My Grape Year: (The Grape Series #1)

by Laura Bradbury

  “Do you know something?” Franck had lowered his voice.

  “What?” I asked, my heart flipping in my chest and my face on fire.

  “I’ve been thinking about you all the time.”

  “You have?”

  “What is he saying? What is he saying?” Alix demanded. I shook my head at her.

  “Yes. And I’ve been thinking about how I am going to kiss you when I see you again.”

  “Really?” I tried not to sound as breathless as I felt.

  “Really. Hundreds of kisses. Everywhere.”

  “Oh,” I said faintly.

  “I can hear you have an attentive audience on your end. Now say au revoir and put the phone down. I’ll see you in two days.”

  “Au-revoir,” I hung up.

  “Who is Franck?” Monsieur Lacanche asked, motioning me down to the sole empty armchair, a place where I had seen him position his children when they were being interrogated.

  “He is my friend Stéphanie’s brother,” I supplied. “He’s doing his military service in Dijon.”

  “He sounds quite old,” Madame Lacanche observed, frowning. “Not a boy.”

  “He’s a few years older than me,” I admitted. “He did his degree at the Sorbonne before his military service.”

  This seemed to mollify them a bit.

  “Nothing too serious, I hope,” added Monsieur Lacanche. “You know the Ursus rule against dating.”

  “Of course,” I said. “We just basically hang out with a big group of friends.”

  Monsieur Lacanche nodded. “All right, but if he is picking you up I would like to meet him first.”

  “That would be nice,” I said, although I was secretly horrified at the idea of such a summit. How on earth was I going to spring that on Franck?

  “Nothing too serious, right Laura?” Madame Lacanche reminded me in a sweet but slightly menacing voice.

  If I examined the bare facts of the previous weekend, so far nothing too serious had happened yet. Still, in my heart it felt like something very serious indeed.

  Saturday rolled around far too slowly. To think that only a week before I had been sitting up in my attic room, debating whether or not to cancel on the evening at the discothèque and forgo meeting Franck. I was sure that, like most of the other boys I had known, he would disappoint. So far, I couldn’t have been more wrong.

  When Franck called from the train station in Dijon, I warned him that the Lacanches wanted to meet him.

  “An interview?” he divined.

  “That’s more or less what it’s going to be,” I admitted. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s fine,” he assured me. “I’ll be on my best behavior.”

  “I know it’s a pain—”

  “Laura. I’m happy to do it. If it means we can see each other more easily, it’s worth it. I can be quite charming when I want, you know.”

  “I’m quite aware of that,” I assured him.

  An hour and a half later, Franck was being ushered into the Lacanche’s living room and pressed to accept an apéritif.

  “A kir,” he said, taking a seat on the couch. “Thank you.”

  I sat down beside him but quickly regretted that decision. I could feel his proximity like an electric charge in the air between us. I wanted to touch him so badly that I was having a hard time concentrating on the conversation.

  Monsieur Lacanche was playing a cello concerto on his stereo system. “Bach’s Cello Suite No. 1?” Franck asked. “Most people say that the best interpretation is Yo-Yo Ma’s, but I don’t agree. I have always thought Rostropovich puts far more emotion into his playing.”

  Monsieur Lacanche’s face lit up. “You know classical music?”

  His tone was so shocked that I wouldn’t have blamed Franck for sending back a flinty answer, but instead he was charm personified. “Oh yes. I grew up listening to it. My mother plays nothing else. The first trip I ever took was when I was four, and we drove to Austria to follow in Mozart’s footsteps.”

  “Vraiment?” Monsieur Lacanche answered. “What do you think of organ music?”

  “I love it,” Franck said. “Have you every heard the organ at the Saint Sylvestre church in Ladoix-Serrigny? It is such a shame that church is closed now most of the time. There is no sound like it.”

  Monsieur Lacanche gasped. “As a matter of fact, that organ is my special little ‘projet du coeur’ I am working on. I and a few other music lovers in the region have been fundraising to have the organ restored to its original glory and to put on a special series of recitals where we’ll bring in master organists from all over the world.”

