Paris Is Always a Good Idea

by Jenn McKinlay

  Marcellino ducked his head in humble acknowledgment and said, “Not really. Making Chianti and olive oil are the only things I know how to do.”

  “But you own a castle,” Jason said.

  Marcellino shrugged as if it was no big deal. He stepped ahead of us to open the door to the vacant guest cottage and went inside to turn on the lights.

  Jason looked at me and asked, “Is this guy for real?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Very much so.”

  “Dang.” He gave me a tired smile and said, “You’d better watch it. I may make a play for him myself.”

  That surprised a laugh out of me, and Jason’s eyes moved over my face with warmth and affection. It hit me then that I’d missed this. I’d missed him. It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him I was glad he was here, but Marcellino called from the doorway.

  “Come, dolcezza. We should let him settle. Jason, I hope you will be comfortable here,” he said.

  Jason turned away from me and entered the adorable cottage. It was exactly like mine, small with one bedroom, a full bath, a tidy living room and kitchenette combo, and a small veranda that overlooked the vineyard. Done in pale shades of blue with a wooden-beam ceiling and modern furniture, it reminded me of a mini version of the castle.

  “I’m so tired I could sleep out in the field,” Jason said. “But this is infinitely better. Thank you.”

  He held out his hand, and Marcellino shook it warmly. It was different from their first handshake. This one felt as if Jason was sincerely offering his respect, and Marcellino was accepting it. I had the feeling that in another place and time, these men would have been friends.

  “We will let you rest,” Marcellino said. “Please let me know if you need anything during your stay.”

  “I will,” Jason said. He stood in the center of the room, watching as I followed Marcellino outside. At the door, I said, “Good night.”

  “ ’Night, Martin.” Then he gave me a little finger wave and a smile.

  I shook my head in amusement as I shut the door.

  “Are you all right?” Marcellino asked.

  “Yes, absolutely,” I said.

  “Is there anything you want to tell me about Jason?” he asked.

  “Such as?” I asked. I could feel my face get warm and was grateful for the cover of darkness.

  “There’s a tension between you two. Was he your boyfriend?” he asked.

  “No,” I said. “Nothing like that. We were work rivals, but now we have a very big corporate donation that we’re working on together, the largest I’ve ever tried for, which is a challenge for both of us.”

  Marcellino considered me for a moment before he looked up at the moon, and then he smiled down at me as if he understood more than I was saying. I wanted to protest or try to explain more, but things were so new between us that I didn’t want to mess it up by saying the wrong thing. In silence, we made our way back to my cottage, which was three down from Jason’s. At my door, Marcellino kissed my forehead, as if I were his sister, before leaving me. Hmm.

  * * *

  • • • •

  I WAS ENJOYING breakfast on the second-floor terrace of the castle when I felt someone watching me. I glanced up to find Jason leaning against the doorjamb. He looked rested, wearing jeans and an untucked pale-yellow dress shirt with the sleeves rolled back on his forearms. He had clearly just showered, as his hair was damp and his body radiated the scent of the locally made lemon-verbena soap that Marcellino stocked in all the bathrooms on the vineyard.

  I glanced at him over the rim of my coffee cup. Marcellino had left a little while ago to meet with the cellar supervisor. They were planning a large batch of Chianti Riserva, which aged much longer than the more affordable classic Chianti.

  “That is a spectacular view,” Jason said.

  I glanced over my shoulder at the vineyard behind me. The hills were cut into patchwork squares in variegated shades of green. The day was already sun warmed and somnolent with the buzz of insects, the twitter of birds, and the muted voices of tourists walking the grounds below us.

  “It really is,” I agreed. I turned back around and met his gaze.

  “I was talking about you sitting there,” he said. “You look pretty in the Italian sunlight.”

  I felt my face get hot. “Thank you, but—”

  “Inappropriate?” he guessed.

  “Yes,” I said. I refused to acknowledge any sort of flutter I might be feeling at his words.

