Chapter 10
I feel a flicker of uncertainty as étienne stares back at me in the darkness, and then, suddenly, he prompts, “It’s this way, Grace.”
“You know, everyone actually calls me Gracie,” I say, hurrying after him as he stalks up the cobbled driveway.
“Grace suits you better.”
“And they say the French are arrogant,” I mutter.
“And I know you like it because it’s how you introduced yourself when we met,” he reminds me over his shoulder as we approach the main road.
I don’t really know why I did that. I think it might have been a small rebellion, a way to cut myself loose from the power Jackson had over me. I was so sick of being little Gracie, while he got it on with a cooler, much more worldly girl.
But the rush I felt when étienne first called me Grace took me by surprise.
I could barely walk after falling in the river and there was no phone reception so I couldn’t call Mellie to ask for a lift home. When étienne dragged a canary-yellow two-seater kayak out from behind the house, he assumed that he’d come up with the perfect solution to get me back to town.
“But there are rapids,” I squeaked.
He snickered. “Rapids?”
“White water! Look, right there,” I said with alarm.
The stepping stones marked the beginning of rough waters that continued downriver for about twenty meters.
“They are not rapids, Grace,” he stated adamantly, holding out his hand to me.
Grace seemed more grown-up than Gracie; stronger somehow. I liked how it sounded coming out of his mouth. And I liked the feeling of my hand in his even more.
When we reach the painting of the lady on the side of the garage, I catch the sleeve of étienne’s T-shirt and pull him to a stop.
“Hey, do you know who painted this?”
He glances at me. “My mother.”
“No way,” I murmur. “Was she a professional artist?”
“It was just a hobby. She worked at the factory before she fell ill.”
“Eau de Sainte églantine?” I ask with surprise.
He nods.
“There’s another painting like this somewhere in town. I remember seeing it when I was a little girl. I think it was on the other side of the river.” It was over twenty years ago, but I still recall how it calmed me when I got lost.
“She painted a few,” he replies. “There are four in total, but you have to know where to look.”
“Is she Sainte églantine?” I remember that’s what Mellie called her.
“Yeah. At least, my mother’s interpretation of her. But she only wrote the name on one of her paintings.”
“That must have been the one I saw because it’s how Mellie referred to her. Is it near the factory?”
“Yes, on the back wall of a restaurant.” He hesitates. “I can show you if you want.”
“That would be great,” I reply enthusiastically. “Will you show me the others too?”
He gives me a small smile. “Sure.”
My insides warm. If he has been keeping me at a distance all these years, I sense that his resolve is weakening.
“Drink?” he asks.
“I think Jackson’s got one for me downstairs,” I reply as we walk back into the party.
“He’s not downstairs, he’s over there with Nina.” He nods toward the spiral staircase where Jackson is talking to a gorgeous blond girl. He laughs at something she’s said. “I don’t think he’s missed you,” étienne adds nonchalantly.
“No,” I agree with irritation, shooting him a sidelong look. “I don’t suppose you’re feeling competitive?”
It’s out of my mouth before I can think twice about it, but he shrugs and nods, entertained. “I’m always feeling competitive.”
He puts his hand on my lower back and steers me in the direction of the car bar. Suddenly I’m thinking less about Jackson and more about the firm press of his palm, but then the contact is gone as he’s intercepted by a middle-aged man in a white shirt.
I carry on alone. It’s packed up here now, but I can still see Jackson with the girl on the other side of the room.
I grab a bottle of blissfully ice-cold water and down the whole thing before launching it into the recycling bin and turning and crashing straight into étienne.
With my palms braced against his chest, he leans in close.
“You’re kind of hot when you’re angry,” he says directly into my ear.
My heart thumps in time with the beat as he pulls back by only a few inches, his eyes glittering.
His dark hair is clinging to his damp brow and disco lights are flashing in his pupils.
He reaches past me to pull a bottle of beer out of the trunk of the car and his chest brushes against mine, but before I can take a step backward, he places his free hand on my lower back, holding me in place.
