Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
This time, dinner at the Maison de Champagne was inside, in a beautiful dining room.
Sabine eyed the floor-to-ceiling antique armoire of fancy dishes and crystal glasses against one wall and wondered if this were the kind of cabinet-making that was once the local industry here, as Guillaume had said.
Another wall was all window, giving onto the vineyard.
A huge chandelier hung over the long table, which Madame Klein had laid perfectly.
She served them an appetizer of mussels in white wine sauce.
Sabine felt deflated that Aubin wasn’t there.
Which made no sense, because she had no hold on him, or he on her.
But just as they started, he raced in, apologized for being late, and sat in the chair next to Sabine. Her heart skipped a beat.
“My nephew loses track of time,” said Guillaume.
“True,” said Aubin, “but when something is really important, I am there.” His hand brushed Sabine’s under the table.
She felt a wave of something pass through her.
What was it—anxiety? No … Excitement? Not exactly.
Something fluttery. Attraction? Yup, that was it.
Mixed with shyness and a dose of disbelief.
Sabine really didn’t want to believe that intoxicating mixture was what she was feeling.
“Sabine is the same,” said Marlow. “Well—half. She never loses track of time, but, for instance, I did this crazy thing, buying Maison Perdue, and she just took it all in stride, helping us get here to sort it out. Too bad our fate is in my evil boss’s hands. Who knows what’ll happen next.”
“I’ll fill you in later,” Sabine said to Aubin. Her mum had sent the email to Oscar about staying for the summer, but he’d freaked out, had said he’d talk to HR and would get back to her.
They discussed the ways Oscar could implode their plans to get out of this alive, or at least with their bank account intact, and ate steak and frites—far from the meals she and her mother usually cobbled together and ate standing at the kitchen counter.
Then, after the cheese course, Madame Klein offered a galette—a ridiculously good flat cake topped with apples.
“What did you two do today?” asked Guillaume, looking at Sabine and Aubin.
There it was. Sabine had hoped to escape dinner before conversation turned to them.
What she’d done today was kiss Aubin—a lot—but only because she’d thought they wouldn’t still be here in a week.
Now she was confronted by the very real possibility of facing him until September.
Or she could go home Sunday. But what did she want?
If she were being honest, she wanted Aubin’s hand to brush hers again, under the table. The thought of it made her flush.
“Earth to daughter,” said Marlow.
“I took Sabine to the Parc des Roches,” said Aubin, taking over. “It’s a park behind Bourmont. A romantic place made by a builder many years ago.”
Did he just use the word romantic? Now she was cooked. Cover. Say something.
“What do you mean, romantic?” Marlow asked, on alert. Sabine’s insides were melting. This guy was going to be the death of her.
“The man who created it wanted it to be a place to get lost and commune with nature,” said Aubin. “You can discover something new at every turn of the path.”
“He means in the poetic sense,” said Sabine. “Weren’t they all into nature and poetry and emotion?”
“Exactly,” said Aubin.
“We just walked around,” said Sabine, trying to act casual. She could feel her mum scanning her face for signs of deception. “It was basically a park.”
“What did you think,” asked Aubin, “I’d take you to a local Pont des Arts?”
“I don’t know what that is,” said Sabine.
“In Paris, there is a famous bridge called the Pont des Arts. Couples kiss and attach a lock to symbolize their love. The authorities say not to do this, it destroys the integrity of the bridge, but people have read about it online, so like sheep they go.” He put on a girly voice.
“Ah, I am in Paris, the city of love … I must attach this lock to this bridge and put it on my social network so my friends can feel jealous.” He scoffed. “It is stupid.”
“That’s what you thought I wanted?” Sabine’s cheeks were burning. She dug her fingernails into her thighs.
“I don’t know what you wanted.”
Sabine could see that her mum knew something was up, but she couldn’t help herself.
“You don’t know anything about me,” she said, standing suddenly.
Her chair scraped the floor. “You just told a stupid story in some fake girl’s voice, making it sound like she has an IQ of four.
As if that’s me. That’s not me.” She turned to Guillaume.
“Thank you for dinner. Do you mind if I go to bed? I’m still kind of jet lagged. ”
“Mais bien s?r,” said Guillaume, eyeing his nephew, eyebrow raised.
She left, mortified at how rude she’d been. That was dumb. Aubin was dumb. Everything was dumb. She hit the stairs to the second floor, but Aubin caught up, and without a word put his hand over hers on the banister. They stood like that for a moment. She willed herself not to cry.
“Sorry,” she muttered. “I don’t know why I said that stuff.”
“I don’t know why I said what I did either.”
“I have more respect for the Pont des Arts than that, even though I’ve never been. I would not want to contribute to its—you know—literal downfall.” And she looked at him.
He smiled, sliding his hand off hers so it wouldn’t be awkward. “Thank you for your concern for French civil engineering. And I’m sorry if what happened in the park today was not—”
“It was great,” she said. “I just didn’t think I’d have to see you again. And now we might be here all summer, so it’s weird. I’m weird.”
“I’m weird, too, so we’re even. How is this: I won’t tell anyone. We don’t even have to talk about it again. We can just pretend it never happened.”
“OK,” said Sabine. But she didn’t want to pretend it never happened. She looked at his lips, and remembered kissing them, his hand on her neck, and felt a little lightheaded. “Night.”
“Bonne soirée.”
She felt him watch her go up the stairs and, with every step, resisted turning around to look back.
