Chapter 4
Four
Once Marielle played her family connections card and established that the grouchy grandson would rent them rooms, Omar let his guard down enough to check out the inn.
He registered the space in fragments, his headache making it hard to focus on details.
Furniture that didn’t match but somehow worked together.
Blue-and-white pottery scattered on shelves and side bars.
All painted with olives, lemons, and little insects he couldn’t name.
An eclectic collection of art on the wall: realistic paintings of the seascape outside the window; old photos cataloging the inn’s history mixed in with sleek modern black-and-white prints.
A large guest book sat on a small table, its leather cover soft with age.
He wondered if Marielle and her grandmother had signed it years ago.
He finished his inventory of the space and turned to more pressing matters. “Is there a store nearby where we could get some clothes?”
“We don’t have our bags,” Marielle added in a tone that suggested don’t ask questions.
“I see,” Luc responded in a tone that said I don’t want to know the details. Then he tilted his head and appraised them. After a long silence, he sighed. “Come with me.”
“Where are we going?” Omar asked as their host led them toward the back of the house.
Luc didn’t answer.
Omar and Marielle exchanged a look. They were trained to be cautious, and following a stranger—even one who’d been vouched for—to an unknown location hardly qualified as prudent. But they really did need clothes.
Marielle shrugged and followed their host. Hanna did as well.
He couldn’t let them wander off without him, so he trailed along. He was alert, watching for an unexpected movement or sudden change of demeanor. But Luc strolled easily, pointing out family mementos or pieces with a local connection as they walked through the house to the kitchen in the back.
He opened a door that led to a patio that that had been left to its own devices.
Thick pockets of lavender and rosemary, buzzing with bees, sprang up from all over.
A wrought iron table with a mosaic tile top sat beneath a faded pink umbrella, surrounded by cracked pots of kumquats and herbs.
Jasmine climbed the gate in a wild tangle, scenting the air.
Beyond the low wall, strawberry trees clung to the cliff.
Luc quickened his pace and Omar matched it as their little group continued toward the edge of the property, where a winding path led to a weathered shack. Luc stopped in front of the small structure to reach into the pocket of his linen trousers.
H removed an old-fashioned key ring, selected a key and turned it in the lock.
“This was my grandfather’s fishing shed,” he explained as he swung the door open and ushered them inside. “Now it’s my storeroom.”
The space was full but orderly. Clothing racks stood in neat lines like soldiers at attention, groaning with apparel of every imaginable fabric, cut, and color.
“I don’t understand,” Hanna said. “Did you used to be a shopkeeper?”
Luc laughed, but there was no humor in it. “No. I used to be a fashion designer.”
“What happened?” Marielle asked, running her fingers over a silk dress.
“I went to Paris to study and stayed after I graduated. I worked for several years in the industry, built up a small but loyal following and reached the point where I had enough money saved and enough of a reputation that I could open my own very small house.”
Marielle winced. “It didn’t do well? I’m surprised. These are gorgeous.”
“Who knows how it would have done.” His dark blue eyes turned gray. “I’d just taken possession of the keys, was days from moving in, when I got the call that Grand-père was ill.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Ancient history.”
“Why did you stay?” Omar asked, curious despite himself. “After he passed, you could have gone back to your life in Paris.”
“He was ill for a very long time. I cared for him and ran the inn. I never planned to come back here—my parents had moved overseas and it wasn’t feasible for them to return. My original plan was to sell the inn or find someone to run it for me. But …”
“But?” he prompted.
Luc gave an exaggerated shrug that made Marielle’s look restrained by comparison. “I realized this was more than a business. It was part of the fabric of the community. L’Auberge Arbousier has been in continuous operation since the 1800s. I couldn’t walk away from that.”
“But what about your own dream, these clothes are magnificent—couldn’t you work from here?” Hanna asked, her voice as sad as Luc’s eyes.
He laughed derisively. “Paris is the center of the fashion world. This tiny fishing village that time forgot may as well be an outpost in Alaska. Even in an age of digital sales and the global economy, my dream was born and died in Paris.”
It was clear from the weight of his words and the sorrow hooding his eyes he’d lost more than professional dream by leaving the city. But it was equally clear he didn’t intend to say anything further. They lapsed into a thick silence.
After a moment he clapped his hands together. “Let me look at you.”
Within minutes, he’d accurately guessed their sizes and plucked several suitable outfits for each of them from the racks.
“How much do we owe you?” Marielle asked, her arms laden with dresses, trousers, and blouses.
“You can’t pay,” Luc rebuffed her, offended.
“Please,” Omar said. “Let us. We don’t have our luggage, but we do have money. Euros.”
Luc waved his hand. “Keep your euros. It’s enough to see my clothes off the hanger and on living bodies.”
“We can’t thank you enough,” Marielle said. “These are beautiful.”
“Gorgeous,” Hanna murmured.
Luc beamed at the recognition of his artistry, then snapped back into host mode. “I’ll show you to your rooms, and you can get settled. While you wash up, I’ll set out a light dinner.”
Dinner? Omar blinked. Surely it couldn’t be time for dinner.
But when they followed Luc out the door and waited for him to lock the shed, the sky was streaked with golds and pinks as the sun shimmered over the water, descending into the sea.
They silently followed their silent host through the courtyard, back into the inn, and up the stairs to the guest quarters. He stopped at the end of the hallway.
“This room has one queen bed, and this has a king,” he said, gesturing to two rooms set side by side.
Omar hesitated. He and Marielle no longer had to pretend to be a married couple.
Their cover wasn’t necessary. Elle could bunk with Hanna.
But did the women know each other well enough to share the space?
He considered asking Luc for a third room or a cot, but something—call it pride, protectiveness, or pure desire—stopped him.
He placed his hand on the small of Marielle’s back and leaned down to whisper. “I’ll bunk on the floor.”
Her spine stiffened under his palm. A moment later, she bobbed her head.