I walk to the far end of the orchard, letting the pureness of this place infuse me with a desire not to go to the deep dark place. Not letting thoughts of Riley ruin the start to a beautiful day. I think of the place I had been in when I arrived in Paris, of how I had absolutely no desire to continue the career I had thought was everything I wanted in life. I honestly don’t know if that’s true anymore or not, but something about these last few days with Dillon has made me want to care again. To know what I want to come next. And even though I don’t have an answer for that right now, I at least have the desire to try and figure it out.
Dillon
“One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well.”
―Virginia Woolf, A Room of One’s Own
I WAKE TO sunlight streaming into the room. I hadn’t bothered to close the curtains last night. As I have done my entire life, I wake to the light. I slide out of bed, deciding to call room service for a pot of coffee before I get in the shower. When it arrives, my hair is still wet. I answer the door to a kind-faced older man holding a silver tray.
“Bonjour, madame,” he says.
“Good morning,” I say and step aside to let him in. He places the tray on the corner of the bed and leaves with a polite wish that I have a good day.
I pour myself a cup and take a gratifying sip, wondering if Klein is up yet. I haven’t heard anything from the other room, so I decide maybe not, take my cup into the bathroom and dry my hair. Once I’m ready, I decide to go downstairs and see what there is to do during the day here. Just as I step out the door, I see Klein walking down the long hallway.
“Good morning,” I say, suddenly awkward with memories of last night.
“Good morning,” he says. “How did you sleep?”
“Great,” I say. “You look like you’ve been up a while.”
“I have, actually. I decided to take a walk down to the orchard again. It’s incredibly beautiful there.”
“It is,” I say. “Do you want to get some breakfast?”
“Sure. I had a little coffee earlier, but I’m starving.”
We turn then and head downstairs to the restaurant where we’d had dinner last night. A different waitress leads us to a table, this time close to the terrace doors where we can appreciate the view of the enormous lawn off the stone terrace.
The smells coming from the kitchen are genuinely mouthwatering, and I open my menu. “Do you think they would bring me one of everything on here?”
“It is tempting, isn’t it?” Klein says.
We place our order within a couple of minutes. I decide to splurge on the blueberry pancakes. Klein opts for an omelet. The waitress brings us a mouthwatering basket of pastries that appear to have been made in the château kitchen. We both dig in as if we haven’t eaten in a week, and I force myself to stop after the second croissant. “I’m not going to have any room for blueberry pancakes,” I say.
“If I stayed here too long,” Klein says, “I’m pretty sure I would put on twenty pounds.”
“Do you ever wonder why the French people aren’t fat?” I ask.
“Actually, I have wondered,” Klein says. “I did a google search on that when we were in Paris, because it occurred to me that if you just went by the foods they eat, they should be, but they’re not.”
“Fast food isn’t on every corner, for one thing,” I say.
“Yeah,” he agrees. “Definitely that. And then there’s the fact that people here tend to walk more every day than Americans in general. Then there’s the whole red wine thing.”
“Resveratrol,” I say.
“Did you google the same article?”
I laugh lightly. “No, but I’ve read a few things here and there about the topic. Snack foods don’t seem to be as prevalent here. It seems like people emphasize meals and sitting down to eat more, whereas the American lifestyle is a little more about rushing here and there and eating fast food to go in the car. At least I’m guilty of that.”
“I think we all are more than we should be,” Klein says. “But I’m going to try to make one of my takeaways from this trip, making some changes on all of that.”
“Me, too.”
Just then, the waitress brings our breakfast, and despite having eaten bread in advance, I still cannot resist my blueberry pancakes. “This may be the best thing I’ve ever eaten,” I say, looking at Klein with a smile of pleasure. “Would you like a bite?”
“Actually, I would. I’m having a pretty serious case of pancake envy.”
I laugh, pick up a clean fork, and hand him a bite. “There you go,” I say.
“That is amazing,” he says, savoring it.
“Yes, I’m sure I will be wearing it for the rest of the vacation,” I say, deliberately putting down my fork. “I think I’ve exceeded my carb quota for the day. In fact,” I say, “I could use some serious activity today. What do you think?”
“What do they offer?” Klein asks.
“I was looking at a brochure in the room, and they do offer riding.”
“Remember I said I’ve never been on a horse before?”
“I do, but there’s a first time for everything.”
“And what if I’m a complete failure at it?”
“We’ll just walk,” I say. “Go for a nice ride out through the countryside. Doesn’t that sound wonderful?”
“I guess I’ll be a sport and give it a shot.”
“Great,” I say, excited. “Because it’s been a lot of years since I’ve been on a horse, but I can’t think of a more beautiful place to ride. You will love it,” I assure him.
“Promise?” he says.
“I promise.”
Dillon
“When you are on a great horse, you have the best seat you will ever have.”
―Winston S. Churchill
OF COURSE, NEITHER of us has riding clothes, so after a quick call to the front desk, we opt for jeans. They have a slot open at ten o’clock, so just after nine-thirty, we leave the château and walk down the path that leads to the stables. Like the château, the barn here is designed to make you feel like you’ve stepped back in time. It’s spotless and neat, the wood features newly stained and varnished, all the metal recently painted black as well.
