My Grape Year: (The Grape Series #1)

by Laura Bradbury

  Sandrine grinned at me. “Franck is handsome. He’s smart, he’s nice, he’s funny…we don’t get many of those around here.”

  I wondered briefly if Sandrine didn’t have a little crush on him herself, then dismissed the idea. They had grown up together. “We don’t get many of those in Canada either.”

  Sandrine stood up and began to get dressed. I followed her lead but found it a challenge to find my clothes amongst the piles of stuff that carpeted Sandrine’s floor. “Franck and you…that was a real coup de foudre,” Sandrine said as we walked down the stairs.

  A lightning bolt. So she had seen it too. That was exactly what I had felt. I had daydreamed about feeling that with a guy for years, but some part of me didn’t believe it would every really happen. Yet it did. I hoped it was mutual.

  “How do you think he’s going to act when I see him?” I ask Sandrine.

  She cocked her head. “I don’t know.” Sometimes I wished the French weren’t so incurably honest. “He’s nice though, so I’m sure it will be fine.”

  Nice. I didn’t want nice. I wanted what we had the night before. More of that.

  In the kitchen Sandrine’s father was preparing to go out and prune the vines.

  I gave him a kiss hello, and he patted my head and said he was happy to see the “petite Canadienne” again.

  Sandrine’s mother placed a steaming bowl of café au lait in front of each of us, and then two fresh baguettes, a plate of salted butter from Brittany, and three jars of homemade jam. “Try the Reine Claude,” she instructed me. “My plum jam is my best.”

  The meeting with Franck loomed in my mind to the point where I was about to say I wasn’t hungry enough to eat anything. Then Sandrine passed me a slice of baguette, and I began to spread the beautiful butter on it. I inhaled the smell of freshly baked bread. Maybe I could eat after all.

  Sandrine dipped her baguette in her café au lait. “What about Thibaut?” she asked.

  "To be honest, I’ve never known exactly what I’m doing with him. Anyway, I told Franck about him last night.”

  Sandrine’s baguette halted mid air. “That was…honest…of you. Unnecessary, in my opinion, but honest. What did he say?”

  “He said it didn’t matter.”

  When I considered Franck’s reaction to my confession about Thibaut, doubt washed over me again. Did Franck say Thibaut didn’t matter because he never planned on us being together more than one night? I put my baguette down.

  I was an independent woman. There was nothing wrong with getting together with a guy just for fun. It didn’t have to mean anything. Except that, in that case, I wanted it to…

  I wouldn’t show Franck that though. I would pretend like we were just friends. That would be the best way to waylay the possibility of rejection. I just had to lock away the longing in my heart.

  Forty minutes later, Sandrine and I were walking up the road from her house to Stéphanie’s house. There was a stream of people coming in and out the door of a bistro that a red painted sign announced as Chez Jacky. Many of them waved at Sandrine, but they just stared at me.

  “Don’t mind them.” Sandrine stopped walking for a second to cup her hands around her cigarette and light it. “They stare at anyone who’s not from the village.”

  “They don’t like strangers?”

  Sandrine sucked in a deep drag of nicotine and then blew it out. “Not much. We Burgundians are always suspicious of outsiders. The thing to do is just stare right back at them.”

  I wished for a second that I smoked. I couldn’t seem to figure out what to do with my hands. My fingers were trembling, I realized. I buried them deep in the pockets of my jacket.

  “Do Stéph and Franck live far away?” I asked.

  “Nothing in this village is far away. It’s just past the mayor’s office and across from the bakery. You remember—across the lane from my cousin Félix’s house where you had New Year’s.”

  I remembered the man I had bumped into in the dark that night in Félix’s courtyard. Something in me was sure that had been Franck. “Right. Of course.”

  “We’ll be there in a minute.”

  I tried to school my face into a blasé expression. Sandrine took a few more puffs of her cigarette then turned her shrewd blue eyes on me. “Nervous?”

  I shook my head, then grimaced. “A bit.”

  Sandrine shrugged. “I’ve grown up with Franck and whatever he does, it won’t be mean. He’s…how do you say in English? A gentleman.”

