‘Maybe we can use it for an author photo,’ he said to Christmas, pulling her into him tightly and kissing her lips as the bored-looking man took photos.
‘I don’t think that one will be appropriate,’ she said.
So they posed together properly, holding their sweet treats, while the man muttered and took more shots.
‘Merci,’ Lincoln said with exaggerated enthusiasm, taking back his phone, and the man shrugged and walked away. ‘Cheerful soul,’ Lincoln observed, and she laughed some more because, well, why not? She was so glad at that moment that she’d thrown away the rules. Look what she’d been missing out on!
Leaving the market, they strolled the cobbled streets of Avignon, watching artists painting under the canopies of trees and listening to buskers playing near the cafe tables, and wandered at leisure until a small Italian restaurant opened for dinner at around eight o’clock. They shared wine and pizza and then drove back to the chateau, where they fell into bed for joyous sex and, finally, deep sleep.
The next morning, Christmas woke feeling lighter, freer and more content and beautiful than she’d ever felt before. She was headily, gloriously happy. She nestled into Lincoln’s chest and traced her fingertips slowly from the tip of his thumb, all the way up his muscular arm to the point of his shoulder. His eyes stayed closed but his lips smiled.
‘Morning,’ he rumbled, pulling her closer to him and nuzzling her hair and neck.
‘Good morning to you.’
They kissed indulgently and basked in the rapturous glow of desire and made love slowly—and in her opinion quite brilliantly. They were the perfect partners in the dance of love. It seemed Master Le Coutre did actually know what he was talking about after all.
Afterwards, they lay wrapped in each other’s arms, grinning and laughing.
‘Would it be totally terrible to ignore Provence and stay in bed all day instead?’ she asked. They had planned to go to Arles, to the square mile of the old town that was largely built during the Roman empire, to visit the ancient amphitheatre, to wander the narrow streets of tall, smooth buildings with recessed doors and windows and blue shutters, and to find van Gogh’s cafe from the famous painting. It had seemed like a good plan, yesterday.
‘You’d get no arguments from me,’ Lincoln said, rolling her over to kiss her chest, his eyes dark with lust. They kissed for some time until a growl from Christmas’s belly made him sit up.
‘Are you hungry?’
‘Starving! But we’ve missed breakfast, I’m afraid.’ The buffet noises had ended some time ago.
‘What should we do?’ he said.
‘Steal some food from the kitchen?’ she suggested, not quite seriously.
‘Excellent idea!’ He jumped up and found some pants.
‘Where are you going?’ she laughed.
‘To hunt and gather. Back soon.’ And he was gone out the door, shirtless and barefoot, in search of breakfast.
Christmas stretched across the sheets and then got up to have a shower, enjoying the steam rising in the bathroom and the feel of the water as she splashed it with her feet. She felt so alive, so connected!
Lincoln returned with a thud of the door and some clattering of plates before he appeared in the shower with her, naked. She soaped his arms and back while he kissed her neck. She watched him wash his hair and ran her hand over his chest. Then her stomach growled again.
‘I’d really better get some food,’ she said, hopping out and wrapping a towel around herself, leaving him to finish his shower.
On the small table by the tall window, she found bread rolls and slices of cheese and cold meats, some orange juice, coffee and a disc of yellow butter. She wasted no time in dipping a knife into it and slathering it on a roll. Lincoln joined her, put his hands around her waist and bit into her bread roll, making growling animal noises.
Taking the other chair, he gulped down some juice, one hand still on her. ‘I just can’t seem to stop touching you.’
‘Then don’t. I like it.’
They stared at each other, smiling like goofs, and shuffled the wingback chairs closer together so their feet could touch while their hands were busy with the food. They ate for a while, gradually slowing their pace.
‘When we get back to Tasmania,’ he said, his voice deep and serious, ‘do you think we can keep doing this? Having breakfast together?’
‘Definitely.’ She could think of nothing she would love more than waking up each day with Lincoln beside her and eating bread rolls sitting next to him. She remembered something. ‘My sister’s getting married the weekend after I get back. Will you come with me?’
