Chapter Four
Walking from the fish market to my next destination took over ten minutes. I should have been a lot faster, but somehow my legs appeared unwilling to cooperate. The closer I got to the restaurant, the slower my progress, until a racing snail would have beaten me to the post. The single-storied houses threw little shade. Instead, their white fronts reflected the heat, making the air shimmer like a mirage.
By the time I turned into the narrow side street before the ocean promenade, my body was clammy with perspiration and my face was on fire despite the sun hat. One final corner and Chez Yvon lay ahead, the name mounted in bold brass letters on slate gray tiles.
Despite the temperature, my stomach contracted into an icy ball.
I stopped in the scanty shelter provided by a carport. My heart had no reason to flutter like a scared sparrow. I was a professional. I had been asked to give another professional another chance, and I would do so. If the man curdled the dijonaise one more time, the man had only himself to blame.
I urged my recalcitrant legs into action.
As to the cat and Maurice’s grave, I would thank Monsieur Batz for his kind intentions and leave it at that. He had apologized; no need to open yet another can of worms over his impudence. Otherwise, everything was hunky-dory. No point in getting my knickers in a twist.
Apart from the teensy problem with the missing aura.
I wiped my sweaty hands on my tunic, dry-swallowed—after drinking the lemonade my mouth shouldn’t be this parched—and stepped into the covered entrance area of the restaurant. Tinted glass windows masked the interior, but I spotted lights shining within, where, on another Monday, the place would be closed.
Blast, he didn’t forget about the appointment.
The sign on the door, however, read Fermé and, when I rattled the handle, I found this to be true. I squinted at the glass. Perhaps, he forgot to switch off the light?
Movement at the back of the restaurant told me luck wasn’t on my side. A silhouette approached the entrance. Something fluttered at the base of my throat, and I took a step back into the sun. Keys rattled. The door swung open, releasing a gust of chilled air.
“You came,” Batz said, beaming. “I’m honored.”
He was wearing chef’s whites and black trousers but no toque. His hair sprung in lively curls from his temples, and his violet eyes shone with what I took to be genuine delight. The man filled the entrance area with his presence.
I sucked on my tongue. Still no aura.
“Hello,” I said, to be pleasant.
Oh heavens, what if he expected a traditional greeting? Known as la bise , the double or even triple cheek kiss was an integral part of French life and got deployed as casually as a handshake.
On the other hand, getting closer to the man might help me trace his missing life energy.
I raised my chin. “Monsieur Batz, you’re being too kind.”
“Yvon,” he said.
His gaze locked with mine. Amusement danced in his startling eyes, giving me the impression he could see deep into my soul and read my mind. A flash of heat washed through me, this time not caused by the sun.
“I mean it with the honor. Do come in.” He stood aside and made a sweeping motion with his hand, fanning a gust of chill air my way.
No kissy greeting, then. Unsure whether I should be relieved or disappointed, I entered the restaurant, passing close enough to Batz for his old-fashioned scent to tickle my nostrils.
His scent, not his aura.
I rallied my taste buds, wishing for the familiar aroma to appear. Nothing happened, so I concentrated harder.
Come on. It had to be there. It couldn’t be missing.
The faintest trace of something savory blipped on my tongue, the watered-down echo of the vital energy buzzing and prickling in Paulette.
He frowned. “Are you okay? You’re rather flushed. I kept the air conditioning running. Hopefully, the interior isn’t too cold now.”
Oh, blast it, I lost him again. I removed my hat and shook out my hair, damp tendrils curling into my face. “ Merci , that’s very considerate.”
He licked his mobile lips and reached for the hat. “If it gets too cold, I’ll bring you a wrap. Let me take this for you.”
Gently, he tugged the hat from my hands and, for a split-second only, the tips of our fingers connected. Like an electric current, the cool, smooth touch zinged through my body, and as if in response, his aura rose in all its buttery glory.
And vanished the next instant.
Who was the man I now followed into the fragrant coolness of his restaurant, thinking of witches and gingerbread houses? What might be behind these odd fluctuations in his life energy?
“Any preference in terms of table?” he asked.
Who cared about furniture? “Oh, wherever it suits you. I’m not fussy.”
Oddly enough, my brain didn’t bang out warnings like yesterday. Now that I knew Yvon Batz was challenged in the aura department, my inner alarm system had switched itself off.
What the heck was wrong with the man? Or with me?
I steered my thoughts back to the here and now and allowed my gaze to roam the room. A tiny box of a restaurant, Chez Yvon offered only six round tables in glossy dark wood for four diners each. Lounge chairs in trendy chartreuse and lavender completed the arrangement.
The walls were whitewashed, apart from the faux bricks behind an impressive wine rack covering most of the far side of the dining room. No pictures, not a single fake ocean critter in sight like in the seafront restaurants, only some ornamental bronze mirrors that screamed antiques.
