Chapter 9
Nine
JOSEPHINE
It takes about a week for me to get nosey.
I’m not bored. There’s plenty to do around here, and Zoe keeps me busy, but you can only live in an actual French chateau that was once owned by an eccentric millionaire for so long before you start to get curious. So, while honey girl is occupied with her daily allotment of screen time, I sneak off to the back staircase which must have once been used by members of staff.
While the main one in the foyer only goes up to the second floor, this one goes to a third. Ellis and Zoe discovered it a few days ago, but obviously hadn’t felt the same burning curiosity that I did, because all I got out of him was; “there’s an attic”.
Though, I’m coming to realize Ellis might be a little weird across the board. When I pointed out it was like he’d never seen the movie “National Treasure” , he only stared at me bemusedly. After dinner, I begged him and Zoe to watch it with me, and the man spent the entire time making comments about the historical inaccuracies while Zoe painted our toe nails.
It would make my life so much easier if I didn’t find the weird so freaking charming. Back in Connecticut, we were drawn together by nothing but chemistry and attraction. Spending this much time together is all the more dangerous now that I have confirmation our connection doesn’t just exist in the one night we spent together back home.
Now, I know he’s an incredible father, can be so sweet when he wants to be, and what his voice sounds like—all gravely and rough—when he first wakes up and hasn’t gotten to the coffee pot yet. In fact, every new fact I learn about Ellis Delvaux makes me like him more, and I really wish he would stop acting as though he likes me too, because it’s getting really hard to keep my heart out of this mess.
I’m supposed to be here for me , and I haven’t spent a single evening alone since we got here, nor have I planned any trips away for my coming weekends off. It’s hard to motivate myself to leave the chateau when I’m happier here than I have been in a long time. The place is beautiful, but it’s more than that. For the first time, my days aren’t scheduled. There are no classes to study for or volunteer hours to attend. When I cook dinner, there are people to eat it with me. It’s such a small, ordinary thing. Ellis and Zoe probably don’t think anything of it, but every time they pull out chairs at the table, setting down plates and cutlery, I’m beaming.
As I climb the stairs to the attic, it occurs to me that I don’t know quite what I’m looking for, but there has to be something to distract me from these dangerous feelings in a dead rich guy’s attic.
My thighs are burning when I finally arrive at a small landing, which is lit by the late afternoon sun spilling through the tiny window across from a heavy wood door. The knob turns without resistance, and I poke my head inside, instantly hit by a wall of heat and humidity that’s risen from the lower floors and gotten trapped.
It’s big, but not terribly interesting at first glance .
Edging over the wide plank floors, I cross my arms tightly over my chest, staring around at the dusty crates, flimsy cardboard boxes and the occasional piece of broken furniture. There’s a shelf laden with grimy champagne flutes and an ugly painting of a baby. Beside it is a chipped marble pedestal.
It looks like the attic at my parent’s house in Connecticut. Pretty disappointing, considering Ellis is wading through tens of thousands of rare books as we speak. It seems Monsieur Perdue’s extravagant tastes didn’t extend past the library.
The room is also feeling more unbearably hot by the minute, and my t-shirt is already sticking to my back. Letting out a heavy sigh of defeat, I turn to go, but my eyes catch on a machine sitting idle on a faded wood tabletop, and my heart lifts.
It’s a sewing machine.
When she was still alive, my father’s mother, Granny Georgia, was an avid sewer. She made everything from my Christmas stocking to elaborate quilts, and during the weeks I spent at her house every summer, she taught me too.
I’m not good, and the machine I learned on was a lot newer than this dinosaur, but I can figure it out, right? There must be somebody out there making YouTube videos on how to operate a sewing machine from the 1800’s. It would be fun to have a project, and good to have something to focus on other than my hot as sin but very off limits employer.
Being out in the country like this has taken its toll on Zoe’s Target wardrobe. We’ve only been here a week, and she’s already torn through two dresses, a t-shirt and a pair of shorts. I can think of worse ways to spend my time than to make her new ones.
It’s not easy to haul the thing downstairs without breaking a limb or any of the walls. I manage it, though, and Zoe is temporarily distracted from her tablet, watching as I waddle into the room with the heavy table digging into my stomach .