  The way she said “gentleman” with a crazy mix of her French and a mock upper-class British accent made me laugh. We turned the corner just after the village church and walked down the street that had the village bakery just to the right—the street I had driven up that night when I’d first tasted escargots with the Beaupres, and that I had slid down with Félix on my way to breakfast at his grandparents’ house. All that time, Franck had been so close…

  There, in front of the boulangerie, was a familiar, tousled head.

  “Félix!” Sandrine called over to her cousin.

  Félix, with four baguettes firmly anchored under his arm and a bag of pastries in his hand, was talking to an extremely elderly man wearing a voluminous black cape and leaning on a gnarled cane.

  We greeted them. Félix kissed me with his usual uncomplicated warmth and introducing me to his friend, le Père Curie, the village priest.

  The priest gave me a sweet smile and, on learning I was from Canada, launched into a detailed explanation of an old friend of his who had spent years up in the Northwest Territories researching a deceased French explorer from the 1800s.

  Félix must have sensed I was having a difficult time following this rambling discourse, and leapt in during one of the priest’s rare pauses.

  “So, to what do we owe this pleasure?” he asked. “Why is our favorite Canadienne bestowing her presence on Villers-la-Faye this weekend?”

  “I went out with Sandrine last night,” I said, not sure how much I should tell Félix given our brief—very brief—romantic interlude months before.

  “She and Franck…” Sandrine wiggled her eyebrows, making her meaning clear. “They got along extremely well.”

  Félix rolled his eyes. “I knew I was right not to introduce you two. Now I’ll have to share you!”

  “Franck Germain?” The père curie interjected. “He was one of my alter boys, you know. Terrible for stealing wine, but a charming lad.”

  Sandrine glanced at her watch. “We need to go. We’re already late.”

  We kissed Félix good-bye, and he gave my arm a soulful squeeze. “It was lovely seeing you again, Laura. You deserve something good after putting up with Élise for three months.”

  “I do,” I said, and laughed.

  “Did you finally get it, you think?” he asked, a searching look in his eyes.

  “You mean Franck?”

  He nodded.

  I wish I knew what the answer to that was. I would know in the next few minutes. I shrugged. “I’ll keep you informed,” I promised.

  “D’accord,” he said, and waved us on our way.

  Sandrine pointed to a wooden gate across the street. “That’s their house.”

  She stopped in front of the gate and arched her thin eyebrows in question. “Are you ready?”

  My heart was jumping around erratically in my chest. I could feel a flush heat up my face. God. This feigning nonchalance wasn’t going so well. Sandrine rang the doorbell mounted on the stone pillar beside the gate.

  I heard a low babble of voices and then the crunch of pea gravel under someone’s feet.

  The gate opened. I couldn’t breathe. Then I caught a telltale flash of long black hair and realized it was Stéphanie. She was also smoking a cigarette. She gave both Sandrine and I les bises and then beckoned us to come in.

  “Did you have fun last night Laura?” she smiled mischievously.

  “Yes,” I said simply. I wasn’t sure how long my knees would hold me up. Franck
had to be close by somewhere.

  “Franck’s just getting changed,” she answered my unspoken question. “He’ll be out in a second.”

  Sandrine made goggle eyes at me.

  “Stop it, you two,” I growled, smacking Sandrine on the shoulder. “You’re terrible.”

  Stéph grinned. “OK. OK. But didn’t I say that you and Franck would get along?”

  “You did,” I admitted.

  “I just wanted everyone to acknowledge that this was my idea.”

  “It was my idea too!” Sandrine protested.

  “Stop!” My gaze kept flitting towards the door that led from the kitchen out to the courtyard. As much as I loved Sandrine and Stéph, I wished more than anything that Franck and I didn’t have an audience. It made things one hundred times more nerve-wracking.

  I bit my lip, steeling myself for the inevitable disappointment. In the cold light of the morning, I realized that the idea of an older, gorgeous Frenchman falling in love with me was a tad far-fetched.

