Chapter 5
Mellie and Albert are going to the theater tonight on a trip they booked ages ago, so Jackson asks if I want to have dinner with him in town.
I know it’s not a date, but it’s Friday night and I dress for the part anyway, styling my new shorter blond hair in tousled waves before choosing one of the prettiest items from my revamped wardrobe: a long turquoise pencil dress with a V-shaped neckline and buttons all down the front.
It cinches me in at the waist and hugs my thighs, but it’s a bugger to walk in and I say as much upon arriving at Chateau Angèle.
“Why don’t you jump on my back and I’ll give you a piggyback ride the rest of the way?” Jackson suggests with a grin.
I scoff. “What are we, ten? Anyway, if I try to wrap my legs around you in this, all my buttons will pop off.”
The look he gives me after raking his eyes over my outfit makes me feel suddenly hot, and I’m intensely aware of his presence right behind me as we make our way down the steep footpath into town.
We go to La Terrasse by the river and sit at an outdoor table under the trellis.
The air is humid and scented with citronella from the large candles in terracotta pots on the ground that have been lit to ward off mosquitoes, and above our heads, fairy lights peek out from between the large green grapevine leaves.
To my left is the river, and to my right, on the other side of the road, is Thermalisme, Albert’s five-star thermal spa hotel.
Sainte-églantine’s mineral water was already renowned for its qualities when Jackson’s great-grandparents started bottling, selling, and distributing it, but the town only really thrived as a tourist attraction after Albert built Thermalisme.
It’s an architectural masterpiece, with interesting angles and gorgeous vertical dark-wood cladding, an improvement on the original drab building I remember from when I was younger. Sandrine got her hands on it about fifteen years ago and she’s still invested in the running of it from afar.
Every generation of the family has brought something new to the business, and now it’s Jackson’s turn.
I’m trying not to think too much about the pressure on his shoulders—or on mine.
“Do you think your mum would ever move here permanently?” I ask as Jackson rests his toned forearms on the wooden tabletop and smiles at me.
She flies back and forth, but the family has an office in New York with a team that handles distribution so she and Jackson are mostly based there.
He shakes his head. “She’s a New Yorker now.”
I smile. “She seems pretty French to me.”
“She’s actually interested in expanding Thermalisme, so that might bring her over here more often.”
A middle-aged waitress appears at our table. “Can I get you something to drink?” She’s French, but she asks in English.
“Shall we go for a bottle?” Jackson suggests to me as he takes one of the menus from her.
“Sure,” I reply. We walked, after all.
“Red, white, or rosé?”
“Are you really asking me this question?”
“We’ll have your house rosé, please,” he tells the waitress with a grin.
She lights the candle in the middle of the table.
“Not that you need any help with romance,” she says with a smile. “You make a very cute couple.”
“Merci beaucoup,” Jackson replies without missing a beat.
She leaves us to it. We look at each other and laugh, though mine is ironic. Maybe his is too. It’s hard to tell. It’s not the first time this has happened.
“I can’t believe you’re here, that you agreed to all this,” he says warmly.
“I’m very glad to have saved you a shit ton of money.”
He throws his head back and laughs, making my belly tingle.
I didn’t go as low as the half price I joked about in my email, but he’s better off than he would have been with an agency.
“You could have quoted higher,” he says, still grinning.
“Nah, I’m good. Unlike the agency bosses, I don’t have any overhead.”
“I didn’t think I was going to persuade you at first. What made you change your mind?”
Is he for real? Surely he knows that I wouldn’t be here if he was still happily married. But then, we’ve never talked openly about our feelings for each other.
“Starting afresh takes time and energy,” I reply, thinking on the spot.
“I was so exhausted that I could barely put one foot in front of the other. It took me a moment to realize what a great opportunity this was. Plus, I really wanted to come for Albert’s birthday.
My boss wouldn’t give me the time off in the school holidays because my colleagues with children take priority. ”
“I’m so pleased that it all worked out,” he says.
“Me too.” The smile I give him is heartfelt. “Thank you for asking me.”
“You are more than welcome.” He reaches across the table to squeeze my hand.
I release an awkward laugh as I let him go, tucking my hair behind my ears.
There he goes again, being disarming.
“So what are your mum’s plans for Thermalisme?” I ask, reverting to our earlier topic of conversation.
“She’s trying to buy a building up the road that she wants to turn into a yoga studio and café.”
“Which building?”
“You know that crappy garage on the outskirts of town?”
“Yes.”
“It has an incredible view. But the old guy who owns it won’t sell. For reasons beyond our comprehension, he likes his crappy garage.”
“Does it come down to money?”
He shrugs. “My mom told him to name his price, not that she planned on paying it, of course, but he wouldn’t even begin negotiations.”
“Hmm.”
“Yeah.” He looks flummoxed. “It’s weird, he hosts these wild parties there occasionally—a couple of hotel guests have mentioned the noise. My mom’s lawyer—oh fuck, I meant to call him back,” he says suddenly.
“Who?”
“Vivek, Mom’s lawyer. He called earlier to share some thoughts, but I couldn’t speak.” He checks his watch, adding, “He asked me to get back to him before the end of the day as he’s away next week.”
If Vivek’s in New York, it’s the early afternoon for him.
“You can call him now, if you like.”
He gives me an apologetic look. “Do you mind? It shouldn’t take long.”
“Go for it. I’ll just sit here, enjoying the ambience and drinking my rosé.” I smile at the waitress who has reappeared to pour it.
“Thanks,” Jackson says, scooting his chair out from the table.
I take a sip of my wine and realize that I forgot to ask for ice. I always drink rosé with a couple of cubes knocking about.
Our waitress is now serving a table for eight but through the restaurant window I can see a guy in a black T-shirt making drinks behind a small bar area. Taking matters into my own hands, I get up and go inside. “4runner” by Brenn! has just started playing over the sound system.
“Excusez-moi,” I say as I squeeze between two vacant stools.
The bartender glances up from what he’s doing, dark hair curling down across his forehead, and my heart skips a beat.
I know those eyes: more gray than blue and framed with thick, dark lashes.
I know this man.
And he knows me.
“étienne,” I murmur with disbelief, my heart thumping.
“Hello, Grace,” he replies.