Chapter 8 #2
When she flashed one of her brilliant smiles at me as I approached, I understood why the whole town was so enamored of her. “You’re back. I thought you’d taken the day off.”
“No such luck.”
Concern flickered across her features, and I wondered how much Jin had told her about our problems with the Shangri-La Group. “I won’t bother you then.”
“You’re not.” I handed her the croissants in the paper bag. “Here, I brought you breakfast.”
“Thank you. You’re always so considerate.” That wasn’t true, but she said it with such conviction and obvious pleasure that a small thrill ran through me. “Would you like some coffee? I can make more.”
“No, thanks, I’ve already had two espressos.
I’ll be bouncing off the walls if I have any more.
” I sat down at the table with her. The scent of her perfume drifted over me as a gentle breeze stirred the pages of her notebook.
As she smoothed her hair over her shoulder, exposing her elegant neck encircled by a delicate gold necklace, I once again found myself wanting to run my fingers through the dark strands to see if they were as soft as I’d imagined.
Forcing myself to look away from her, I studied the curling script of the notes she’d been taking. “What are you writing?”
“I’m going over my tasting notes. Jin made me promise not to embarrass him while we’re in Burgundy. So I’m doing some research,” she said sheepishly.
Right, Burgundy. I’d nearly forgotten about that. A full week in her company. Fuck .
“My friend Callie arrives this afternoon,” she reminded me. “I was going to meet her at the train station, but without my phone, I can’t order an Uber.”
“You can borrow the car, no problem.”
“I can’t drive stick,” she admitted.
“I’ll take you,” I offered, internally cursing myself. So much for keeping my distance.
“Really? You don’t have to if you’re busy.” She plucked nervously at her croissant.
“No, it’s fine.” The last thing I wanted to do was lock myself away in my office and ruminate over my shitty problems.
“We’ll stay out of your way this weekend,” she said between bites of croissant. The way she said it made me sound like an ornery house cat she was trying to appease. “We’re having dinner with Chantal tonight and might go check out Saint-Tropez tomorrow.”
The idea of her at one of those awful, pretentious nightclubs in Saint-Tropez, surrounded by panting lotharios made me clench my fist under the table. “Watch out for yourselves in Saint-Tropez.”
“Is it dangerous?”
“Not dangerous, but there are a lot of rich douchebags pretending to be international playboys.”
“Ah, I see.” She pressed her lips together, suppressing a smile.
“Watch out for Chantal too. She might offer to adopt you soon,” I teased.
“I don’t think I’d mind if she did. Everyone here is so wonderful.” She smiled shyly and took a sip of water. “They’re always asking about you. You’re a local celebrity.”
“And are you still smiling and saying ‘oui’?”
“It’s worked so far.”
If only she knew. I’d already decided not to fill her in on just how effective her preferred communication method was. There was no point. People would believe what they wanted to, and it would only embarrass her. And right now, for some inexplicable reason, I just wanted to make her smile.
I’d been acting like a dick avoiding her even if my intentions were good.
She didn’t deserve that after all the hard work she’d put into reorganizing our inventory.
“Listen, I want you to know how grateful I am for the work you’ve done with the inventory.
Jin’s going to implement the same system back in Shanghai. ”
Her eyes widened, and she stopped chewing her croissant, dabbing a napkin at her mouth while she swallowed. “I’m so pleased. I was afraid I was going to be a burden this summer.”
“You’re not a burden,” I said seriously, and I meant it. If I was having my own issues being so close to her every day, I didn’t want her to think she was the problem. My eyes ran over her face; she was beaming now, and a little rush of pleasure pulsed through me. My gaze caught again at her mouth.
“You have a crumb here.” I gestured to my mouth, willing myself not to reach out and brush it from her.
“Oh.” She rolled her lips together, wetting them, the tip of her tongue darting over her bottom lip. That was all it took for the blood to rush to my cock.
“Is it gone?” she asked, and I grunted. I couldn’t stop staring at her mouth. I don’t think I’d ever seen anything so perfect in my life.
“So have you finished the car?” she asked after a lengthy silence.
“I should hope so with all the manpower I’ve put into it,” I answered, then before I could think better of it, asked, “Do you want to test it out? We have some time to kill before we pick up your friend.”
