by The Weather Baker's Son [Dreamspinner, World of Love MM] (retail) (epub)
The Weather Baker’s Son
By Peter Grover
Nature’s call of desire among golden fields and intoxicating red-lipped poppies seems to proclaim a path to love and healing in southern France. Yet Peter, an American university student struggling with self-doubt following a failed love affair, is determined never to be hurt again. While on a vacation with his widowed mother, Peter is smitten by Gaston, a handsome local baker. Gaston, less bold than Peter, is drawn to Peter as well but fearful of the loss of family esteem—particularly the respect of his cousin Mario, who looks up to Gaston. Their friendship grows into more as Peter continues to visit the bakery, but their increasing intimacy does not go unnoticed. The road to fulfillment becomes increasingly obscured, and internal doubts and external events spiral out of control. The arrival of a handsome stranger, suspicions of murder, and the threat of harm might spell the end of more than just their relationship.
World of Love: Stories of romance that span every corner of the globe.
Table of Contents
Blurb
Dedication
Prologue
Text
Epilogue
About the Author
By Peter Grover
Visit Dreamspinner Press
Copyright
To John, thanks for thirty-four wonderful years together.
Prologue
PETER WAS drifting in and out of consciousness as he lay trying to comprehend where he was. Far below, a river was flowing swiftly, and he could see canoes full of people darting in the rapids. Here and there, rocks poked painfully into his sides except where tufts of moist grass and wildflowers covered them, providing some scant relief from the jagged rock edges. With difficulty he tried to gather his thoughts, to connect them together to form a rational understanding of his current situation.
Birds were whirling about. Gentle breezes attempted to dry the moist, matted hair on his forehead. He was sweating. He realized he was injured somehow and wondered how this had happened. Bit by bit he remembered walking down a path from the top of cliffs. He saw before him another figure, a young man, whose muscular shoulders strained against the fabric of a colorful shirt as he descended the path in front of Peter. Who was he? And where was he now? He remembered hearing a shout from high above, then the man jerking suddenly and losing his balance; his arms started to rise in the air while his head started to turn, revealing a handsome profile, dark eyebrows, and a face suddenly aghast as he fell out of Peter’s view. In an instant he was gone, and then Peter remembered his own feet giving beneath him. Now he closed his eyes again and sensed alarmed cries from above and from below. With his eyes half-open, he perceived the canoers in the water pulling to the side of the river and pointing upward, upward toward where he lay. He felt one of his legs dangling in the air, unsupported by the ground around him. He felt he could tumble at any moment into the abyss.
He awoke again to the sensation of long blades of grass beating against his face. He felt as if he were in a whirlpool of grass. It was soothing for him, slightly relieving the pain he felt coursing through his young body. As if in a dream, he heard a multitude of voices calling out from somewhere above. He strained to turn his aching neck toward the voices, but then he saw the underbelly of a helicopter and felt himself further immersed in the refreshing whoosh of air from its twirling blades. It disappeared out of his view, but in minutes a number of hands were touching him, holding his neck steady. Disoriented, unsure who these people were, he cried out in terror.
“He is in shock,” someone said. Peter felt his body being hoisted, and he passed out. In his dreamlike state, this lifting of his body by many arms was like a warm embrace, and his thoughts carried him back to a time a few weeks earlier, when he had left Vermont and first arrived in France….
The market
WHAT A deliciously warm and scented place was Provence! Southern France at its most wonderful—the smell of rosemary; crackling logs and fat pinecones in a fire; soft, ripe cheeses on warm loaves. Such a sensuous place for the soul!
Peter walked through the local market ahead of his mother Hélène, who was constantly falling back, haggling at the shopkeepers’ stalls for another new and colorful trinket. Peter’s strapping six-foot frame and wavy chestnut-colored hair caught the eye of the merchant women. They tried to capture his gaze with their sparkling eyes, but he was lost in his own thoughts, thinking that the fresh air, the sights and smells, were just what he needed to gladden his soul and repair the hurt he had endured back home. When his mother had suggested he stay with her at a house she would rent for a couple of months that summer near Avignon, he jumped at the chance. He needed to get away, to forget, and he thought that perhaps this would do the trick.
The pain he had endured in Quebec City still bit at his soul. The lost love, the return over the border from Canada and back home to nearby Vermont. He sorted through the memories constantly. They had not faded enough. His one worry was that he was again in a French environment, and he had a fatal attraction to all things French. Indeed, he himself was of part French-Canadian ancestry, not uncommon in northern New England. His American father had met his French-Canadian mother in Montreal in their student days. That was why he had been glad to undertake studies at university in Quebec City; it had been a sort of homecoming for him, only he had not been prepared for the love he would find there and lose there.
“Enough,” he said to himself, “time to move on.”
