Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
It had taken Sabine and Aubin the last two days to paint all the scraped and repaired shutters the same shade of periwinkle as those of the other Mirabelle houses. Now they were cleaning up the courtyard.
“And why do you never break the rules?” asked Aubin, out of the blue.
“Because my mother works hard to keep us going. I’ve got to help out, you know, be dependable, keep it together. Especially if I end up single too.”
“Who says you will be single?”
She watched him dump a dustpan of paint flakes into a garbage bag and decided to take a little leap. “I haven’t been in love with anyone before. Seen stars or whatever.”
“You never kissed under the fireworks like Willa.”
Kissing him had produced something like fireworks for her, but she wasn’t about to share that. “What I mean about my mum is, she has to support us. I can’t disappoint her.”
He shrugged—his famous move.
“You don’t believe me?”
“I think there is another reason you push yourself so hard.”
“So now you’re my therapist.”
“Haven’t you heard? I’m a vineyard inheritor/composer/therapist. It’s very chic.”
“Now I get to ask a question,” she said, “to which I will add a challenge.”
“You are changing the rules of the game.”
She approached and leaned on the shed beside him. Their sleeves brushed up against one another. “What you said the other day, about being caught. I think that’s true.”
“That’s a statement, not a question.”
“So what is one thing you can do, soon, to change that?”
He turned to face her. Looked at her without guile. “I don’t know,” he said.
She turned to face him, too. They were close. “Think about it and get back to me.”
“And your challenge?” he asked.
“Go back to school, get better marks, go to university, study music.”
“A small thing, then.” He leaned down to pick up a paint can. “I will add a challenge for you, too.” His shirt rode up and revealed his hip bones. “While you are here,” he said, “do whatever you want. See how it feels. No one here has expectations of you. Why not?”
She took this in. Swirled it around inside of her to test it out.
He watched this happen. “I was sure you’d fight me on this, but you are full of surprises.”
“I’m doing my best.”
“So what is something you want to do? Tell me the very first thing that occurs to you.”
Kiss him. Put her hands on those hips with their delicious curve downwards, and kiss him. She looked to the windowsill, with the parcel of old maps lying there, tied with string.
“Go to Paris,” she said. It was the second thing to occur to her. Close enough.
Luc and Marlow reaffixed newly painted shutters to the other side of the house. In fact, Marlow was doing it, and Luc was spotting her, albeit reluctantly.
“Do you feel safer with me down here, doing nothing, holding this ladder?” he asked.
“Much.”
“In the history of Mirabelle, no citizen has fallen to their death from a ladder.”
“And you want me to be the first?”
“You are a citizen here, then?” He eyed her.
“Do you want me to be?” She eyed him back.
She climbed down, but he didn’t step away, and she found herself with her feet on the ground, and his tanned, sinewy arms on each side of her, still holding the ladder.
Neither of them said a word, and for a moment, just stood there, feeling their proximity.
She turned to look into his gentle eyes, his square jaw covered in stubble.
He didn’t move back, and she didn’t want him to.
“Did you hear my question?” she asked, low.
“I did. I’m thinking about it.”
“Hm. That’s awkward.”
“Not at all,” he said. “I’m thinking about how much I should say in my answer. Because I’m starting to feel—”
“Mon Dieu,” said a voice. They turned to see Guillaume, holding a box.
Luc let go of the ladder and stepped away.
Marlow eyed Guillaume to see if he’d caught the moment between her and Luc.
Guillaume’s face was neutral—impossible to read.
He was excellent at that face—the kind he might use, she imagined, in a business negotiation, to hide what he was actually thinking.
And what was he actually thinking? Was he interested in her?
She’d thought he was, with the café au lait, cake slices and little notes delivered to her office door.
She’d thought she was interested in him, too.
“The change to the house is remarkable,” he said. “In just two weeks, en plus. Bravo.”
Marlow, as sweaty and filthy as she was, swelled with pride. “Thank you! We’re about to move inside to repair the plaster, but I have to go into Neufchateau and pick up supplies.”
“I will drive you. And here,” he said, passing her the box. “Pastries from the boulangerie. Subsistance for the workers.”
Yakiv burst out the door. “Les desserts, les desserts!” he cried. Yakiv had a sixth sense for delicious treats afoot. He took the box and skipped inside with it.
“We’ll be lucky to get crumbs,” said Marlow. “And I’d love a ride, but I feel guilty about leaving you, Luc.”
“I will prepare the walls. See you later.”
