Chapter 11 #3
The waiter brought a sauv blanc with creamy goat cheese—a pairing from the Loire that the chef had recommended.
“I’m impressed you can work with your family,” said Marlow, tasting the wine and cheese together and feeling like she was in culinary heaven.
“My parents think I’m a failure. Not a total failure, but, oh, let’s see, in terms of career, being a single parent, still renting at thirty-nine, I’m dancing somewhere in the middle of the failure spectrum.
Which makes for great conversation over Sunday dinner. ”
“They’re wrong, of course. So you aren’t the manager of your department—yet.
You will be in September. You wouldn’t be considered if you were a failure.
Sabine is a joy, so you have succeeded as a parent.
You don’t own your apartment? Most people in Paris never own.
They rent. That is the way. These are poor indicators your parents have chosen. ”
She inspected the wine label and tried to commit it to memory. Beaulieu Frères Pouilly Fumé.
“And your brother?” he asked. “Are your parents as hard on him?”
“No, they love Noah. And I love him too, but he struggles with depression. Not that I blame him—the restaurant industry is beyond stressful. He was running places like this, actually, in Toronto and New York. Everyone was always watching to see if he’d fail.
And one day, he quit. If I could work with him, I would.
We’re just in very different places right now. ”
“Does he judge you as your parents do?”
“No. Yes. No. He loves me, whereas I think my parents are, honestly, ambivalent. But right before we left Toronto, my brother and I had a fight. He said some things about where I am in my life. That I’m bored at work and not living up to my potential. It was hard.”
“I know a woman who works for the Cannes Film Festival. I have provided wine for her events at the last minute, so she owes me a favor. I could see if there are any openings.”
“Seriously? Cannes? Wow. I’m not sure what to think about that.”
“Oh?”
Marlow nodded. “The idea of staying on here, in France, is sooo tempting and terrifying, all at once. Also, I couldn’t abandon Noah and leave him in Toronto like that.”
“Really?”
“No. He’s much better than he was—he’s good now, mostly, actually—but, you know. I still feel responsible for him.” She drank more wine, pairing each sip with cheese. “I’m going to try to remember these tastes for the rest of my life.”
“I’m not eavesdropping, I promise,” said a woman at a nearby table.
“But me, too.” They all laughed, and she introduced herself.
Her name was Ruth. She was maybe seventy, dressed in an off-white raw silk outfit with perfect silver hair.
She was from Cincinnati and loved Toronto.
“It’s so beautiful. So safe. And Canadians are so polite. ”
“You haven’t met me after my computer’s crashed,” said Marlow.
“I used to work in Toronto,” said Ruth. “I was a consultant, and we had Canadian clients. My life was all about flying in, giving a presentation, rarely making it out of the hotel, then flying home. And never being finished with my to-do list.”
“I feel you,” said Marlow. “It’s too much, isn’t it?”
“It was. My husband and I saw next to nothing of each other, but I was making heaps of money, so I kept saying, we’ll spend time when I’m retired. We’ll go places and do things.”
“And did you?” asked Guillaume.
“We retired, and Lloyd had a heart attack a month later and died.”
“I’m so sorry,” said Marlow.
“I just roamed around our house, looking at his things and feeling bad. Bad about him, bad about the time we’d wasted, bad about myself especially, putting it all off because I thought my career, which I didn’t even really like that much, was more important.
So I decided I was done with all that. What was I going to do, spend the rest of my life feeling bad? ”
“And here you are,” said Guillaume.
“Here I am. Doing things and not putting them off. I’m practicing French—destroying the language, I’m afraid, but trying—I’m going to spas and wineries, looking for my next adventure.
I’m a bit out of my depth, really, but forging on.
I can tell you both the truth, since we don’t know each other. What about you?”
“Well,” said Marlow, “since we don’t know each other, I’ll tell you the truth, too.” So she did—all about buying a one-euro house, how she’d fallen in love with it, how they’d improved it, but how she had to let it go.
“What an adventure!” said Ruth. “So, you’re really going to try to sell the house?”
“I am,” said Marlow wistfully, glancing at Guillaume, who didn’t look too happy about the decision either. “I just can’t make it work with my life.”
“In that case, I might know a buyer.”
“Really? Who?”
“Me.”
Guillaume drove Marlow back to Mirabelle and walked her up the steps with all her building materials from the hardware store.
The village was shut down for the night—no lights visible in any houses, including Luc’s.
Even Sabine’s bedroom light was out. Marlow stepped up to her door and pulled out her key.
Guillaume stood a step down. It made them the same height—put their faces close.
She could feel his breath—tiny puffs of warmth on her cheek.
“I can’t thank you enough for today,” said Marlow. “I don’t think anything here in France would have been possible without your help. It’s like you’re not even real.”
“But I am. Here—feel me.” He held out his arm. She touched it—it was warm and strong. She let her hand travel up his arm to his bicep, then his shoulder, and before she knew it, she had her hand in his hair. She pulled him to her and kissed him.
“Yes, you are real,” she said. He moved his hands to her waist to pull her closer, but by instinct, even though she hadn’t heard a sound, she looked up to Luc’s bedroom window and there he was, poised to close his curtains, looking back down at her. He’d seen the kiss.
Marlow’s world tipped a bit. “I better say goodnight, I think,” she whispered to Guillaume, stepping back an inch and gently removing his hands from her waist. She could see that he was confused as to why things had reversed course.
“Bonsoir,” he replied with a sad smile, turning and heading down the hill.
When Marlow looked back up at Luc’s bedroom window, he was gone.