Chapter 17 Tara
Tara
Iwake before him.
The sky outside is still cloudy. It’s drizzling. The city feels hushed…intimate.
Gustave is on his side, one arm flung across the sheets, breathing evenly. I watch him for a moment, taking in the unguarded lines of his face, the softness he never shows in public.
How many more such mornings do we have? Five, six? Eight? Ten? No matter how many, they’re not going to be enough.
I draw in an unsteady breath.
Is there a chance for us to make it? Be with each other? Learn each other so we could…what?
Even thinking of having a long-term relationship with a man like Gustave seems improbable.
I sit up and look around his space. I wonder if I could live with him here. That we could have a life so mundane that I’d kiss him hurriedly, offer a whispered good morning, and rush to work.
I shake my head before the image can fully form.
No. None of that will be possible. He comes from a world that I can’t fit in. Don’t want to, either. He belongs to it and disdains it. I’ll hate it even more.
I am old enough, mature enough to know, to recognize that even if we do try, we’ll fail. No relationship can withstand the pressures of gossip, of coming from such different worlds. And let’s not forget, I’m Mexican, and how does a brown-skinned woman fit in with le Comte Gustave de Valois?
She does not!
I slip out of bed, careful not to wake him.
His crisp white dress shirt from last night hangs over the back of a chair.
I pull it on, along with my panties that are lying on the floor next to my wrinkled dress.
The shirt is too big, with sleeves that swallow my hands, but it smells like his cologne—which I discovered is Creed Aventus and him.
It comforts me.
I walk barefoot down the hall and into his immaculate kitchen. It welcomes me with its sleek counters. It feels more like a showroom than a place where someone actually eats.
I roll up his sleeves and start making a mess.
The stocked fridge and pantry are a chef’s wet dream, so it’s not hard to find what I need to make breakfast: tomatoes, onions, eggs, and a fresh red bell pepper from the market.
I also discover chili flakes next to dried oregano and basil, which I decide would have to do.
In the fridge, there’s a bundle of parsley wrapped in a damp towel. Not cilantro, but it’ll do the job.
I knead the dough for the tortillas, enjoying the feel of the warm flour soft beneath my palms. I leave it to rest under a clean dish towel.
The hiss of the gas flame fills the kitchen as bell peppers blacken and blister, their skins curling and splitting. A smoky, earthy perfume drifts up—warm and familiar, carrying me home.
I dice onions, sauté them until they turn translucent, add garlic, and toss in the chopped tomatoes and roasted chilies. The salsa bubbles gently, spitting against the copper pan.
I find a rolling pin, likely used for pies, and use it on the flat surface of the kitchen counter to roll out tortillas.
By the time I press the first tortilla and flip it on a pan, the kitchen no longer feels like a sterile museum. It smells of spice and warmth, of morning and a memory in the making.
I stack the tortilla neatly on a plate, wrapping it in a kitchen towel to keep warm.
I hum La Bohème under my breath as I work. I’m tasting the salsa to make sure it’s done when I hear him.
“Now, this is a beautiful sight.” His voice is rough with sleep.
He wraps his arms around me and rests his chin on my shoulder. “What are you making?”
“Huevos rancheros.”
“Sounds delicious.” He nuzzles my neck. Goosebumps run over my arms. I turn off the stove and turn in his arms.
“You look good in my clothes.” He kisses my mouth softly first and then deepens the kiss.
There’s a trace of mint on his lips, fresh and clean—everything I need to start my day.
He raises his head and smiles at me. Slow, warm, almost boyish.
“You’re dangerous,” he replies.
“Because I can make breakfast?”
He meets my eyes. “Because you’re making it hard to pretend this is simple.”
My smile falters.
I open my mouth to say something, but the sound of a key turning in the lock at the front door cuts me off.
Footsteps echo across the foyer. Then a voice: “Papa, how do you feel about brunch at Zia?”
His son.
My heart jumps straight into my throat.
Gustave presses a kiss to my forehead. “Easy. He said he might stop by—I didn’t expect him this early.”
“Should I…should I….” What? Hide in the pantry?
He smiles at me, calm as ever. “Stay,” he murmurs.
Then he raises his voice. “Aubert! Je suis dans la cuisine, mon garcon*!”
I try to step away, but he holds my hand briefly before letting me go.
“It’s fine. You’ll like him,” he promises.
“But….” Does he really want me to meet his son?
Gustave moves toward the kitchen entrance as I do the world’s most useless thing—smooth my hair and tug down his shirt that thankfully, comes to the top of my knees.
But no matter what, I look exactly like what I am: a woman who spent the night in Gustave’s bed and hasn’t yet gone home.
Aubert walks into the kitchen.
He’s exactly as I remember from his photos, both here and in Pommard. Handsome. He has Simone’s fine-boned features. Dressed casually, messenger bag slung across his chest, he carries the kind of effortless poise that comes from never having to try.
Gustave greets him with a hug, and Aubert looks over his father’s shoulder—straight at me. Then he side steps his father and walks to me with a massive grin on his face.