‘Just try and stop me.’ He leaned forward, taking her hands in his. ‘You do something to me,’ he said. ‘I know this is sudden, me turning up like this, but we were getting close, I think, working together in Tasmania.’
She nodded.
‘You see, the thing is . . .’ he paused and took a deep breath ‘. . . I think I might have fallen in love with you.’
The sun seemed to have taken up residence in her chest. She felt intensely cherished, and instead of being scared, she felt safe and totally at peace, with the promise of a hundred new beginnings. ‘I think I might have fallen in love with you too,’ she said, unable to keep the smile off her face. And it was a huge relief to finally admit it to herself, and to him, and to just . . . let . . . go.
‘I’m really glad I came to France,’ he said.
‘I’m really glad you did too.’
And so they gave up any idea of travelling to Arles and stayed in bed all day long.
That evening, as they were getting dressed to leave their love nest and find some food for dinner, Christmas let herself daydream about Lincoln in her life in Tasmania. For real this time. It was actually happening. They both wanted this. Yes, there’d be things to work out, but for now it was simply a precious new phase of her life just finding its feet. She changed her earrings from sensible studs to dangling dinner jewels, smiling as she imagined dancing with him next weekend at the reception.
‘I’m sorry you won’t really know anyone at Val’s wedding,’ she called to him. He was shaving at the bathroom sink, a towel around his waist.
‘I only need you,’ he said, his voice muffled as the razor ran over his chin.
‘Oh, but Emily will be there,’ she realised. ‘That’s at least one other familiar face.’
‘Ah.’ He dropped his razor to the sink and tapped it on the edge, then ran it under the water.
‘What?’
He wiped his face on a towel and turned and leaned against the bench. ‘You should probably know that Emily and I . . .’ He paused and cleared his throat.
Christmas felt ill. ‘You’ve dated?’
He squinted one eye and looked with the other at the ceiling. ‘Not exactly.’
‘I can’t believe this,’ she squeaked. But then, of course, she could believe it. Because she had done this to herself. She’d told Emily explicitly that she was free to pursue Lincoln because Christmas herself wasn’t interested.
Stupid, stupid Christmas.
‘Did you sleep with her?’ she asked, her heart racing.
Lincoln looked horrified. ‘No! Absolutely not. Not even a kiss!’ He was smiling now, and came to her, putting his hands around her waist. She let him.
‘We just met at the pub, but we didn’t even get to have a drink because she twisted her ankle and had to go to the doctor’s. That’s it.’
‘That’s it?’
‘Yes.’
But then he hesitated.
‘What?’ she asked again, almost afraid to hear the answer.
He rocked his head from side to side. ‘We did try to go out again. But she had a migraine and had to cancel. The whole thing was stupid of me. I’m so sorry. It’s just that after you rejected me at the shop . . .’
She dropped her head, pained. ‘Yes, I know. I’m sorry.’
‘And she’d handed me her card and told me to call her, and
I was very immature and thought, well, why not?’
She nodded. It hurt. But she’d pushed him away and then pushed Emily towards him. She could hardly get on her high horse now, could she? The man had just flown around the world to be with her.
His eyes were watching hers, pleading for her to understand. She took a deep breath. ‘Okay, look. I’m not going to say I’m happy about it, but I can understand how it happened and I’m going to acknowledge the role I played in the situation and just choose to move on,’ she said decisively, trying to convince herself as much as him.
‘You might be the most perfect woman in the world.’
‘Well, the fact that you’re standing here in my hotel room in Provence is pretty good evidence for me that you meant what you said.’
He looked coy. ‘What did I say?’
‘You know!’
He kissed her. ‘That I love you?’
She melted under his fingers. ‘Yes, that.’
‘And you love me too,’ he said, his lips moving over hers.
‘Yes. But no more surprises, promise?’
‘Done.’
•
What’s that noise?
Elsa was suddenly aware of a hard surface against her back and legs and, disturbingly, the back of her head. Something was wrong.
