Franck’s face tilted up to the tinted windows of the bus, with that smile of his—lopsided and roguish. Best of all, it was meant just for me.
I bounded out of the bus directly into his arms. He swung me around, narrowly missing a few pedestrians, before setting me down on the sidewalk.
“This was such a good idea,” I said.
He kissed me. “It was, n’est-ce pas? Have you had lunch?”
“Non. In fact, I almost missed the bus. They let us out of school late.”
“That would have been terrible.” Franck took my hand and we began walking along the sidewalk.
“Awful,” I agreed.
“Ghastly.”
“Appalling.”
Franck led me through what looked like no more than a crack between two buildings but which widened into a cobblestone lane. “But you made it,” he said. “So let me feed you.”
We ended up in a brasserie on the rue de bourg—a pedestrian street that seemed to house mainly cafés and chic boutiques. We decided on the menu du jour, which was a frisée salad with lardons, then rabbit in mustard sauce, then a cheese platter, then little caramel puddings. I wasn’t sure how I felt about the rabbit, but Franck persuaded me to try it. It turned out to be delicious—flavorful, lean meat in a spicy Dijon mustard sauce. Somehow it seemed like the fitting thing to be eating on my first romantic outing in Dijon. It was all washed down with a pitcher of house red that was powerful enough not to be overshadowed by the delectable dishes.
The spring sun shone through the brasserie window. Franck and I were nestled side by side on the leather bench against the wall, rather than across from each other. The impeccably dressed waiter in his black suit, long white apron, and black bow tie set a cup of espresso in front of each of us. I let go of Franck’s hand long enough to unwrap my tiny chocolate, dip it in my coffee, and pop it into my mouth.
“What should we do next?” I asked.
Franck stirred a sugar cube into his cup. “There is so much to see in Dijon,” he said. “Have you been to the museum?”
“No.”
“It is worth the trip. There are some wonderful Titians and Rubens and Manets in the collection.”
I kissed Franck’s collarbone. “That sounds interesting.”
“We could climb up the Phillippe le Bon tower. It’s from the fifteenth century and, on a day like today the view is stunning. Are you afraid of heights?”
“Not at all,” I said. I was distracted, though, by Franck’s hands at the small of my back.
“I almost forgot the cathedral,” Franck added. “It is beautiful inside and has the most amazing gargoyles on the outside.”
“I love gargoyles,” I said. Franck’s hand had moved up between my shoulder blades now, working its way up the trail of my spine so that I could barely concentrate on his descriptions of Dijon’s myriad wonders.
“You love gargoyles?”
“Yes. I don’t know why. I just always have…ahhhhhh, that feels lovely…sounds like there are a lot of choices.”
“There’s one more.” Something in Franck’s voice made me meet his eyes.
“Oh?”
“The choice is completely yours, but my friend Nicolas, who is doing his military service with me, has an apartment here in Dijon. Right above this brasserie as a matter of fact. He gave me the keys.” Franck removed a set of huge old iron keys from his back pocket and dangled them over his espresso cup to illustrate.
My heart started beating faster. “You mean we wouldn’t see the museum, or the tower, or the cathedral?”
Franck blinked. “We could do all that if you’d like. As long as I’m with you, I’m happy. Honestly.”
“But if we went up to Nicolas’ apartment, we could be alone for a while?”
“Yes.” Franck’s eyes blazed with something I wanted to investigate further.
“Completely alone?”
“Yes.”
“There’s no chance your friend Nicolas will come back to his apartment?”
Franck shook his head. “None. He has to stay on the base all day.”
I reached out and took the keys from Franck’s hand. They were satisfyingly heavy, as well as obviously ancient. “What are we waiting for?”
CHAPTER 30
A month and three Wednesday afternoons with Franck in Dijon later, I still hadn’t seen the gargoyles on the cathedral, but Franck and I had spent a lot of time in Nicolas’ apartment above the brasserie.