  “What a wonderful idea,” Franck said. “Will you be bringing in Jean Guillou?”

  “That would be a dream!” Remy declared, clapping his hands together at the idea.

  I stared at Franck in stupefaction. Who was this cultured man on the couch beside me? What other surprises was he hiding up his sleeve? And to think Julien told me long ago that villagers from the Hautes-Côtes were rougher around the edges than their counterparts on the lower côtes…

  The conversation remained mainly between Franck and Monsieur Lacanche. They discussed the many classical performances Franck had attended in Paris while he was at the Sorbonne. This went on for a good forty minutes, until Franck took my wrist and consulted my watch in a gesture that seemed oddly intimate. I shivered at his touch.

  “I’m afraid I have to cut short this fascinating conversation,” he said, smiling at Monsieur Lacanche. “My family are waiting for us in Villers-la-Faye.”

  “So you will be staying with Sandrine tonight again?” Madame Lacanche asked, giving me a pointed look.

  “Yes,” I said. “I left her home phone number on the chalkboard in the kitchen in case you need to reach me.”

  This seemed to reassure Madame Lacanche a bit.

  “I will bring Laura back tomorrow on my way to the train station, if that is acceptable to you,” Franck said.

  “Wonderful! Wonderful!” Monsieur Lacanche patted Franck on the back when he got up. “I do hope you will be able to dine with us one weekend soon when you are home from Dijon. We haven’t even begun to talk about what you do on the military base!”

  “Even though I am part of the Air Force, they unfortunately haven’t seen fit to let me fly the Mirage 2000 jets.” Franck said as we made our way down the stairs. “To be honest, I’m not much more than a glorified secretary.”

  Monsieur and Madame Lacanche laughed appreciatively at this piece of wit.

  They waved us into the car, and Franck waved back as we pulled away from the curb. I felt nervous being alone with him again, as well as excited, but I was also expiring of curiosity.

  At the end of the street I began to clap. “Bravo! Well played monsieur!”

  Franck’s lips twitched into a smile.

  “How on earth did you know all that stuff about the cello concertos and the organ musicians?”

  Franck was concentrating on another car that was coming at us quickly in the tiny cobblestone street only wide enough for one car to pass. “I love classical music and I was brought up listening to it,” he said. “That was the truth. It was a lucky coincidence though, I’ll give you that.”

  Franck drove two streets further until, without warning, he swerved over and parked the car haphazardly in the shadow of one of Nuits-Saint-George’s many imposing wine domaines.

  “What—” Before I could get another word out Franck unbuckled my seatbelt and pulled me towards him in one urgent movement.

  “I think this is far enough away to be safe,” he said. “Anyway, it’s as long as I can last without doing this.” His hands found the sides of my face and his lips found mine.

  The kiss, or kisses, lasted for a long time. By the time I came up for air, I couldn’t string together a coherent thought.

  “I’ve been wanting to do that from the moment I saw you waiting for me, all nervous, on the curb,” Franck said. “Sitting so close to you on the couch was
torture.”

  “I know,” I tried in vain to marshal my senses. I leaned forward and kissed him again, and we didn’t say another word for several more minutes.

  “We’re never going to get to Villers-la-Faye this way,” I murmured against his mouth.

  “Non,” Franck said, interspersing his words with kisses, not seeming particularly bothered by this fact. “They must be waiting for us by now.” His fingers were doing something magical at the nape of my neck and down my spine.

  I sighed against him. Just then an irate man wearing a beret, who apparently wanted to turn his giant Mercedes into the gate we were blocking with the car, started honking at us.

  Franck gave me one last kiss and a burning look promising more, before he revved the engine again and took off up through the vineyards towards Villers-la-Faye.

  The road was steep, windy, and narrow, with a wicked drop-off on the side. It was the same one where Monsieur Beaupre had detached his rear view mirror on the way up to la Maison des Hautes-Côtes. Franck kept looking over at me.