“Really? Yes!” Her eyes brightened and she stared at me as if I’d just lassoed the moon. Snapping her notebook shut, she hopped up, hastily gathering her materials. “Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back.”
“I’ll meet you at the car.” I smiled and watched as she walked back to the cottage, mesmerized by the gentle sway of her hips. For a minute—only a minute—I allowed myself to imagine that the village gossip was true.
* * *
The car’s engine came to life with a satisfying purr, and we took off down the hill.
“I’ve never been in a vintage car before. Unless you count my old Toyota,” Olivia admitted. “It’s so beautiful.”
A thrill ran through me as she ran her hands over the dashboard as if it were me she was caressing instead of my car. I suppose with all the sweat and energy I’d put into restoring it, the car was part of me.
It had always been a dream of mine to restore an old car like this.
When I’d found it in Bordeaux last year, the engine was shot, the leather cracked from too many hours in the sun, and the paint scratched and dull.
Now the seats had been redone in a rich caramel leather, buttery soft, and the exterior gleamed like a new polished stone.
I hadn’t taken anyone out in it yet, and it was thrilling to finally get to share it with someone else.
As we coasted down the switchback road the warm breeze blew over us, sending long tendrils of Olivia’s hair around her face. “Now, I know why the women in old movies always wore a scarf around their hair.”
“Do you want me to put the roof up?” I asked, sliding my sunglasses on.
“No way. I don’t mind being windblown.”
“All right, Elizabeth Taylor,” I teased. Jin was right; with her dark hair and electric blue eyes, she had the same coloring as Elizabeth Taylor, but she reminded me of someone else. “Actually, you’re more of a Gene Tierney.”
“Oh, please. I wish,” she laughed.
“You know her?”
“Yeah, The Ghost and Mrs. Muir is one of my favorite films.”
“That’s not something I would have suspected for someone your age.”
She glared at me, no doubt annoyed that I’d brought up her age again. But I needed to keep reminding myself of it. “She’s not exactly of your generation either, grandpa.”
“Touché.” I downshifted, and her eyes slid down to my hand on the gearshift where they stayed, riveted. If she only knew where I’d been imagining putting my hand that morning. “So you like old movies?”
“Do I ever. Nothing makes me happier than a night in with TCM followed by a nice bubble bath and a good book.” I tried not to imagine her in the tub, her perfect tits peeking through the bubbles. “I must sound pretty boring. I’ve just never been much for late nights at nightclubs.”
“No, I was the same way,” I said as I navigated another sharp turn. “So who is this friend of yours?”
“Callie—my best friend. We met my freshman year in Ann Arbor. She was already a senior, and she had a Books and Cooks club that I joined. We hit it off right away—probably because we were the only people in the club.” She chuckled. “And then we lived together for a couple years.”
“What’s a Books and Cooks club?” I asked.
“We invented recipes inspired by the books that we read. In our case, they were mostly romances.” A dot of pink stained her cheeks. “So we had a large choice of eras and themes to experiment with.”
“Oh yeah, like what?” I tried to imagine making something inspired by Philip K. Dick, but he would have preferred food in pill form.
“We started with historicals. There are lots of cookbooks from the 1800s—all sorts of puddings and meat in aspic. But, let me tell you, you haven’t lived until you’ve tried Alexis Soyer’s spotted dick.
” I threw her a confused look and she smiled.
“It’s a dessert made with suet, currants, and cinnamon.
You steam it in cheesecloth, and when it’s nice and warm and gooey, slather it with hot custard. The ultimate comfort food.”
She sighed as if imagining it right now on her tongue. “Medieval cookery was fun, though a bit too meat heavy for my taste.” She grimaced. “Callie went through a Greek Tycoon phase and makes a mean spanakopita. Then things got a bit more experimental when we got to alien romance.”
“Alien romance? That’s a thing?” I laughed and she blushed again.
“Oh, yeah. So is monster romance. God, I can’t believe I’m telling you this.” She shook her head and stared out at the scenery.
“So how are things going with Jin?” I asked as I turned down the gravel path that led to the vineyards of Domaine de la Ruche.
“He’s got a different teaching style than you, but I’ve learned a lot.
” She answered just as I pulled up to the small stone house at the end of the road where a tiny man dressed head to toe in khaki stood squinting at us.
He probably heard us coming down the road.
Despite his advanced age, his ears were sharp.
“ Ah vous voilà enfin !” he yelled as I stepped out of the car.
