Chapter Text
Greta Rossi was having a rather mundane, but pleasant morning, just the way she liked it.
The sun was shining when she woke up that morning, the beams of light coming through her window at precisely no later than six thirty, the very reason Greta chose that bedroom as hers when they moved in. The weather forecast for the day said it would remain shining until light showers in the evening, perfect for the flowers newly planted in the window boxes.
Her suit for the day was sitting neatly by her dresser when she woke up, exactly where she left it, and her shoes polished and shined. She set the coffee pot at six forty-five on the dot, her steaming cup of jo brewed and ready for adding to at no later than six forty-eight; one cream, and exactly two sugar cubes. No more, no less.
The paper had been where it always was each day, sitting dead center on the mat just as she’d instructed—and lectured—the paperboy to do. Not to the side, not eschew, perfectly horizontal on the middle of the mat.
Greta popped two pieces of toast—one from each side of the loaf; always the same amount of slices in from the end pieces—and picked up the butter.
She promptly put it back down in disgust.
Frowning, Greta picked up the butter dish again, bringing it up to eyelevel with narrowed eyes.
There were crumbs in the butter.
Great tsked; this only happened when someone forgot to clean their knife of toast crumbs before going back for a second swipe of butter. Clearly, her husband, running late for work again, was in too much of a hurry to remember such a simple piece of decorum.
Well she couldn’t have toast now; the butter was ruined and she refused to scrape the crumbs out herself because Gregorio needed to see what he’d done wrong when he got home.
She couldn’t have known that it was her daughter who had left crumbs in the butter yesterday, as she had several days this week, uncaring of her mother’s meticulousness and willing to let her father take the blame yet again.
Unable to have toast, Greta picked up her briefcase with a scowl. She’d have to leave earlier than usual in order to have ample time to pick up a breakfast and eat it before work. It rankled her; some may consider being early preferable to being tardy, but in Greta’s eyes, neither were acceptable. Impeccable punctuality showed poise and structure; neither early nor late, just right on time. She hated arriving early; it rank of desperation for praise. Punctual people arrived exactly on time because they followed a proper schedule and did not need the pathetic acknowledgment of their superiors for sprinting into work just to arrive a few measly minutes sooner.
Heading on her way, Greta considered her options. There were several cafes nearby that offered an adequate assortment of breakfast sandwiches, but they were always too noisy, too over crowded with trendy college kids yapping overpriced, over sugared Frappuccino’s and other high calorie concoctions. Not to mention that those places were all about new and exciting, coming out with culinary abominations of fatty meats and cheeses in unholy combinations with other garbage, sporting ridiculous names like the Queen Bee-L-T or Ladyburger. The messy dishes weren’t optimal breakfast options for those on the go, nor those more health conscious about their waistline.
Even if Greta did have time to sit and enjoy a full meal or wasn’t watching her weight, such entrees were too busy and over the top. Greta was a simple, uncomplicated woman—or she would like to think so—and she preferred a nice tame breakfast. Something light and flakey.
As she passed by the park, she saw the school across the way. Her daughter would be just leaving home to head to class by now. It was such a humble school—a public school; not the prestigious private academy she’d wanted to send her child to. She’d never understand why that silly girl picked that school of all places, but she’d been very adamant that Dupont was the place for her.
The fact that her daughter made this declaration while clutching a fashion mag featuring a blonde teen’s face had entirely escape Greta’s notice.
Drawing a blank on where she could possible go to get a quick, suitable breakfast before work, Greta was just pulling out her phone to look up local eateries when a rather enticing scent drifted by.
It was a lovely scent, crisp and buttery, light and the tiniest hint of sweet. It made her mouth water.
Spying the source of the scent, Greta was surprised to find that there had apparently been a bakery not far from her home this whole time. She wasn’t sure how she’d never noticed, but it was probably due to her eating at home and taking a cab to work. She rarely needed to walk anywhere local, her preferred grocery stores and shopping centers of choice were on the opposite end of town, so she didn’t walk by this way often.
Greta wrinkled her nose. Bakeries weren’t really her thing, preferring to avoid sugary confections whenever possible. True, she’d been an infamous chocoholic in her youth and she missed the stuff dearly, but it was important to resist temptation.
Surely this quaint, little bakery held nothing but sugar and spice and everything decidedly not nice for her BMI.
Still…that smell was heavenly. Her stomach gave a little grumble as if agreeing with her, like a little devil on her shoulder going “Do it! Be bad for once!”
…Perhaps they had some low carb croissants.
The bell on the door chimed merrily as she walked in, alerting the the patrons and those behind the counter to her arrival.
“Be right with you,” called a short, round faced woman in the middle of boxing several macarons for an elderly couple.
Greta gave a stiff nod so the woman knew she’d heard her. Standing in line, she took in the other patrons, old and young customers chattering happily to one another or playing with their phones. Some that had already been served lingered as they snacked on their flavorful spoils.