We step inside the main entrance located at the middle of the barn. A long aisle reaches end to end, stalls on either side. Most of the horses appear to be outside, but a few heads pop over the stall doors at the sight of us. A horse whinnies, and I wish I had thought to bring some kind of treat with us.
“Hello, there.” A young man in a bill cap approaches us. “You must be Dillon and Klein. I am André. I have you down for a ride this morning.”
“Yes,” I say.
“So have either of you ever ridden before?”
“I have,” I say. “Just kind of backyard stuff.”
He turns to Klein. “And how about you?”
“No, actually, I never have.”
“Then you are in for a nice time,” he says. “The horses here are really pets and love their life, so we’ll have a beautiful ride out through the vineyard and then back around by the orchard. You chose a beautiful day for it.”
“Will there be anyone else on the ride?” Klein asks.
“You are my only two guests this morning.”
“Oh, okay,” Klein says, and I can tell that he is relieved.
“Follow me, and I’ll introduce you to your equine companion for the day.” We walk behind him down one length of the aisle to a pair of grooming stalls, where two horses stand waiting for us. They’ve already been tacked up except for their bridles, standing quietly in the crossties attached to their halters. “This is Samuel,” André indicates, patting a hand on the black horse’s shoulder.
“He is a charmer this one and will do his best to clear you of any peppermints you might have in your pocket. Speaking of which, I’ll give you some inventory.” He reaches for a jar to the side of one of the stalls, hands me a few, and Klein a
s well.
We stick them inside the pockets of our jeans, and at the sound of the crinkle, both horses perk up their ears. “Is it all right if they have one?” I ask.
“Of course,” André says.
We both unwrap one and give it to each horse. “The chestnut here is Abby, and given the size ratio, I would say she’s probably a better fit for you, Dillon. Klein, you can have the big boy here.”
Another young helper appears, smiles a greeting at us, and then sets about putting the bridles on the horses. Once he’s done, he leads them out of the grooming stalls and down the aisle toward a mounting block at the far entrance.
“I will get my horse and meet you out there in just a moment,” André says.
Klein and I follow the young assistant to the mounting block. He indicates that I should get on Abby first, so I do, my heart thumping a little in anticipation since it’s been so long since I’ve been on a horse. But Abby stands patiently, ignoring my awkwardness, and once I’m in the saddle, she steps forward a few steps, obviously knowing the routine as the assistant leads the other horse to the mounting block.
Klein looks more than a little doubtful at this point, but following his intention to be a good sport, he steps up and follows the assistant’s instructions. “So,” the young man says. “You will put your left foot in the stirrup and swing your weight up and over the horse as gently as possible and then put your foot in the other stirrup. Any questions?”
“Ah, no, I don’t think so,” Klein says, glancing up at me. I smile reassuringly and watch as he executes a perfect swing into the saddle, easing his weight onto the horse’s back.
“Are you sure you’ve never done this before?” I ask, smiling.
He looks up and shakes his head. “I assure you, no. I have not.”
The assistant then shows him how to hold the reins, and we wait a moment before André appears around the corner of the barn, riding a beautiful white horse. “This is Zeus,” he says. “Are we all ready to go?”
“I think so,” Klein says, and I nod in agreement, patting my horse’s neck.
“You can follow me then. To ask your horse to go forward, just give a little squeeze with your calves and keep your fingers loose on the reins. If you want to stop, just give a gentle squeeze on the reins. You really don’t need to pull back on them.”
Klein thanks the assistant for his help, and then we’re off, following single file down the lane leading away from the barn. The scenery is absolutely breathtaking, like something out of a movie, really. Klein is behind me, and I look back now and then to see him relaxed to the point that he is starting to enjoy the scenery as well.
We ride for fifteen or twenty minutes through a valley of sorts, beautiful old green trees on either side of us. We reach a knoll at one point, and then to our left, I spot the vineyard. Rows and rows of grapevines loaded with fruit stretching out before us. I glance back to see Klein taking it in as well and say, “The smell is amazing.”
“Yes,” André says, glancing back. “The estate makes its wine from this very vineyard. The grapevines here are at least a century old.”
“Has the château been in the same family from its beginning?”
“Actually, yes,” André says. “It has. My parents are the most recent owners of the estate.”
“Oh,” I say. “How wonderful. You are very lucky.”
“Yes, I think so,” he says. “I have traveled to many other places during my life so far, and I always want to come back here.”
“That’s the thing about home, isn’t it?” I say.
“Yes, it is,” he says.
A few flies have started to appear, landing on the horses’ necks and hindquarters. They swish their tails and shake their heads to make them go away. “How is it that you found us?” André asks, glancing back at Klein.
“Dillon found you through a Google search, actually,” he says.
“And I’m so glad that we were able to come,” I say.
“What is it that you two do when you’re not in France?” André asks.
“Music,” Klein says.
“Ah. What kind of music?”
“Country,” Klein says.
“Do you write, sing?”
“Klein sings,” I say. “He’s being modest, actually. He’s a pretty well-known country music star.”