The place was stark, modern, and classy. My vintage getup was completely out of place, making me feel like diving into the nearest recycling container and burrowing deep.
“In this case, I suggest you take the table in front of the bar,” Batz said. “I’ve prepared a taster menu composed of the dishes you chose last time.”
“The dijonaise too?”
“ Dame, especially the dijonaise. I suspect I know what might have caused the problem.” He gave me a knowing look and pulled the chair back.
Once seated, I would be at a disadvantage. What I wanted to tell him required us to be on the same level. “Before we start, I want you to know I’m grateful you fixed the grave. However—”
When he grinned, he resembled a charming urchin. “Aramis created such a mess. Unbelievable, I tell you.”
“The gesture is much appreciated. Now, about your four-footed gift—”
Yvon’s astonishing eyes sparkled with the lights thrown by the row of mini chandeliers over the bar. With their flattish tops and long strings of glittering stones dangling underneath, they channeled jellyfish with a bling problem.
He took a step closer. I couldn’t move aside since the table was in the way.
“You like him, no? There were many cats in the shelter, but most of them hid under the tables and chairs. Cats and I don’t get along so well. I reek of dog, I fear.” He tilted his head and gave me a lopsided grin.
He didn’t reek of dogs. I detected lavender, musk, and something incredibly mouth-watering involving shellfish and saffron.
Another jolt, this time of sudden awareness, zinged through me. Even without touching, Yvon’s aura once more blipped on my tongue. Not quite at the level I would expect it to be, but I tasted something —what was he saying?
Yvon continued, “But then, this little guy walks up to me, his tail flying like a royal pennant. He’s bold, the furry creature, quite a character. I thought he might suit you.”
That was a bit of a backhanded compliment, but I let it slip. “The four-footed monster is determined to make itself at home. For the record, while I appreciate your concern—”
“You don’t like my methods.” His eyes twinkled with mirth. “I knew you would, how does one say? Rake me over the coals for my audacity? Bah, it had to be done. You were hurting, no? Still are. You need another cat.” He nodded to himself.
Overbearing much? A warm spark glowed in my chest, and I wrestled with an inappropriate grin. “I haven’t raked you yet. About the hurting you mentioned, well, let’s say you’re an observant person and call it quits. Tell me, how did you find a shelter open in the small hours?”
Yvon threw up his hands, narrowly missing the filament dangling from the nearest chandelier. “Oh, a friend of mine. She tried to convince me many times to adopt a cat. She was happy to assist. Though that name... Dame, I implore you, to change it. It’s ridiculous.” He waved his arms around, and this time he hit the chandelier, sending it into a jingling sway.
Giggles tickled my nose, but I held them back. Chandeliers and royal pennants, with this the man sparked off an inspiration. “Chou-Chou doesn’t work, I agree. Never mind, you’ve given me an idea.”
Yvon tilted his head. “So?”
“Your feline gift radiates imperial arrogance. They all do, but this one is a master of the art. I guess it’s his silky pelt or the disdainful expression on his face. Anyway, I’ll call him Louis, after the French kings.”
Yvon chuckled. Then he burst into laughter. In response, mirth tickled my nose, and I snorted away some of my tension.
Still grinning, he pulled a chair for me and said, “Please, take a seat, so we can get started.”
?~ * ~
F rom the kitchen came clattering noises and something I suspected to be subdued French swearwords. I listened, but other than a soft muttering, nothing else was forthcoming. Such a shame, I wouldn’t mind expanding my cussing repertoire with something local. Like the strange expression Yvon used earlier. What had it been, exactly?
I nibbled on the fluffy walnut bread served with a heavenly scallop carpaccio marinated in lime, but my brain refused to spit out the memory. No wonder; my poor gray matter was too busy processing the enigma presented by my host.
I spread tapenade on my bread. I needed to focus on the food and not my other problems. Unfortunately, they kept breeding like rabbits. Even after getting an itsy-bitsy teaser of Yvon’s aura, I still suffered from a supernatural blackout, and I couldn’t read the man. He must be armored by forces my feeble skills weren’t able to pierce.
“ Voilà.” He sailed from the kitchen with his coup de grace, lobster cocotte and sea bass filets served on a bed of samphire tempura, accompanied by the infernal dijonaise.
This was the seventh taster dish, each nibble more delicious than the previous one had been. Where the food was fabulous during my first two visits—apart from the dijonaise—this time, they bordered on the sublime. Thank the gastronomic deities, the portions were tiny. Otherwise, even my legendary appetite would be overtaxed.
“Careful, this is hot,” he said.
A rectangular slate plate and a miniature cast-iron pot landed in front of me. Savory steam rose from both pot and plate, together with the vague tang of something that shouldn’t be there.
