Comfort Food

Lucy walked out onto the street the next day with a slight hangover.  It was all that Veuve Clicquot.
My goodness, Trish had a gift for finding interesting men.  Men with mysterious pasts.
Men who took women out for walks along the Seine and who had all sorts of interesting
things to say.  Men who looked like Clive Owen!

No, Lucy was not jealous.  It's just that Peter had had enough of her!  Anyway, that's what his text said.
And now, dawn was rising in Paris and she was feeling alone and heartbroken.
And hungry!

As luck would have it, the boulangerie on Boulevard St. Germaine had just opened its doors.

Ah, the delicious aroma of fresh-baked croissants, brioches and baguettes hit her the moment she entered the shop.

The handsome baker was just then taking out a tray of freshly baked baguettes.  He turned around and smiled at her and then stopped and shook his head, as if he disapproved of something.

"Vous êtes triste," he said.  You are sad, no?
"No!" Lucy cried out, feeling slightly indignant and annoyed that she was so easy to read, and then before she could hold her ground, she found herself suddenly breaking down in what seemed like an ocean of tears.
"Oui," she finally confessed, hiccuping.  Je suis triste.  I am sad."
"Here, this will help make you happy again."  And with that, the handsome baker handed her a fresh baked baguette, wrapped in the center with a bit of white paper, tied into a neat little twist.

The baguette was still warm from the oven, and smelled like a little bit of heaven.
"No more sad face!" the baker said, giving Lucy a white linen handkerchief to dry her tears.
"Merci, Monsieur," she said quickly, dabbing at her tears and then giving back his handkerchief.
"No, it's a gift for you, Mademoiselle," he told her, his wise brown eyes meeting her hazel eyes.

And for a moment, just a moment, Lucy seemed to forgot all about being sad.

...to be continued.

P.S.  Oh, and I'd love to give the baker a secret, to be revealed later--any ideas?