Chapter 11 flâner
flaner
The next morning, Damnit was sunning herself in the middle of the Central Garden, snapping at anyone who dared to so much as look at her.
Reggie lay in the shade a few feet away, squinting into the sun.
I sipped on my coffee—brewed this morning by Wykofski in the main kitchen, so it was strong and dark—and leaned against the railing of the veranda to enjoy the peaceful morning.
“I feel like we’re always one bad day away from finding out what goose tastes like,” said a voice behind me.
The morning suddenly felt a little less peaceful.
The man from last night, Oliver, came up beside me to lean against the railing, water bottle loose in his hand.
Sweaty from a run, he’d traded his Henley for a soft gray T-shirt and running shorts, though still the same dirty tennis shoes.
In the daylight, his hair was even more golden than blond, and looked darker where it was damp.
He’d certainly made himself at home here already.
His mouth quirked in greeting. “Not that I would ever cook the goose. Lala would kill me.”
“The goose might kill you first,” I replied.
He laughed. “I’m sure I’d taste terrible.” Then he paused to consider it. “Actually, I’ve never asked.”
“Grilled or fried?”
“Flambéed,” he decided.
“Wow, you just have to be different.”
His eyes glittered. “I know, I’m impressive.”
I tsked. “First you try to break into my cottage,” I accused, “and now you’re doing a very bad job of flirting with me. Do you always fail this badly?”
I didn’t know what came over me. Maybe it was because the air was crisp this morning, and the sun was bright, and the coy smirk tucked into the corner of his mouth made me bold, like he was just waiting for me to say something clever.
And apparently I delivered.
“This is new, actually,” he said.
“Failing or flirting?”
“Failing to flirt, honestly. I’m told I’m good at it.”
“Your mom doesn’t count,” I chided, and he threw his head back with a laugh. When was the last time I’d flirted with someone, or the last time someone flirted with me? I couldn’t remember, and the feeling thawed something otherwise numb in my chest.
“At least you won’t hold it against me,” he replied, tongue in cheek because I most certainly would, and narrowed the short space between us, so close I noticed the faded beauty mark on his bottom lip. “Or if you do, you won’t tell me, right?”
“Of course I won’t. The grudge is no fun that way.”
“I bet it’s awful, being on a gardener’s bad side.”
I cocked my head. “You tell me.”
That coy smirk bloomed into a smile. His gaze flickered across my face, from the faint scar on my chin from a fall off a dresser when I was two, to my large green eyes, to my flushed cheeks, before settling on my lips.
Bold, this early in the morning.
I cleared my throat, and he finally realized just how close we were, and eased away from me.
“I’m sorry, again, for last night,” he said. “I promise I usually don’t break into houses.”
I sipped at my coffee, pretending to be unaffected. I hoped he didn’t see the blush burning my ears. “Usually?”
“Unless I need to,” he added.
I snorted a laugh. “Noted—”
“Ah, so you two have met. Good!”
It was Eula, dressed and helped down the steps by her morning physical therapist, leaning against her walker, wearing a pale pink tracksuit and glittery sneakers. Oliver spun around to her in the doorway of the veranda, and her face lit up at the sight of him.
“Good morning, Lala,” he said, rushing over to give her a quick hug. “How did you sleep?”
“You mean once I got to bed after my great-nephew showed up at my door at midnight?”
“It wasn’t midnight,” he said with an eye roll.
“It was almost midnight,” I muttered into my coffee.
He shot me a look, and I minded my own business. Then he told his great-aunt, “I hope you got to sleep.”
“I almost did, but I can’t for the life of me figure out why my wonderful nephew is here,” said Eula dramatically, and I could see where Oliver got the flair. “It couldn’t be for little old me.”
“Of course it is,” he replied, eyebrows furrowing.
“Last we spoke you were in a rehab facility, but when I called again yesterday, the nice staff there said that you went home. So imagine my surprise when I show up here, and there’s someone in my cottage, and your assistant tells me you’re announcing your retirement. ”
“Juliette’s not her assistant,” I said.
“She’s not?” He glanced over at me, perplexed.
Eula said, “So you thought I was dying.”
“It does seem reasonable,” he argued, crossing his arms over his chest, and glancing away with an embarrassed huff. “I thought something bad had happened.”
She reached out and squeezed his arm reassuringly. “You know I’m too stubborn to go anywhere, and if anything did happen, you would be one of the first to know. You and Cyrus.”
“I know.” He sighed, like he’d heard that before. “Are you doing well, otherwise? How’s the arthritis? What medicines do they have you on? Did you tell the doctor about the pain in your—”
“Hush,” she ordered, slapping him playfully on the arm, “yes, and I’m fine! Healthy as a horse with a broken hip. You’ll worry yourself into the ground if you keep it up.”
“Better me than you,” he replied smartly, and she made a face at him, then turned to me.
“I hope my great-nephew didn’t bother you too much,” she said to me. “He might look like a golden child, but he’s a real terror.”
At which Oliver dramatically pressed his hands over his heart. “Lala, you wound me! Who else comes to visit you? Who else brings you your favorite potato doughnuts up from Portland?”
She sniffed indignantly. “It’s bribery.”
“It’s because I love you.”
“Well, perhaps that, too,” she amended. “All right, let’s go have a chat. But only if you take me to those potato doughnuts and brew me a lovely cup of tea?”
He shook his head with a grin and told me, “It was lovely to see you again, Sophie. I’m sure I’ll see you around. Maybe we can explore the gardens together.”
Eula’s eyes lit up. “You can flaner together!” she said with an affected French accent. Flaner—a word I didn’t know. I wondered if it was in Harrie’s journal and made a mental note to check later.
“Lala, I hope you’re not implying something scandalous. We just met after all,” Oliver said, to which I wheezed a rebuke.
“Eula, we’d never—”
“It means to aimlessly wander, to enjoy the views!” Eula said, rolling her eyes. “Gracious. You kids and your euphemisms. My Henry and I used to flaner all the time.”
“You do see how that sounds, right?” Oliver pointed out, and Eula wagged a finger at him in warning, but she was smiling, and he mirrored it with well-worn love.
I got the feeling Oliver was the kind of man who liked teasing people, and he was good-looking and polite enough to never feel like a thorn.
“I wouldn’t mind a little flaner-ing.” Then he lifted his playful gaze to mine, dark caramel warm and inviting, and winked. “Et vous, mademoiselle?”
The sweet warmth of his voice stuck me to my spot, like an insect caught in amber. “I—um,” I fumbled as the tips of my ears began to burn with a blush. I’m sure he could see it. I’m sure that was why his grin widened, his eyes glittered. “Sure,” I forced out, and then, “I have to—garden.”
I felt his gaze as I fled the veranda, hoping that the farther I escaped into the garden, the more I could shake off whatever strange feeling had begun fluttering in my stomach like butterflies.