by Susan Finlay
“If you would rather have a romantic dinner with her, I can eat elsewhere. I know that you and she are leaving in the morning on a vacation together. I don’t want to interfere with your plans.”
“I’ve put that trip on hold. By the way, I’m already on vacation. This—my being here in France—is an open-ended vacation.”
She didn’t know how to respond.
“And no, Simone will not be joining us for dinner,” he said in a clipped voice that contradicted his smile.
He motioned then for her to continue walking, but as she studied his face, noticing creases on his forehead and tenseness of his jaw, she sensed that something had changed between them. Her chance of actually enjoying this night out crumbled to dust.
CHAPTER TEN
The bistro’s patron, Romain Chamfort, led Dave and Maurelle to one of the few empty tables, one located in the middle of the shadowy room lit only by faux antique lanterns. Even in the dim light Dave recognized every person here and every person in here was staring at him. By morning, the whole town would know he’d been dining there with the town’s ‘gypsy’. He scanned the crowded room for a less conspicuous location.
“If you don’t mind,” Dave said, “I’d prefer that table in the corner.”
Romain followed Dave’s gaze, then gave him a knowing look and a nod. As he seated them, he said, “It’s nice to see you here again, Monsieur Martin. May I suggest a hors d’oeuvres? Our Warm Camembert with Wild Mushroom Fricassee is most popular.”
“Thank you. That sounds good. I’d also like a bottle of your best wine.”
After Romaine left, Dave sighed and rotated his shoulders, trying to ease the tension that had instantly appeared. He’d been looking forward to spending time with Maurelle, to having a real conversation. More than anything, he wanted to get to know her and find out what her deal was. He wished she hadn’t brought up Simone on the way here.
When he’d spoken to Simone earlier in the day, both when he asked to borrow her car a second time, and when he returned it, he’d been open, telling her about Maurelle. So why was he now feeling guilty? Simone had acted as though she didn’t mind. Her words even suggested that she thought of the girl as a stray puppy, instead of competition. But Dave wasn’t so sure. Apart from that lay another issue. Despite the evidence of her desire to hide and her reaction to the gendarmes, he had instinctively trusted her. Had he made a mistake?
Romain brought out their wine and poured two glasses.
“Your fricassee will be ready shortly.” He took their orders for the main course and departed.
Dave again focused his attention on Maurelle. The soft ambient lighting of the restaurant made her look even more enticing, adding sparkle to her bright eyes and a pinkish glow to her creamy skin.
She tilted her head at him the way Simone did sometimes.
Clearing his throat, he said, “I’m curious about why you were living in a cave. I have so many questions to ask you.”
Maurelle nodded and set down her glass.
Dave asked, “How long did you live in the cave?”
“It doesn’t matter. It was temporary.”
“That’s not a good enough answer.”
“It wasn’t long.”
“How long?”
Looking a bit upset, she snapped back, “All right. A week.”
“You need to understand something,” he said, locking his eyes on hers and trying to explain himself to defuse her being upset. “I’m not a fool. You lied to me earlier. I don’t like that. My own grandmother tricked me into coming here by telling me she was dying when there’s nothing really wrong with her.”
Her eyebrows lifted, and then she said, “That was a terrible thing to do. So that’s what you and she were talking about when you first brought me to her house. I didn’t understand.”
He nodded. “While I’m thankful, of course, that she isn’t dying, I’m disappointed in her. She tricked me. And she made a fool of me, which really hurt.”
Maurelle bit her lip and looked round briefly.
“I have to tell you, you’re a terrible liar,” he added as she faced him. “I think.”
She blushed and looked away again. When she looked at him again, he offered an apologetic smile.
“Why were you living like a vagrant? You told me you have money? Why not stay in a hotel?” he asked, then, after a moment, continued to probe, “Were you hiding from someone?”
Looking increasingly uncomfortable, Maurelle replied, “It . . . it’s complicated.”
Dave noted his last query had hit a nerve, but chose to divert from too quickly pursuing this line of questioning lest she go silent altogether or even bolt from the bistro. “How old are you? And don’t lie.”
“You think I would lie about my age?”
“Many women do.”
“That’s something I’ve not felt the need to do—at least not yet. I’m twenty-seven.”
“Where are you from—really?” Watching for her reaction, he added, “I know your accent is British.”
She smiled. “I gather you’re American, or I suppose half American and half French since you have a French grandmother.”
“Correct.”
She lowered her eyes and paused. When she raised her eyes, she whispered, “I’m half French, as well. And half English.”
Dave twisted his mouth slightly. Why had she hesitated to tell him that? He leaned forward. “Please, Maurelle, tell me who—or what—you’re running away from?”
She reached for her glass and nervously took a deep gulp of wine.
“As I said, it’s complicated,” she said, trying to look casual, but failing badly. “I can’t tell you. Not yet. Please give me some time. I barely know you.”