  “Doesn’t make it not true, Martin,” he said. “I ran into Marcellino downstairs. He sent me up to see you. He thought you might want to give me a tour of the place.”

  “Shouldn’t we be preparing for Severin’s arrival?” I asked.

  “They won’t be here until later,” he said. “We have plenty of time.”

  “Define ‘later.’”

  “Later today or possibly tomorrow,” he said. “Robbie said he’d be in touch.”

  I chewed on my lower lip and frowned. “It’s a three-and-a-half-hour drive from Milan. Are they driving? Or is Severin going to arrive in some golden flying car type of thing?”

  “That would be memorable,” Jason laughed. He took the seat across from me. “Martin, relax. I have all of the paperwork. We’ll trot Severin around the vineyard, give him some bottles of wine at the festival, and all will be well.”

  I stared at him, feeling a barrage of scenarios hammer at my brain. I forcefully shut them down. Jason was here. He had just as much skin in the game as I did. We weren’t going to mess this up, and besides, I had other things I needed to focus on. Namely, getting Marcellino to kiss me so I could figure out if there was anything there.

  “Coffee?” I offered.

  “Does this mean we’re friends again?”

  “No.”

  “Aw, come on,” he cajoled. “You have to be a little happy to see me.”

  “No, I don’t,” I said. I picked up an unused mug and filled it with coffee. I pushed it toward him, across the tabletop.

  “Not even a little?” He held up his thumb and forefinger.

  “A smidge, maybe. Is there anything smaller than that?”

  “A drop,” he suggested.

  “That sounds about right,” I said. I pushed a plate of sweet bread and a jar of Nutella at him. “Brioche?”

  “Thanks,” he said.

  I glanced away as he slathered the inside of a circular bun with the chocolate-hazelnut spread. I remembered the feel of those hands on my bare back as we danced. Lines had been crossed in Paris—there was no question—but I couldn’t let that interfere with right now.

  “Jason, about Paris—” I began, but he shook his head.

  “We don’t have to talk about it.”

  “Yes, we do,” I said. “I need to be clear that we’re operating in a professional capacity only right now.”

  He glanced up from his plate. “Because?” he prompted. He looked as if he was assessing my every word. I didn’t want to debate it, so I tried to explain it in my most pragmatic here’s-a-PowerPoint-of-why-we-shouldn’t-be-together voice.

  “I’m a planner,” I said. He raised his eyebrows. This was clearly not news. I continued, “You were obviously not a part of my plan when I came to Europe, and things got confused after Jean Claude, and lines were crossed when we kissed, and I handled it badly, as I do with disruptions in my plans.”

  Jason’s eyes went wide, and then he laughed long and hard. “Is that what I was? A disruption in your plan?”

  I met his gaze. I thought about Marcellino and how perfect he was and how much I wanted to be the young woman I once was when I was with him, before I had this truckload of grief weighing me down, and I said, “Yes.”

  “I see.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yeah, you think Marcellino is the key to fi
nding yourself again, don’t you?”

  “He’s more the key than the other two were.”

  “Because he owns a castle?”

  “Do you really think I’m that shallow, Knightley?”

  “It’s a castle, Martin,” he said. “I’d be disappointed in you if you weren’t that shallow.”

  A sparrow flew onto the veranda and hopped sideways toward Jason, keeping its bright eyes on him as if it knew Jason was the keeper of the bread. It had a brown back and a white breast. It looked similar to the sparrows back home, but the brown was a ruddier shade, almost rust. Absently, Jason broke off a bit of crust and tossed it in the air. The sparrow leaped for it, catching it in its beak before it flew off.

  “I’m not here because he has a castle,” I said. I felt the need to emphasize this point.

  “I know,” he conceded. “So he’s available?”

  “Apparently.”

  “No crazy ex-girlfriend?”

  “Not that I’ve seen.”

  “And you’re positive he’s not gay?”