He was determined never to be hurt again. He gladly felt this sun, uncompromising in its intensity, imbuing him with warmth that he had not felt in a long time. A warm scent drew him toward a display of baked goods at one of the many stalls. The kind-faced lady there patiently watched as he read through the labels in front of the assorted goods. Suddenly Peter noticed, behind the counter, a young man facing away from him—a young man with broad shoulders and tight jeans that flowed from a narrow waist and rounded over his buttocks. His hair was a fine straight jet-black, and his arms were covered in silky black strands on his gently sun-kissed skin. This young man was busying himself sorting through the boxes behind the stall keeper. He turned, revealing a taut T-shirt tucked into beltless jeans that strained noticeably at the groin.
Their eyes met, and dark French eyes like melted chocolate gazed into Peter’s blue eyes. It was like a flame hitting water, and both men winced, instantly averting their eyes to other things. Such is the way among men—the training of a lifetime in the schoolyard, the gym, the need to conform, to remain seemingly indifferent, cool, unawares. It was a secret but conscious effort, both denying the fervent wish to look further at the other.
The stall keeper, however, saw none of this and cheerfully asked Peter, “May I help you? We have many freshly baked goods to offer, all out of the oven this very morning! Here, perhaps you would like to try a little sample?” She held out a little piece of almond pastry toward Peter, who hesitated slightly before trying it.
“It is delicious,” he said somewhat awkwardly. He did not wish to be detained, for fear the young man might have been angered by his recent glance. “I am sure my mother would like a couple for our afternoon tea. I will take two, please!”
As the lady wrapped the purchase and exchanged it for Peter’s payment, she glanced upward at him and sensed a discomfort, an odd sensation for a client. Usually the prospect of baked goods put customers in a jolly mood, but there was something different here. She noted a pained look in his eyes as he waited. It was a look that seemed to penetrate through her and into the back of the stall. She threw a quick glance behind her, but all she saw were her boxes of goods, which her son, Gaston,
was currently rearranging intently, his back to her and her customer.
Peter took his purchase and moved hurriedly on among the stalls, chased by smells of sweet lavender, of olives and figs and flowers all seemingly beckoning him—Stay longer! Smell deeply of us and of him!
Back at the stall, Gaston felt a shiver rise through his body after Peter’s departure. A shiver unlike any other he had felt before. Not cold or cool, but oddly warm, raising goose bumps along his arms, darting hither and yon in his body. He stood pondering this sensation, one he had sensed might one day come—a sensation of hope, of something more substantial than anything he had experienced before—yet the sensation was fleeting, and he soon became despondent as the stranger plunged into the mass of shoppers and vanished.
“Gaston!” called the stall keeper. “Gaston, there are customers waiting!” she insisted, prompting the young man to shake off his reverie and attend to presently pressing matters. As she called him, however, she noted a pained look in his eyes as well, a look that was unfamiliar to her but was like the one the recent customer had, a look of detached loneliness.
The Citadel of the New World
PETER SAT quietly in the passenger seat as his mother drove them back to their rental home. Bags of fresh herbs, crusty bread, cheeses, and fresh vegetables filled the backseat, along with some colorful fabrics that had captivated Hélène.
Just outside a little town, an ancient stone sheepfold or bergerie had been transformed into an inviting, honey-colored holiday rental house, which saw a steady stream of new renters make their way into town.
For a while they did not talk. Hélène did not know about Peter’s encounter. What she did know was that her son had become increasingly withdrawn during his first year at university in Quebec City. She wondered whether it was growing pains for a son whose father had gone missing during a tsunami years ago on a business trip to Thailand. He was presumed dead, with no concrete resolution as to what might have become of him. That kind of trauma had to affect a son, had to leave him with internalized thoughts and unresolved questions. Generous company life insurance payouts kept the family going, allowing for investments in Peter’s education. Hélène had struggled to bring joy again to his life and thought this trip to France might be a solution. It was just the beginning of the trip, but Peter seemed more introverted still. For so long now, she had been living for him alone, denying herself the company of a new companion in life, feeling it would be a betrayal of her deceased husband and her son.
Eventually she said, “That was an interesting little baked-goods stall I saw you at in the market. I will have to shop there myself someday. I think they are the same people who have a bakery in town. Were you chatting with the lady there?”
Peter stiffened in the passenger seat. He wondered whether his mother understood his real interest there, but he soon relaxed, thinking he was being paranoid. “She seemed to be a very nice lady. We only briefly chatted about the goods.”
Hélène felt reluctance on Peter’s part to say more. She wondered about how happy he was and how to cheer him up. While shopping nearby at the market, she had seen him from a distance at the bakery stall and had seen him flinch at one point, but she did not understand what would cause him to be so nervous there. It had seemed a pleasant place with the charming brunette lady and that rather handsome young man who was arranging boxes. Hélène from a distance had heard the stall keeper call out, “Gaston,” to the young man and wondered whether he was the owner’s son or a hired worker. That young man made her think of her own Peter, both in the blush of youth with every reason to look forward to a long and happy life. They were both so healthy-looking and strong. Perhaps Peter could make friends while in the area, get out with other people, instead of this introversion she did not understand.