He tapped his fingers on the table, thinking. She could be playing with him, trying to appear mysterious to make him more interested. No, that wouldn’t explain her living in a cave. More likely, she was in some sort of trouble. When they’d met outside the bakery, she’d seemed willing to sit and drink coffee with him until the gendarmes arrived. He picked up his wine glass and stared into the liquid. If it was the gendarmes that made her run, why would she stick around Reynier? Why not move on? Had he missed something? Did she see something else that spooked her? Was it him?
“Look,” he said, “I’m not trying to make you more uncomfortable. But I need to know who—or what—I’m dealing with. You’re staying in my grandmother’s house—and you’re welcome, you can’t live in a damned cave. But, honestly, I need to know I can trust you not to rob her blind.” He sat back, and watched her, silently taking in every detail of her reaction.
She squirmed slightly, her fingers wrapping firmly around the stem of her glass. She sipped the last drops of wine and set it back down. Without looking at Dave, she picked up her napkin and refolded it.
“You’re stalling,” Dave said, trying hard not to show his frustration. “Talk to me. I’m not your enemy.”
Maurelle tapped her chin with her finger as she looked at Dave. Then it was as though a dark shadow fell across her eyes like an eclipse. She turned her head away, and looked around the crowded bistro, then back at Dave. “We can’t talk here. Not about this. Please.”
Dave finished his wine. “I guess I can wait. But not too long.”
Romain reappeared, setting the hors d’oeuvres in front of them, and Dave breathed in the heavenly scent. He hadn’t realized until now how hungry he was.
“Bon appetit,” Maurelle said, and Dave repeated the phrase, while he refilled both of their wine glasses.
As they ate and talked, they kept their conversation light.
“What’s England like? I’ve always wanted to see the country but haven’t gotten around to it. Did you live in London, or in a more rural area?”
“London. Though my grandparents lived in a small village in the West Country. They passed away years ago.”
Dave nodded.
“Do you miss England?”
“I haven’t been a
way long,” she said. “Only a few weeks. Still, I do miss some things. Well, as you know already, I miss sleeping in a bed, and of course bathing indoors.”
She laughed. Looking up at Dave, a light danced in her eyes, and Dave caught his breath. He couldn’t believe how beautiful she looked.
“And do you have someone special you miss,” he asked, “a husband or boyfriend?”
Maurelle sipped her wine. “I do not.”
“No serious relationship?”
“Once. We lived together for two years—until I caught him cheating on me with another woman.”
Dave thought of Simone again. “How long ago was that?”
“A few months,” Maurelle said, looking at him squarely.
She appeared to be waiting for more questions, but Dave didn’t say anything. He swallowed another bite of food, pondering this new information. Could that be it? He was pursuing her after the break-up?
“I’m divorced,” he offered. It was part her fault but more my fault, if I’m being honest.”
“It must have been hard, especially if there were children involved.”
“No children.”
She leaned forward, her elbow on the table, and rested her chin on her palm, studying him. “You didn’t remarry?”
Dave shrugged again. She was trying to turn the tables on him. He decided to change the subject. “Do you—or did you—have a job?”
“That seems like a different lifetime,” she whispered. “I left my job. I’m not sure what I will do now.”
“What kind of work did you do?”
She hesitated. “I was a school teacher. I taught English Literature. But that’s over.”
He smiled. “I’m a published author, but you wouldn’t think it if you listened to my editor. He complains that I need to go back to school and learn more about grammar. Admittedly, I’m not the best writer, but luckily for me people buy my books anyway.”
Maurelle laughed. “What kind of books do you write?”
“Mystery and crime novels. I’ve thought of trying another genre, but my agent says I should stick to what I know.”
She looked at him quizzically, and opened her mouth to speak, but she closed it when Romain appeared with their main course.
“Is there anything else I can get for you, Monsieur?”
“I don’t think so. How about you, Maurelle?”
She shook her head.
“I think we’re fine,” he said. Romain left, and Dave turned his attention back to Maurelle. “You were about to say something?”
“Oh, I was wondering about your writing. What makes you write the kind of stories you write?”
“I used to be a police detective back in Chicago. I quit several years ago.”
Dave knew he’d struck a nerve when her face blanched. Now he was sure she’d been spooked yesterday by the gendarmes. It wasn’t an ex-boyfriend pursuing her.
“Why did you leave the police force?”
“Long story. I don’t want to bore you with it. I guess I’d rather save that for another day too.” He tried from then on to talk about trivial things, knowing that he would get the answers he needed in due course. For now, he would be patient. But damn, that was going to be hard. And then he would have to figure out what to do. He damned well didn’t want another Diana Lewis situation.
Later, as they made their way out of the popular bistro, they bumped into Paul Lepage and a group of friends.
Paul said, “Bonsoir,” and then gave Maurelle an appraising look after which he smiled knowingly at Dave. Dave gritted his teeth and hoped that this encounter wouldn’t make the gossip network, but deep down he knew it would.
After brief introductions, Dave marched away, with Maurelle practically jogging in order to keep up.
BACK AT THE house, they stood awkwardly in the living room, neither of them speaking. Maurelle finally broke the silence. “Thank you again for the dinner. It was the best I’ve had since I came to France.”
“You’re welcome. And thank you for spending the evening with me. Would you like something to drink? I’m sure Grand-mère has some wine around here.”