There was a noise. A very loud, repetitive noise, and her head seemed to thump in time with it.
She’d been doing the crossword. Seven down. It was an irritating question, one that really wasn’t worded very clearly and was in the wrong tense, asking for something in the present tense that goes when the answer, she was sure, ended in ed. It was highly frustrating. Did nobody learn grammar these days?
A pain shot through her lower back and she moaned involuntarily. She was on the floor, she realised. That was the problem.
She tried to open her eyes but they seemed firmly resolved to stay closed. Her head spun, not entirely unpleasantly. It was as though she was about to drift off to sleep.
But she should get up. She took a breath and braced herself for the effort, but nothing happened. Where had all her strength gone? It was a pesky business, this getting-old malarkey. Just when you needed a bit of oomph it was nowhere to be found.
And her throat felt very tight and stiff.
Lucifer, what was that noise?
•
The sun rose in Provence the next day behind wisps of teased cottonwool clouds.
‘We should really leave our room today and go sightsee,’ Lincoln said, though from the sound of his voice, his heart wasn’t in it. He was drinking coffee by the window and looking out at the majestic oak trees on the green lawns.
Christmas rolled onto her side in bed and lifted her head, cupping it in the palm of her hand. ‘That seems a little ambitious. Maybe we could just walk around the grounds. Or borrow the chateau’s bicycles and ride to a cafe for lunch?’
The rest of the world had melted away, leaving just her and Lincoln in their gorgeous, exclusive bubble of love, which actually felt even stronger today after Lincoln’s revelation about Emily. The past had been confronted and the slate wiped clean and they were free to move forward in their life together. Down the hallway, someone had started to play a piece of French folk music featuring the piano accordian, and instantly causing Christmas’s chest to swell with contentment..
‘I could actually die right now and be totally happy,’ she said, closing her eyes and absorbing the bliss.
‘Please don’t do that,’ Lincoln said, sipping his coffee. ‘I’d miss you too much.’
Just then her phone buzzed inside her bag and she jumped. She’d completely forgotten she even had a phone.
‘Man, that scared me.’ She laughed, her hand on her chest. She reached across the bed and down into her bag on the floor to retrieve it.
Did you get my message on Skype?
Christmas frowned. Then she remembered that a message alert had popped up when she’d been playing the movie title game with Lincoln. She’d forgotten all about it.
‘What is it?’ Lincoln said.
‘Val. She wants to know if I got her Skype message.’
Christmas replied to the text, asking what the message was about. She only had to wait a moment before Val responded.
About your father?
‘That’s weird,’ Christmas said. ‘Val says it was something to do with my father.’
Lincoln lowered his coffee cup to the table and stared at her, his eyes wide. ‘Oh shit.’
‘What?’
‘I’m so sorry. I forgot to tell you.’
‘Tell me what?’
‘About your father. Apparently he was a microbiologist who studied farm crops.’
Christmas laughed, not comprehending. ‘What do you mean?’
Lincoln hesitated. ‘Emily told me.’
Christmas sat up in bed, pulling the sheets up to her chest. ‘Emily? I don’t understand.’
‘She asked me to tell you and I just . . . forgot.’ His shoulders rounded forward and his face became pinched.
The music Christmas had been enjoying a moment ago disappeared beneath the rushing sound in her ears. Emily? He and Emily had not only dated but had also shared information about her—something deeply personal and important—but they hadn’t told her.
‘What’s going on?’
He came to the bed and sat on the edge. ‘There’s nothing going on between me and Emily,’ he said evenly. ‘She had one of her migraines . . .’ He went on, shooting out words quickly. But all Christmas heard was that first phrase. She had one of her migraines. Like he knew her. Like they were an old married couple. She stared at him and waited for his words to dry up like a slow-running tap that was taking too long to stop dripping.
Lincoln rubbed his forehead. ‘I’m so sorry, I just forgot. It’s a lame excuse, I know, but it’s true.’
‘But we said no more surprises,’ she said childishly. ‘You promised.’ And the pain of potentially missing out on something to do with her biological father smashed together with the pain of Emily and Lincoln’s careless handling of her heart.