Hélène did not know fully of the events in Peter’s life in Quebec City. She had heard him eagerly talk of friends there when he had first started his studies, but he had since become withdrawn, and she had heard no more about them.
While Hélène was pondering Peter’s silence, Peter’s thoughts brought him back to Quebec City. He was standing on the top of the great citadel, gazing across over the walled city toward Cape Diamond, where the cliffs plunged down to the mighty St. Lawrence River. The river opened out farther east to envelop the Island of Orleans on each side, with its quaint towns and ancient stone houses, then joined back together in its widening path as it made its way for hundreds of miles out to the Atlantic. Peter always found this view to be majestic. It made him seem small yet at the same time part of the great prospect, for nature’s majesty needed a human heart to admire it. He turned on the citadel walls toward the west to admire the vast parkland known as the Plains of Abraham that followed the southern clifftops for a long distance, hemmed in at the north by stately townhomes of fanciful construction. Peter was indeed at the very heart of New France.
It was there that Peter first saw François. Can one ever really know when a moment will come that will mark a point in one’s life, a dividing point after which all else is different? Some people may have many such fortunate or unfortunate events, depending on one’s viewpoint. For some it may never come. But Peter knew at that very moment that something was going to be different. How can it have been so obvious? There may be many handsome strangers who pass through our lives, but this one was approaching with others who Peter knew, and something in this approaching stranger’s eyes spoke of revelations, of things yet to be, of encounters, of shy glances, and of hopeful possibilities.
Mundane existences are comprised of endless nights of watching television, listening to love songs with droning refrains, safe little lives devoid of poetry, lacking in the intricate embellishments of some baroque church or painted ceiling. For Peter’s encounter, let’s not talk in terms of such daily immediacy, of safe encounters, lost chances, and returns to routine.
A chemistry was flowing, arcing somehow between two still-distant bodies. Such things are possible; hopefully you have been the recipient of such an event. If not, walk out that door, out into the fresh air, seek a spot where people pass, and hope, hope that you too will meet such a person.
Peter did not hope for platonic love or mere erotic love. Rather he longed for that intimacy combined with erotic satisfaction that forms a deep, complete bond between two beings. The stranger’s boldly dark eyebrows, lithe figure, narrow hips, and broad shoulders betrayed a masculinity that imbued his every step. Peter could not avert his eyes, wanted to drink in every motion of this stranger’s body as he approached, wanted to clasp him into his arms.
But these were internal thoughts. The game would now come where the strangers would meet and talk around each other, steal glances.
A new classmate of Peter’s, part of the approaching group, introduced Peter to the handsome stranger.
“Peter, this is François.” And so simply it began. For Peter he hoped it would be the beginning of the end of years of self-imposed restraint, of an almost ascetic existence, one of fear, denial, and caution allowing for only furtive and transitory encounters. François on the other hand did not limit himself in any such ways, and unfortunately Peter was still too inexperienced to know that.
Many of the students sought the atmosphere of the old walled city when attending the university—a sort of bohemian rite of passage. Living in high walk-up garrets in old stone houses, under ancient beams, with a mattress on the floor, rudimentary cooking utensils, and a hot plate—there was a struggle to be comfortable but a refreshing liberty that such simplicity brought in spite of the long bus ride to the suburban main campus. It was at one such place that the group, including Peter, ended up that evening. As the group of students were passing around glasses of cheap wine and discussing their various courses and adventures, Peter contrived to end up near François. Close physical contact was easy to obtain in such a situation with a pile of young men and women, sitting, standing, and lying in close proximity, the room abuzz with their conversations. So it was that Pe
ter in apparent innocence pressed against François’s side on occasion in the comings and goings. An innocent happenstance? Not at all but appearing so. François did not flinch upon such occurrences or modestly move aside as most young men would do. Both men knew that a game had begun. A game that was not overtly acknowledged but silently acquiesced to.
At one point Peter was sitting half-upright on the mattress on the floor, flipping through a magazine, when François plopped himself down beside him. François leaned over closely toward Peter, his warm breath on Peter’s face not being an unwelcome intrusion. He said, “I am told your mother is from Montreal, no?”
“Indeed she was,” said Peter, “but we live in Vermont. She married my father, who was from a small town there.”
“Ah, so from the big city to the little town. Quite an adjustment I imagine,” said François. “You grew up in the little town, then?”
“Yes, I did, but I am used to bigger cities as well, visiting my relatives there,” said Peter.
“Okay, so you are not so innocent, then?” said François with a little smile, and he leaned back further against the wall where he was sitting, giving his legs a long stretch, his muscular thighs evident through the fabric of his jeans, his right leg firmly pushing against Peter’s leg as he stretched. The gesture seemed so innocent as he did it, but Peter’s breath caught as he felt the warmth of François’s leg against his. Peter anticipated more from François and felt a stiffness grow in his groin as he thought of what might come, but instead François simply pushed himself up all of a sudden and went off to talk with others in the room. Peter, alone now on the mattress, was left with confused thoughts, wondering whether he had confused François’s actions with mere imaginary hopes of his own.