by Liz Talley
Approaching her during her private time would be opening a can of worms, and would, of course, require an apology for his previous rudeness to her. Probably best to leave well enough alone.
But she’d been tempting.
Garrett raised his chin as a warning that he was tired of talking about this. “My wine and I did just fine all by ourselves. So, what do you have for me this morning?” He glided into another subject before Henri could make him feel worse. “Have the numbers stabilized enough for me to order my Ferrari?”
Henri handed him the morning’s report. “No Ferraris yet, but someday soon, peut-être.”
While Garrett was certainly interested in the entire report, he couldn’t keep his eyes from searching out the bottom of the right-hand column first. When he did, his heart skipped a beat, and he felt like skipping along with it. An 8 percent jump in sales in twenty-four hours.
Convincing the higher powers that the marginal analysis leaned toward a successful flighting strategy had been a bitch, but worth every penny they’d spent.
Of course, it was too soon to tell how deeply Soulard had penetrated the beer market, but the GPRs were promising. “Do you have the disaggregations yet?”
Henri’s sigh implied that answering that question was beneath him. “They are printing now. Go drink your coffee—which is now too cold to be palatable, but your American tongue will probably not notice—and I will bring them to you.”
Garrett went back to his office to wait for his friend, but he was too anxious to sit. He paced back and forth, allowing the numbers on the paper to absorb into his brain. Such detail so quickly was beyond his comprehension. He’d worked with plenty of IT specialists, but Henri Poulin was by far the best of the best. The man was a virtual magician with a computer, and he had a sixth sense for anticipating what information would be needed. More often than not, he and his staff had reports generated before they were even called for.
The man would be an asset to any company. Soulard Beer had simply managed to land him first.
As promised, Henri appeared within a few minutes, report in one hand, fresh coffee in the other. “Voilà. The market profile is much as you anticipated...with a pleasant surprise in the over-fifty range, oui?”
Garrett shook his head in astonishment at the number his right thumb hovered beside. A fluke mention of Soulard—thanks to a friend of a friend of one of the owners—during a television show watched mainly by an older crowd had sent sales soaring, though whether it was truly a penetrated market or a one-time thing only time would tell. But Garrett was hopeful.
“We’re out there, Henri. We’re really out there.”
His friend nodded in agreement. “So tonight, instead of the wine, which you did not share, you share the champagne with your American neighbor, oui?”
The mention of Tara brought another surge of guilt and frustration, heightened by Garrett’s already overstimulated emotional state this morning. “Damn it, would you let that subject go?”
Tsk. Tsk. Henri clicked his tongue. “I hear you whine often that you miss your home. And yet, when the opportunity arises for you to enjoy the company of a young woman who is not only from your home but is also your nearest neighbor, you do not extend friendship to her.”
The arch of his eyebrow made Garrett doubt that friendship was Henri’s first choice of what he should extend in Tara’s direction. But his friend’s words hit their intended mark. “Just one more reason I don’t need to be around her,” he grumbled. “She’ll only make me more homesick.”
Henri found his reflection in the window glass and adjusted his tie. “The Americans always refer to the French as ‘stuffy,’ and yet you snub someone for no good reason and act like it is nothing.” He shifted his gaze to bore directly into Garrett’s. “You are the stuffy one.”
Garrett held his tongue and grabbed his coffee cup instead. He took a giant swig, and a thought hit his chest simultaneously with the brew.
He and the coffee had a lot in common.
Both were cold and bitter.
* * *
TARA POISED HER PEN ABOVE the name. Instead of the dark red line that crossed off six Jacques Martins from her list, beside number seven she drew a red star.
He hadn’t been her birth father, but he was one she wanted to remember, nonetheless.
Four days, seven prospects and no results that had moved her any closer to her goal. She knew it wasn’t going to be easy, but she didn’t know it was going to be this hard. Ringing doorbells, walking into shops, trying to converse with strangers in a language she had no grasp of. She was exhausted, and if her search took her all the way to the final name and she would have to go through this thirty-six more times, she wasn’t sure her heart could take the battering.
The crowds at Paris’s popular sites sometimes made her feel as though the air was being pressed from her lungs, so today she’d opted to get out of the city. Number seven lived in Giverny. She’d always wanted to see Monet’s house and garden, so, although she’d much rather have been on a motorcycle with the wind whipping her hair, she’d caught the train to Vernon instead. A three-mile walk from there to the village of Giverny had brought her to the small, quaint cottage of number seven, and her breath had stuttered with hope at the sight.
A neighbor out in the yard next door had called to her—an old woman with kind eyes who spoke no English. But she knew the name Jacques Martin, and her eyes had filled with tears. She took Tara’s half hand, caressing it gently while cooing words with sympathetic, grandmotherly sounds, and led her to the small cemetery at the end of the lane.
She pointed out a new grave—not fresh, but newer than those surrounding it—and left Tara with a parting pat on her back.
