70. Roman
Iate that breakfast like it was my last meal on death row. Knowing the nymph had made it and taken the time, albeit ten seconds, to bring it to me, made my insides plunge into a pool of joy. There was no mistaking the steely glint in those emerald eyes, challenging my willpower while summoning her own.
And it might have been my imagination but in the flicker of speed it took her to shove the plate into my hands, her gaze dropped for a nanosecond to my groin. As if she wanted to make absolutely sure that she wasn’t the only one suffering through this ordeal.
It was time to tell her I was a free man, free to do with my life as I pleased. And that included being with the woman I loved with nothing holding us back. But she was gone before I could open my mouth.
The nymph wasn’t going to make this easy, and that was fine. I had all the time in the world. I washed the plate to return it to her and perhaps ask if she would like to have dinner tonight. Surely this town had a place where a man could bring his date for a fine meal.
Raking a hand through my hair, I strolled the few yards over to the abbey’s kitchen door, plate in hand. I knocked, holding my breath, anticipating seeing Isabel again. A round button of a young nun opened the door, gasped and tilted her head curiously.
“Bonjour,” I said. “Est-ce qu”Isabel est là ?”
During the last three tormenting months, I’d learned some basic French. Not enough to have a full-fledged conversation, but enough to bring a point across. (And fine, also to figure out what the nymph was whispering during our moments of ecstacy in bed.)
The young nun seemed absolutely thrilled that a man was asking for Isabel. She rattled off a few sentences that were Greek to me, and called another nun over, this one taller. I asked them as best as I could in French, to tell Isabel she had a visitor.
And then these two God-abiding ladies started giggling and discussing me at length in rapid French. The taller one then chose her words as best she could and addressed me in English.
“Isabel leave to walk for monastère,” she said, and for good measure pointed in the direction where Isabel leave to walk for monastère.
This was excellent news. Nature provided no doors that the nymph could slam in my face. We might actually be able to have a conversation. My next question might have come off as slightly stalky, but I was prepared to take the chance. “Est-elle seule ?” I asked
The tall nun nodded her head vigorously. “Alone, oui, monsieur. Come, we show.”
And with that the two young nuns accompanied me to the start of a path that apparently led straight to the monastery. I only then remembered to give back the plate. I thanked them and set out on my journey, the two nuns waving an enthusiastic farewell.
A half-hour later, after a vigorous walk, I reached the monastery. I knocked on the big wooden doors with no idea how monastery protocol worked. A jolly old monk opened the door and greeted me in French, and then addressed me in English. “You don’t look French. Do you have an appointment, monsieur?”
“No, I’m looking for Isabel. I was told she came here.”
“Ah, our lovely Isabel. She comes here every day to bring us baked goods. We give her vegetables and wine. Very good arrangement. Have you ever tasted her pastries?”
“I have…I have indeed.”
A frown accompanied a sting of concern in his eyes. “Wait, you are not the reason she has sought refuge in Chatoise, are you monsieur?”
This was surreal. All of it. I was being interrogated by a monk living in a medieval monastery and he had me dead to rights.
“I am,” I said simply. “But I’m here to ask her forgiveness.”
The jolly monk laughed and shook his head. “Love…am I right?”
I was curious what a monk knew about the woes of love, but finding Isabel came first.
“So,Isabel…is she here?” I ventured.
“No, no… She left just before you came.”
“Oh, I didn’t see her on the path.”
“Monsieur, perhaps she saw you first. There are many trees to hide behind in the fields.”