“Bonjour, je m’appelle Aubert—le fils de Gustave*.”
My heart is pounding so hard. I can barely breathe.
Gustave steps in between us. “Aubert, this is Tara. Tara, my son, Aubert,” he introduces us in English.
“Nice to meet you,” I manage, trying to sound normal when all I want to do is melt into the floor.
Aubert sniffs the air. “What smells so good?”
He strides toward the kitchen counters.
“I need to put some clothes on,” I whisper to Gustave.
He nods, but his arm stays around me, holding me to him. “Tara made a proper Mexican breakfast. Huevos rancheros,” he tells his son, his tone casual, but his eyes are on Aubert, gauging his reaction.
“Better than Zia!” Aubert lifts the lid off the pan where the salsa simmers. “And—wait—fresh tortillas?” He lifts the towel, eyes wide with delight. “If he doesn’t marry you, I will.”
The tension snaps like a thread, and I laugh—loud, surprised, relieved.
Gustave chuckles, giving my backside a light, proprietary pat. “Go get dressed.”
I hold his gaze for a beat, heart still racing.
“Hurry, chérie. Before the food gets cold—or my son steals all the tortillas.”
“I’ll set the table,” Aubert announces.
Gustave kisses my nose, and I finally exhale.
I dress hurriedly, wondering what this means. If it means anything? A man introducing his son to the woman he’s sleeping with, a man as private as Gustave…it means something, right?
Hope wars with despair, but I ignore both, and decide to behave as normally as possible.
As promised, Aubert is setting the table in the kitchen as Gustave makes coffee. They’re speaking in French, and I can only catch a few words here and there.
Gustave smiles when he sees me. “Aubert is telling me about a gallery show he attended last night.”
Aubert sets the last fork and chuckles. “A friend of mine is curating an art exhibition in Le Marais and…one artist last night had live chickens, another was a performance artist who didn’t speak at all, and a pianist who refused to stop playing even after we turned off the lights because it was closing time. ”
His English is accented, with a British lilt, and it is good. Better than Gustave’s, in fact.
Aubert is complimentary about my food.
I learn from him that he loves Los Angeles and the Lakers, and Mexican food. I don’t know if he’s saying these things to charm me, but I’ll take it. He’s much, much nicer than the mother he resembles.
“I finish bac this summer,” he tells me as he rolls the last of the eggs and salsa into the last tortilla.
Gustave isn’t wrong; his son can eat. I feel all puffed up with pride that he likes my food.
“I’m applying for a bachelor’s in journalism…naturally, in France, but also in London and the United States.”
“Where in the US?” I ask.
His eyes brighten. “UCLA and USC. Either would be amazing—and if I get in, I’m not missing a single Lakers at home game.”
Gustave shakes his head in mock irritation. “My son is crazy about basketball.”
“Mostly he says I’m crazy…period,” Aubert retorts cheekily.
“That, too,” Gustave agrees flatly.
Father and son are close. And alike in many ways.
Was Gustave like Aubert when he was younger? Or is Aubert different because Gustave keeps him away from the strictures of being a de Valois?
Like Gustave, Aubert is easy to talk to. He asks questions. Listens. We move from art to places we’ve been to music, and soon we’re seated in the living room with coffee and macaroons like we’ve done this a dozen times.
I catch Gustave watching us more than once, like he’s still assessing his decision to let me meet Aubert.
“So, you live in Paris?” Aubert asks, and Gustave excuses himself for a moment, leaving us alone.
“Well…for…I came in February. I’m only here for six months.” I tell him about the project at the Louvre.
“Papa loves that Carriera!” he exclaims and then nods thoughtfully. “Are you not able to stay longer?”
His son’s question feels dangerous.
Three and a half months. That’s the timeline. That’s the unspoken contract. But here I am, barefoot, meeting his son, laughing like I belong here.
“I….”
“You should stay.” He grabs my hand across the couch. “He’s…now I can see why he’s been happy these past months.”
I swallow. “We’re…it’s….” Not serious. Not permanent. I sigh. “You should talk to your father about this.”
“Oh, don’t worry, I certainly will,” he replies cockily. “Does my mother know about you?”
I close my eyes. “Ah…look….”
“Aubert,” Gustave interrupts.
“Quoi*?” Aubert looks at his father with all innocence.
“?a suffit*.”
His son waves a hand and focuses on me. “I’ve been trying to convince Papa to find someone. Honestly, I didn’t think he had enough game to get a woman like you.”
Gustave sits across from us in an armchair and scoffs at his son.
“Like me?” I arch an eyebrow.
“Beautiful, artist, smart, and a good cook.” Aubert shakes his head in mock disbelief. “Papa, good work.”
“Absolument*,” his father agrees, his eyes on me.
* I’m in the kitchen, my boy (French)
* Hello, my name is Aubert—Gustave’s son (French)
* What (French)
* That’s enough (French)
* Absolutely (French)