From Daredevil to Devoted Daddy

by Barbara McMahon

  “A short walk,” Jeanne-Marie said when she returned onto the veranda.

  When Matt stood, Alexandre slipped his small hand in his larger one. He was startled by the feeling of protectiveness that surged toward this small boy. He missed his son. He’d had him until his fifth year. Not nearly long enough. Etienne should have grown up, married, lived a full life.

  Instead he was gone.

  But for a few moments, Matt would suspend the past and just be with a small boy. And remember the happier days with his own son.

  The walk along the beach would have been in silence except for the constant babble from Alexandre. He seemed capable of chattering away forever without comment from either adult. Not that Matt had anything to say. The sea on one side, the last of the establishments on the other and the cliffs ahead. It didn’t call for much comment.

  Jeanne-Marie looked at him, her expression bemused. “You’re doing well with this. I guess it comes from being around your own son. He can talk your ear off.”

  “He’s young, still learning so much. Life is easier at that age.” Oddly he was enjoying the walk. It was amazing what a five-year-old had to talk about. The poignant loss of his son was overshadowed by the delight this child had in his surroundings.

  “Did you grow up here?” he asked when Alexandre pulled away to run ahead to a piece of driftwood.

  She shook her head. It was harder to see her as the light waned. Soon they’d have to be guided by the lights spilling out from the scattered buildings along the beach.

  “I was born and raised in California. My parents are both professors at the university in Berkeley. We lived not too far from the campus. I met Phillipe when I came to France as an exchange student in my junior year. I stayed and graduated from La Sorbonne. When we married, we lived in Marseilles. That’s where he was from. His parents still live there.”

  “So you chose this inn rather than return to America?”

  “Phillipe’s grandfather left it to him. We had a manager running it when he was alive. But we spent a lot of time here when he wasn’t working. After his death, I thought this would keep me closer somehow. Plus it gives me the opportunity to make a living and still be able to spend most of the day with my son. And keep him near enough to see his grandparents. Alexandre’s all they have left of their only child.”

  “It’s a charming village. But quiet.”

  “True. It suits us at this stage in our lives.”

  He wished he could see her expression. “What do you do in the evenings?”

  “Read. Work on the accounts if I don’t get a chance during the day. I have a computer and keep in touch with my family and friends. And I have Alexandre.”

  “He can’t be much of a conversationalist, though you wouldn’t know it by his chatter tonight. It’s captivating, actually.”

  She smiled, barely visible in the dim light. “He can be funny and wise at the same time—and all without knowing it. I’m content with my life. Why would I change it?”

  “To find another husband. It can’t be easy to be a single parent.”

  “I had one. I don’t expect a second.”

  “Men aren’t rationed, one per woman.”

  She shrugged. “How many wives have you had?” she asked.

  He paused a second before replying, “One.”

  “Ah, the contented married man,” she said.

  “A drunk driver killed her and our son. Two years ago now.”

  “I’m sorry. How horrible.” Jeanne-Marie was stunned. She couldn’t imagine losing both Phillipe and Alexandre. Sympathetically she reached out to touch his arm. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  They walked in silence for a moment, then hoping she wasn’t making things worse, she asked, “Where do you live?”

  “Family enterprise in the Vallée de la Loire.”

  “Castles and vineyards,” she murmured. “Do you have a castle?” she asked whimsically.

  He paused a moment. She wished the light was better so she could see his expression.

  “My family has one,” he finally said.

  “You’re kidding! How astonishing. Are those old castles as hard to heat as they look?”

  Matt was surprised by her question. Most of the time if the castle came into discussion—which he tried to avoid—the first question was how large was it and when could the person see it. “The rooms we don’t use are closed off, and those in use comprise the size of a normal house, so it’s not as hard to heat as you might suspect.”

  “Sorry, it’s none of my business, but every time I’ve seen one, I’ve wondered how in the world it’s heated. We don’t have such a problem in winter here with the warmer climate.”

  “Are you a king?” Alexandre asked.

  “No. The castle has been in the family for many generations. But I work for a living like anyone else,” Matt said.

  “At the family enterprise?” she asked.

  “Vineyards and a winery.” There. Now see what the woman did with that knowledge. “Mon Dieu, vin de Sommer—I’ve heard about your wines. They’re excellent.” She stopped abruptly and looked at him. He stopped and looked at her. The stars did not shed much illumination, so he couldn’t see her expression well.

  “Are you telling me the truth?” she asked, trying to see him clearly.

  “I don’t lie,” he said calmly. What, did she think he was trying to puff himself up? To what end? He was here for escape, nothing more. He certainly was not out to impress her or anyone else.

  “Then why are you at my inn instead of a five-star place in another town?”

  “I want what you’re offering—peace, quiet and an excellent vantage point to scale Les Calanques.” Not the nightlife Paul loved. That he and Marabelle had once loved.

  The fact his innkeeper piqued his curiosity was a turn he had not expected. It had been twenty-four months, two weeks and four days since he’d found his interest captivated by anything.

  Now that she knew who he was, how long before she changed her attitude toward him? He wished he’d kept his mouth shut! No one needed to know his own tragedy. Sympathy was wasted; it didn’t change anything.

