Chapter 9
I had to convince Jackson to come. “You really want to go to a garage party?” he’d asked dubiously as we walked away after étienne’s invite on Thursday afternoon.
“Ha! Yes. It is literally a garage party,” I replied with amusement. “I’m curious to see what it’ll be like, aren’t you?”
“Not really. That place is a dump.”
“You reckon? I liked it.”
He cast me a look of disbelief. “You’ve got to be kidding. It hasn’t seen a lick of paint in decades.”
“That’s the point. You can’t paint over the old advertisements; they’re vintage. As are the 1950s petrol pumps.”
“What, you reckon they left those old pumps out there on purpose and not out of sheer laziness?”
“That’s my guess, but we won’t know for sure unless we ask.”
“My mother would rip them out in a heartbeat,” he said darkly. “And she’d paint over the signs.”
“Oh, your mother would strip the place bare.” I felt morose at the thought.
“So what’s the plan?” Jackson asks now as I dust a baguette crumb off my top.
He’s wearing a light blue polo shirt and pale gray chinos—classic Jackson—but I’ve gone for a more casual look for the party: denim shorts and a faded black Japanese graphic T-shirt that has gold cranes flying across a big red sun. Mellie gave it to me and it’s one of my favorites.
“No plan,” I reply. “Let’s just have fun.”
“What about Mom’s evil plot to buy the place? Maybe you can convince him to sell. He seems to like you a whole lot more than he likes me,” he adds sardonically.
“Yeah, I think your mum might need to let this one go—it sounds like a lost cause to me.”
I’m not sure why the hotel’s guests have mentioned the noise: we only start to hear the party at the last bend in the road. About a dozen cars sit on the forecourt with many more parked along the verge. The second set of garage doors is open and colored lights spill out along with French hip-hop.
A giant speaker has been set up inside, beside a retro-looking DJ booth where a guy wearing black headphones is on the decks.
The tools and metal cabinets lining the walls are hidden behind dark green canvas sheets and there are no rusty car parts in sight, so all that remains in this large open-plan space are the three cars that we saw the other day, plus one more, which has its trunk popped open and is filled with ice and drinks.
There are a few groups of people standing around shout-talking over the music, but no one gives us a second glance and there’s no sign of étienne.
Jackson grabs my hand and tugs me toward the car bar.
The ease with which he touches me is maddening, as is the heat that shoots up my arm.
He lets me go to crack open the bottle we brought with us, and I fish out some plastic glasses from the ice and hold them.
I’m still a little rattled as he sloshes in rum and tops it up with Coke.
“Cheers.” He bumps his glass against mine and meets my eyes, knocking back a mouthful.
There are people coming up and going down the spiral staircase—the age range of the crowd is twenties to fifties, maybe older. As the French hip-hop morphs into American indie rock, I suggest we explore downstairs.
The room we come out into is spacious and brightly lit and in its center is a white Peugeot 205 GTi.
I don’t know much about cars, but this one looks like it dates back to the 1980s or early ’90s with a classic hatchback shape, sharp angles, and a stylish red line set within the black bumper trim that runs around the exterior.
At the back of the room is a wall of shelves, each holding a row of small white plastic Michelin Man dolls—at least a hundred of them.
The walls, floor, and ceiling are made of raw concrete and there are big garage doors with square window panels that face the mountains, although currently it’s too dark outside to see the view.
We wander through to the next room, where there’s another car: a Renault 5 Turbo 2, according to its silver badges, with flared wheel arches, huge cooling vents, and yellow fog lights that stand out against the dark blue paintwork.
The back wall of this room is plastered with vintage cigarette posters advertising the likes of Gitanes, Royale, and Camel.
There are cigarette sponsorship posters for motorsports too, including a Rothmans white, navy, and red rally car with TOUR DE CORSE printed in large lettering along the bottom.
“Cruel Summer” by Bananarama starts blaring out of the speakers.