  The door opened and Franck stepped out, wearing a faded pair of jeans, a white T-shirt, and the worn jacket I had found so soft the night before. His eyes met mine with a glint of mischief and—was I really seeing it or did the set of his mouth hint that he too was nervous?

  I was sure my pupils dilated. I felt his nearness with every cell in my body.

  “Bonjour,” he said. He gave Sandrine, who was standing closest to the door, les bises.

  Meanwhile, I stood rooted to my spot, just staring at him. So much for being cool and collected.

  He stepped in front of me and looked down into my face. I caught a whiff of savon de Marseille and apples. I was right at eye level with that delectable bit of skin just under his earlobe that I had tasted extensively just hours before. How was I supposed to act as though nothing had happened? All I wanted to do was grab him by the collar and kiss him.

  He took one step closer. My heart pounded. I felt a crazy dip in my stomach.

  He reached out and ran a finger down my jawline. “Bonjour, toi,” he murmured, low enough that I knew it was just for me.

  “Bonjour.” I managed to get out.

  He leaned down and planted the softest but most thorough kiss. My arms found their way around his back and I sunk into the rightness of our embrace.

  I forgot about Sandrine and Stéphanie standing right beside us as Franck’s hand reached up behind the weight of my hair and caressed the nape of my neck. I sighed against his chest.

  Franck gave me a gentle kiss, and then another, before wrapping an arm around my shoulders and pulling me close to him.

  Sandrine and Stéphanie were watching us with identical bemused expressions.

  “Like I said last night,” Sandrine said to Stéphanie as though continuing a conversation, “un vrai coup de foudre.”

  As I stood there, still reeling from Franck’s unequivocal greeting, I did feel exactly like I had been hit by a lightning bolt. Shocked. Electrified. Glowing. Every molecule in my body alight.

  Franck just smiled and bent down to plant a kiss on the top of my head.

  “Where are your parents?” Sandrine asked him.

  “They went to Dijon to get groceries,” Franck said. “Olivier should be here any minute. He’ll drive us.”

  “Which café?” Sandrine asked.

  “Not the one on the main square,” Stéphanie said. “The one across from the good boulangerie.” I was glad that all the attention was no longer on us. I could just enjoy the feeling of Franck’s arm around my shoulders and revel in our greeting without thinking of anything else.

  There was a knock at the gate, and Stéphanie went to open it to let in Olivier. He didn’t seem to be particularly surprised to see Franck’s arm around my shoulders and greeted us all with les bises.

  He seemed impatient to get going. “Ladies and Gentleman.” He ushered us out the gate, which Franck detached himself from me long enough to lock it behind us.

  “We’ll be a seat short,” Sandrine said.

  “Excellent,” Franck said. “Laura can sit on my lap…if she doesn’t mind.”

  “I don’t mind,” I assured him. We all laughed and piled into Olivier’s black Citroën sports car. I settled on to Franck’s thighs, and he pulled me back so I was nestled against him. He tracked scrumptious little kisses down my collarbone.

  “I guess I don’t have a seatbelt,” I said.

  Franck tightened his arms around me. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to let you go.”

  CHAPTER 25

  Olivier drove at break-neck speed down through the vineyards towards Beaune. We whipped past a stunning village built on a hillside that looked like something out of a storybook, although I couldn’t quite pay 100 percent attention to the landscape with Franck nibbling on my neck.

  “Mmmmm,” I said, “what was that village we just went through?”

  “Pernand–Vergelesses,” he murmured in the whorl of my ear, so that I shivered with pleasure. “I’ll bring you back here.”

  Part of me felt self-conscious sitting on his lap and intermittingly making out while Sandrine and Stéphanie sat beside us. Neither of them seemed remotely uncomfortable. In fact, the only time they acknowledged us at all was when they flashed us satisfied grins.

  I was not this kind of person. I was not the girl sitting on a boy’s lap, kissing him, in the light of day… I had always been the friend sitting nearby, trying hard to act like I was perfectly fine with it never being my turn to fall in love.