Okay, he is very good at this flirting thing.
“You still haven’t explained why you kept me a secret,” he says.
“And you still haven’t explained why you never hunted me out to say hi.” I’m not just deflecting, I’m genuinely upset.
His eyes narrow as he pulls back to look at me. Could he hear the hurt in my voice?
“There you are!” Jackson interrupts, making me jump. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
“Oh, hi.” I sound dazed—I’m not acting.
“Came to get your own drink, did you?” he asks as he grabs himself a beer.
“Just water. I was thirsty.”
“Blame Brett” by the Beaches suddenly comes blaring out of the giant speaker.
“Oh, I love this song!” I exclaim.
“Dance with me.” He snatches my hand and tugs me into the crowd.
I glance over my shoulder at étienne and give him a sheepish shrug. He cocks an eyebrow and takes a swig of his beer.
Jackson has always been an enthusiastic dancer and I’m laughing as he throws shapes on the dance floor, giving me the occasional twirl.
We’re both hot and sweaty within minutes and it’s fun, but I’m also kind of distracted.
It’s not long before I find my way back to étienne—Jackson has gone to the bathroom.
“So why did you want to know about the painting?” étienne asks.
“I’ve always been into the natural, botanical-inspired art around here.” It can be found all over Sainte-églantine in painted motifs on building facades, stained-glass windows, and metalwork.
“Your T-shirt looks kind of art nouveau,” he muses.
I glance down at the gold-crane-and-red-sun design. “Huh. Mellie gave this to me; picked it up from the market. I wonder if the movement was inspired by Japanese art.”
“I have a friend who’s an imitation artist. Bet he’d know.”
“What’s an imitation artist?”
“He reproduces art. He worked on Grotte Chauvet 2,” he explains.
“On what?”
He stares at me. “Chauvet 2? The very famous replica of the very famous cave?”
“Oh!” I know what he means now. Back in the 1990s some explorers discovered a bunch of cave paintings from, like, thirty thousand years ago. They sealed the cave off to the public and made a replica for people to visit instead. “I’ve never been.”
“You’ve never been? You’ve been coming here for how many years?”
“You sound personally affronted.”
“I am,” he snaps. “I can’t believe Mellie hasn’t taken you to see the replica of humanity’s first great masterpiece. It’s offensive. You are the worst tourist to have ever come to the Ardèche.”
“Oh please, do keep flirting with me, monsieur,” I reply sarcastically. “You’re making me weak at the knees.”
His nostrils flare, and then he states: “You have the worst French accent of anyone I’ve ever met.”
“Well, your English is—” I start to say, but can’t bring myself to finish because it’s too far from the truth. “It’s actually very good these days,” I admit reluctantly. “Who’s been giving you lessons? Lise?”
“No, not Lise. Go to the cave.”
“Fine! I will!”
I huff out a laugh and shake my head at him, which raises a smile. How could I forget how patriotic he always was?
“Did you restore the cars downstairs?” I ask. “Is that what you do for a living?”
“Yes. But this is a garage too.” He nods at a red car at the end of the room.
“That Citroen needs a new bumper and that little Clio belongs to Madame Joubert.” I follow his gaze to a car nearby that looks green, but it’s hard to tell with all the flashing colored lights.
“I’m replacing the clutch, but something else will go wrong with it before long. ”
“Might be time she got a new one.”
He tuts. “In France, we don’t just throw things away. That car is her baby. She’s sentimental.”
“What about that one?” I indicate the car bar, with its trunk full of rapidly melting ice. “Looks like you’ve got a leak somewhere, the rain’s getting in.”
He snorts. “That belongs to my friend Charles. He had a waterproof liner made to fit so he can take it to events and sell beer out of it. And the 205 GTi”—he nods at the boxy black Peugeot on the scissor lift—“is my next project.”
“Didn’t you use to have one like that?”
It was around the back of his house and two of its tires were so flat that weeds were growing up around them. It was filthy too, as though it hadn’t been used in years.
