Chapter 7 Jean-Paul
Chapter 7
Jean-Paul
Jean-Paul’s in the kitchen slicing fruit and cheese with the precision of a trained surgeon. He takes great pride in arranging the colors and shapes into art. A quiet calm has descended upon the grounds as the sun tiptoes across the sky, bathing the property in amber hues. The hour provides a respite from the guests’ full day of travel, and he relishes the laughter filtering through the doors, the creaky footsteps signaling life.
Renée is nearby, dropping gray cloth place mats on the table. He sneaks up behind her, brushes the hair from the nape of her neck, and tastes the sweat on her skin. They debated long into the night whether to replace the air-conditioning, whether it was even necessary in the mountains, but that was to avoid the bigger issue—their diminished savings—and how it was impossible to keep up with the exclusive guesthouses sprouting around their quiet town, trendier establishments luring VIPs and elite spenders. The monetary loss wasn’t entirely their fault—they had thought they were being prudent, investing how they did—but the conversation remains off-limits, the details too painful to discuss.
She drops her head and lets him massage her shoulders.
“You’re tense.”
“Disappointed,” she says.
He spins her around. His wife is petite, barely reaching his chin. “We’ve had a great run, mon amour . We must be practical.”
“Selling’s the only option?” she asks.
“I think it is best.”
The letdown’s there in her eyes, and he knows she’s restraining herself. He also knows better than to fool her with false hope. “Remember our first year when the guests arrived, and the anticipation we felt that first night, the magic we were about to create? Hold on to that, mon amour . For tonight.”
He brushes a wispy curl from her face. Her head falls into his palm.
“It’s going to be an extraordinary week.” If he says it, it must be true.
“You’re right. You always are.”
He laughs. “I will remind you of that later.” He’s back at the sink, towel-drying the lettuce. She’s setting variations of white and cream plates on the place mats. “Now tell me about our guests. How’s everyone settling in?”
She tells him of the somber voices coming from Lucy and Henry’s room earlier. “I have a champagne toast planned later in the week for his birthday and to celebrate their thirteenth year. Maybe you can prepare the mousse au chocolat they loved so much.”
“I believe it was the flambé, mon amour . Things got très chaud the evening we served that, if I recall.”
She thinks about this, gently nodding. “You’re right. Better to serve something crisp and cool. A berry tart or carrot cake.”
Jean-Paul isn’t expected to remember names or faces or what makes a particular guest tick. That’s her job. But he understands the effect of his food. How tenderloin sprinkled with the right amount of pepper makes guests feisty, or how oysters are an aphrodisiac, and when served with flaming hot sauce, they bring forth tears. His food sets the mood for the evening, elicits hidden desires.
If he is the magician, she’s the wizard behind the scenes, the puppeteer—coordinating, coaxing—the one who brings the inn and its inhabitants to life. There’s nothing cursory about his wife. Long before guests descend on the property, she knows their tastes, how they take their coffee, their favorite snacks and sleeping habits, the introverted extroverts, and (for lack of a better word) the assholes.
And while Jean-Paul performs his nightly cooking experience, showcasing his culinary expertise, she does what she does best. And it isn’t merely ensuring that glasses are topped off with the best wines. Their table has power. Careful planning facilitates connection, the kind that delves beyond manufactured personalities. Renée’s superpower is stripping strangers of their facades, digging deep inside their cores. Everyone at the inn has a past, a story. And when they gather, they become pieces of a puzzle, fitting together to make a much bigger picture.
“Who else?” he asks.
“Other than Adam and Sienna and Leo and Penny, it’s the mother and the daughter.”
“The one with the purple hair?”
She nods. “I feel for her.”
He grabs a clean knife and begins chopping the lettuce. “I see where this is going.”
“This feels different.”
“You say that every time, mon amour .”
Again, she tells him he’s not wrong.
“The strays gravitate toward you.” What he doesn’t say is how she gravitates toward them. If wistful longing were an eye color, it would be hers.
“I spotted her walking the path. I’m not sure she wants to be here.”
He disagrees. “That’s impossible—impossible for anyone not to want to be here.”
“I don’t know, Jean-Paul. We don’t typically have teenagers.”
The inn was a labor of love. They spent years renovating floors and ceilings, choosing tiles and paint swatches. The pale furniture is timeless, the bedding plush and luxurious, and the monochromatic color scheme—five shades of gray—warms the clean, open space. But it’s the kitchen he’s proudest of. When guests descend the nine steps into the intimate space, with its high ceilings and natural lighting, they’re transformed. The T-shaped dining area showcases a Carrara marble table, white with gray veining, that connects to his stainless steel chef’s counter. From there, guests have a front-row seat as he prepares savory meals surrounded by top-of-the-line appliances he and Renée poured their life savings into.
He can already hear the buzzing around the room, the place where seeds of conversation sprout. Connections. Secrets. Truths. Heat flares from his range. Tempers and emotions spring from their seats. In their twenty-six years, they’ve witnessed walls tumbling, relationships deepening, and unusual trust creeping in. One guest, a renowned psychologist, described the experience as the stripping away of masks, a metaphorical undressing. He wasn’t wrong.
Whatever reason guests landed at Vis Ta Vie—the decor, the beauty of the grounds, the food—the rare vulnerability felt in a private enclave made magic. And as Jean-Paul makes his way toward the antique cabinet that houses the fine china, he does his best to hold on to the belief that the magic still exists.