This is a beautiful river about sixty miles long, and half
a mile broad, having several little towns upon it. Cotrelville and Palmer we
had also passed in the night; the latter a thriving place, from which a rail
road is contemplated to Romeo, twenty-six miles, there to meet the Shelby
and Detroit rail road. A communication will thus be continued with Detroit
through the winter. The country upon the Canadian shore is wild and
uninhabited, while the Michigan side of the river is frequently adorned with
fields of grass or wheat, or thrifty orchards. The houses are plain, but
seemed surrounded by every comfort. Our course ran quite near this shore,
so close, that I might fancy myself transported into the midst of a farm yard,
with all its morning business going on. A pretty white wood house is before
me now, surrounded by fields and barns, having a row of cherry trees in
front whose fruit is glistening red in the morning sun. In the barn yard a
man is chopping wood, to cook the breakfast, I suppose—another is busy
hoeing in a potatoe field—a boy is leading a horse down to the river for
water, while numerous other children are arrested in their play and stand
open mouthed gazing at us—ducks are dabbling in the wavelets—pigs are
rooting up the turf—a flock of geese are running down the bank at us with
beaks and wings extended in a warlike attitude—while a sober cow chews
her cud under a large hickory nut tree. The next moment all is gone, to give
place to the silent groves of oak, maple and ash. Upon a long narrow island
near the Canadian shore, my eyes were attracted by what seemed a row of