At the end of the month, I moved out of the Lacanche’s house beside the church and into the palatial estate of my fourth host family, the Forestiers, in a small village five minutes from Beaune. Most of the time, I had the entire house and swimming pool to myself, as both Monsieur and Madame Forestier were notaries and, from what I could tell, worked from around seven o’clock in the morning until eleven o’clock at night in their offices in Beaune. Their work ethic mystified me and—from the snippets of conversations I’d overheard at the monthly meetings—many of the other Ursus members, apparently. Working so hard was viewed with distrust. It was not viewed as very French of the Forestiers to be slaving at their jobs from dawn till well past dusk.
As a result, the Forestiers were hands-off host parents which suited me perfectly. I wanted, of course, to spend all of my free time with Franck in Villers-la-Faye.
As for Franck’s family, all they had been talking about for weeks was Mémé’s huge family eightieth birthday party at the country house of Franck’s aunt Jacqueline. I got the gist that it was going to be a massive event. Franck had asked me early on to go with him.
I asked the Forestiers when I finally was able to catch them at home. They shrugged and said, “Pourquoi pas?” This family definitely held me with the loosest of reins.
Madame Forestier actually looked relieved. “Can you stay the whole weekend?”
“Yes,” I said.
“That might be for the best, because I was thinking of going down to Monaco to visit my sister for a few days.”
“No problem,” I said. I wondered again why the Forestiers had bothered volunteering to host me in the first place. There was no payment involved in Ursus exchanges—not that they seemed to need money. They both had older children from previous marriages who had left home and seemed more than delighted when I made my own plans and stayed out of their hair.
The next Saturday morning found me in Olivier’s car with Sandrine, Stéph, and Franck, driving through the Burgundian vineyards until they gave way to fields that were bright yellow with canola flowers. At Germain family parties, I learned, close friends like Sandrine and Olivier were always welcome. Martial and Isabelle had been invited too, but they had some other family event that required their attendance in Buisson.
We listened to Francis Cabrel’s new album on repeat and sang along to the songs. I nestled close to Franck and wondered if I would ever be this happy again in my life.
“I can’t wait to introduce you to la Mémé,” Franck said.
I remembered that postcard Stéphanie had me sign when we were skiing. To think that now I was being brought to meet her as Franck’s girlfriend… She played a huge role, I could tell, in Franck’s life. I sent up a prayer to the Powers that Be that Mémé like me.
“I haven’t seen her in a few months,” Sandrine said, tapping her cigarette outside the car window. “Sacrée Mémé.”
“Do you know she made all the food for the party?” Franck said, pride in his voice.
“Really?” I was amazed. “How many people will there be?”
Franck shrugged. “Nobody ever knows for sure at our family parties. Strays always turn up, but probably seventy or eighty at least.”
“Wow.” I couldn’t imagine cooking for two people, let alone eighty. Our window was slightly ajar, and the scent of freshly mowed grass and blossoming trees flowed into the car.
“My uncle from Provence is coming up and bringing most of the wine,” Franck said. “He’s my godfather too.”
“Where does
he get the wine from?” I asked.
“He’s a winemaker. A few years ago, he created his own domaine in Provence from scratch. He’s the hardest worker I’ve ever seen. When I was still in lycée, I went down to his domaine in the Luberon for a couple of weeks and helped him plant the vines.
“So we’ll be tasting wine from vines you actually helped plant?”
Franck gave me a kiss on my earlobe. ‘I’ve never thought about it before, but I guess so.”
Franck was wearing a white T-shirt and a pair of his well-worn jeans. I loved pressing up against his solid chest and drinking in the masculine smell of his aftershave mixed with his scent of apples. I snuck a kiss on that soft spot of neck under his ear. He reached down and traced the line of my cheekbone with his finger.
Franck already felt like home to me. How was I ever going to leave him? I took Franck’s hand, turned it over, and pressed a kiss in the center of his palm. He brushed the hair off my forehead and kissed me there.
