Chapter Nine #2
I cleared my throat. It seemed to be closing up or catching or something. “Everything?”
“Everything.” He looked me right in the eyes and lowered his voice as he said it. He was a walking double entendre. My stomach fluttered.
“Tell me about it. Your military days in the Far East.”
“What do you want to know.” He smiled, thrilled that I’d asked.
“I don’t know. What did you do there?” I leaned back in my seat and twirled a loose strand of my hair.
“I was in public relations, you know. In Vietnam and then later in Laos. And much of the fighting took place before I arrived. So work-wise, it wasn’t so terrible.”
“Except you were writing about military actions instead of casino openings.” I tried to imagine him in some remote jungle surrounded by snakes and exotic birds and people speaking a strange language.
“I was. And when my two years were up, I went to work as a correspondent.”
“And kept traveling.”
“Yes.”
“So where did you go then?”
“Italy. Greece. Egypt and all points in between, really.”
“You’ve been to so many places.” I’d read his stories. I knew he’d been everywhere. But I wanted to know what he’d say about it. He, like every man once you got him going, liked to talk about himself. He inflated as he entertained, and I didn’t mind watching.
We finished the bottle of wine and our dinner while he told me about travel and work.
When the server came around, he asked me if I’d like more wine.
I did, but I felt mildly guilty about ordering a second bottle during a professional dinner.
But Benoit didn’t hesitate. Probably no man would, when I really thought about it.
Monsieur Lefeuvre wanted us to have a good time.
Another bottle of wine was nothing to him, especially not when L’Entreprise would be singing his praises to all of Paris for the next month.
The server cleared our dishes and promptly returned with the wine. When he’d gone, I asked the question that I’d often wondered about Benoit. “Why, after such an exciting career, going here and there, did you settle into culture pages? It seems so boring in comparison.”
He sipped his wine and eyed me for a moment over the glass before answering.
“As a younger man, I did aspire to write the hard stories. I wanted to be just like Zola. Now I think I would rather write about Zola’s books than be him.
It was fun while it lasted. But I’m at a place in my life where I want a slower pace and deeper work.
Something that might give me time to write a book.
And I grew tired of touring. Plus, culture news is important; locally it’s more important than distant lands, as far as I’m concerned. ”
“I suppose I understand that. You’ve seen it all then?”
“Well, not everything.” He arched an eyebrow and twirled the stem of his champagne flute between two fingers. “But let me ask you the same question. If you’re so taken with the idea of traveling more, why do you want the editor position?”
“Me?” I hadn’t really thought about it, aside from the clout.
“I’m not sure who would hire a woman who’s hardly been out of Paris to write about travel.
The only reason I’m here is because the paper arranged everything for me.
And no one would take me seriously. Whereas, I’ve been at L’Entreprise for years. People take me seriously there.”
He shook his head.
“You don’t believe me?”
“Well, it’s not that I don’t believe you. I wish you were wrong, but in all likelihood, you are right.” His face was flushed from the wine and food. His eyes joyful. “It’s harder for women, even though it shouldn’t be. If I were an editor, I’d hire you as a correspondent.”
“Not so fast. You’re not going to be an editor, remember? I am.”
He shrugged and drank the rest of his wine instead of responding. “Shall we walk back to the hotel?”
“Okay.” My glass was empty too, but the bottle wasn’t. “What about all this wine?”
“The staff will drink it.”
After thanking the staff and Monsieur Lefeuvre, we walked out of the casino and onto the promenade.
Groups of people still walked and milled about.
This was not Paris nightlife, but it was nightlife.
Because Benoit and I were both staying at the same place, and therefore headed in the same direction, there was no reason to discuss whether or not we would walk together.
“Do you mind if we take the beach?”
“It’s dark.”
“I’ll protect you.” He said it so innocently. “And there’s no better time for a walk on the beach. Trust me.”
“Flinging me into the sea would be a convenient way to ensure you get to stay at the paper and I don’t.”
“You’re right. But I like your company. And if we can’t be there together, then I’d rather beat you fair and square. Plus, I heard you can swim.”
Of course, I trusted him to walk me half a kilometer to the hotel. While I wanted to kill him, or at least I used to, he didn’t seem to want to kill me. He’d brought me soup, after all.