According to his tombstone, the birthdate of Giverny’s Jacques Martin was May 27, 1942, which made him too old to be the man her mother had slept with. But Tara’s heart squeezed just the same for the loss of this man she never knew. A plethora of bouquets said he was much loved, and fresher ones—even recent ones—said he was still missed.
She’d felt compelled to leave some of her own, so after touring Monet’s gardens and house, she’d sought out a flower shop, and bought two small bouquets of daisies. One she’d left on the grave of Jacques Martin number seven, and one she’d left with his kind old neighbor who’d cried a tearful thanks.
Now, sitting on her terrace, chronicling the day’s events in her journal, she felt mired up in melancholy. She needed some fun.
Dylan was throwing a ball against the wall beside their door. True to his word, he’d waved when he came out, but he hadn’t come over, hadn’t bothered her in the least.
“Hey, Dylan.” She closed her journal and put away her pens. “Want a glass of Orangina?”
The boy’s grin lifted her spirits faster than the shopping spree she’d been considering—and was definitely cheaper.
“Sure!” He sprinted over to her, dropping his ball and glove into a chair. “It’s hot today.” He wiped his sweaty face on his sleeve.
“Yeah,” she agreed. “Almost too hot to play ball.”
The boy answered with a vigorous shake of his head. “It’s never too hot to play ball.”
“Well, you sit here and catch your breath, and I’ll go fix us a cool drink.”
She left him at the table, but when she returned a couple of minutes later with the drinks, he was standing in the middle of the terrace with his babysitter, who was on the phone, crying and obviously frantic.
Tara’s first thought was of Garrett. Had something happened to him? She rushed to Dylan’s side. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
Dylan’s look was one of concern but he wasn’t distraught, and Tara’s heart slowed a tad as he took one of the lidded cups from her. “Thanks.” He took a deep draw on the straw.
Keeping an ear to the conversation, he tr
anslated the blur of words for Tara. “Something’s wrong with Monique’s father. They’ve taken him to the hospital. That’s her mom on the phone. She wants her to come to the hospital right now, but Monique doesn’t want to take me.”
“Tell her to go. You can stay with me until your dad gets home.”
Dylan grabbed Monique’s arm to get her attention and pointed to Tara. His words were too fast for Tara to pick up anything, but Monique’s look of surprise and relief told her the message had been received. The babysitter nodded and spoke into the phone again briefly before hanging up and turning her attention to Tara. “Monsieur Hughes—”
“Garrett won’t mind, I’m sure,” Tara said. “Dylan will be fine with me, won’t you, Dylan?”
Dylan spoke in French to Monique first. “I told her we’re good friends,” he said to Tara.
Tara wasn’t sure if Monique understood English, so she shifted her gaze from the young woman to Dylan as she spoke. “I’ll tell Garrett what happened. You just go on and be with your father.”
“Thank you. Thank you very much.” Monique’s English was perfect. “I will call Monsieur Hughes later when I know more of my father’s condition. My mother does not handle the crisis very well.”
She ran to the door, stopping for a last look. “Oh, and Monsieur Hughes has an important meeting and will not be home until around nine-thirty. The dinner for Dylan is in the refrigerator. His bedtime is nine o’clock.” She gave a quick wave before disappearing.
Tara checked her watch. It was only six-twenty, so she and her new charge had a few hours to fill. “Want to play some catch after all?”
“Can we go to the park instead? Monique and I go there a lot. It’s close. Just down the street.”
Tara wasn’t sure which park he was referring to. There were several nearby. “Are you sure that would be okay with your dad?”
His eyes grew big, opening a window to his soul as he nodded. The look was too cute to be anything but honest. “It’s okay as long as I have an adult with me.”
Tara caved quickly. “Well, okay, then. But you’ll have to lead the way because I still don’t know my way around the neighborhood very well.”
“I know how to get there. We go there all the time. It’s easy.” The child slipped his hand into hers, catching her two fingers in his grip. His brow buckled with concern. “Does that hurt?”
“Nope. Just don’t squeeze hard,” she warned him.
His grasp was firm, but easy, as he led the way through their apartment. “Your hand feels weird. It’s little. My dad’s hands are great big.”
Tara remembered Garrett’s big hands. More than once during her nap after their first encounter, she’d fantasized about how big and warm those hands might feel on her naked back. But that was before he’d been a jerk. Since then, she’d banished such thoughts...or, at least, most of them.
Dylan guided her easily through the labyrinth of corridors to the ancient wooden door at the back of their building.
Le Parc Royal was just at the end of the block. As soon as they arrived, some children called Dylan by name, and he dropped Tara’s hand to go join them in their game of what appeared to be freeze tag.
Tara found a spot on a bench close by and watched, fascinated. Dylan seemed to be popular and well accepted by the group. He had an obvious kind streak—staying close to the younger or slower children so they didn’t have to stay frozen out of the game long.
His poor mother...missing out on all this. What a privilege it was to be able to sit here and watch him. An emotion stirred deep in Tara’s chest that hit several vulnerable areas at once. Being a mother someday was her highest hope. Kids were one of the greatest treasures of life. But to have that treasure and then lose it? Her hand trembled as she pushed a curl out of her eye. Did Jacques Martin feel the same way? Would he be sorry he’d missed out on her childhood?