“You have a good memory,” he replies. “Navy though, not black. That was the first car I ever restored.”
“Is that where you got your passion from?”
He shakes his head. “My mother used to bring me here to watch my grandfather at work. He died when I was young, but I’ve loved French cars ever since.”
“Only French ones?”
“They’re the best.”
But of course.
“So if I brought my Aston Martin in here, you’d turn me away?”
“Is he paying you that much money?”
I laugh and shake my head. “I wish. But the pay is better than at my last job, and it’ll tide me over until I find a new one.”
“You quit your job to work for Jackson?”
“Don’t look so alarmed!” I shove his shoulder. “I was looking for an excuse to leave. My boss was an idiot.”
“Unlike your new one,” étienne remarks.
“Jackson is not an idiot,” I defend him. “He can just be a bit clueless sometimes.”
“On the contrary, I think he knows exactly what he’s doing.”
I sharply meet his gaze. He returns my stare defiantly.
We’re interrupted by a guy of about étienne’s age, height, and build, with thick curly brown hair and heavy dark eyebrows. He throws his arm around étienne’s shoulders and beams at me, saying something in French that I think translates to And who is this?
“Grace,” étienne replies. “Grace, this is Dion.”
Over the next hour or so, I meet more of étienne’s friends.
They’re all adrenaline junkies, which is probably a consequence of growing up in this part of France—they embrace the natural landscape, cycling in the summer, snowboarding in the winter, and kayaking year-round.
Dion is a professional rally-car driver, Charles is a champion mountain-bike rider, and Raphael owns a kayak-hire business.
“Do you still have your kayak?” I ask étienne as we lean against the wall behind the black Peugeot 205. I still haven’t made it back onto the dance floor, but I saw Jackson with Lise a while ago.
“I do.”
“We should go out in it again sometime!”
He smiles. “And to think how reluctant you were at first.”
He had to help me climb in and I was terrified of letting go of his hand so I could sit down. My heart leaped when we immediately veered into white water. I couldn’t believe it when he told me to paddle fast.
“I don’t want to go faster!” I cried with alarm, but apparently it was what we needed to do to stay in control of the boat.
“Where do you keep it?” I ask étienne now.
It would be a struggle to drag it down to the river from here.
“Les Saules.”
At my look of confusion, he says, “The Willows. That’s the name of my house.”
“You still have the river house?” I ask with surprise, having just assumed he’d sold it to come and live here.
He nods. “I don’t get there much. I need to go soon and do some repairs.”
“I would love to see it again. I’ve had dreams about that place.”
His lips curve up a little. “Come with me, if you like.” Once again, I sense a softening within him. It’s as though he forgot that he used to enjoy spending time with me, but he’s starting to remember.
“I would like,” I reply, happy to have my old friend back. “Shall we exchange numbers? And could we make a plan to go and see the other Sainte églantines?”
He nods. “I could take you tomorrow, if you’re free?”
“I am.”
“I’m helping Lise out again, so come by La Terrasse after the lunchtime rush. There’s a painting close by.”
Jackson joins us. “You keep disappearing on me,” he says accusatorially. “I’ve barely seen you all night. I’m going to shoot off. Are you coming?”
“Um.” I check the time. “Whoa, it’s after one.”
“What’s your number?” étienne interrupts.
I reel it off, aware of Jackson standing rigidly beside me.
“I’ll text you so you have mine,” étienne says, firing off a text before pocketing his device.
My phone vibrates as he leans in to kiss me goodbye.
We’ve been chatting, not flirting, here at the back of the garage, so I’m not in the frame of mind to anticipate anything other than a typical French air kiss. When he slowly brushes the very edge of my lips with his before doing it again on the other side, I go completely still.
He straightens up. A smile tugs at his mouth as he looks past me at Jackson. “à bient?t,” he says. See you soon.
“Thanks for having us,” Jackson replies tersely, offering his hand.
After a slight pause, étienne shakes it, and then Jackson puts the same hand on my back and guides me out of the building in what feels like a surprisingly possessive move.