I hadn’t visited Le Père Reynaud , as the people in Moustiers referred to him, since I’d been back in town this summer.
He was slightly more bent over now, and with only a thin tuft of white hair on his head, resembled a plucked parakeet.
His dark eyes and impish grin told me he wasn’t holding a grudge though.
And if he were, I knew he’d forgive me once he realized I’d brought someone for him to practice his English with.
His eyes darted to Olivia, and I realized too late that if I intended to put a stop to any rumors about us, bringing her here was not the best idea. Reynaud was a notorious gossip.
“Mademoiselle.” He winked at me, and I pretended not to notice.
“Olivia, this is Monsieur Reynaud. He’s the winemaker here at La Ruche.”
“Ah, no French? Only English?” Reynaud asked as Olivia bent to give him two cheek kisses. He gripped her arms and studied her. “There’s language in her eye, her cheek, her lip!”
When Olivia’s baffled eyes met mine, I explained, “He’s a Shakespeare fan. He has a quote for every occasion.”
“Have you come to beg more wine from me?” Reynaud asked, poking at me with his cane.
“No, I’ve given up on that long ago.” I’d abandoned the idea of exporting his wine but bought a few bottles for myself every year. “I thought you might want to go for a ride.”
His eyes ran over the car. “Very nice, but I would prefer to drive, not ride.” He looked at Olivia and pointed to his eyes. “Not so good anymore.”
“Oh, do you miss driving?” she asked.
“No. Now, I have more time for my bees. Come, come, see.”
He shuffled over to a table where his antiquated beekeeping material lay in a tattered heap. Snatching up his hat and gloves, he set off like a very determined armadillo, motioning at us to follow him.
Beyond the house was a small field of lavender bordered by wildflowers where bees were happily buzzing away. The heady scent of lavender wrapped around me, and I breathed deeply.
“Oh, it’s lovely!” Olivia exclaimed as she took in the full view of the vines laid out neatly on the hill. “It looks beautiful from the house, but it’s even more spectacular up close. And you still tend to all of this yourself?”
“I have some help.” Reynaud jabbed at me again. “This one could help me if he ever stayed longer than a month at a time, eh?”
I shook my head. “I can’t help it.”
“Ha! Do you really believe that?” He took Olivia by the arm and led her toward the vineyard while I followed behind. “He is rootless. This is not good. We need terroir too, like the vines.”
“Terroir?” she asked.
“Yes, the soil, the rocks, the vines. This is my terroir.” He spread his arms wide.
“It gives my wine its character. This is why he likes my wine. You see the bees feed on the lavender. They pollinate the cover crops, which helps make the soil richer and the vines healthier. No chemicals. Very important. Come, I’ll introduce you to the bees. ”
I knew I had done the right thing in bringing Olivia here when I saw how delighted the old man was to show her around his beehives and his vines. He was clearly smitten, but then who wasn’t?
* * *
The morning flew by as Reynaud showed Olivia around his vineyards. I followed along, happy to be in the vines again. There was a stillness here, a feeling of having entered a self-contained world where for a moment I could forget about my problems and just be.
It was already past two when we came back to the little stone house, still cool in the midday heat, and waited in the dark, low-ceilinged kitchen while the old man went to fetch two bottles for me from his cellar. When he came back, he nodded toward the small pot on his stove.
“If you’re hungry, Chantal brought me soup. I may have some bread—my teeth, you know, not what they once were.” Reynaud took Olivia’s hand in his and said gravely, “I’m in the last of the seven ages of man. In second childishness and mere oblivion.”
“And melodramatic pronouncements.” I shook my head. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you made it to a hundred and ten just to have the pleasure of refusing to sell your wine to me. Anyway, we’re not here to eat your food.”
With surprisingly nimble hands, he opened the bottle of white from last year’s harvest and poured it into three glasses. Olivia took a tentative sip. “Oh, it’s lovely. Like seashells bathed in honey.”
I hesitated. What if I couldn’t taste this too? It would devastate me. “None for me today, but I will take a bottle for the weekend.”
“Come now. You haven’t tried this one yet,” Reynaud urged. “The wine-cup is the little silver well, where truth, if truth there be, doth dwell.”
He was right. I couldn’t run from the truth.
And I had the feeling that by the time this summer was over, it was going to catch up with me.