Chapter 16
OLIVIA
Callie: So he did admit he wanted you?
Olivia: Callie, he slept in the car. IN THE CAR. I’ve ever been so thoroughly rejected.
Callie: It’s time to change your strategy. What do you think, Levi?
Levi: Go big, or go home, Liv. Make him an offer he can’t refuse.
Olivia: Thanks, Don Corleone. I’ll keep that in mind.
I flung my phone on the bed with an ironic laugh at Levi’s last piece of advice. After what had happened in Beaune, Jake had made it pretty damn clear that he would refuse any offer I made him.
We’d hardly spoken to each other on the ride home. I hadn’t slept at all that night alone in that big bed, and I couldn’t bear the thought of trying to make meaningless small talk—or worse, having to listen to more of Jake’s excuses for why he’d rather cut off both arms before he’d touch me.
So I’d slumped down in my seat as soon I’d climbed into the car and dozed fitfully until we reached the chalky hills of Provence.
Jake’s Japanese clients had arrived shortly afterward, and he’d been busy with them ever since while I was left to replay the scene of my rejection over and over in my head.
I couldn’t even be happy that he’d admitted he wanted me—or, in his words had imagined doing a hundred different things to my body—because he was so determined not to touch me that it didn’t matter.
Curling up in the window seat in my room, I thumbed through the last issue of Lucie’s magazine determined to work on my French and forget about Jake. But it was no use. I was still so angry. How dare he pretend to know what was best for me? As if I had no say in the matter.
My phone rang and my dad’s number flashed across the screen.
I groaned. Here was another one who thought he knew what was best for me.
He hadn’t called much this summer, although he did text me silly jokes on the regular.
I knew why he was calling now; I hadn’t responded to his last message about my upcoming move to Chicago because I still hadn’t gotten up the courage to tell him about Ferrandi.
“Hey, Dad.” I flopped onto the bed and stared up at the ceiling, bracing myself for another unpleasant conversation.
“Hey, kiddo. What are you up to?”
If you only knew . “Not much. Working on my French.”
“Yeah? How’s that coming?”
“Let’s just say that when I order food in a restaurant, what shows up on the plate is always a surprise.”
He laughed. “Geez, it sounds like you inherited my language skills. But I know you, you won’t give up until you’ve mastered it, right?”
“No, I’m not giving up.” There were a few things I wasn’t willing to give up on yet. Language was the least of it.
“So listen, Kirsten and I are heading to Chicago this weekend. I’ve been checking into some real estate there and found a couple of nice apartments. It would be an investment for us, but you’d stay in it while you’re finishing your degree.”
My heart pounded in my ears, and I sat up so quickly I sent the magazine flying to the floor. “Dad, I . . . you can’t do that.” I stuttered, my voice trembling with panic and frustration. “That’s a decision I need to make on my own.”
Just tell him. Tell him you don’t want to go to law school. Tell him.
But I couldn’t. Because part of me was terrified of the idea of staying in France, terrified that I wouldn’t be able to make a living doing what I loved. What if Dad was right and I should just stick with food as a hobby?
“Well, the trip’s already planned. We’re taking the boys to see the Tigers at Wrigley Field,” he continued. “I promise not to sign any contracts without you. I just want to make sure you’ll be in the right neighborhood. You want me to do a video call so you can tour it with us?”
“No, I have to help with some of Jake’s clients this weekend,” I lied.
“Oh yeah? Have you made any good contacts?”
“Most of Jake’s big clients are in Asia.”
“Hmm, I guess it would have made more sense for you to join him when he was in China. Sounds like France is more of a vacation for him. Tough life,” Dad joked.
“It’s not a vacation. He works all the time. In fact, I’ve hardly even seen him this week,” I protested, annoyed at him for making light of Jake’s career. He couldn’t take any kind of work with food seriously.
“Look, I should go. There’s a delivery, and I need to sign for it.” Another lie, but I had to get off the phone. This conversation had sent my anxiety through the roof.
“Okay, sweetie. I’ll send you photos of the places we look at.”
“Fine. Just please promise me you won’t make a decision without me.”
“I promise. Love ya.”
“Love you too.” I hung up and buried my head in my hands. “Arghh!”
What was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I get up the nerve to talk to him?
As if I didn’t know the answer to that question. The truth was, he’d been dreaming of me taking over the firm one day, and it would break his heart if I told him that wasn’t what I wanted.
I didn’t want to disappoint him. I knew that when he looked at me he saw my mom.
He was secretly terrified that I carried the same latent, self-destructive genes and would end up like her.
I’d been working my whole life to prove him wrong by being the perfect daughter: agreeable, studious, obedient.
I was tired of putting my own desires on hold to live up to my family’s expectations.
Just once I’d like to do something for me.
* * *
A heat wave set in.
It was too hot to cook, so I lived off gazpacho and salad.
Jake and I rarely crossed paths and when we did, we exchanged comments about the weather like we were strangers.
It was like those magical days in Burgundy had never happened.
Yeah, it hurt being rejected sexually, but losing that connection was even more painful.