  “I’m sure.”

  He looked at me in alarm. “How sure?”

  “Pretty sure.”

  He relaxed a little and bit into his brioche, and I watched him eat with gusto. There was a manly man knuckle-dragger quality to Jason Knightley that I had to admit I found attractive. He wasn’t a quitter, and when he went after something, he went all in. It made him good at his career.

  “I do have some news from the office,” he said once he’d finished his bun and washed it down with more coffee.

  I felt my chest get tight. “Aidan?”

  “Is fine,” he said. “Don’t worry. If there was any news, I’d have told you first thing. I won’t ever hold back from you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “No, this news is about the Quarter Thief,” he said.

  I sat up straight. “Did they catch the person?”

  “Yes, but only because he let them,” he said.

  “Who was it?” I demanded.

  “Gary Welch,” he said. He paused while I placed the name. I blinked.

  “The security guard?” I asked. “The one who had a quadruple bypass last year?”

  “That’s the one,” he said.

  “Why? How?”

  “Apparently during his retirement party, which happened while we were in Paris, he cut out a quarter of his cake, lifted it up, and dumped it on top of Michelle’s head.”

  My jaw dropped. “Oh my god. But why?”

  “Apparently, last year Michelle took it upon herself to cut his recovery time by a quarter,” he said. “She went to his doctors, and even though they recommended another month of recuperation, she insisted that Gary come back after three months, or she was going to put a letter in his file that she assured him would impact the supervisory position he had applied for within the company.”

  “She’s evil,” I said.

  “Yes, well, when it all came out, Aidan fired her,” Jason said.

  “What? I thought she was untouchable.”

  “Apparently this was the last straw. Aidan stormed the office of the VP who she’s friends with and had it out with him. No one heard what was said, but as soon as Michelle had most of the cake out of her hair, she was told to pack up her office, and then she was escorted from the building.”

  “That is some primo, grade A, juicy gossip,” I said. “I can’t believe Julia didn’t tell me when I checked in yesterday.”

  “I asked her not to, since I knew I’d be seeing you here and all,” he said.

  “Oh.” And just like that, things felt awkward.

  I wasn’t sure what to say, so I finished my coffee and pretended to be watching the comings and goings of the vineyard even though I was hyperaware of the man across the table. I was so tuned into him I felt as if I could pick out his heartbeat in a room full of ticking clocks.

  I wondered if he felt the same. I glanced at his face to find him looking at me, but when our gazes met, he glanced away, and I knew he was struggling to find his footing with us, too. We were colleagues, we were friends, and we’d had a brief flirtation. Things were jumbled and messy, but I knew if I kept the boundaries in place, we’d be able to get our bearings. And after Severin signed the papers, we’d go our separate ways. We could do this.

  If I could have back that night in Paris . . . No, regardless of how things were now, I didn’t want to give up the memory of kissing him on top of the Eiffel Tower. When I was old and in my rocking chair, I was going to take out the memory of that evening in his arms, hum “La vie en rose,” and smile.

  We finished our coffee and I stood, gathering the plates to bring them into the kitchen. Jason helped, carrying the coffeepot and a tray of leftover food. I put the food away, but Marcellino had a housekeeper, who’d made it pointedly clear that tidying up was her job and I wasn’t to do it. I had to admit, it was an unexpected perk to castle life that given a chance, I could really get used to.

  “Come on—I’ll show you the winery from vine to bottle,” I said.

  Together we wound our way down the spiral staircase and out the door that was marked Private. I guided Jason through a side door and along a dirt path that led into the heart of the vineyard, where the grapevines were just beginning to leaf. The thick vines twisted their way up out of the rich earth as if reaching for the sun, air, and rain that they knew awaited them.

  Jason paused by one of the plants. He studied the leaves and then looked out over the rolling hills, where lines of vines spread all the way to the horizon. “That’s a lot of grapes.”