Klein starts to shrug that off, when André says, “Really? I love country music. I was in Nashville last year. You are Klein Matthews,” he says suddenly, making the connection.
I smile, while Klein looks a bit uncomfortable. “Yes,” he says.
“Amazing,” André says. “I listened to your music when I was in your country and put it on my Spotify playlist.”
“Thank you,” Klein says. “That’s actually very nice to hear. And while we’re busy handing out accolades, Dillon here is a very well-known songwriter in the country music industry.”
André sends me a smile and says, “Incredible that the two of you found us here, and I am now such a country music fan. You played in Paris recently, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” Klein says. “Actually, that’s how I ended up in France.”
“Lucky for us,” André says. “Will you be staying at the château tonight?”
“Yes,” I say.
“Then you must let me take you out to our most popular dance club. You would like to go?” he asks.
Klein glances at me, and I shrug and nod.
“Sure,” Klein says. “That sounds like fun.”
It is clear that we have made André’s day, and he spends the next half hour or so of our ride giving us the history of the estate and telling us about his family members. We wind along through another valley until we reach the edge of the orchard. The smell of peaches is fragrant in the air.
We take our time heading back to the barn. I can see that Klein has thoroughly enjoyed himself. “So much for you not being able to ride,” I say, with the barn just visible in the distance.
A whinny sounds from the field near the barn. We see a few horses start to prance around the pasture at the sight of us. Klein’s horse raises his head, nickers back, and then starts to trot in place.
“Just sit back, Klein and take your reins,” André says.
But the horse has other ideas, and all of a sudden, he leaps in the air and takes off at a gallop for the barn.
“Sit in the saddle, Klein! Sit back and take your reins!” André yells out.
Klein attempts to do so, but there’s no stopping the horse now. He has decided he’s going to the barn. I can only pray that Klein will be able to stay on.
The horse is going at a dead gallop, sending up clouds of dust behind him so that it is difficult to make out whether or not Klein is still in the saddle. At André’s direction, we trot along the path, trying to balance running after Klein’s horse and making it go faster with getting to him as quickly as possible.
I literally feel sick thinking of how I had talked Klein into riding today. I imagine a dozen different horror scenarios in which Klein is being dragged along behind the horse, one foot still in the stirrup, or that he’ll be bucked off into one of the nearby trees. We begin to catch up with them, though, and I can see that Klein is still in the saddle.
“Wrap your legs around the horse!” André yells again at the top of his voice, and I see Klein do precisely that. He’s sitting in the saddle like someone who has been riding their entire life. My nausea starts to be replaced with pride for Klein’s ability to handle something I am sure I would not have managed.
We’re still pretty far back when I see the horse stop at the barn entrance. Klein reaches out and rubs the horse’s neck. I am again filled with pride for his ability to not be angry at the horse.
We trot up behind them less than a minute later, and André says, “Thought you didn’t know how to ride, Klein?”
Klein has climbed out of the saddle by now. He looks at both of us, shaking his head with a smile.
“Well, it’s one of thos
e things where you learn on the job, I guess.”
We all laugh, even if mine is mostly in relief. But at some point in the not-too-distant future, it probably will be a funny story to tell.
The assistant from earlier appears to take the horse from Klein. Klein walks inside the barn, retrieves a couple of peppermints from the jar, and opens one to give his horse. He then walks over and hands one to me for mine.
“I’m so sorry,” I say.
“Hey, I’m not,” Klein says. “That’s the most exciting thing that’s happened to me in a long time, and I lived to tell about it. That’s not too bad, huh?”
“You’re pretty amazing, you know that?” I say. “You’d have every right to be hating me right now.”
“Not me,” he says, looking deep into my eyes. And for a moment, everything around us drops away, and it’s just the two of us standing there taking each other in.
“Good job, man,” André says, breaking the spell. “You two still up for some clubbing tonight?”
“More so than ever,” Klein says.
“One thing has to be true,” André says. “If you can ride like that, I know you can dance.”
Klein
“Reject your sense of injury and the injury itself disappears.”
―Marcus Aurelius
WE HAVE A late lunch in the château restaurant, both of us still full from breakfast, despite all the activity. Dillon feels guilty for what had happened, but the truth of it is, I haven’t enjoyed myself that much in a very long time.
“Where did you learn to ride, Dillon?” I ask her once our salads arrive.
“My grandpa had a farm when I was growing up. He mostly raised cows, but when he discovered how much I wanted a pony, he bought one for me, and whenever I visited them on weekends or during the summer, that’s pretty much all I would do. I never had any formal lessons or anything. I probably spent as much time falling off as I did actually riding, but she was the cutest little pony. I couldn’t have been prouder of her had he bought me a fancy European imported horse. We weren’t rich, my mama and I, but I have pretty wonderful memories of things I used to do on my grandparents’ farm. He had this pond that he built and put some fish in. I would ride my pony out there on hot summer days and let her go in for a swim. She loved it so much, and I felt like the richest person in the world getting to do that with her.”
That Weekend in Paris (Take Me There(Stand-alone) Book 3) Page 16