“Uh,” I said.
Crinkles appeared in the corner of Yvon’s eyes. “Let me guess, this is not a token of appreciation. There’s something you don’t like.”
“I can’t imagine someone of your caliber would make the same mistake three times.”
He sat on the nearest chair and shook his head. Like starbursts around a violet sun, the crinkles in the corners of his eyes multiplied. “It’s not a mistake. It’s you. I bet, when you sample this, you will tell me I’ve botched my signature dish again. I assure you, I haven’t. Do try, I will explain.”
I procrastinated with the potted lobster cocotte—to die for—until I speared a piece of fish, dipped it into the bold yellowish sauce streaking the plate and put it into my mouth.
He had done it again. The acidic, oddly fruity tang that had thrown me the last two times was back. “Eh.”
He clapped his hands. “I thought so. It’s the orange zest, see? The same applies to coriander. For some people, it tastes of soap, exactly like it can do for Cognac.” He wrinkled his nose. “Cognac does taste of soap. Give me Armagnac any time. Would you like one to clear the palate?”
I dabbed my lips with the linen napkin. “ Merci , no alcohol at lunchtime, not with the temperature thirty plus in the shade. Why would anybody put orange zest in a dijonaise?”
Yvon did le Gallic shrug. “Why not? Though I wouldn’t normally serve an egg-based sauce in this weather. Since it was the bone of contention, what could I do?”
“I’m not sold on the bit with the orange. Convince me.”
He grinned. “Not a problem. I’ve prepared another dijonaise, without the zest. Would you like to join me in the kitchen?”
Oh, wow, a visit to the holiest of holies. For most people, such an invitation would be a true honor. Perhaps I should run the other way. Instead, I rose from the chair and followed him.
The kitchen was even more ship-shape than a galley. True, the odd splotch of sauce stained the hob, and metal bowls in all shapes and sizes covered the serving table, but apart from such minor details, the place was neater than an operating theater.
When I cook, my kitchen gives a good impression of Tornado Alley after a string of twisters.
Yvon opened the industrial fridge and removed a china bowl the size and shape of an egg cup. “This is the alternative I made. Try it.” He handed me a wooden spatula.
I sampled. One creamy, yummy sauce. No odd flavors.
Ugh, what an embarrassing blooper to make. Surely, my aura tasting hadn’t got in the way? It would be a first, but so was the man’s wobbly life energy.
“Now I add the zest.” He powdered an orange dust over his creation and stirred. “Try again.”
I did. “Eek.”
He snapped his fingers, radiating delight from every pore. “ Et voilà. Point proven.”
Whoa, not quite so fast . “How did you guess?”
“Another guest experienced a similar problem a few days after your second visit. The recipe is new. I introduced the dish on the day of your first dinner here. Until I understood what happened here, I was ready to apologize in public. Now, I’m delighted I’m not to blame after all.” Once more he clapped his hands like an excited toddler.
“Nor am I.”
He smiled. “There is that. Shall we call it a truce? You can update the article in your blog, no? I’m less worried about the Guide since the new edition hasn’t gone into layout yet. Bruno promised he would wait. But your article hurt me.”
He shot me a veiled glance from half-lowered lashes, a glance reminding me of a puppy begging for a treat.
Careful. The man was anything but harmless. At the very least, he was a mystery. At the very worst he was—what? Intelligent, insightful, and charming came to mind, which took us straight into dangerous territory.
Thankfully, I wasn’t shopping for men anymore. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Yvon nodded. “Fine. Since you don’t enjoy Armagnac, I recommend some sorbet to clear the palate. I thought you wouldn’t want a big dessert, since you refused both times.”
I ate too much sugar anyway. “Sorbet is fine, thank you.”
“Peach and roses, my speciality.” He reached into the fridge once more and, among freezing clouds, withdrew two crystal dishes filled with pale pink balls.
The dreaded appointment seemed to have morphed into a jolly gourmet twosome in the man’s kitchen. What a lapse of my professional standards. There wouldn’t be a repeat performance, for sure, but right here and now, I would savor the sorbet.
The aroma of peachy rose melted away on my tongue. When I checked, Yvon’s aura was hanging in there. The mystery he posed was unsolved, but there was no way I would ask him. Instead, I let my gaze roam through the kitchen. It came to rest on four blocky polystyrene containers like the ones used by pizza couriers.
I pointed my spoon at the nearest box. “You don’t do deliveries, do you?
“Ah no, no, no.” He flailed his arms and swiped a metal bowl off the table. It banged and bounced across the checkerboard-patterned floor tiles.
“Pardon.” Yvon retrieved the bowl and placed it into the sink. “This is for the local Resto Du Coeur.”