  I smiled. “To be labeled a Chianti, the wine has to consist of at least eighty percent Sangiovese grapes.”

  “Sangiovese?” he asked. “Not exactly the Cabernet Sauvignon and Chardonnay of Napa, is it?”

  “No. The name comes from the Latin sanguis Jovis, which means ‘the blood of Jupiter.’”

  He looked at me. “Dang, Martin, you are full of wine trivia.”

  “I did give tours here for several months during my year abroad,” I said. “I learned a lot.”

  “Enough to make it your life?”

  I shrugged. “Maybe.”

  When I glanced at his face, his expression was blank. If he was holding out hope for us in any way, I didn’t want to hurt him—truly, I didn’t. I’d spent most of the previous night tossing and turning, thinking about building a life in Italy if the opportunity presented itself, and honestly, I could almost see it. It was grainy and fuzzy, like an old film reel, but maybe after all this time, this was where I belonged, with Marcellino.

  The truth was, he was kind, funny, smart, and, frankly, hot, and when I was with him, I felt glimmers of the old Chelsea, the young Chelsea, the Chelsea who didn’t know the pain of great loss, and I liked it. I liked her, and I wasn’t ready to give up on her just yet.

  * * *

  • • • •

  THE SUN WAS warm, hot even, so Jason and I took shelter in the olive grove. We walked down the center line of trees, and other than the birds, we were completely alone. Jason paused to take in the towering expanse of the branches above us, and then he flopped down on the grass with all the loose-limbed enthusiasm of a golden retriever.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Enjoying the day,” he said. “When was the last time you got to sit in an olive orchard in Tuscany on a workday?”

  “This side of never.”

  “Exactly,” he said. “Have a seat, Martin. Take a load off for a minute.”

  I heaved a sigh and sank down on the grass, knowing there would be no moving Knightley until he was ready. A soft breeze rustled the leaves in the trees, and the grass was cool beneath my fingertips. I had to admit, it was nice to take a moment to soak it in.

  He turned his head and studied me until I felt compelled
to ask, “What?”

  He opened his mouth to speak, but his phone went off. It was an abrupt clanging jangle in the middle of paradise. He sighed and reached into his pocket to pull out his phone. The initial wallpaper was the Red Sox logo—not a surprise—but he tapped in his security code, and a new picture came up of a boy and a girl. Now, I really wasn’t trying to see his passcode, I swear, but he might have picked something harder than the six numbers in descending order from the number nine. Honestly, did the man have no sense of security?

  He swiped the screen to open the text that had just come in. He read it quickly but didn’t respond. Apparently satisfied, he closed the texting app and tossed his phone into the grass.

  I glanced down at the photo of the kids, who looked to be about age ten, making goofy faces at the camera. Adorable! The boy had his eyes crossed and his tongue out, while the girl had her thumbs jammed in her ears, with her hands out like antlers, her mouth hanging open, and her eyes wide. They looked ridiculous, and I laughed at their expressions.

  Were they Knightley’s kids? A niece and nephew, perhaps? It occurred to me that I didn’t know that much about Knightley’s personal life, which was weird, because I felt like I should know more. I mean, I’d made out with the guy. Three times! Shouldn’t I know if he had kids in his life?

  Mentally, I scanned everything I knew about him beyond the surface handsome face and charming—when he wanted to be—personality. He arrived at the office a few minutes late every day, everyone greeted him like he was their best friend, and he responded the same. He was always on board for shenanigans, betting pools, happy hours, and holiday parties. As far as I knew, he was single—at least, he’d said as much the night I’d called him in Boston and he was leaving his “bros” at the bar.

  I scanned deeper. He’d mentioned his parents in passing at a few work functions. I hadn’t really listened, because at the time I’d considered him a useless frat boy and my rival. I had not been interested. Thinking about it now, I was positive he’d grown up in central Massachusetts, as he’d never met a Boston team of which he wasn’t a die-hard supporter.