Chapter 6
“Okay,” Natalie said, looking up from her notebook. “The timer is thirty seconds away from going off, so shall we take a quick break and get back to the log?”
The soft light that managed to filter into the archive through the thick glass illuminated Ian as he sat at the desk closer to the window.
He was so engrossed in whatever he was reading that he clearly hadn’t heard her.
Natalie found herself staring at him. He resembled a man out of time—sitting at a vintage wooden desk with a stone wall behind him, wearing a loose black button-down shirt open at the neck—who had somehow managed to source wireless earbuds in the seventeen hundreds.
She smiled to herself. If she were artistic at all, like her mom, she would want to draw or paint this scene.
The image of Ian posing for her while she painted arose in her mind, and she allowed herself to imagine it for a moment.
Soft music in the background, just to break the silence, with only a few words exchanged between them.
Natalie envisioned sketching the line of his jaw in charcoal on thick, textured paper.
He smiled at something he was reading, and the image in her mind shifted to match the smile on his face, her thumb leaving a trail of charcoal as she traced over his cheek.
A piano riff cut through the air and jolted her upright, startling her almost as much as the direction her daydream had taken. She sprang to silence it, suddenly aware of how loud it was in the quiet space they had been sharing for hours.
“Time for a break,” she said, standing abruptly. “It’s definitely time for some fresh air. I’m starting to hallucinate.”
“Sure, I need to take a walk.” Ian stretched his arms high above his head and twisted.
A sudden popping noise made Natalie wince. “Doesn’t that hurt?”
Ian chuckled as he stood. “Not really. Sometimes, when I’m not paying enough attention, I can stretch too far, but the joints cracking? No.”
The archive was probably about the same size as her kitchen back home, but thanks to the numerous bookshelves and cabinets, it somehow felt both like a labyrinth stretching out behind them and a cozy nook where no one could find them.
She had smuggled in a microfiber cloth yesterday and had spent half the day wiping down the surfaces and books.
It truly was a wonderful collection. So remarkable, in fact, that they decided it would be a good idea to intersperse rounds of silent reading—whatever they chose from the shelves.
Natalie could sense that her suggestion to help Ian’s voice recover was appreciated, but the chance to read through some of these old books was even more so.
It was nice to find someone who shared her nerdy interests.
The selection of English books was small, but the titles available were fantastic—if sometimes baffling.
Alongside the valuable editions were several children’s guides from the eighties, such as The Kid’s Encyclopedia of Food and Drink in History and A Pen Pal in France, which featured a ten-year-old living on a vineyard and sharing stories about their day with an American kid.
Despite the window behind the heavy curtains on the far wall, not much light filtered through the old glass crisscrossed with wrought iron bars.
So, when they stepped out the door and into the dappled sunlight of the back gardens—what they had begun calling this side of the Dubois house—it felt comparatively bright.
They had been at it for several hours now, and Natalie was getting hungry.
However, she didn’t think Sabine was joking when she told them not to ask for lunch.
Despite not knowing what had led Sabine to thinking they would just kick down the kitchen door and demand food, Natalie decided she would take the warning seriously.
While this was only their third visit to the archive, they had settled into a sort of rhythm.
It was their third break of the day, so they would stroll up and down the paths along the length of the house and the back gardens.
If they walked slowly, it would take them about ten minutes, and although they were still running in the mornings, Natalie fully intended to savor every moment outdoors.
“Oh, look,” Ian said, pointing. “They moved that fallen tree.”
Natalie followed his gesture and saw that the cherry blossom tree they had seen on their first day was now cut into regular-sized blocks, with its branches bundled up alongside. She had noticed that there were many of these trees on the estate.
“I bet it’s beautiful in May with all these in bloom,” she said.
“It is beautiful now,” Sabine’s voice cut through their relaxed pace and halted them.
“Well, yes, of course. I just mean that cherry blossoms are so…” Natalie turned, attempting to muster a smile. “You know, exceptional. So a place as beautiful as this, filled with cherry blossom trees, would be even more stunning.”
The French woman eyed her for a moment before shrugging. “Yes, I suppose for you. This is normal here. I expect you live in some dreadful apartment building with the police around all hours, like Paris without the culture.”
Huh? Why would she…?
“So, you hate the city in general?” Natalie asked without thinking. “Paris, too?”