All this time she’d been telling herself that she had packed away any idea of finding Gregoire Lachapelle and that it simply didn’t matter. The fact that she didn’t have anything to go on other than his name made it easy to convince herself that it was true. She’d ignored the small voice inside that had been trying to get her attention. But now, with this new piece of information in her hands, suddenly it did matter, very much.
She jumped out of bed, adrenaline charging through her. The room was too small. Her chest was hurting. It was all too much to process.
Was this new love really what it seemed to be? She’d trusted Lincoln. She’d trusted him with her most fragile emotions and with the belief that this time it could all be different. But now she wasn’t sure of anything.
Gregoire existed. He was real. He had a job, a specialisation. He worked in the world, here in France, perhaps even walked the same soils that she had walked just the other day out in the fields with her scholarship group. She could have been just metres from him. He could have been the goat farmer.
‘I think you should sit down,’ Lincoln said, moving to her, trying to guide her to a chair. ‘You need to take some deep, slow breaths. You’re going to hyperventilate.’
She shook her head. ‘No.’ She pulled her arm away. ‘I need some space,’ she said. ‘I need you to leave the room.’
‘Christmas, wait . . .’
‘No. Just . . . give me some space, please. I need to think.’
Lincoln stepped back, grabbed a T-shirt and pulled it over his head. ‘Okay. I’ll just go and sit by the lake for a while,’ he said, hovering in case she changed her mind. ‘Take your time.’ And he left the room reluctantly, closing the door quietly behind him.
The room spun. Christmas sat down and concentrated on breathing.
Val texted again.
Gregoire Lachapelle was a scientist who studied diseases on
farms.
Christmas stared at the screen. Something wasn’t right: Lincoln said that Emily had said Gregoire was a microbiologist. It was a subtle difference, but it made her wonder. Where had this information come from? She ran the bath while tapping out another text to Val, hit send, then tipped the entire bottle of bubble bath into the tub and submerged herself in soothing, fragrant foam.
•
Lincoln sat on the edge of the lake, his feet buried in the soft damp earth of the bank, and thought about fish. Specifically, about gutting fish. About the way you placed the knife behind the gills while their fins waved at you and they gasped for breath, pleading for that final chance, before you sliced down through the resistance of the body and bones and crunched off their head before tossing it to the nearest waiting pelican. About the way you ripped off the scales with the back of the knife, spraying them like ghoulish confetti while the seagulls screeched in grisly pleasure. The way you took the tip of the blade and sliced it down the centre of the white belly flesh and pulled out the guts.
He hated fishing. He always had. But he’d persisted with it longer than he should have because his father loved it and he’d wanted there to be at least one thing they shared. As a teenager, he’d learned to ignore the bleeding still-alive worms and the bewildered glassy eyes of the hooked fish. The ones that swallowed the hooks were the worst; they had absolutely no chance of reprieve.
He was thinking of fish because right now he felt just like a gutted fish. Sliced right down the centre. He’d had something so wonderful in his hands and because he’d been stupid, forgetful and—what was it his nan had said? . . . oh yes, lazy—he might have lost it all.
Christmas had been generous in forgiving him for dating Emily. But he wasn’t sure she’d forgive him for this.
And then a message arrived on his phone. He reached for it in his pocket, hoping it might be Christmas asking him to come back. But it was Jen.
Nan in hospital. Fainted in bungalow. Doing tests. Might be serious. Like, really serious. I’m flying down tomorrow. When u back? x
Lincoln dropped his head back and looked up at the branches of the tree above, his hands clenched. A thousand emotions hit him at once. He was ten years old and sobbing inside because his nan might die. He was forty-two years old and excited that Nan might see him settle down with Christmas Livingstone. He was here now, on the grass, fretting about what Christmas was thinking back in the room. He was cranky because, as timing went, a family crisis like this was awful. And he felt guilty because how could he even think something like that when his nan might be about to die and he was on the other side of the world?
The Chocolate Promise Page 27