“Who else will be there?” I asked, pushing the thought of my approaching departure to the corner of my mind.
“There will also be my uncle Marcel. He’s an oenologue. He always brings incredible wine with him from his unbelievable cellar. Then again, so does my uncle Jean. It is his country house we’re going to—”
“How am I ever going to keep everyone straight?”
“I’ll be there to help you.” Franck pulled me tighter against him and whispered in my ear. “I am so happy to have you with me.”
It was with a bubbling mix of excitement and trepidation that I climbed out of the car just outside a set of massive white gates in a tiny village in Northern Burgundy.
Cars clogged up the narrow village street as far as the eye could see. A gaggle of children were hanging off the gates, some almost all the way at the top, forming an informal welcoming committee.
“Salut!” They waved down at us and began to scrabble down. I almost shouted at them to be careful not to fall, but then thought the better of it. Hardy French children were used to looking after themselves.
Franck and Stéph seemed to know all of their names. The kids leapt down and greeted each of us with a wet kiss on each cheek. They then climbed back up again to wait for the next group of arrivals.
Franck took my hand and led me in the gardens of a magnificent, whitewashed country house. Actually, it was debatable whether his aunt and uncle’s house could be more accurately referred to as a small chateau. In any case, it was massive and majestic. The shutters that hung on every window were nine or ten feet tall. Standing on the porch, flanked by elegant wrought iron railings moulded into elaborate curlicues were a few men smoking cigarettes. We walked up the steps and Franck greeted them all with a kiss. He introduced me to them. There were two direct cousins, a few cousins-in-law, and one who Franck introduced as his quarter cousin.
“Quarter cousin?” I asked, confused.
Franck waved his hand, laughing. “It’s a long story. I’ll explain when we have more time.”
He opened the door, and we entered into the front hallway of the house, which was highlighted by a swooping staircase with a polished wooden bannister that rose above us. The air carried the whiff of slightly damp plaster and over a hundred years of living that somehow reinforced the house’s majesty. The ceiling height was at least twenty feet. To the right, I caught a glimpse of what looked like a study, with shelves lined with taxidermy animals and very old-looking books. I was dying to go in there—old books had always been a particular fetish of mine, but Franck was dragging me towards the back of the house.
We swung right and found ourselves in a kitchen that also had ridiculously high ceilings, high glass windows, and—placed in the heart of the room—the oldest and most massive stove I had ever seen. In front of it, with a white linen dishtowel slung over her forearm and wearing a chic pair of navy slacks and white top with a lovely scarf swung over her shoulders, was a woman that could only be la Mémé. She was peering inside a huge copper pot.
“Joyeux Anniversaire, Mémé!” Franck went up to her and swung her into a huge hug. She clung on to him, laughing a delicious, throaty laugh.
“Mon Franck!” She grasped his hands and did an impromptu jig with him across the wooden floor. “How good it is to see you! I’ve been very busy. I’ve cooked everything for this party—everything! I guarantee you that I will be the last one to sleep tonight. We are going to have such a belle fête!”
“There is someone special I’d like you to meet, Mémé,” Franck beckoned me over to his side. “This is mon amie, Laura.”
“Bonjour.” I thought of sticking out my hand, but before I could do anything I was swept up in a floury-smelling hug and kissed soundly on each check.
“Enfin!” she said, holding me at arm’s length and examining me. “We get to meet Franck’s Laura. He hasn’t stopped talking about you. You aren’t going to take him back to Canada with you, are you?”
I wasn’t sure what to say. The truth dawned on me just then. If I could, I would.
She laughed again. “Don’t worry. I won’t pester you with that this weekend. We’re here to celebrate, after all, and what is more a cause for celebration than l’amour? Except turning eighty, of course, and still being able to make all the food for my own party!”
Stéphanie came in then with Sandrine and Olivier. Mémé greeted all of them like her own grandchildren. “What is this?” Mémé clapped her hands.
