Lucy could see that Sylvie—who had what she assumed was a very French attitude about life—was not the roommate Elizabeth would have chosen. The smoking and the male guests were bad enough, but Lucy thought it was the secretiveness that probably bothered Elizabeth the most. She’d had roommates in college, and Lucy remembered the open doors in their dorm suites, and the constant discussions dissecting their most personal problems. For Elizabeth, that locked bedroom door was an insult, a constant reminder that Sylvie didn’t trust her.

Sighing, Lucy rolled over and reached for her phone, checking the time once again. Almost three thirty. She yawned. A promising development, she decided, snuggling up to Bill. Maybe now she’d sleep.

Several hours later she woke to find Bill bringing her a cup of steaming coffee. “Sue and Sid went out and bought croissants for breakfast,” he told her. “We’re supposed to be at the cooking class at eight o’clock.”

“What time is it now?” she asked, reaching for the coffee.

“Almost seven.”

“I didn’t get to sleep until after three,” she said, grumbling.

“I slept great,” said Bill, who was dressed and freshly shaved.

“I know,” grumbled Lucy.

“Up and at ’em,” said Bill in an encouraging tone. “The bathroom is all yours.”

When the Americans arrived at Le Cooking School, which was located only a few blocks away from their apartment, they found their teacher waiting for them outside, standing on the sidewalk in front of his pastry shop. Chef Larry Bruneau was easily identifiable. With his curly red hair and flamboyant mustache, he looked exactly like the cartoon-style portrait on the Le Cooking School sign that hung above the door. Lucy guessed he was about thirty, and noticed he was wearing expensive-looking sports clothes rather than chef’s whites.

Le Cooking School was upstairs, he explained, above the patisserie that bore his name in swirling gold letters. The window was filled with a luscious display of baked goods: glossy fruit tartes, tempting éclairs, and pastel-colored macarons, as well as simpler offerings, like madeleines, palmiers, and the delicious butter cookies called cat’s tongues, or langues de chat.

“They’re absolutely gorgeous!” exclaimed Sue. “Look at those gorgeous Napoleons. I’ve always wanted to learn how to make puff pastry. When do we start?”

Chef Larry gave her an indulgent smile. “We’re going to begin at the beginning,” he told them, speaking unaccented American English. “We’re going straight to the Marché des Enfants Rouges.”

“Did you say red children?” asked Lucy, puzzled.

“Commies?” joked Ted.

“There used to be an orphanage in the area,” explained Chef Larry, “and the children wore red uniforms.”

“Oh,” said Rachel. “And what are we looking for at the market?”