Chapter 19
Got any photographer friends? I text étienne a few days later.
Lise, he replies within seconds, following it up with: She used to be a wedding photographer.
No shit. Don’t suppose she’s free on Thursday afternoon?
She can be if I cover for her. Why? he asks.
We’re taking down hoarding from the pavilion. I’d love someone to document the different stages of the restoration. I also want to get some shots of the buvette—Albert’s agreed to do it up!
I’m bursting with pride as I write this last sentence. I asked Albert this morning after showing him pictures of the Source Cachat in évian-les-Bains. It’s beautiful—very Instagrammable—with a colorful floral mosaic on the wall.
My phone buzzes with Lise’s contact details.
I wait for a bit, but étienne doesn’t follow up with another message.
I feel a bit dejected as I type back: Thanks.
“What was that sigh for?” Jackson asks from behind me.
“It’s nothing,” I reply distractedly.
“Everything all right?”
I jump as my phone buzzes again. She’s available. Just let us know the time.
“Awesome!” I say out loud.
“What?” Jackson asks.
“étienne’s friend Lise is a photographer. We’re all sorted for Thursday.”
I can’t thank you enough, I reply, feeling a wave of gratitude. He shared Lise’s details and still went on to contact her on my behalf. I’d thought he was wiping his hands of it for a minute. Would three o’clock work? Shall I come to La Terrasse?
Yep, he replies. I’ll be there to take over.
Thank you again, I write back. I’ll message her direct about her day rate.
He sends me a thumbs-up emoji.
“How’s it going with him?”
Jackson’s question makes me freeze.
“Good,” I reply crisply.
“Hey,” he says after a moment, prompting me to spin back around. “What are you doing on Saturday?”
“It’s the Fourth of July. I assume we’re getting tanked and setting off fireworks from the balcony.”
He throws his head back and laughs and then, still laughing, says, “I fucking love you, Gracie.”
“Am I wrong?” I ask, trying to keep a straight face as my insides burst with glee.
“No, that’s exactly what we’re doing,” he replies, still chuckling.
I act as though I’m just casually getting on with my work, but regardless of whether or not he meant it platonically, he still said it: he fucking loves me.
That’s good, right? So why do I suddenly feel conflicted?
Jazz music is playing out of the stereo when I walk into La Terrasse on Thursday afternoon. Lise is behind the bar, polishing glasses. Her dark brown hair is tied up into a high ponytail and she’s wearing a white tank top. Her makeup is as heavy as it was at the garage party.
“Hiya!” she greets me in her Scottish accent. “How are you?”
“I’m great. How are you? Thanks for doing this.”
“The pleasure’s all mine. I’m glad to put my camera to use—it’s been a while.”
She told me on the phone that she missed working as a professional photographer, but was so busy with the restaurant at weekends that she could barely squeeze a wedding in these days.
“He should be here in a bit. He’s never on time, but he’s rarely more than ten minutes late. I call it the étienne factor. Want a bevy while you wait?”
I shake my head. “I’m good, thanks. How long have you two known each other?”
“About five years. My cousin married the guy who used to run this place. I did their wedding photos and met étienne when he loaned them the wedding car. Another friend of theirs asked me to do their wedding too and after that I was hooked. I moved as soon as I could, got a part-time job working here, carried on doing weddings, and eventually my cousin’s hubby handed over the reins.
He and my cousin are still silent partners. ”
“That’s amazing.”
“Yeah, I was lucky.”
“Sounds like you made your own luck.”
“Ha. That’s what étienne says.”
I involuntarily look past her at the photographs on the wall. She notices where my attention has strayed.
“That’s my sister, Eve,” she says.
“étienne told me. I’m sorry.”
She stares at the photograph of the two of them together. “Yeah. It hurts every time I look at her, but in a good way. She made us all so proud.”
I glance over my shoulder to see étienne striding in off the street.
“Hey!” Lise calls.
“Hey,” he replies as I sit up straighter.
He goes behind the bar and greets Lise with two cheek kisses. Why didn’t he kiss me?
“Switch,” he says, picking up what I’m assuming is Lise’s mobile from a shelf and abruptly cutting off the jazz music that was playing.
She rolls her eyes at me as he hands over her phone and connects his own. A chilled folk-rock song spills out of the speakers.
Lise grabs her camera bag and slings it over her shoulder. “Ready?”
“See you later,” I say to étienne.
“à bient?t,” he replies, his mouth curving into the smallest of smiles as I slide from my stool.
On my way out, I Shazam the song that’s playing: “Evergreen” by Richy Mitch and the Coal Miners. I know I’ll be listening to it again later.
As we walk down the main street, sidestepping tourists loitering outside shops and cafés, I tell Lise about our plans for the next stage of the project.
Both the pavilion and buvette restoration should be underway soon.
We have a graffiti-removal specialist coming in next week, as well as groundworkers to clear the brambles from the site around the pavilion.
“I should be able to pop out of work for half an hour if you let me know when they get going,” Lise says as we swerve around the queue outside the nougat shop.
“That would be great. I’ll text you when we start on the interior too.”
I plan to watch over that stage like a hawk to make sure no one damages Estelle’s art. Once that’s done, we’ll bring people in to do the landscape gardening in the park and freshen up the pavilion’s pink-and-white paintwork.
Jackson is waiting outside the grotto. “Hello!” I say with a smile as we approach.
He’s been with Albert at the factory today, but he said he’d pop over when he was done.