We’ve taken over one of the living rooms furthest from the library so we don’t disturb Ellis during the day. It’s cozy and decorated in floral blue wallpaper that laughably contrasts the squashy, bright pink couch and mismatched chairs. It also has the benefit of being located just across the hall from the pantry Wi-Fi router. This is fortunate, because I’ve been doing a lot of googling, as my student isn’t exactly cooperative with the kindergarten lesson plans I downloaded before leaving. Technically, we’re still on summer break, but I’m hoping to get a good routine going so she doesn’t fall behind in the fall.
“It’s a sewing machine,” I say brightly as I set it down against a free stretch of wall. “I thought we could make you some new dresses together.”
Zoe hums, scooting off the couch to come have a look. “Okay.”
I suppress a smile, trying not to make a big deal out of it. Over the last few days, she seems to have become much more willing to speak in my presence. I’m not sure I’ve ever been so happy to hear someone tell me “no” twenty times a day.
Dusting my hands off on my cotton skirt, I stand back, examining the machine. It looks as though it’s composed of pure iron and has to be about a hundred years old, but when I turn the knobs, everything seems to move smoothly.
“I bet we can persuade Papa to let us walk into the village for ice cream after dinner,” I tell her, thinking of the small display of mending supplies I spotted at the market yesterday.
A deep voice comes from behind me. “Papa is easily persuaded.”
Zoe brightens instantly, and skips across the room to give Ellis a perfunctory hug, before heading straight back to her tablet. I catch his eye, and my heart flutters at the crooked smile he gives me. “Done for the day?”
He sighs, smile slipping away into thoughtfulness. “Not quite yet. I’ve discovered something rather odd. Waiting for emails back from a few colleagues.”
“Odd?”
There’s a glimmer of excitement in his eyes as he nods. “Come look.”
I follow him back through the house, our footsteps echoing on the flagstone floors. The library is firmly Ellis’s domain, and I do my best to keep Zoe out of here in fear of her disordering something he’s worked on. It looks much the same as it did the last time I saw it, except the makeshift office set up at a glossy wood table in the center of the room. An orange extension cord winds over the motheaten rug from his laptop, and music is playing quietly from a wireless speaker sitting on a shelf nearby.
“Wait a moment,” says Ellis, obviously brimming with excitement. I hover in the doorway, watching as he moves around the room, selecting books apparently at random from shelves in different areas, and sets the stack on the table.
For some reason, it’s difficult to breathe as I move to his side, our elbows brushing when he opens to the title page of the first book and points to a line printed in English— Second Edition. Setting it aside, he flips open the next, showing me the same set of words in French.
“They’re all like this,” he explains. “At first, I thought I had simply stumbled upon a section of second editions, but no.”
My jaw drops. “All of them?” I gesture at the massive room, at the thousands and thousands of books towering above our heads and even more sitting in crates. “Is that… is that normal ?”
Ellis shakes his head, and his eyes are bright with excitement when he turns to look at me. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Collectors like this typically try for first editions, if anything. More prestigious. ”
“So why did Monsieur Perdue only collect seconds? He could afford firsts by the look of it.” I gesture around at the magnificent old house with a weak laugh.
“Your guess is as good as mine.” He drags a hand through his hair, staring around the room in wonder. His passion is contagious, and though I know next to nothing about this, I feel my heart beating faster. “This has to be one of the largest collections of second edition books in the world.”
My mouth falls open in disbelief. “That’s insane.”
“Indeed.” He reached over to pick up a few slips of paper, stacked neatly beside his computer. “That’s not all. I’ve been finding these as I go.” I take them curiously, and stare down at the elegant stationary, emblazoned with the initials “JLP” at the top.
Mari,
Do you remember that trip we took to New York? I was reminiscing about it the other day. You had all these plans for things you wanted to show me, and we barely left the hotel room.
I still haven’t seen New York, and I regret nothing.
Your Luc
Then, the next.
Mari,
Happy birthday, my love. I’ve been thinking of you all week. I do hope that you have chocolate cake wherever you are (extra frosting, of course) .
Your Luc
There are three more, and they’re more of the same, idle reflections on memories or the writer’s day to day life, all addressed to the same woman. I look up at Ellis, who was watching me read. “Luc was Jean-Luc Perdue? Was Mari his wife?”