The music is eclectic, as are the guests.
Is everyone here a friend of étienne’s? What do they all have in common?
Are they here to look at the cars? Are the cars for sale?
It’s like a showroom on this level, but it’s…
surprising. I wouldn’t have guessed that such a cool space would exist inside a building that looks so shabby from the outside.
The third and last room contains an actual rally car—a red Citroen Xsara—with white wheels, a big black rear wing, and its sponsorship stickers still in place.
Hanging on the back wall are dozens of old tin and ceramic signs, some rusty with peeling paint and some pristine, but that’s all I notice because étienne is leaning his shoulder against the side wall, his feet crossed at the ankles and a bottle of beer dangling loosely from his fingers.
He’s wearing baggy denim jeans and a loose black T-shirt and he’s talking to a stocky older guy with heavy stubble.
étienne glances our way and clocks us. His eyes rest on mine for a long beat before shifting to Jackson.
I feel weirdly edgy as he, in seemingly no hurry, turns back to the man, leisurely places his hand on his shoulder and leans in to say something.
Then he pushes off from the wall and comes our way. We meet at the back of the rally car.
“You came.” He stares down at me, dark wavy curls narrowly escaping his wolf-gray eyes.
“You said it was an open house.”
“I did,” he confirms, his lips quirking at the corners. He lifts his chin at Jackson who nods in return.
“Are all these cars for sale?” Jackson asks, looking around.
“Except for this one,” étienne replies, indicating the rally car. “It’s just sold.”
“I like the Renault 5.” Jackson jabs his thumb over his shoulder at the next room.
“For a hundred and fifteen thousand euros, you can have it.”
Jackson and I gape at him. “A hundred and fifteen thousand euros?” Jackson splutters.
“It’s a good price,” étienne replies with a shrug, raising his hand in a casual wave at someone behind me.
He takes a sideways step to extricate himself from our little group and exchanges air kisses with a dark-haired girl wearing a black lace top and heavy eye makeup.
As he leans in to say something in her ear, I realize from her sleeve of tattoos that she’s his replacement bartender from last Friday night.
A moment later, he brings her over.
“This is Lise,” étienne says. “Grace, Jackson,” he introduces us.
“You were at La Terrasse recently,” she says in a broad Scottish accent.
“You’re Scottish!” I exclaim, stating the blatantly obvious.
“I am.” She looks amused. “Did you have a nice time?”
“We always do. It’s my favorite restaurant in Sainte-églantine.”
“I’ll tell the owner,” she says with a grin.
“Lise is the owner,” étienne chips in dryly.
“Part owner,” Lise corrects him. “I’ve been running it for the last few years.” She leans forward and peers into Jackson’s cup. “What are you drinking?”
“Rum and Coke,” he replies. “We brought a bottle.”
“That sounds good.”
“You want me to get you one?” he asks after a loaded pause.
“I’ll come with you,” she prompts.
Jackson glances at me, slightly disconcerted as he asks, “Another?”
“Sure.” I knock back what’s left of my drink and hand him the cup. He gives étienne a wary look and then sets off with Lise toward the stairs.
étienne’s lips tilt into the smallest of smiles as we look at each other.
“Hello again,” I say.
“Salut,” he replies, slipping his hands into his pockets.
Now that he’s out from behind the bar, I can see him better. He’s around the same height as he was when we were younger—over six foot, though still a couple of inches shy of Jackson—but his chest has widened out and his shoulders are broader. He looks lean and strong.
“So it worked,” he says. “At the bar. His face was priceless.”
I laugh. “Yeah, it did. I owe you one.”
“It wasn’t a hardship for me.” He brings his bottle to his lips and drinks. When he lowers his beer, he’s still looking at me. His expression softens. “How’s your grandmother?”
“She’s well. Still makes pottery.”
“And how are her donkeys?”
“She only has two left, but they’re happy.” She used to have four—they were all rescues.
“I see her at the market sometimes.”
