Chapter 14 #3
They turned out the light and dropped their jeans so they were each in a T-shirt and underwear. She slipped between the sheets; he lay on the carpet. Outside, late-night sounds of the Quartier Latin filtered in. People drinking in bars and spilling out into the street. Jazz.
“I’m going to the Sorbonne,” she whispered. “I mean, I still have to apply, and it’s late—they’d have to make an allowance for how late I’m applying, but—”
“You will get in. And if I’m lucky, you might really call me your boyfriend at some point.”
She reached down and interlocked her fingers with his.
“I want to buy Maison Perdue,” said Ruth, standing on Marlow’s doorstep. “If you haven’t fallen in love with it yourself.”
Marlow gasped. “That’s great!”
“Here’s my thinking. I booked a tour around the Chateaux de la Loire.
It’s even got a hot air balloon ride. I’m sixty-nine, and I’m going up in a balloon!
My husband would either be happy or call me a fool, I’m not sure which.
Anyway, I’ll be gone for two weeks. Meanwhile, I’ll dream up an offer to cover your one euro and the work you’ve put in so far. ”
“Really? Truly?” said Marlow in disbelief.
“Of course. You paid for the flights over here, you’ve done all this work already, Luc will need to be paid for his work—I think you deserve it.”
“Oh, Ruth! How wonderful!” Marlow couldn’t believe her luck.
“And Luc,” said Ruth, “I’m going to need more of your services as we go forward, so be on standby. I’m a lot of things, but handy isn’t one of them.”
“At your service,” said Luc. Marlow shot him a grateful glance.
“Guillaume, do you have a lawyer I can use for the paperwork?” Ruth asked.
“Of course,” said Guillaume. Marlow gave him a grateful glance, as well.
“I’d love you to finish this plastering and painting. It’d be nice to come back to a place that was ready for me to just dump my luggage and call home. It’s so exciting!”
“It really is,” said Marlow.
“When Lloyd died right after we retired—I mean, we didn’t make it through our first month of freedom—I thought, things never work out. But sometimes you just have to wait.”
Ruth said her goodbyes, and off she and Guillaume went, down the hill.
Marlow and Luc stepped back into his kitchen to eat dinner. He grabbed his wine, leaned against the table, and made a toast. “To Marlow, who has, with success, made her way out of a pickle jar.”
She laughed. “You just say pickle. Not the jar.”
He shook his head. “You cannot make your way out of a pickle, but you can make your way out of a jar. I don’t understand English.”
Marlow held up her glass. “And to you, for all your help. It made the house so much more beautiful. It wooed Ruth. You are a grumpy, difficult, temperamental delight.”
They stood there and let the wine take effect. He looked a little wistful.
“What’s up?” she asked.
“I realize I did this work with you on the house to help you leave, but now I’m used to you.”
“And you don’t want me to go? Luc Celeste. Are you saying you like me?”
“Ah Mon Dieu, non. But apparently, I can now seem to tolerate you.”
She smiled and stepped closer to top up her wine. Then she leaned on the table beside him. “Well, two things can be true at once. You can help me with the house to get me ready to leave and also want me to stay. Just like I’m feeling two things at once.”
“Which are?” he asked, leaning back on his free hand. The edge of his little finger was close to hers but not quite touching. Just the promise of contact made her breath catch.
“Both things. Same.” she said, realizing she was no longer making sense.
His baby finger drifted over hers. That one point of contact sent an electric shock through her.
She put down her glass with her other hand and pivoted so that she was standing right in front of him.
He put down his glass, too, placing his hands on her hips, and pulled her close so that there was no space between their bodies.
She let her hands roam up his arms. Her fingers traced the ridge of his clavicle, from the outside point to the place directly beneath his throat.
Now she watched him swallow, too, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.
She let her fingers trace downwards, between his pecs, to the bottom of his shirt.
Her eyes met his as if to ask permission.
He gave it. And she moved up underneath the fabric, so that her fingers danced over the skin of his chest.
He took that as his permission to inch up her skirt, gathering the fabric slowly, bit by bit.
The anticipation nearly killed her. Once it was hiked all the way up, Luc traced his index fingers along the waistband of her underwear, back and forth, as if undecided what to do next.
Then he gently hooked his fingers into the elastic so that they touched her skin, and he just let them hover there, tantalizing. A tiny moan escaped her lips.
“Congratulations not congratulations on the sale of Maison Perdue,” he said in a whisper.
“Be nice,” she whispered back.
The invitation was all he needed.