“Hey.” He greets Lise with two kisses.
Why is she the only one getting kissed today?
“I’ve rigged up some site lighting inside,” Jackson says.
“Oh, cool! Thanks.”
“No problem.” He puts his hand on my back as he ushers me into the tunnel.
His head is slightly bowed as we come out the other side. He’s so tall that he’s almost perpetually wary of bumping it in low-ceilinged spaces, but he doesn’t need to worry; there’s room going spare.
The floodlights in here make all the difference, and as Lise makes a few adjustments to her camera and gets to work, an idea comes to me.
I turn to Jackson. “What do you think about putting a mosaic on the back wall, like the one in évian-les-Bains? If we did the lighting nicely, people could take photos and tag us.”
“That’s a great plan.”
“Ooh, maybe we could even hook up sound! And mist! We could make it a whole experience, get it featured in travel blogs.”
“Love it,” he says with a smile, wandering over to the broken spout—it’s still spurting water all over the place. “Have you had some?” he asks over his shoulder.
“Do you think it’s safe to drink?”
He laughs. “It’d better be. It’s been available to the public forever. If I die, keep it out of the marketing campaign.”
I laugh as he bends down and catches one of the many streams in his mouth. His eyes are wide as he straightens up, wiping the back of his hand across his chin. “Wow.”
Okay, I’m sold. “Let me try.”
I don’t want to risk copping an eyeful so I try to catch some water in my hand. As I cup my palms and bring them to my mouth, I hear a camera shutter go off.
“Oi,” I chide Lise as I take a sip. “Oh my God, it’s fizzy!” I exclaim as she shoots another pic.
“Had you forgotten?” Jackson asks.
“No, I mean, I knew it was fizzy, but that’s still so bizarre.”
There’s something genuinely astonishing about drinking sparkling water directly from its source. Anything that’s packaged in a bottle tends to feel artificial, as though it’s been run through a process of some kind.
“Can I try?” Lise asks, coming over.
“At your own risk.” I step aside with a smile.
She bends down and drinks, then bolts upright. “It’s like it’s been carbonated!” she exclaims.
“I know! Right, are we ready to move on to the pavilion?”
“Yep, all good,” Lise replies.
I turn and bump into Jackson. “Back up.” I give him a push.
“You’re too tiny to be a battering ram, Gracie,” he says with a chuckle, allowing me to maneuver him out of the tunnel.
He’s roped in a couple of factory workers to help at the pavilion—Lise gets a few shots of them removing the hoarding.
As Estelle’s artwork is revealed, panel by panel, my mind turns to étienne.
He should be here to see this. Late-afternoon sunshine is streaming in from one side, making the colors seem extra vibrant.
Lise works fast to capture the light before it disappears behind the nearby apartment blocks.
This side of the river is always cast in shadow first—the mountains, if not the buildings, see to it.
I take a couple of shots myself and send them to étienne, even though they won’t be a patch on what Lise will be able to show him in about half an hour.
I wish you were here, I write.
He replies: Yeah. Me too.
My urge to see him, to share this with him, is strong. My fingers move on autopilot.
I could come back with you later? I offer, even though I know that it won’t look the same without sunlight.
The minutes tick by without a reply.
“How about a drink?” Lise asks as she packs away her camera.
“Sounds good,” Jackson says. “Where are you thinking?”
“La Terrasse, of course,” Lise replies, pocketing her phone. “étienne is saving us stools at the bar.”
I’m instantly nervy. Why didn’t he reply to my text?
“I need to grab my stuff and drop the floodlights back,” Jackson says as we approach the factory. He didn’t leave them at the grotto as they’re a trip hazard. “You two go ahead. I’ll catch you up.”
Lise and I carry on alone.
She breaks the silence as we turn up the high street. “Sorry, but I’ve got to ask: what’s going on with you two?”
“Who? Jackson and me?”
“No, you and étienne. He said he’s trying to help you make Jackson jealous.”
I feel a stab of betrayal. He told her?
“I don’t know what he’s playing at,” she mutters, hoisting the strap of her camera bag farther up her inked shoulder. “But please be careful. He’s been through a lot.”
“What, you think—”
“Just be careful,” she repeats, flashing me a serious look.
I’m not used to someone I hardly know being this direct.
“He told me that Eve was his girlfriend,” I reveal as we step out of the way of some oncoming tourists.
She looks heartbroken. “Yeah, he trained her.”
He helped her win bronze? “I didn’t know he was a professional coach.”
“He’s not. But they started going out on the water together and he turned out to be a natural.”
“Wow.”
“They barely spent a day apart. I’ve never seen anyone fall that hard or that fast.” I think she must mean Eve, so my scalp prickles when she adds, “He gave her his whole heart. Even though he knew their time was limited, he held nothing back. He deserves more than to be used as a pawn.”
Okay, that’s not cool. “Just to make it completely clear,” I say icily. “He started it. It’s just a game to him. He said he’s competitive.”
Lise laughs. “Yep, he’s definitely that.
My sister never would have won that medal without him.
” Her amusement fades. “It’s just that after everything he did for her, how he stuck by her through thick and thin…
I don’t want him to get hurt. He should be the one people fight for.
He deserves to be the one for someone, you know? ”
“He told me he was done with love,” I say quietly.
She shrugs. “Anyway, I’ve said my piece.” Her tone has become brusque. “He’s a grown man, I’m sure he knows what he’s doing.”
I don’t know how to respond so I say nothing as we carry on toward La Terrasse.