I finished my work on the inventory and had nothing to keep me occupied.
Bored, I went to visit Monsieur Reynaud.
His house, with its thick stone walls, offered some relief from the oppressive heat, and I spent several afternoons making him fresh vegetable purées with the zucchini and summer squash from his garden.
His wonderful stories, peppered with Shakespearean aphorisms, distracted me from my morose thoughts until it was time to go back home.
In the evenings, Sly kept me company. He suddenly wanted to cuddle and would jump in my lap while I was reading, spreading his furry body over my French magazines.
“You’re doing this just to be contrary. You can’t fool me,” I told him as he stared back at me, slowly blinking his golden eyes.
By the end of the week, I decided I had to confront Jake.
His clients were leaving the next day, and I needed to know if he wanted me to go as well.
Now that my work was done, there was no reason for me to stay.
Lucie wasn’t expecting me until the end of the following week, but I could always leave early and stay with Callie for a few days.
Between the mosquitoes and my constant late-night ruminating, it was near dawn when I finally fell asleep.
I probably would have slept all day if it wasn’t for the shrill sound of someone ringing the bell at the front gate.
I blinked at the alarm clock. It was already well after noon.
Jake was taking his clients to the airport in Nice today, and he clearly hadn’t returned yet.
I hastily threw on a ratty old T-shirt and shorts and ran out front, kicking up pebbles with my feet.
“Son of a bitch!” I cried as one wedged between my toes and I hopped to the gate, peeking outside to find an irritated dude next to a large white delivery truck.
“ Livraison pour Monsieur Vos ,” he said flatly and shoved an order slip at me. With a sinking feeling, I realized I’d mistakenly requested delivery of the Hermitage wines to the house instead of the shipping container in Marseille.
“S’il vous plait, monsieur!” I tried to explain the misunderstanding to him, but it was beyond my French language abilities.
He cut me off and started unloading the dozens of boxes in the driveway.
I tried to convince him to at least take them downstairs, but he refused and drove off in a whirlwind of dust.
Since leaving the wine in the sun wasn’t an option, I picked up a box and, groaning under its weight, made my first trip down to the cellar.
I’d been lugging boxes into the cellar for about fifteen minutes when Jake pulled into the driveway.
By this time I was a mess, cheeks flushed, hair plastered to my head, sweat trickling down my cleavage.
I wiped my damp forehead on the back of my hand and plucked the sticky fabric of my old Rolling Stones T-shirt from my stomach, trying to create some air.
Jake jumped from the car and rushed over, intercepting me before I picked up another box. “Are you trying to give yourself heatstroke? What is this?”
“The shipment from Hermitage,” I panted.
“Why didn’t they deliver it to the container in Marseille?”
“I don’t know. I fucked up.” I wanted to lay down on the ground and cry, overcome by the heat and my own stupidity.
“It’s not the end of the world,” Jake grumbled, clearly annoyed at my being on the verge of tears. “Go get some water before you pass out.”
He pried the carton from my shaking arms and headed toward the cellar door while I went to the kitchen for a bottle of water. When I came back out, he’d already made much quicker progress than me—only a few boxes remained.
I sat down on the low stone wall next to the rosebushes and gulped down the water, annoyed that, once again, he looked incredible in his white pants and olive-green linen shirt, rolled up over his forearms and open at the neck.
His muscles flexed through the thin material as he picked up a box in each arm like they weighed nothing.
When he glanced over at me, I scowled and pretended like I hadn’t just been checking out his ass.
“Why didn’t you wait for me to get back? You shouldn’t be lifting these by yourself.” He was irritated, which only pissed me off more.
“I had no idea when you’d be back. It’s not like we’ve spoken in the past two days.” I sounded like a petulant child, but I couldn’t help it.
“I haven’t spoken to you ?” He glared at me. “You’re the one who’s been giving me the silent treatment.”
“What?” I crossed my arms. How dare he make this my fault?
“I have not been giving you the silent treatment. You’ve been out with your clients.
And when you are here, you’re huddled away in the office.
You’ve made it pretty clear that you’d prefer I wasn’t around.
In fact, I’ve been thinking I should just go back to Paris.
I’m more of a liability than a help to you anyway. ”
“What are you talking about? You’re not leaving.” He said it like there was no point in debating the subject.
“I’m sorry? Did you just forbid me to leave?”
“You said you’d stay until the end of next week. Are you just going to quit when things don’t go your way?”
“I’m not a quitter.”
“Oh yeah?”
I marched over to him and heaved up a box, my muscles trembling under the weight. “Yeah, I don’t quit.”
We finished unloading all the boxes in silence and then collapsed on the bench in the shade. He passed me a bottle of Evian. “It’s so fucking hot.”
“There’s no air,” I complained, trying ineffectually to fan myself with the delivery notice. “The heat makes me grumpy.”
“I noticed,” he chuckled, raking his fingers through the lock of hair that had fallen over his forehead. Then he stood up like he’d had a sudden burst of energy. “Go get your swimsuit. I know where we can get some air.”