Chapter 18 Jean-Paul
Chapter 18
Jean-Paul
Rosalie might not have the stamina for a hike, but she has plenty of vigor in the kitchen. He’s impressed with how eager she is to identify flavors and discuss appropriate food pairings. She’s hungry for information, but he supposes that’s what happens when you have a mother like Cassidy.
As they head outdoors to the small garden of herbs and spices, he sees Renée on her way back from the mailbox. They hadn’t retrieved the mail in a few days, neither of them interested in the demands from bill collectors, and he can tell from her face there are many. He rushes through his tutorial on basil and rosemary, but he’s thankful for the distraction.
Rosalie seems exceptionally grateful for the lesson, unlike most teenagers, though he’s no expert. When they return to the kitchen, he sees her big bag sitting on a stool. It’s bright green with pink letters that read Sun Day . “A rebel,” he says.
She eyes him curiously.
“Today’s Monday.”
“Oh, that.” She smiles, and it’s the first time he notices her features. Behind the raccoon eyes and the dark lipstick that distracts from everything else, there’s a person in there. She reaches inside her bag and she pulls out a book. “Do you read?” she asks.
“I don’t.”
Why does he get the sense she’s disappointed in his answer? She sticks the book back in her bag. “Thank you for your time today,” she says hurriedly, as though she needs to bury her nose in the pages.
“We’ll do it again.”
“I hope so.”
And she’s off. Her footsteps disappear up the stairs, and he tries to hold on to the kernel of joy he felt in sharing his passion with her, but the stack of bills waiting on his desk derails him. Renée is nowhere in sight, and he suspects that’s on purpose.
He tears through the envelopes, each notice another weight strapped to his back. Then he pulls the leather ledger from a drawer, expenses and recent transactions, numbers that make him twitch.
They’d been doing just fine with their successful business, their idyllic home, and then the cards came tumbling down. The end began with a simple phone call four years ago. The man on the line introduced himself as a representative from Bluebird. He’d researched their business, Vis Ta Vie, and he thought they’d be interested in hearing about an investment that promised a high return.
“We need the money,” he’d said to Renée that night over a glass of port. “This could solve our problems.”
She was less convinced.
“It’s just a meeting in Charlotte,” he pressed. “Nothing to lose. We can stop at that antique shop you love on the way back.”
A week later they drove south on Highway 321 for a meeting.
There was a reason they were in the business of food and hospitality. To them, finance and numbers were a foreign language, and when the Bluebird associate reiterated the sizable return—“Like nothing we’ve ever seen”—Jean-Paul trusted him. That night, after Renée placed the porcelain duck she’d bought at the antique shop on a shelf in their office, they’d lain in bed, legs entwined, and she tried to talk him out of it. “We’ll get through this. It’s just a rough patch.”
But the list of necessary repairs and upgrades was long. The air-conditioning (which had started misbehaving around the time the call came from Bluebird) was a fraction of his concerns. They needed to refinish the floors and repaint the house. Appliances needed to be replaced, along with the linens and towels. She recommended raising their prices to cover a touch of lipstick and rouge, but he argued the dated property didn’t warrant a rate increase. Jean-Paul loved the inn so much, he fought for a complete renovation. He listened to her pragmatic reasoning, but they had put repairs off as long as they could. They were bleeding problems, unable to withstand the competition.
They made the call that spring day just as the rhododendron had begun to bloom, and a week later, Renée’s birthday, they invested their entire savings in Bluebird. Jean-Paul whisked Renée up in the air just as he had when they were kids, and they made the drive to Artisanal in Banner Elk for a festive dinner, where they fed each other pimento scones with pepper jelly and sipped cocktails by the streaming river. The owner sent over champagne to celebrate, and when Renée blew out the candle on the chocolate pear tart, they were certain more of their dreams would come true.
He had felt so appreciative that night. The decision meant he could take care of his wife and give her what she wanted. The investment was a new beginning, and they’d barely made it through the inn’s door before he undressed her, his hands sliding up and down her skin. He carried her to their bed, kissing her first on her lips and traveling down her neck to her breasts and then her stomach and between her legs. She grabbed at his hair, the sensations blotting out their fears. Everything would be okay, he had told himself.
The balance on their latest statement snaps him into reality, and he bites back the betrayal. The morning he discovered that Bluebird had been a scam, and all their money was gone, Renée had returned from the market joyous over plump red tomatoes and bright yellow squash. He’d been sweeping pink glitter off the hardwood floors, remnants from the bachelorettes who had partied late into the night, when she came in. He was sickened over what he was about to tell her.
She stared at his face and then at the mess on the floor.
“Trickier than expected,” he had said.
“Oh, honey,” she exclaimed, dropping the paper bags on the countertop. “Let me help.”
But his frustration had nothing to do with glitter, and when she wiped a few pieces off his chin, he backed away.
“Jean-Paul.”
The broom slipped to the floor.
“Renée, we need to talk.”