So Marlow cleaned up and left with Guillaume, turning back to take in the lovely periwinkle shutters on her little house, and Luc, watching her go, a strange look on his face.
Aubin and Sabine sat amidst the Mirabelle fort ruins and ate baguette and cheese for lunch. She perused the old map of Paris, ripped along its worn crease lines, sites long ago circled in pen.
“Monsieur Dubois went to the Arc de Triomphe,” she said.
“Napoleon had it built, and then died before it was finished.”
“That’s disappointing.”
“I’m sure he would have liked his work. Twelve main avenues radiate out from it—why it used to be called Place de l’étoile. What you don’t want to do is drive your car around that traffic circle, though. That is madness. So when are we going?”
“Oh, we’re not,” she said, eyeing him. “Right? We’re not really going to go, are we?”
“You want to see Paris, you’re here in France, I have a car. What’s stopping you?”
“I … don’t know.” She looked down at the valley’s roads. Far enough along one was Paris. She bit her lip. “I do, actually. My father lives there.”
“I didn’t know he was in the painting.”
“It’s ‘in the picture,’ but I like your saying better. And he’s not. Or—he’s dropped in and out. I was the result of a fling. He wasn’t into having a kid, and my mother let him out of any responsibility. I guess he took her at her word.”
“Mm,” said Aubin, considering this.
“Sometimes when he’s in Toronto, he drops by. And he texts me on my birthday and Christmas. With lots of emojis.”
“Happy face birthday cake streamers candles happy face?”
She laughed. “How’d you know? And sometimes he transfers money so I can buy myself something. But I don’t really know him.”
“What does he do?”
“He’s a filmmaker. He and my mum met at the film festival where she works.”
“What’s his name?”
“Yves Barrat.”
“Merde, your father is Yves Barrat? He’s had films in Cannes. But wait. If your father lives in Paris, why don’t you want to go?”
“My mum’s been, like, heroic raising me alone. She’d be crushed if I saw him.”
“Who says you have to see him?”
“No one.” Tears welled up in her eyes. He scooched closer, draped his arm around her, and rested his chin on her shoulder. She could feel his breath through the fabric of her shirt.
“Do you want to see him?” he asked.
“Maybe? He doesn’t even know I graduated. But like I said, I don’t want to hurt my mum.”
“Since I have perfected being a rebel, let me tell you that Paris is three and a half hours away. We can tell your mother we’re going on a tour of Haute-Marne, leave early, see your father for lunch, and be back by night. No one would know.”
She turned to eye him. Their faces were close. “That’s a ridiculous idea.”
“I agree. No one goes to Paris for lunch.”
“I for sure can’t do an overnight. My mother is already freaked out you and I are going to sleep together, and I’ll get pregnant and wreck my life.”
His jaw dropped ever so slightly. He seemed shocked to hear that. Then he recovered, and smiled. “You are not at risk from me,” he said.
“Or you from me.”
“Thank God,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “I’ve been seeing you look like you want to have your way with me.”
“Hardly,” she said. Even though she blushed because a tiny bit of it was true. She leaned forward to reach for more baguette and hoped he didn’t notice.
“Let’s go,” said Aubin, “even if you text your father and he doesn’t respond. We’ll have a short time but a great time.”
“Deal,” she said, knowing it was the riskiest thing she’d ever done. After kissing Aubin, that is.
Guillaume took Marlow to Neufchateau to buy plaster, primer, and white paint to cover the mustard yellow and pea green walls. She never would have gotten all of that back by moped.
He put the supplies in the trunk of his Porsche, listening with great attention to her stories of improving Maison Perdue.
“It’s been great to be outside, working with my hands, instead of in front of a computer.”
“But you haven’t seen much of the region. This is sad.”
“I have a few weeks to do that yet.”
“Not too far from here is Vittel,” he said, holding the passenger door open for her.
“Like the water?”
“Oui. There is a spa. I could take you, if you like. The restaurant is very good, too.”
“What? No, no, that’s too much.”
He gazed at her. “It’s really not.” Then he came around the driver’s side and got in.
Truth was, she knew it wasn’t too much for him. But she needed a bit of clarity.
“I might be out on a limb here,” she said, turning to face him. “But I feel like … you might like me.”
He eyed her briefly, then focused on turning on the ignition. “I do.”
“I don’t get it. You must have women chasing you. You’re lovely, successful in business, you own a maison de champagne, for God’s sake. They’ve got to be tripping over themselves.”