Behind the counter, an immensely large and tall man was quickly working his way through serving the more decisive customers, rapidly ringing up and wrapping their edible purchases at a quick efficient pace. The woman whom had greeted Greta seemed to be in charge of patiently helping customers who couldn’t make up their minds.
Greta sniffed in distaste, it really was quite crowded in here. Too crowded for her liking. She couldn’t see what made this place such a popular hot spot. It seemed like a quaint, small little bakery, nothing extraordinary about its appearance. Perhaps the food was just that good, but she’d have to see it for herself.
She glanced at the writing on the window, taking in the T and S written in stylized font, gold against black. Impatiently tapping her foot while the woman dealt with an indecisive mother with her picky toddler, Greta took out her phone and typed out a quick text that she was on her way to the meeting.
She was just about to give up on breakfast and leave when the woman at the counter finally turned her attention to Greta.
“Welcome to the Tom and Sabine Boulangerie Patisserie,” the woman said with a warm, friendly smile. She had Asian features and dark, black hair, “I’m Sabine. How may I help you today?”
Greta approached the counter, her eyes roving the selection of baked goods. Her gaze fell on the croissants, full and golden, just the right amount of light flakiness to curb her appetite but not make her feel overstuffed.
Her stomach rumbled again, and she fought down the embarrassed flush that rose to her cheeks as the woman smiled knowingly.
“Those looked good,” she commented, pointing at the croissants.
Sabine smiled wider, “Fresh out of the oven this morning.”
That did sound appealing.
“Very well, one croissant if you please,” Greta said, examining the pastries, “The one that’s two in from the left.”
Sabine didn’t seem the least bit perturbed by Greta’s request, “Excellent choice.”
As the woman went about wrapping Greta’s purchase, the bell chimed behind them, chattering and giggles filled the air, prompting Greta to take a peek behind her. Teenagers; loud and boisterous with their gossip.
“I don’t suppose you serve coffee?” Greta ventured, redirecting her focus to the woman in front of her.
Sabine smiled, “As a matter of fact, we do? Would you like a cup?”
Greta nodded, “A small dark roast, please. One cream, two sugars.”
As Sabine went off to prepare her drink, Greta half tuned in to the noisy girls behind her. They were talking in that overdone, hushed toned that called more attention to itself than actual whispering, the sort that excitable, oblivious kids tended to talk in with no regards for how annoying it was.
“And then she said,” the first girl trailed off, the end of her statement dissolving into a hiss that only the other girl seemed to decipher.
“No way!” the other girl gasped before the two burst into laughter again.
Greta rolled her eyes; teenagers. Good thing her daughter wasn’t the obnoxious sort.
“I don’t believe I’ve seen you here before,” Sabine said when she returned to the counter, disposable coffee cup in hand, “You aren’t one of our regulars.”
“I usually have breakfast at home,” was Greta’s reply, “I only moved to Paris a few months ago and I haven’t had much time in between my job to really explore the city.”
Sabrine hummed, ringing up Greta’s purchase, “New to the area, hm? Where are you from?”
“Italy,” Greta said, “Though I’ve had to travel a lot for my job. I’m a diplomat.”
“Oh, that sounds exciting,” Sabine said enthusiastically. She handed Greta her croissant, before extending her hand, “Well, welcome to Paris. I’m Sabine Cheng.”
“Greta,” Greta returned the greeting, shaking Sabine’s hand, “Greta Rossi.”
So preoccupied with tucking her pastry into her purse, Greta missed the flicker of recognition in Sabine’s eyes.
“Do you by any chance happen to have a daughter?” she asked after a moment.
Greta nodded, not noticing the frosty change to Sabine’s tone, “Yes, Lila. Why do you ask?”
“I believe our daughters share a class together,” Sabine said shortly.
“Oh?” Greta said with disinterest, “They must be friends then, Lila is always telling me how well she gets along with her classmates.”
Sabine’s smile was tense, but Greta didn’t seem to pick up on it. She also missed how the chattering behind her died off and then picked up in a series of whispers at the mention of her daughter’s name.
“Yes...” Sabine said tersely, handing over Greta’s coffee, “Well, Mrs. Rossi. Have a good da—”
“Rossi?”
Greta turned around, the two girls in line were staring at her in wide eyes wonderment.
The blonde one seemed to be the one who had spoken, her hair in two large, low hanging twintails in blue hair ties.
“As in Lila Rossi?” she asked.
Greta cocked a brow, “Yes...that’s my daughter...”
Both girl’s eyes lit up in excitement.
“Daughter?” said the girl with dark blue hair, her brown eyes sparkling in awe, “You’re the mother of the Lila Rossi?!”
Both Greta’s eyebrow’s went up at that, “I’m the mother of a Lila Rossi. Do you...know her?”
The blonde giggled.
“She’s all anyone’s talking about,” she said, pulling out her phone, “See?”
Greta looked at the screen and promptly spat out a mouthful of coffee.