“How do you know who she is?”
“You told me about her stall.”
“Have you ever said hi to her?”
He shakes his head. “I didn’t think she’d know who I was.”
My brow furrows. “I don’t understand why you never hunted me out to say hi before this summer. I’ve often thought about you and your mum.”
His gaze drops to the floor, his body language confirming what I’d already suspected.
“I’m so sorry,” I say gently. “When did you lose her?”
“February, after we met.”
His mum had already lived well beyond the average life expectancy for someone with ALS, but étienne had been optimistic about how much time she might have. I’m saddened to think that only six months after we parted ways, his hopes were shattered.
“Is that why you moved out of the river house? It looked deserted when I went back there.”
He nods. “I went to stay with my uncle for a while and then I came here. Actually, there,” he corrects himself, pointing with the hand holding his bottle at the white wall that he was leaning against earlier.
There’s a door, barely visible, flush to the wall.
“That’s an apartment?”
“A small one.”
“You must have an amazing view.”
“I do.”
“Can I see?”
“It’s dark outside.”
I smile at him. “I know that, but can I see your place anyway? I’m nosy.”
He shrugs and leads the way, unlocking the door with a key from his pocket. He holds it open for me to pass through before flicking on a light switch.
Aside from the partition wall separating this space from the showroom, the inside walls, high ceiling, and floor are all formed of the same raw concrete as elsewhere, but in here, the brutalist architecture is softened by the furnishings.
On the right is a battered brown leather sofa and a coffee table sitting on a dark green rug facing a wall of Crittall-style glass.
On the left is a small kitchen with a modern island and bar stools, and above it is a mezzanine level with a short spiral staircase going up to what I’m guessing is his bedroom.
étienne pulls the door closed behind us.
“Careful,” I warn, and he freezes, still clutching the handle. “Jackson already thinks that I want to have a holiday romance with a hot bartender. If he realizes I’ve come in here alone with you, I’ll never hear the end of it.”
“He called me a hot bartender?” he asks doubtfully.
“Well, okay, that might have been my description,” I admit, blushing.
He smirks. “I’m not a bartender, I was just helping Lise out.”
“Is she your girlfriend?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t have a girlfriend. I can leave the door open, I just didn’t want anyone else to follow us in. This place is off-limits.”
“You know what? Let him wonder where I am. Keep him on his toes.”
He looks amused. “If that’s the game you want to play, let’s go back to the party this way.”
His giant window has a back door seamlessly integrated into the design.
I follow him outside and into the warm night air and we walk along a patio running the length of the building.
Through the glass panels in the garage doors, I catch sight of Jackson standing with Lise and a couple other people in the room with the Renault 5.
He’s holding two cups. I’m hit with a pang of guilt—he went and got a drink for me and then I just upped and left him.
“You never told him about me.” I jump at the sound of étienne’s voice. He’s come to a stop beside me.
I shake my head, still looking in at Jackson. It’s too light inside for anyone to see us out here in the relative darkness.
“Why not?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you sure about that, Grace?”
A shiver runs down my spine at the sound of my name being spoken in that low, deep tone of his.
“I came to your place to escape from Jackson and Chloe, not to bring the memory of them with me,” I reply.
“That’s why you didn’t tell me about him back then,” he says meaningfully. “But I want to know why you didn’t tell him about me.”
He doesn’t miss a trick, does he?
“You could have used me to make him jealous,” he points out.
I throw him a disconcerted look. We’re still standing side by side. “I didn’t want to do that.”
“Why not? It would have worked. Your man is competitive,” he states bluntly. “The more he thinks he can’t have you, the more he’ll want you.”
“You’re right, Jackson is competitive.” I notice that we’re now talking about him in the present tense. “You should see him playing tennis. Or Monopoly—Christ. But how do you know that?”
I turn to face him and go still. There’s something dangerous reflected back at me, something reckless.
“Because I’m competitive too,” he replies, eyes flashing.