Page 30 of Bumpy, the Gargoyle Slayer

“No can do. Mr. D’Ange insists I stay with you at all times.”

“Mr. D’Ange is an overbearing, overprotective mother hen, and he’s not going to hear about what I’m doing today until after his birthday is over, okay? If you need to lie to him, go ahead. That or stay here, because I need this to be a surprise. Please.”

Jean-Luc makes a zipping motion over his lips. “But I’m still going with you.”

Once he escorts me out of the car, we stand in front of an ordinary façade with a green-striped canopy.

“Best Italian fine grocer in all the city,” he says, gesturing. “They’ll have every specialty item from Europe, even France. Is that what you’re planning? To buy him cheese? Because there’s a little cheese shop…”

“Nope. I’m making him a grazing board. This should be fine.”

I mentally count the dollars left on my credit card. This is probably going to take all of them. And… my supposition proves correct. We walk in the store and I’m immediately hit by a display of luscious looking olives. Hefting the palm-sized jar, I gasp as the price smacks me in the face.

“Twenty-five dollars? Are you kidding me? What is that, a dollar an olive?”

Jean-Luc shifts his gaze to the side, and then throws it around the store. “You know I have a business credit card, right? Mr. D’Ange won’t care if you charge it to him.”

“But I’d care. What kind of birthday present will it be if he pays for it?”

Jean-Luc looks around again. “Look, I know a place in New Jersey. European importer. The owner is kind of grumpy. He chases off those he doesn’t like, so you’ll have to play nice, but if you want to try it…?”

“Is it less expensive than this place?” I carefully put the jar back, cognizant that if I move wrong, an entire glass pyramid is going to fall and leave me in debt for the next century.

“Much less. I’ll drive you home directly afterward since we’ll be on that side of the bridge. No sense crossing the Hudson again. Mr. D’Ange can fly back after his meetings. Honestly, he’d prefer that. Stretch his wings and all.”

Home. Like it’s my home, too.

My stomach creases with a want I can’t satisfy. Not yet. Maybe never.

“Guess you know what he is.”

Jean-Luc nods. “I used to live right across from the cathedral while I tried my hand at being a mime. My aunt’s apartment. I couldn’t have afforded an inch of it. Anyway, I was there to watch Notre Dame burn. I saw this gargoyle, The Thinker, you know, but in a different position. He was in the center of the square, stone, but hunched over like he was grieving. And then, bammo, he wasn’t stone anymore. He launched himself up into the air. It was four in the morning, but I ran out into the square to see him making crazy loops. When he noticed me watching, he came down, we talked, and he bought me breakfast. I’ve been with him ever since.”

“You sound like you’re loyal to him.”

“Very.” There’s a warning in his voice.

I like it. I like that Alain has support.

“No French accent, though.”

“I grew up in New Jersey. Your boyfriend followed me when I returned from my time abroad. He had no one else.” He pauses. “I take care of him. I taught him how to navigate the metro area. He’s very… trusting.”

Tears prick my eyes. “Noted. And… thank you.” Because… yeah. I love Alain. I want him to have friends.

The drive to New Jersey takes about forty minutes, even though it’s only ten miles away. The moment we enter the store, I check the price of the produce that’s arranged in bins along the righthand side of the plain cement wall.

“Seriously?” I mutter, picking up a string of ripe cherry tomatoes on the vine. At two-dollars a pound, there must be an error. In Manhattan, a similar strand cost four times as much.

“Told you it was cheaper,” Jean-Luc smirks. He eases up beside me with a small carriage. “Are you going to cook, too? Alain—er, Mr. D’Ange—loves cassoulet. You could use the tomatoes in a side-salad, I guess, though the French usually stick with simple lettuce and dressing for salads. Do you want me to teach you how to make mustard vinaigrette?”

“Yes. One day.”

If there is a one day.

Wow, I’m spiraling.

I pull myself back together and force a smile. “I can’t actually cook, but I’m good at making things look pretty. Do you think Alain has cupcake trays in his house?”