Crossing her tanned arms over her chest, Sabine shrugged—a motion that sent her silky auburn hair cascading perfectly, complementing the stark white of the linen button-down she wore with the top few buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up to her elbows.
With a—hopefully internal—wince, Natalie felt a wave of uncertain and unwelcome jealousy at the woman’s effortless beauty and poise. She suddenly became extremely self-conscious about the running leggings she wore, paired with the clean but wrinkled T-shirt she typically wore for chores.
“Cities can be beautiful, like Paris,” Sabine continued. “Especially in winter when it is very cold and glittering, or in spring when the sun comes out, but to live in one is insanity.”
Ian laughed. “Well, I can understand the opinion. I don’t mind it so much, but Natalie doesn’t live in the city. Her family home is on the vineyard, like this.”
“Oh?” Sabine’s eyebrow rose. “Is it as beautiful?”
This could easily be a trick question; Natalie recognized that, though she couldn’t help but smile as she thought of Fitzgerald Hills.
“It’s a little different. The house isn’t as historic as yours—though, in America, it’s considered quite old.
Where we are is a bit flatter than here, but there are still some hills that are quite enjoyable to run up, and you can see the mountains in the distance, which provides for some spectacular sunsets and sunrises—not to mention watching the storms roll in.
The sun is just as hot, and the way the vines stretch off into the distance here reminds me of home. ”
“Really?” Sabine said. “You have a picture?”
Surprised, Natalie nodded and took her phone from her pocket. She opened the gallery and browsed through her albums until she found the ones titled Fitzgerald Hills Promo and FH Home.
Hesitating for a moment, she hovered between the two of them. As Sabine moved to join her, she quickly tapped FH Home and located her favorite.
“This is the house from the small hill nearby on the way to the main fields,” she said.
“From here, you can see everything around, including the house, the restaurant, and cellar door. Then, if you turn one hundred and eighty degrees, you’ll see the fields.
” She flicked to the next photo, taken at sunset with the golden light perfectly illuminating the rows of vines.
She watched Sabine’s face as she flipped through the pictures.
Sabine hummed. “Very nice. Not, I think, as beautiful as here, of course. But I think that is everyone’s right—to think their home is the most beautiful, their mother’s cooking the most delicious, n’est-ce pas?”
“Oui,” Natalie replied. “Je suis d’accord.”
Sabine’s eyebrows lifted slightly, and if she looked hard, Natalie could have sworn she detected a hint of a smile at the corner of the woman’s mouth. “Ah, tu apprends un peu de fran?ais. I will have to become a little more careful what I say around you. Sit now; I will bring coffee.”
As she turned and left, Natalie made frantic eyes at Ian, who looked even more confused.
“What?” he whispered as they made their way to the table and chairs Sabine had indicated.
“Was my pronunciation awful? She said I’m learning French, right?” Natalie whispered hurriedly, glaring at Ian when he began to laugh.
“Your pronunciation was fine. For an American who’s only been learning for a few weeks, it was excellent. And yes, she did. I think you just earned a brownie point with her.”
“Maybe,” she said. “I don’t know.”
As they settled at the table, her phone pinged, and she looked down to see a text from Neil.
From Neil: Hey, guess what, that funding for the meta-study came back.
While I won’t be in the lab much for the next few weeks, it’s exactly what we needed to support the bid for expanding the trial.
Now we can focus on it as research in its own right instead of duct-taping it together from spare minutes and staying here until three in the morning.
“Oh, fantastic,” Natalie said, suddenly aware that she had spoken out loud when she noticed Ian looking at her.
“Do you remember when I told you about the trial that really needed a published meta-analysis of all the existing research to make it easier to argue for expanding the scope? Well, the grant the team applied for was approved, so they won’t be doing it for free in their own time. ”
“That’s great,” Ian said, smiling briefly before looking away.
From Nat: Way to go! That’s awesome. Let me know if you want any help with it—I do love me some book learning!
She hit send and returned her attention to her current predicament. “So, do we think Sabine was being genuine, or should we sniff the coffee for bitter almonds?”
Ian seemed a bit distant for a moment, but as she spoke, he laughed and shushed her, subtly nodding toward the kitchen door, where Sabine approached with a carafe of coffee and three mugs.