Marlow refreshed her email again to see if Oscar had responded to her remote working pitch, but he hadn’t. All she could think about was Sabine and Aubin anyway. It was gnawing away at her insides. On impulse, she dialed Violet, who picked up after the first ring.
“So?” said Violet, “do you still own a house in France?”
“I do,” said Marlow. “Got two secs for some advice?”
“I’m a lawyer,” said Violet. “Advice is my profession. Speaking of which, am I billing for this? Because I’ve got to tell you, I’m seven hundred an hour.”
“Seriously? That’s gone up. And no, you’re not billing.”
“Fine, hit me, but be fast about it,” said Violet. “I have one will and two divorce agreements to finish today.”
“I think Sabine’s involved with a French boy.”
“That was fast.”
“It is, isn’t it? So fast! She’s eighteen and completely inexperienced.”
“Good for her.”
“Hush. I don’t need you to be her promiscuity cheerleading squad.”
“First of all, promiscuity is a very strong word. I hope you haven’t used that with her.”
“No, it’s just my inner terror leaking out.”
“Second of all, let her live a little. She’s not going to go from being involved with one boy to dating two of them back-to-back, without telling either, in the same bar.”
“Oh my god, right,” said Marlow. “How did that go?”
“Not well. Date One and Date Two met in the bathroom, struck up a conversation, realized they were both there to see me, and bailed. I finished my drink and went home to order takeout.”
“Ah.”
“But back to my question,” said Violet. “Do you really think Sabine is in trouble?”
“No,” said Marlow. “I’m just worried. I have a lot going on and I feel like I’m not picking up all the cues.”
“My recommendation is, say nothing. Stay in your lane. Do not pull the parental lecture trigger. She’ll hate you for it, and you’ll hate yourself for not taking my advice, which for you, by the way, is pro bono.”
“OK,” said Marlow. “I have to go but thank you.”
“I want to hear way more about the cute French house the next time you call,” said Violet. “But Marlow, you’re not hanging up from me to march down the hall, knock on Sabine’s door, and talk about it, are you?”
“Of course not.”
Three minutes later, Marlow was down the hall, knocking on Sabine’s door, to talk about it. Sabine was sprawled on the bed on a WhatsApp video call with Willa, talking in whispers that stopped the moment Marlow entered the room. She leaned into view, and waved.
“Willa! How was prom?”
“Awesome, thanks,” said Willa. “How’s France?”
“We’re slaughtering the language and gorging on croissants,” said Marlow.
“Sign me up.”
“Sabine told me you chose Dalhousie for math. Congrats. Any chance you can twist her arm into making a decision too? There’re a few dozen French pastries in it for you.”
“Yes to the pastries, and I’m working on Sabine.”
“All I ask. Any chance I can steal her for a sec?”
Willa nodded and signed off.
“I just need forty-five seconds for a parental lecture, and then I’ll be done,” said Marlow. This ritual prelecture buy-in, with anticipated time usage, usually worked for both of them.
“Seriously? I don’t need it today, I swear,” said Sabine.
“Hey. I get my full forty-five seconds. That’s the deal.”
“Fine, but I’m timing you.”
“I saw the look between you and Aubin at dinner. I said yes to you two gallivanting about on your own, and that was, what, four or five hours? But sometimes that’s all it takes, because young people and hormones move fast, take it from me.
So here I am to say all the neurotic mother things.
Do not have sex with that boy. And if you do, wear protection.
I can get condoms for you. I’ll find a pharmacy, and I’ll do it for you if you’re too embarrassed. I’ll Google translate how to ask.”
“Ew,” said Sabine, “and fifteen seconds left.”
“I don’t want you to wreck your life, not that having you wrecked mine, you were the best thing ever, but I know you get my meaning.
So however long we’re here, keep me in the loop.
Let me know where you are. Don’t go far.
No drinking and driving. Definitely no lying.
And if you have any issues, talk to me. I’m too young to be a grandmother. Done.”
“Four seconds to spare. Impressive.”
“Then I’ll add don’t do drugs, look before you cross the road, and always do the dishes at someone else’s house.”
“Time’s up. And for the record, I have not slept with Aubin. Nor am I considering it. He’s mostly very irritating.”
“I’m relieved,” said Marlow, “but when he’s not irritating, tell him to keep it in his pants. And thank you for this meaningful mother–daughter moment. Any chance you’re going to tell me what university you’ve chosen?”
“Not yet, but soon.”
“Then I’m going to check my email and gnaw off my left hand.”
But Oscar had replied by the time she got back to her room.
He, surprisingly, approved of her working remotely; HR also gave it their stamp of approval.
He was passive-aggressive of course, saying it would be on probation, with a performance review midsummer.
She thanked him, adding that she looked forward to interviewing remotely for the manager job, so he didn’t cut her out from spite. And cced HR to create a paper trail.
Marlow walked down the quiet hallway to the bathroom, lit only by moonlight, and paused to look out at the serene vineyards. She felt … what? Elated? Joie de vivre? Maybe not quite, but at least on top of things for the first time in a while.
On the way back, she passed Guillaume’s bedroom.
His door was ajar, and she could see him, in pajama bottoms and an undershirt, doing push-ups.
Hm. Useless expenditure of energy in her opinion—she could think of better ways.
She had a flash of maybe bringing some of her spare joie de vivre right on in there to help out … but headed to bed instead.