Page 2 - 3FrenchHens

2 three french hens, two macarons, and lovers in a bakery

This night Margot cannot help but to stop and notice the tower. Staring up at it from the
window of her storefront, she gets the eerie feeling that it is leaning her direction. With
one more flake of snow, she thinks, the whole damn thing could come crashing down on
top of her and her bakery. It might not be the worst way to go, entertaining the idea of
eminent death. The headline would read: Two Macarons Obliterated By Tower, World
Mourns For Tower And Feasts On Remains Of Failing Business. Margot had finally come
to terms with that idea, not the enormous tower killing her and her friends, but the fact
that her business, her once booming, successful, money-making business she loved was
officially a flop. Without a miracle (and who believed in those anymore?) Margot would
have to close shop, leave her beloved Paris, and try to convince the next guy she seduced, if
he was rich enough of course, to marry her. It wasn’t the idea of monogamy that scared her
(monogamy was a cinch so long as it was only a Monday through Friday type of deal), but it
was the whole being dependent on someone else that made her feel nauseous. If it weren’t
for fucking Aubin she would be content with the idea of marrying rich and spending his
money on frivolity. In fact, she probably would have almost preferred it. But over the past
year and a half, ever since being convinced by that bastard to become a businesswoman, her
mind had changed. She was drunk off of her newly found power and success, and would
have to be dragged kicking and screaming to rehab.
“You want some?” Zenna offered Margot a spoon topped with her latest batch of mousse
au citron. Sweet but with enough tartness to satisfy Margot’s sour mood, Margot accepted,
licking the spoon clean and then nonchalantly taking the entire bowl out Zenna’s hands
and plopping it snugly in her lap. Margot dangled her feet off the edge of the table, looking
intently at her fiery-haired friend. She had gotten even more beautiful over the years, her
light complexion lit up by the snow that reflected through the bakery’s front window. No
one would guess that this stunning woman once lived on the dirty backstreets of Paris,
entertaining passers-by with an upturned umbrella and oversized clothes to be sure that her
son would have something to eat, something that didn’t come out of a dumpster, that night.
Margot was proud of Zenna, persevering through a tough couple of years, saving money
that she made on the street to pay her way through the prestigious pastry school, Olivier
Bajard in Perpignan, nearly an eight hour ride on a train with a toddler in order to pursue
what she loved – it didn’t hurt that the school was well-known for the handsome, albeit
aging, male faculty. The thought of Zenna losing her job if the bakery closed made Zenna
feel sick again. She took another bite of the mousse and faked a smile in the direction of
her friend.
From the back of the bakery, Tali emerged to catch a glimpse of the snow that was presently
covering the decorated trees along the sidewalks out front. Tali was an artist, both with
a paintbrush and a decorator’s bag, her bright blue eyes always searching for inspiration
for her next visual confection. If Tali could see herself, Margot thought, she would never
need to look out another window for inspiration. Tali was extraordinarily beautiful. So