She shook away the melancholy that threatened for the second time that day and glanced at her hand, her constant reminder of the blessing of life.
“Boo!”
She jumped and let out a little squeal, which brought a hoot from Dylan, who’d sneaked up beside her.
“Are you hungry?”
She took his hint. “I am hungry. Shall we go eat supper?”
He cocked his head. “Is that another word for dinner?”
“Sort of. Supper’s a light meal at night, like lunch is a light meal during the day,” she explained. “Dinner’s a big meal either time.”
He thought about that for a moment. “I think I want dinner.”
“Dinner it is.”
He took the hand she extended without question, and they strolled home at a leisurely pace. Dylan must have decided it was time for her to learn the French language properly because, for the rest of the evening—through eating the shish kebabs Garrett had left to be grilled until she tucked him into bed—he pointed to things and drilled her on the correct word, insisting on proper pronunciation. By the time he fell asleep, she figured her French vocabulary had doubled.
Barely a week past the summer solstice, a hint of sun still lit the evening sky even though the clock read 9:33 p.m. Tara had just stepped out onto the terrace to enjoy the last remnants of sunset when she heard the snick of Garrett’s key in the lock. She hurried back in to greet him.
He had a broad smile when he stepped through the door, which vanished the instant he saw her. “Tara? What are you doing here?”
The panic in his voice spurred her to the important matter first. “Dylan’s fine. He’s already asleep. Have you spoken with Monique?”
“No. I just got out of a long meeting.” Panic had been replaced by disapproval. He dropped his keys and briefcase on the desk. “What’s going on?”
Tara’s hackles rose at his tone. She clipped out her response as if she were answering a police interrogation. “She got a call from her mom that her dad had been rushed to the hospital, and she needed to get there right away. She was upset and crying, so I told her to go on, and I stayed with Dylan.”
“He’s okay?” He stepped lightly over to his son’s door and peeped in.
“He’s fine.” Her voice dropped to a normal level as her neck muscles loosened. “We went to the park, and he played really hard. Then we came back and grilled the shish kebabs you had fixed, and I threw a salad together. It was a lovely meal, which we topped off by sharing one of your bold cabernets. Dylan chose it,” she taunted, keeping a straight face.
Garrett’s eyes widened just like she’d seen Dylan’s do so many times. “You let Dylan—” He stopped when her grin broke, and he gave her the first real smile she’d ever received from him. Her toes curled in reaction. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Yeah. I had my own cabernet, and he had Orangina.”
“You could’ve opened one of mine. I wouldn’t have—” He was interrupted by his cell phone. “Allô? C’est Garrett.” He paused. “Oui, Monique...”
Tara watched the easy manner they’d briefly reached a few moments before dissolve as Garrett spoke to the babysitter. His voice held sympathy, but Tara could also see a milder form of the panic settle into the crease between his brows. It may have been her imagination, but the scar that cut into his lip seemed to have deepened by the time the call ended.
“How’s Monique’s father?” she asked.
Garrett rubbed his brow. “Not well. It’s his heart. They’re talking about open-heart surgery, but they’re trying to decide if he’s strong enough to take it.”
“Oh, the poor girl. She said her mom didn’t handle crisis well, so she’s got her hands full.” Thinking about her dad, Sawyer, in the same situation caused her chest to tighten. “I assume Monique’s going to need some time off? I sure would.”
Garrett nodded absently. “At least a week, probably.”
“What will you d
o with Dylan?”
“There’s an after-school program until six. He hates staying for it, but we have to use it occasionally.”
“But you haven’t been getting home until later than that,” she reminded him, immediately regretting doing so when he squeezed the bridge of his nose in frustration.
“Yes, well, normally, I could be off by then, but we’ve got this media blitz for another three days, so we’re having to keep late hours.”
“I’ll keep him for you.” The words came out before her brain fully processed the ramifications of what she was suggesting.
Garrett’s head jerked toward her, and she got the feeling he’d forgotten she was there. “No. I couldn’t ask you to do that.”
“You didn’t ask. I volunteered.”
His hands went to his hips, and she saw his fingers tighten their hold. “I really appreciate what you did tonight, stepping in and taking care of him. I’m grateful. Really. But I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be around Dylan too much.”
That comment pushed her too far. Just what in the hell was he implying? “Look, Garrett, I don’t know what your problem is with me.” She realized her voice had risen. She lowered it to a whisper as she moved away from the child’s door, and continued to spit out the words. “I’m a schoolteacher. Kids are my life. I love them, and I’m very good with them. Now, you can stick Dylan in that after-school program, which he hates, if you think that would be better than spending the time with me. But Dylan and I get along well. We genuinely like each other. So if you come to your senses and change your mind, you know where to find me.”
She charged onto the terrace and crossed to her flat without looking back. Once at her place, she headed straight for the shower, where she could stand in the steam and let the hot spray beat away the day’s frustration.