  “Alexandre, time for bed.” Jeanne-Marie calmly took her son’s hand when he ran over and began walking toward the inn, cutting obliquely across the sand to reach it sooner than walking along the water’s edge.

  She didn’t say another word to him as he kept pace with them. Once in the inn, she went directly back to their private quarters with only a brief word of good-night.

  Matt stood in the lounge watching the closed door for several seconds after she firmly shut it. Of all the reactions he’d anticipated, that had not even been on the list.

  “Do you need something, monsieur?” the teen behind the desk asked.

  “Insight into women,” he said.

  “Pardon?”

  “Never mind.” Matt took the stairs two at a time, wondering what exactly had caused him to choose this inn. And why the innkeeper would spark an interest in an otherwise gray world.

  CHAPTER THREE

  JEANNE-MARIE rose early the next morning to prepare breakfast for her guests—starting with Matthieu Sommer, millionaire extraordinaire and daredevil climber. She knew enough about the wine business, and the Sommer name, to know the normal circles he traveled in were far removed from her family inn. If there was anything further to prove that she needed to keep her distance from this guest, learning that about him provided it.

  She’d felt vaguely sad all evening, due to learning about his own wife and son’s deaths. How horrible to lose a wife, but even more devastating to lose his son. She didn’t know how she’d go on if something happened to Alexandre. Poor man. Truly all the money in the world couldn’t bring back a loved one.

  The fresh warm croissants waited in a basket, and she pulled the pain de raisin from the oven, taking in the delicious cinnamony fragrance as she turned it out onto a cooling rack. Cooking soothed her and brought her joy. She was glad her guests liked
her offerings.

  “It smells as good as the bakery in here,” Matt said from the doorway.

  She looked up and frowned. “If you sit at one of the tables in the dining area, I’ll bring your breakfast out in a moment.” She’d set the tables the night before to save one step in the morning. The two tables by the windows overlooked the garden. As he was first down, he’d have his choice of places in the dining area.

  “This is fine.” He crossed the floor and sat at their small family table by the windows in the nook. She frowned at his presumption. This was family space. Still, it was early—maybe he didn’t want to sit alone in the dining room if she was working here. She could more easily make sure he had everything he needed.

  Setting a basket of assorted warm breads and croissants on the table, she asked if he preferred coffee or hot chocolate, annoyed at her rationalization.

  “Chocolate. Extra sugar and energy,” he said.

  Jeanne-Marie brought an assortment of jams and jellies and placed them on the table. “I’ll have your drink ready in a moment.”

  She returned to preparing more bread for her other guests, keeping an eye on the baguettes baking. Timing was not as easy with one guest eating well in advance of the others, but some of the breads would be just as good cold as hot, and she always had plenty left over to use for the box lunches.

  She did her best to ignore her unwanted visitor. Normally she had the kitchen to herself. Alexandre didn’t waken until eight most mornings. She loved the quiet time preparing the breakfasts and enjoying her own cup of chocolate. Today she felt self-conscious with Matt’s dark eyes tracking her every move.

  “The more I learn about you, the more I’m convinced you’re not making the most of your talent,” he said.

  She flicked him a glance. “Like what?” she asked.

  “Your meals are fantastic. You could make a fortune opening a restaurant.”

  “I told you, I like my life the way it is. It’s not all about making money.”

  “Money is always helpful.”

  Stopping for a moment, she looked at him. “Money can buy things. If things are what you want. It can’t buy back a lost life.”

  That was true. He’d give all his fortune for things to have turned out differently two years ago. Had he been driving, would his reflexes have been better than Marabelle’s? Could the accident have been avoided?

  She couldn’t help flicking a glance his way from time to time. His eyes met hers each time. Didn’t he have someplace else to look? The view wasn’t as good as from the dining room window, but he could see the garden if he sat in another chair.

  “So today you again risk life and limb,” she commented, wanting the topic to shift from her.

  “Hardly. Merely a climb.” His eyes studied her speculatively.

  Jeanne-Marie felt her heart skip a beat. Frowning, she turned slightly so looking up wouldn’t mean she’d instantly meet his gaze.

  “If you climbed to the top yesterday, you saw the view. What drives you today?”

  “Today I take on a different climb.”

  She shrugged. “Same view from the top.”

  “Have you ever seen it?”

  She nodded. “Sure, many times. There’s an access road that winds along the top of Les Calanques. The scenery is spectacular. And that’s a much safer way to see it.”

  “But not as challenging.”

  “Perhaps men and women are wired differently. I have no desire to spend hours clinging to a sheer face of rock.”

  “What do you like spending hours doing?” he asked.

  She looked up, smiling shyly. “I love to bake. And so I indulge myself with homemade breads and rolls and sometimes a special dessert I can serve for special occasions like La Victoire de 1945 coming up.”

  The buzzer sounded. The last of the breads was finished. She lined the bread baskets with fresh linen napkins and began dishing jellies and jams into individual serving bowls to place on each table. In twenty minutes, she’d begin brewing the coffee and make sure she had lots of chocolate ready for those who wished that.