“You cook for the homeless and poor? How kind of you. To be honest, I wasn’t aware.”
“Few are. Please keep quiet about it, eh? I want to help. I don’t want to create another media splash. It’s not my style, no matter what people might think.”
His determined expression told me this wasn’t an affectation. Yvon, the star chef, fixed pet graves at dawn, gifted orphaned cats to females with romance-bruised egos, and created culinary delights for the unfortunates kicked aside by society.
He had even been right about the dijonaise. “Listen, I apologize for my blog post. I...”
He flapped his hands as if to swat midges. “ Bof , it’s my fault as well, no? I can get too creative. The other customer was really unhappy and sent the dish back. Let’s not talk about it anymore.” He raised his chin at the clock above the industrial fridge. It showed two in the afternoon. “Your Louis, is he fine on his own?”
Ack, that was an observant question. My new feline companion had been alone for more than four hours. What state would I find my digs in?
My misgivings must have shown on my face since Yvon shot me a sympathetic glance. “With dogs, it is easier. Once you have established yourself as their master, you are safe from nasty surprises.” He winced. “Well, inside the house. Let me drive you home. It’ll be much faster.”
“Oh, that’s unnecessary.”
“Ah, bah. Outside, it is unbearable. The sooner you get back to your place, the better. Then you can do a hypermarket run and buy nice things for little Louis.”
Oh, heavens. I was fast collecting favors I could ill afford. But if I wanted to learn more about him, I couldn’t break off the contact. If it hadn’t been for Yvon, I wouldn’t be running around during midday in the first place.
He unbuttoned his chef’s whites and flung them over a chair. His black polo shirt was a definite improvement compared to yesterday’s lavender. The restaurant locked, he held open the door of his E-Porsche for me. A few minutes later, we were on our way.
His driving skills were on par with his cooking—confident, creative, and rather fast. We were also too close for comfort, but swapping stories about accidents in the kitchen got us home without problems. Gravel spat in all directions as the car surged into my driveway and came to an abrupt standstill.
He bounced from his seat, dashed around the car, and opened the door for me with the same bow he displayed yesterday. “Here we are.”
Here we were indeed. What now? Courtesy demanded I should invite him inside for a coffee.
As I scrambled from my seat, I gave him a quick once over. Oh yes, he was an attractive man. Clad in black, with his longish, wavy dark hair and fit body, he was a helpless damsel’s dream.
Only, I was no damsel in need of rescue. What I needed was reassurance about his aura, but it kept wobbling like a runny blancmange.
Yvon swung around and flung up his arms as if imploring the heavens. “ Dame , what happened in this garden? Don’t tell me my canine friends created such havoc.” He pointed at the wasteland left behind by the voles.
“No, the voles are to blame. Once the mop, Louis the Persian I mean, has settled in his new home, I’ll let him out. Hopefully, he’ll scare the tails off the obnoxious blighters. Eh, would you like a coffee?”
The inglorious interior of Villa Glorieuse took shape in my mind. My current home was filled with someone else’s castoffs, a shabby hidey-hole for a stalled life and none too tidy. Yvon would think me a slob.
Since when did I care about the man’s opinions?
My ears burning and determined to drag myself from the irrational quagmire, I added the first question tumbling through my head, “There’s someone who intrigues me quite a bit.”
He raised an enquiring brow.
“I met him yesterday. On the beach. A Monsieur Dubois.”
With an almost audible crash, the shutters came down in his face.
“Ah. Merci mille fois , though I’m tempted, very tempted, I can’t take coffee with you now. My accountant is extremely unhappy with my progress and tells me I must get my papers in order. ASAP as they say. Another time, no? I’ll be in touch. About Monsieur Dubois, well, if you’ll take a word of advice from me, I would give him a wide berth. He’ll cause trouble for you. For now, it must be adieu, chère Mel . ” A brief nod, then he slipped into his car and powered through the entrance.
Merde.
Silence fell, interrupted only by faint shrieks and laughter coming from the beach. The happy summer noises were underscored by the high-pitched whine of a hedge trimmer. Like yesterday, the heat raged in the garden, and I could feel my insides shrivel.
I ought to move. I didn’t.
Somehow, I must have put my foot in it. The only question was, in what?
Where Raoul had been insistent I should give Yvon another chance, my mysterious neighbor did not return the kindness. Instead, he mirrored Paulette’s warnings.
What a muddle.
If people tell me what to do, I do the opposite. In this case, it meant visiting the beach as arranged and listening to what Monsieur Dubois had to say for himself.
The rays of the sun were drilling through my sun hat, so I headed for the creaky garden gate of Villa Glorieuse.
As far as the coffee with Monsieur Batz was concerned, I should count myself lucky it never happened.
I blew the absent nuisance a mental raspberry and unlocked my front door.