“He was never married. I checked.” Ellis takes the notes and sets the back down beside his computer. “You know as much as I do. It’s curious, though, don’t you think?”
Yeah, I do. “I wonder if he was collecting the books for her.” That possibility makes the idea of Weston splitting it up and selling what they don’t want to the highest bidder kind of tragic. “I don’t suppose the school would keep the collection intact?” I ask, and my breath catches in my throat as brilliant, pale blue eyes meet mine.
Ellis’s answering smile is sad. “I doubt it. Weston isn’t in the business of sentimentality. Only a small portion of these books will make it into the school’s collection. Most will be sold, donated, or auctioned off if they’re valuable enough. I’ve already found at least three that are worth about ten thousand dollars. We’re looking at millions of dollars in this room.”
Millions? My jaw drops. “Holy crap. Does my mother know, yet?”
I wish I could shove the question back into my mouth the moment it comes out. At the mention of his boss, Ellis’s back straightens and—on the pretense of checking his phone—inches away from me. “I have a virtual meeting with the board Monday night, and I believe President Sutton will be in attendance.” He glances at me. “I’ll be requesting an additional grant to stay here for longer if need be. Honestly, I have no idea how long this will take, nor would any of my colleagues. Each book needs to be photographed, catalogued, its value researched and then appraised…” He trails off, and there’s an unspoken question hanging between us.
It’s not really a question, though. Not to me. “I’ll stay. As long as you and Zoe are here.”
“Just like that?”
I shrug. “You pay well.”
Ellis snorts and turns to lean against the table, smiling wryly. “No. I certainly don’t.”
“Well, you can’t beat the office.” I gesture around at the beautiful room we’re in. “And Zoe would hunt me down with “Hungry, Hungry Hippos” anyway, so I might as well stay and save her the trouble.”
He stares at me a moment, as though he’d like to say more, but finally smiles slightly and nods. “It’s appreciated. Truly, Josephine. You’re doing wonderfully with her. I’ve never seen her take to anyone so quickly.”
My chest warms at the compliment and I turn away, looking around so he can’t see my smile. I didn’t know quite what I was getting into when I took the job. For all I knew, Zoe could have been a brat who would have made the next six months miserable. She isn’t, though. She’s sweet and intelligent, constantly looking to me with questions about the world around her and makes her point clearly with no need to speak more than a few words.
By Zoe’s age, I’d been molded into a mini adult, very aware of social etiquette and trained not to get grass stains on my white pants. I never thought much about it, but spending my days watching Zoe romp through fields and stick her hands in puddles of mud, it’s clear how stiff and lonely my upbringing was. My parents aren’t bad people. They loved me, and each other, but there wasn’t a lot of laughter in our house.
“I kind of love her already,” I admit, feeling my heart swell with affection toward the little girl who’s become such a big part of my life in such a short amount of time. “She’s such a good kid, Ellis. Seriously. I know her being on the spectrum must have made it a rough go for you guys, but she’s amazing. You’ve done such a good job.”
Ellis stares at his shoes, his expression unreadable. “You’re becoming something of an expert at giving me pep talks, aren’t you?” He sounds pained, or embarrassed maybe.
Without thinking, I nudge him with my elbow, and instantly know I shouldn’t have. There was nothing inappropriate about it. The gesture was friendly and perfectly benign, but it also crossed some invisible line I didn’t even realize existed we’d drawn until now. It’s the first time we’ve touched since that moment at Monkey Do , when he grabbed my wrist as I went to leave.
“Maybe I’m angling for a pay raise.” I laugh, trying to cut the sudden tension.
The handsome man beside me scoffs and looks over, brilliant blue eyes glinting with amusement and something else I can’t quite identify. “You’ll be disappointed, I’m afraid.”
Heat curls through my pelvis, a slow, heady spread that makes my stomach flip and my thighs feel loose. Yeah. This is why I lost my virginity to this man after two hours.
I push off the table, heading toward the door when Ellis calls after me. “You’ve been cooking dinner for all of us since we got here, which is not part of your job by the way. There’s a little bistro in the village, why don’t we all walk down tonight. My treat.”
Pausing in the doorway, I look back over my shoulder, a smile tugging at the corners of my lips. “That’s okay. I like it.”