  “You should maybe watch the road,” I said, as much as I liked the way he devoured me with his eyes.

  “I love how you’re so practical.”

  Me? Practical? I was known in my family as the space cadet always lost in daydreams. “Not always,” I assured him.

  “I know this road like the back of my hand,” he said. “I could drive it blindfolded…actually…non, it’s probably too soon to tell you that story. I’ve been going up and down it my whole life. Your face, on the other hand…I’m still discovering that.”

  His face was something I was discovering too. As he drove, I sat back and drank in his profile—his full lips, his square jaw and absolutely straight, perfect nose…the way his eyes kindled and his mouth quirked to one side as if having a hard time containing a smile…

  The only problem was that in four months I was returning to Canada and Franck would be staying here in France. For the first time, my thrill over Franck was tinged with panic. Should I let myself fall this hard and fast for someone who I could only be with for such a short period of time? I didn’t know the answer to that, so I just sat back in the seat and watched Franck, with my hand under his as he shifted gears.

  CHAPTER 27

  Many hours later, we were sitting in the café in Savigny, sharing delicious thin-crust pizzas and washing them down with the house red that was exceedingly tolerable, probably because it was Savigny-les-Beaune, after all.

  Franck and I sat side by side and laughed and talked with Olivier, Stéphanie, and Sandrine, who regaled us with stories. His arm rested on my shoulders and we rarely made it past a minute without pausing for a kiss.

  Olivier was drinking more than the rest of us, and as the evening wore on, he became increasingly maudlin. He began talking about a girl named Louise.

  “Eh merde.” Sandrine took a deep drag of her cigarette. “He’s on to Louise.”

  “Who is Louise?” I asked Sandrine.

  “His ex-girlfriend,” she said with a grimace.

  Sandrine clearly knew Olivier well, because within half an hour Olivier had ordered and downed several glasses of calvados—apple brandy from Normandy—and was weeping openly over Louise.

  I turned to Franck. “I think I need a bit of background here,” I said, indicating Olivier with my head.

  “He went out with Louise last year,” he whispered in my ear. I had to concentrate on what he was saying instead of just reveling in how good it felt. “They only went out for three months or so, but Olivier was hopelessly in love. She broke up with him, and he’s never gotten over her, especially not when he gets into a bottle of Calvados.”

  Olivier climbed up on the tabletop and began singing an off-key song about a girl named Louise, pausing every few seconds to cry.

  “I think it’s time we take him home,” Franck said, studying his friend.

  “Non!“ Olivier yelled down to Franck. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m staying right here. Louise is going to come here tonight. I feel it.”

  “Do you think you’re going to need some help?” Sandrine asked. She had brought her car and was sober enough to drive it.

  “Non!” Without warning, Olivier leapt off the table and ran outside the café door into the main square.

  “Yes, I’ll need help,” Franck sighed. “I need to go after him,” Franck said to us. “He’s going to get hit by a car. Can you go and see if Martial is home?” he asked Sandrine.

  “D’accord,” Sandrine agreed and hurried out into the night.

  “Sorry,” he said to me as he got up and then gave me a kiss before putting on his jacket.

  “I waved him off. “Go. Hurry. You’re right. It’s not safe for him out there in the state he’s in.”

  “Has Olivier done this before?” I asked Stéphanie after Franck had left.

  “He’s never taken off before, but every three months or so we have to take him home because he goes a bit crazy about Louise. The taking off is a bit of a problem though,” Stéphanie mused. “Olivier is small but surprisingly speedy.”

  I peered outside, hoping that Franck would catch Olivier quickly. “It’s dark out there.”

  “Franck is crazy about you,” Stéphanie said, changing the topic. “You are all he talks about.”

  “I like him too,” I said.

  Stéphanie fiddled with the paper wrapped around the sugar cube that came with her espresso. “I just wanted to say…I haven’t seen him this happy since he broke up with his ex-girlfriend last summer. There were some very hard months after that. We were all worried about him.”