“Your hands are empty! A travesty! Jean! Jean! Where are you hiding?”
A deep voice answered from the general vicinity of the study with the taxidermy animals. “Yes, my lady?” A man materialized in the kitchen door. He was small in stature and wore a wry smile on his face. His aura of placidity could not have been more different than Mémé’s electric energy.
“Jean!” Mémé said. “Look here! My guests’ hands are empty. It is my party and I decree that everyone must have a kir in their hands.”
Jean cocked an eyebrow, and I got the distinct impression he was a man who did things on his own timetable.
“First,” he turned to me, “here is a face I don’t recognize.”
Franck introduced me to his uncle Jean. “This is Jean’s family home,” he said.
“Thank you for having me.” I leaned in to give him les bises. “Your house is stunning.”
He nodded, serene. “Would you like kir?”
“Yes. I love kir.”
“That’s fortuitous, if you are going to throw your lot in with this family.” Jean motioned us into a room across the hall that contained a massive monastery table and an equally impressive buffet.
On the starched white tablecloth sat a plethora of bottles and several trays of clean wineglasses, sparkling in the sunlight.
Jean opened the bottles one by one, sniffing at them occasionally, and finally began pouring one with movements so slow that they made me wonder if he hadn’t in fact been dipped in a vat of invisible honey.
“Are there lots of people here already?” Stéph asked.
Jean thought about this question for several moments, until I began to wonder if he had heard her at all. “It seems that way,” he said, finally. “Most of them have disappeared outside or downstairs. We’ve fixed it up you know, for the party…the cellars.
He began handing out the glasses filled with garnet kir. He was methodical and, as a consequence, had not spilled a drop. He served the women first, starting with me and then moving to Franck and Olivier.
“Now you are equipped to go and mingle. Take it from me. Stay away from the kitchen. Mémé gives jobs to anyone who is underfoot. Au revoir. I am going back to hide in the study.” He turned and sauntered out of the room.
We wandered out the back door of the house into a beautiful garden that was far too extensive to be called a garden at all. It was an actual enclosed “park,” I realized, like in the country houses and chateaus I had read about in Jane Austen’s novels.
There were several groups of people mil
ling around in the sunshine, and Franck took me over to each one, to introduce me and say hello. He kissed most of the people, including the men, meaning that he was related or close to the majority of our fellow party-goers. We moved slowly towards an area of the park that was farther away from the house, where a spirited match of pétanque was underway.
“Ça alors! It’s our Franck!” A portly man with a glass of kir in his hand greeted us. “With his beautiful Canadienne who we’ve been hearing so much about, no less. Come and play with us. I’m Franck’s uncle Roland.” He gave me a kiss on each cheek. “And, just for the record, I am infinitely more charming than my nephew.”
I was introduced to the other team—a ridiculously handsome young man with stunning blue eyes who was yet another of Franck’s second cousins and several other young bucks who were either distantly related or offspring of close family friends. I was the only female.
“Do you want to play?” Franck asked.
“If you show me how.”
“You’ve never played pétanque before?” He couldn’t quite keep the astonishment from his voice.
“We play ice hockey in Canada. It can’t be that different.”
Franck’s eyes widened. “I think it is quite different, actually.”
“I’m a quick learner.”
“I’m aware of that,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching. It gets a bit competitive sometimes.”
“I can handle it.”
They split us into teams, and Franck and I landed on opposite sides. Roland noticed that our glasses were empty before the play began and insisted we wait to start until he went inside the house and got us something more to drink. Despite his impressive girth, he moved fast on his mission and reappeared with two bottles of artisan-made Cassis and two bottles of white Aligoté under his arm.
“This will do for at least one or two games,” he said. “It is against the rules to play pétanque with an empty glass in your hand,” he explained while filling mine.
My head was spinning and my ears were burning with heat after just one kir. It went down like Kool-Aid but packed the wallop of hard alcohol. I was already feeling astonishingly confident in my non-existent pétanque skills.
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