  Yet this felt right. Being with Franck was the strangest dichotomy of excitement and calm. His mere proximity gave me the most incredible feeling of comfort, but it also unleashed a million new sensations in my body and mind.

  I was still wondering at this unexpected turn of events when Olivier parked his car in front of a huge stone fountain. Franck had wound my hair around his wrist and was peppering my mouth with gentle, teasing kisses.

  Sandrine poked my side. “Eh les amoureux. We’re here.”

  I surfaced briefly. “Where?” I could stay exactly where I was—and happily—for much longer.

  Franck laughed. “Savigny-les-Beaune. You can’t mistake it for any other village around here. Just look at the castle.”

  He gently repositioned me so that out of our window I could see the huge castle that looked as though it had been plucked directly from a Grimm’s fairy tale. It was built of glowing, cream stone, anchored by four chubby, medieval turrets on its four corners.

  “Wow,” I murmured in English.

  Franck kissed me once more. “Wow,” he repeated with his heavy French accent. “I like that. Did I pronounce it right?”

  I gave him one last kiss before sliding off his lap and opening our door. “We can work on it.” A corner of Franck’s mouth lifted in a lopsided smile, and he got out after me. He interlaced his fingers in mine.

  Sandrine, Stéphanie, and Olivier all lit cigarettes, which they began to puff on as we walked across the square in the shadow of the looming castle. I knew from the previous night that Franck smoked too, but he held firm onto my hand instead of fishing in his pocket for his package of Gitanes.

  “Can we go visit the castle?” I asked.

  They all, including Franck, looked at me with an amused expression on their faces.

  “Stéphanie laughed, not unkindly. “We don’t really visit castles. That’s for tourists. For us, they’re just…there.”

  “Besides,” Olivier added, “that one is owned by a crazy count who collects old sport cars and airplanes and motorcycles, so the castle is full of them.”

  As Franck led me by the hand into the café, I marveled at being blasé at the proximity of such an incredible and ancient building. Despite having a French amoureux—boyfriend still sounded too official for something so brand new—I didn’t think I would ever be blasé enough about such things to be truly French.

  Inside the café, Martial and Isabelle were waiting for us, nursing tiny cups of espresso. They shared a look with S
andrine and Stéphanie when they saw Franck pull me close to him, give me a kiss, and whisper, “Would you like a café or something else?” in my ear.

  “Un café,” I murmured back, giving his hand a squeeze. He nodded and headed off to the zinc café counter to order.

  I sat down beside Isabelle.

  “Alors?” She widened her eyes at me. “You like our Franck?”

  I could feel a blush warming my cheeks, but I nodded and said, “Oui.”

  Isabelle sat back and smiled at me. “The feeling looks mutual. I haven’t seen him this happy in a long time. I’m glad for you.”

  “How long have you and Martial—”

  She hooted with laughter. “It feels like forever! Since I was fifiteen I think…or sixteen. Young. But when you’ve found your âme soeur, why bother looking any further?

  “me soeur—I haven’t heard that expression before.”

  She tapped her cigarette against the ashtray and leaned back in her chair. “L’me soeur…let me try to explain. It means the person whose soul matches yours. The person you are meant to be with. Martial and I figured that out right away. Who knows? Maybe you and our Franck—”

  “We just met last night,” I reminded her, thinking it was perhaps a bit premature to declare us soul mates already. Part of me—that crazy romantic part of me that I had always had to squash down in the past—did think I certainly didn’t want to jinx anything.

  “When it’s right, it’s right,” Isabelle shrugged. “That’s just the way it is. You’ll know.”

  Franck set an espresso in front of me and sat across from me at the table. He reached over and took my hand in his.

  “I thought I might leave you one hand free to drink your café.”

  “That’s thoughtful of you.”

  “Yes. If I wasn’t as gallant as I am we wouldn’t be here at all,” Franck said.

  “Where would we be instead?”

  “Probably still in the backseat of Olivier’s car.”

  “And what would we be doing in there?” I teased him.

  “Many things.” Franck caressed the palm of my hand with his thumb. “Many, many things.”