The Cherry Blossom Tree

Cherry Chapter Ten

“How many classes did you sign us up for?” I asked as we pushed out of the building and into the street.

It was just after seven, the last rays of the setting sun sitting low in the sky.  In Manhattan, you wouldn’t be able to see most of the sunset for all of the skyscrapers and high rise apartment buildings.  The city often grew dark before the day was over, shadows throwing themselves far and long, beaten back only when the street lamps lit up.  Here, there was nothing over two storeys, and everything was generously spaced, allowing for large gaps that natural light spilled through in an effort to keep the quaint establishments illuminated.  

“Twelve,” Mom said around a weary sigh.  Despite the lack of cold, she pulled her fitted black jacket tighter around herself.

I actually whimpered at the thought of having to return to Jean Claude’s kitchen.  Beside me, Annabel whooped in delight.  

“What?” she said, blinking at our matching incredulous stares.  “He’s French.  And lovely.  And dreamy.  And French.  Did I mention he was French?”

“I knew it,” Mom said, shaking her head at her younger sister.  “Mom found you in a trash can.  This proves it; we’re not blood related.”

Laughing, Annabel wrapped an arm around my shoulders and pulled me to her side.  “Yep, so that means you must have found your lovely daughter in the same trash can.  Can’t mistake this family resemblance.”

“Stranger things have happened,” Mom insisted, leading the way up Melrose to where we’d parked our car on Goldberg Street.  

Fort Sangrey was surprisingly busy; when we’d driven into town around five PM there hadn’t been a single park within three blocks of Jean Claude’s establishment.  The walk hadn’t been a bother; we’d wandered down the streets looking at the store front windows.

“Well if I date him, we won’t have to cook now, will we?” Annabel commented, linking her arm with mine.

“No, but we would have to put up with him Frenchifying everything.”  I put on my best smouldering glance and an over the top French accent.  “Zis iss a carrrrottte, Annabel.  But in French ve say caarrrrotttte.”

Me and Mom burst out laughing while Annabel pouted, commenting on our lack of maturity.  This caused a heated debate between Annabel and I over the pros and cons of dating a French man.  Specifically, the French man I’d just had to endure two hours with.  My first con was that whenever I heard his patronising tone I had the strangest urge to gouge out my own eyeballs with a rusty fork.

I opened my mouth to beg Mom to back me up, only she was no longer standing beside me.  Confused, I whipped about to discover her across the road, peering at something stuck to the window of a small law firm.  Given how small the town was, I was betting it was the only law firm here.

“What’s up?” Annabel asked as we crossed the street to join her.

Mom was so deep in thought she didn’t appear to notice we’d sidled up to her.  Intrigued, I peaked over her shoulder to investigate.  Taped to the inside of the window facing out was an advertisement.  The law firm was looking for a paralegal to work five days a week.  They were offering a free dental plan and health insurance as well.