Chapter 33 Jean-Paul
Chapter 33
Jean-Paul
“Don’t beat yourself up,” he says as they lie in bed, staring up at the ceiling. “It was a surprise to me too.”
“What a spectacle ... the cake!” She turns to face him. “How didn’t we know about any releases? Why weren’t we told?”
The heat rises inside him. “The prosecutors don’t care about us anymore.”
At the mention of Bluebird last night, his stomach tightened. The company and that wretched man had governed so much of his headspace, he couldn’t untangle himself. As soon as they returned to their room after the fiasco, Renée powered up her laptop and searched for Michael Wall. His face on the screen filled Jean-Paul with venom—a fair-skinned man with a cap of short, dark hair and jewel-tone green eyes. The headlines confirmed his release. How he hated him.
“Do you think Adam and Sienna invested too?” she asked. “I hadn’t realized he’d made such a name for himself.”
“Don’t go there, mon amour .”
That’s his job. The torment keeps him awake some nights. He feels he’s to blame. He should have done more research; he should have protected them.
He should have protected her.
After the initial shock wore off, they stood on the same side. It didn’t matter. He held enough regret for them both. She understood. But he can’t harp on that now, not when they’re on the cusp of selling, no other viable option in sight.
She curls into him, and his arm comes around her. “It’s just not fair, JP.”
He strokes her hair. He knows that better than most.
The next morning, he’s in the kitchen with Rosalie, knee-deep in charcuterie boards. He’s showing her how to fold thin slices of salami into a rose while she takes in every word. He ordinarily doesn’t spend this much time with the guests because they’re usually not interested in culinary skills, but he likes this Rosalie and the interest she takes in learning.
Renée pops in and out, updating him on Lucy, who’s been holed up in the library.
Something seems different about Rosalie this morning, but he’s not good with stuff like that. Her hair’s still that strange purple color, but what does he know about teenage girls? She smiles at him when she holds up her completed board. It’s impressive, with sliced oranges that look like stars, blue-cheese stuffed olives, and banana chips. She’s included Manchego, honey, and assorted fruits. He notes the artistry in her display, and that’s when the difference in the young girl registers. She’s happy.
He can hear Renée in his ear going on about the inn working magic on its guests. That very morning, she’d said, “All Rosalie needs is a change in scenery and some attention. Then she would sprout.”
Renée compliments their work, pouring cucumber-infused water into their empty glasses. And Jean-Paul notices that Rosalie is not only happy, she’s chatty.
“Tell me how you two met.”
He catches Renée’s eye. She has always said he tells the story best, and even though he’s shared it a thousand times, it never feels old. They love flashing back to their youth, to their time in France.
“We were staying at the same hotel in Paris. I wore a dark suit with red stitching on the back, bragging to my buddies how the red trim matched my tie. She didn’t have the heart to tell me that the red threads were supposed to be cut before I wore the suit. Then she lost her sweater, and I lost my tie. We met in the lost and found.” He smiles. “Didn’t care very much about the tie. I found her.”
“And I got to pull the red threads from his suit.”
Rosalie’s cheeks flame when he waltzes over and gives Renée a side hug, planting a kiss on her cheek.
“Where are your kids?”
Jean-Paul handles this question too.
“They’re all over the world.”
Rosalie’s eyes dance at this idea. “They don’t live here with you? It’s so pretty.”
“There’s quite a lot of them. Not sure we’d have the room.”
Rosalie’s interest piques. “How many exactly?”
This tactic works on some, not all. And something in her eyes, her inquisitiveness, urges him on. “We don’t have children of our own, Rosalie.”
Rosalie’s brows tighten; her lips press together. “I don’t understand ... You said ...”
“Our guests are our children. It’s like sleepaway camp here.”
He feels the dread and regret in Renée’s stare. He’s being honest, but the question, for him, is always met with the same reaction: a flip in the stomach, a sting that emphasizes a dream they never got to realize. He’s always put this positive spin on it, no sign of blame or fault, because Renée has punished herself enough. It devastated them to learn they couldn’t conceive, but it was worse for her since she was the one with fertility issues.
“It’s okay,” Jean-Paul says. “We’re okay with the hand we’ve been dealt—”
Rosalie lifts her head. “I just ... I’m sorry. That was probably a rude question. Don’t tell Cassidy. She’ll be pissed. You two just seem like you’d be great parents.”
Jean-Paul reins in his long-held feelings. It’s an unusual conversation to have with someone so young, but no subject is off-limits. He sips from his glass, the cool flavor refreshing. “Having Simone here has been good for us. She’s my sister’s daughter. Her father passed away when she was young.”
“I’ve always wanted siblings,” Rosalie says, staring out the window to where one of the gardeners tends to the landscaping.
“You never know,” Renée says. “Maybe your mom will meet someone and get married. You could end up with a little sister or brother.”
Rosalie soaks it in, though she doesn’t seem entirely convinced. Her eyes cloud with skepticism.
“You’re lucky to have so many people in your lives,” she says.
Her loneliness chips at him. He doesn’t know what to do with it. “Eat up,” he finally says.
Rosalie shrugs, admiring her plate. “I don’t want to mess it up. It’s perfect.”
“What’s the point of creating anything if not to enjoy it? Go on.”
Tentatively, Rosalie lifts a piece of cheese to her lips. Jean-Paul joins, grabbing a handful of nuts. The three of them laugh, watching the masterpiece turn to crumbs and leftover jam. Rosalie’s a good girl. And for a fleeting second, he lets himself imagine the children he’d wanted to have with Renée. What they’d look like. If they’d share a passion for cooking and the mountains. As quickly as the thoughts traipse through his brain, he brushes them into the small box in his heart he hides for what-could-have-beens.