  Daring to find out more about her guest, she took her own mug of hot chocolate and leaned against the kitchen island looking at him as she sipped the fragrant beverage. “Do you have family who wonders why you climb?” she asked.

  “Of course I have family. And a cousin who often goes with me. Not everyone dies who climbs.”

  “I know that. Phillipe’s father actually taught him. It was an activity they enjoyed together. But he wasn’t on the K2 climb that proved fatal.”

  “Lots of people climb for the sheer exhilaration, not just men. And most never have a more serious mishap than scraped knuckles or at worst a broken bone,” he said. He rose and carried his mug across the kitchen, ending up close enough to invade her space. For a moment she felt her breath catch and hold. She wanted to move away, but she was hemmed in and didn’t want to show how nervous he made her. She was almost thirty years old, far too old to feel this way.

  “I’d like the box lunch special,” he said, leaning almost close enough to kiss her.

  Kiss her? Where had that thought come from?

  For an instant the words didn’t register. Jeanne-Marie was mesmerized. She could smell his scent, fresh and clean like the forest after a rain. She saw the tiny lines radiating from the edge of his eyes, the smooth cheeks recently shaved. She could feel the leashed energy that was appealing and fascinating in the same instant. And still see that hurt in his eyes. Now she knew what caused it; she’d seen a similar pain in her own.

  Suddenly aware of the seconds that had ticked by she slid a step to the side, breaking eye contact. “Of course,” she said, turning to take one of the fresh baguettes from the rack. Her hands trembled slightly and her breathing still felt off. Every inch of her skin quivered with awareness. He still stood too close. He unnerved her. Made her aware of her own femininity as she hadn’t felt it in years.

  Quickly making a sandwich, she wrapped it. Then she assembled the cookies, apple and packaged juice, stashing them in one of her lunch boxes, with a picture of her inn and the sea wrapping around the edges. She turned and thrust it at him.

  “Don’t litter,” she warned. “The conservationists will know exactly where it came from if you do.”

  “Is that the reason for the picture?” he asked, studying the box a moment, then looking at her again.

  “Some people like to take the boxes home and use them for keepsakes—a reminder of their stay here. I had one couple buy a dozen empty boxes to take home to use when giving gifts to family.”

  “Good idea. I’ll see you later.” He turned and left without another word.

  Jeanne-Marie felt a sudden relief. She was alone again. Quickly clearing his place and rinsing the dishes, she tried to get her mind in gear for the coming day, and erase all traces of her recent guest. But she lingered on the memory of his strong presence. She would make sure if he came tomorrow morning for breakfast to serve him in the dining room!

  Matt returned to the inn earlier than the previous day. He’d climbed another ghost of a trail up a west-facing cliff with three others attempting it whom he’d met at the bottom. It was easier than yesterday’s climb had been and he’d not lingered as long at the top as the previous day. The lunch Jeanne-Marie Rousseau had made caused him to think about her bustling around her kitchen that morning. He had a cook at the château, but he rarely spent any time there now that he was grown. As a child, he’d loved to invade the kitchen anytime she was making cookies.

  Parking his car in the graveled lot, he grabbed his gear—including the trash from lunch which he had packed out—and headed for his room. There were three women sitting in the shade of the veranda. In the middle, Jeanne-Marie. Laughter filled the air when the ladies raised their glasses in some kind of toast. Taking a sip, Jeanne-Marie spotted him.

  She spoke softly and the other two women turned to watch him walk toward the wide-open French doors. Then he spotted four children p
laying in the doorway, Alexandre with his cars, another little boy wearing glasses and two girls—obviously twins. A domestic scene he’d once had at his own home.

  “I see you made it through another day climbing,” Jeanne-Marie said. He nodded and headed inside. Halfway up the stairs he heard Alexandre following him. Turning, he looked as the little boy raced up the stairs to join him.

  “Can I go with you?” he asked, tilting his back so far Matt was afraid the boy might lose his balance and tumble down the stairs.

  “I’m going to shower and change.”

  “When you go climbing. Can I go with you? I want to learn.”

  “That’s something your mother has to decide.”

  “I’m big.”

  Matt nodded gravely. “I can see that.”

  “She can’t take me. She doesn’t know how. But you could.”

  Matt started to turn away, but the pleading look in those warm brown eyes held him. So different from Etienne’s bright blue eyes, yet the same trust and faith in adults. He didn’t know this child or the mother. But he could recognize yearning. “We’ll ask your mother later.” He expected Jeanne-Marie would refuse, so that let him off the hook.

  “Okay. Do you want to go swimming with me now?” Alexandre asked. “You can change and then you can come play with me in the sand. Mama won’t let me go out on the beach by myself. I need a grown-up. I want to play by the water.”

  “Your mother knows best,” Matt said. The little boy looked so earnest. He resumed walking up the stairs.

  “She would let me go with a grown-up. Can you be the grown-up? Please?”

  Matt hesitated. Children required so little to make their worlds happy. What would Etienne have done had the situation been reversed and Matt had lost his life, leaving his son behind? Who would have spared some time for his son?

  “I’ll be good and not go into the water unless you tell me I can,” Alexandre said, running up three more steps.