  “He hasn’t mentioned her,” I said, a sick feeling in my stomach. So he had been in love, and recently too….

  “That doesn’t surprise me,” Stéphanie said. “He never went crazy about her like Olivier gets about Louise. Instead, he holed himself up in his bedroom and barely came out. All he did was read philosophy books and take notes…in a way, it would have been simpler if he acted like Olivier.”

  I didn’t want to put into words the first question that leapt into my mind, let alone pose it to Stéphanie, but I was driven by a sort of morbid curiosity. “Was Franck…was he very much in love with his ex-girlfriend?”

  It took Stéphanie a while to answer. “I believe he thought he was, but none of us liked her much. She was jealous and possessive.”

  “What was her name?”

  “Juliette.”

  There were so many other questions I wanted to ask. Where was she from? How old was she? Was she pretty? How long had they been going out for? Why had they broken up?

  Instead, I just said, “Oh,” my voice hollow. I hoped I wasn’t a simple rebound relationship.

  “The military service has been good for him,” Stéphanie continued. “Given him some structure and now, of course, there’s you.”

  “I have to go back to Canada in July,” I reminded her.

  Stéphanie nodded. “We’re all trying not to think about that. I know that makes things difficult. I guess what I’m trying to say is…don’t hurt him. Not more than you have to by leaving, in any case.”

  What about me? I wanted to ask. Who is protecting me?

  “I won’t,” I said. It was the truth. Whatever happened, I couldn’t imagine Franck willfully hurting me or me wanting to willfully hurt him.

  Just then, Franck ran inside the café. “Has he come back?” he gasped, out of breath.

  “No,” I said. “Can’t you find him?”

  Franck shook his head. “Is Martial here yet?”

  “No,” Stéph said. “But if Olivier comes back in here, Laura and I will tackle him to the ground. Promis.”

  I nodded in agreement. Franck’s mouth curved up and he ran over, gave me a solid kiss, then ran back outside again.

  “You’re blushing,” Stéphanie observed as she twisted her long black hair around one finger. “I was right to set you two up, wasn’t I?”

  “You were,” I admitted, just as Sandrine and Ma
rtial rushed in.

  “What’s the situation?” Martial demanded. He was wearing a frontal headlamp like a cave spelunker and carried another sophisticated-looking flashlight in his hand. “Where is he?”

  “Somewhere outside,” Stéphanie said. “Franck’s not having much luck finding him in the dark.”

  Martial’s eyes took on a determined gleam and he ran back out.

  “Oh là là,” Sandrine shook her head, sitting down again. “What a mess. I knew it wasn’t going to be good when he started singing about Louise.”

  “It’s never been this bad before though,” Stéphanie noted. “I wonder why? He should be getting over her.”

  “I think he’s lonely,” Sandrine said. “Especially now that he sees Franck with Laura.”

  Stéph nodded.

  “I think you two remind him of what he doesn’t have,” Sandrine said. She looked at Stéph, who also happened to be between boyfriends, although this wasn’t from a lack of potential male suitors. “It reminds us all of what we don’t have at the moment,” she added and lit a cigarette. “Luckily, we can still smoke.”

  Just then Martial, with his headlamp set to full glare, and a tired-looking Franck, dragged a protesting Olivier back into the café.

  “Can you come with us, Laura?” Franck asked. “I think we may need a bit of assistance.”

  We dragged Olivier outside. “You will find the perfect woman,” I whispered to him. “She’s out there waiting for you. It’s just a matter of time.”

  “Non! All I want is Louise. LOUIIIISSSSSE,” Olivier howled.

  “Let’s get him into his bed,” Martial said.

  I followed them out to Martial’s car. Martial got behind the wheel, and Franck inserted Olivier’s wiry body into the back seat. Franck wound down Olivier’s window. “I think some fresh air would do him good.”

  I slid in beside Franck. “What can I do?”

  “Nothing yet,” Franck said. “But we’ll see how it goes. I know this is ridiculous, but I wanted to spend more time with you, even if it’s doing this.”