We took the stairs down to the sand, where my shoes sank, and the air was heavier with the salty smell of the water. He offered me his arm; I hesitated for a second and then took it. Why not?
The breeze pushed the wisps of my hair, and the sand shifted under my feet.
For whatever reason my whole body tingled with the awareness of him.
His footfalls next to mine. The feel of his jacket.
His arm; his shoulder. He was a magnet for my attention.
I couldn’t seem to exist in his presence with any sort of neutrality.
For all that doctors made of the restorative properties of the ocean, proximity to the beach had done nothing for my sanity.
I couldn’t stop thinking about him, wondering what he was thinking.
Feeling tingly about my hand in the crook of his elbow.
I was the one being strange. He had been nothing but a perfect gentleman, while my thoughts had been racing all over inappropriate territory.
This was not a romantic rendezvous. It had been a professional meeting.
But colleagues didn’t usually offer an arm or walk quite so close.
It was like my brain had been completely scrambled by him.
In a constant state of fluster. It was most unwelcome. And yet I was helpless against it.
The sky was dark but there was enough moonlight to see the shadows of his face. It was a perfect face. He must have felt me staring because he looked down at me and both smiled and furrowed his brow.
“What?”
“What what?” I snapped my gaze away like a naughty child caught red-handed.
“What are you smiling about?”
“I wasn’t smiling.”
“You were,” he insisted. “You’re enjoying yourself. Admit it.”
“What do you mean enjoying myself? What are you suggesting?”
“That you don’t hate me.”
“You’ve misread my smile, if that’s what you think.”
“Stop being so grumpy.”
I scoffed, pretending to be dumbfounded by the accusation. “I’m not being grumpy.”
“You absolutely are. And I caught you enjoying yourself. Dare I say: enjoying my company.”
“No. You definitely shouldn’t dare.” I started to pull my hand away from his arm, but he caught it and held it.
“Stop. I won’t tell anyone. Besides, we’re here.” He nodded toward the stairs closest to our hotel and steered me that way without letting go of my hand.
“Fine. You’re right. I was enjoying your company. But I don’t expect it to last.”
“You wound me with your cruelty.”
I immediately knew it was true. I was being cruel. I didn’t exactly want to be, but it was maybe my natural state. “I’ll make it up to you. Join me for one more drink before we head upstairs?”
“What? Is this an invitation?”
“Yes, it is.” I laughed. “One drink. That’s it.”
“You’re quite skittish, you know.”
“Well, you monsieur are a flirt! I need you to take me seriously. Professionally.”
He stopped me then and tugged me so I was facing him. “I take you seriously. Have I given you reason to think I don’t?”
My mouth opened to list examples, but I couldn’t think of any; there weren’t any. “No, not exactly. But it’s something I have to be aware of constantly, as a woman in a professional setting. It’s my greatest hindrance.”
“So that’s why you’re so uptight. You’re afraid people won’t take you seriously.” It was like all the pieces of his mystery were falling into place.
“People don’t take me seriously often. Believe me. This is something you know nothing about.”
“Maybe not.” We continued up the stairs, his hand on my hand where it was holding his arm. “But you don’t have to worry about me not taking you seriously.”
“I’m not sure I believe you after all we’ve been through. After all you’ve… seen.”
“I have seen some things, that’s for sure.”
I tried to tug my hand away, but he caught it again.
“I’m teasing you, Vanessa. I like you.” We’d stopped again, at the top of the stairs now, and we were facing each other.
“I like you very much. And your professionalism continues to impress me. But you must lighten up. You’re a human being.
Sometimes we are felled by shellfish. Sometimes by gravity.
That’s life. You won’t lose my respect for being human.
And I do know exactly how serious you are. ”
“Good. Fine. Okay then.” Did he say that he liked me? And why was that the one sentence that stuck out. This man reduced me to a mess every time. Still, he didn’t seem deterred by my general bitchiness. He didn’t even seem to hold it against me.
“Okay then.”
The hotel dining room was nearly empty at that hour.
The piano was quiet. The servers were doing more cleaning up than serving.
Except for two gentlemen at the other end who appeared to be deep in quiet debate, we were alone at the bar.
He pulled out a stool for me and then sat in the one next to it.
The chandelier sparkled and cast a twinkling glow on every glass in the room.
“Whiskey, neat,” I told the barman, who was short and thick and built like he might spend his off days in a boxing ring.