“No thank you. It’s still early, I know, but I’m quite tired. If you don’t mind, I’d rather go to bed.”
“Okay. Good night. Sleep well.”
“Good night.”
As she climbed the staircase, she felt his eyes boring into her back. She had to force herself to keep her pace slow and steady. When she reached the landing and was out of his view, she dashed to her bedroom, shut the door firmly behind her, and pressed her back against it as if she were bracing it from falling down. Her heart thudded hard and tears trembled on her eyelids. So much for her quiet dinner, several hours of sleep, and an early morning flit before anyone else awoke. Dave had postponed his trip. Translated, that meant, ‘If you leave again, I’ll come and find you’.
Maurelle closed her eyes and sagged until she was sitting on the floor. She drew her knees up to her chest and bent her head forward, resting her forehead on her knees. Feeling the strain of the day drain whatever energy remained, she pulled herself up and dragged her body over to her bed. She removed her shoes, pulled back the bedcovers, lay down without bothering to undress, and covered herself with the bedcovers.
Unable to quiet her mind, she took several deep breaths and settled back against the pillows, staring up at the ceiling. Watching the moonlight and shadows dance about like a theatre production, she thought about the shows and plays and ballets she’d enjoyed watching with her boyfriend or with her mother in London, from the Tricycle Theatre to Sadlers Wells, from the Globe to the Electric Cinema.
She eventually drifted in and out of sleep, but her memories and her nightmares intertwined so that she wasn’t sure which was worse—sleeping or lying awake. In her latest nightmare, she was still in London, in a room that at first looked like her bedroom but which she knew was the Old Bailey. Dave was questioning her relentlessly and causing her to break down and finally confess to make him stop.
She woke up and jerked to a sitting position, trembling and covered in perspiration. After throwing off her covers, she lay back down, her eyes wide open but still seeing the images as if she were back in the nightmare. Stop it, she told herself. It’s your subconscious mind playing with you, seizing Dave’s background and weaving it in with everything else.
But that knowledge didn’t really help.
She struggled to empty her mind, but the dream’s images wouldn’t go away, and she began shaking again. She didn’t know what time it was, but she sprang out of bed, grabbed her duffel bag, and started pulling out things that she could leave behind. Once the bag was lightened, she slung the strap over her shoulder, glanced at her sleeping bag, and decided to leave it behind. Carefully, she opened her door and peeked into the dark hallway. Stepping out the door, she made her way down the stairs as quietly as possible. One step squeaked. She jumped, then froze and listened. No lights came on. She continued downward. At the bottom of the stairs, she looked toward the kitchen. No sign of anyone. She headed for the front door and crashed straight into something.
Horrified, she stepped back, her mouth gaping open.
Dave was staring at her, though she couldn’t see his expression in the darkness. She braced herself, fearing his anger, and knowing that she deserved it after everything he’d done for her.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Glad you’re up already,” Dave said in a conversational tone. “I’m starved. How about you?”
Maurelle was too surprised to do more than nod.
“Why don’t you go on into the kitchen? I’ll take your bag back upstairs and meet you there.”
Before she could say anything in response, Dave grabbed the bag out of her hand and started up the stairs. Stopping on the second step, he turned to her. “You promised me that you wouldn’t disappear during the night.”
“I—I’m sorry,” she said.
He stared at her for a moment before continuing up the stairs.
Maurelle closed her eyes. She could dash out the door without her bag, but what good would that do? She needed her money. Besides, he would only find her and bring her back. Resigned, she turned and headed toward the kitchen in this house that she was beginning to loathe. She flipped on the light switch and gazed around the room. A display of copper pots and dried flowers were perched on a shelf above the range. Assorted everyday cooking utensils hung from hooks below the shelf, and ornately patterned tiles in earth tones formed a backsplash directly behind the stove. The whole cooking area might have been described as charming had she been in a more receptive mood. She felt a hand on her shoulder and jumped.
Dave said, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“I didn’t hear you come in.”
He motioned for her to sit at the dinner table, while he turned on the faucet to get water for the coffee pot.
Maurelle sat down, again looking at more of the kitchen decor, from the shiny walnut cabinetry and the elegant table made from the same wood to the intricately appointed chairs caned in green, tan, and black stripes. She had only vaguely noticed the furnishings during the tense lunch yesterday, but seeing them now, she decided the whole room had a kind of French country air, yet was current and could even be described as gourmet classy. The smell of the coffee now brewing added to that atmosphere.
When Dave sat down next to her, she cringed inwardly, expecting his anger to spill out.
“I hope you slept well,” he said. “Coffee’s nearly ready. Would you like some?”
She nodded, and studied his face, noting the creases in his forehead, the warning cloud that he seemed to be struggling to reign in.
“Dave,” she whispered, “I truly am sorry. I appreciate what you’ve done for me. But I don’t want to be a burden nor do I want you or your grandmother getting entangled in my problems.”
He looked into her eyes as if he were trying to read her mind and Maurelle fought against the impulse to look away.
“You’re not a burden. At least not yet,” he said. “But please don’t try to leave without talking.”