Waking the Wolf (Coup de Foudre)

by Amanda Sandton

  “We’re having oysters?” asked Sylvie who couldn’t help overhearing all the exuberant shouting in the hallway.

  Joyce appeared on the landing with Roméo in her arms. “Please hold it down everyone. I’m trying to get him to sleep. Once he’s asleep you can make as much noise as you want.”

  She spun round and disappeared down the corridor to her bedroom.

  Everyone grinned and a chorus of “shushes” ran round the hall.

  “What was that about oysters?” asked Sylvie again.

  “It’s traditional, Sylvie,” explained Diane. “Anyone who lives within reasonable distance of the ocean consumes dozens of oysters at Christmas but shucking them is such a horrible job. I never do it; I am much too scared of jabbing the tool right through my hand.”

  Somehow, all the preparation for the dinner was completed: the table was laid in the dining room, the wine was opened, a log fire was set a-blaze and order was restored in the kitchen.

  “Merci, tout le monde,” Diane called out. “Allez-vous-en! Scat! I shall expect everyone down here for Champagne cocktails in half an hour. I don’t want the goose to spoil.”

  “What should I wear, Diane?” Sylvie asked.

  “Something casual but warm. It’ll be cold on the way to church at midnight. Keep your finery for the party on New Year’s Eve.”

  17 : Dinner and Midnight Mass

  Sylvie rushed upstairs after the others, not wanting to be the last one down. She hadn’t brought much beside work clothes with her to France, but she did have a pair of well cut black slacks that she teamed with a chartreuse-colored polo neck sweater. She would keep her only long dress for the party. She wound her long honey-toned hair up into a loose chignon. She was teasing a few tendrils down around her face when there was a tap at the door.

  She twirled around to check herself in the mirror and opened the door to find Jean-Luc leaning against the doorjamb.

  He gave a start when he saw her and his eyes grew wide. “Wow! Sylvie. You look wonderful. You’re going to put all the other girls in the shade.”

  He moved to block her exit while he looked her slowly up and down, and then down again to her bare feet.

  “That color brings out the sea green lights in your eyes and makes them dance. But you aren’t going like that, are you?” he asked pointing at her feet.

  “Of course not,” she answered, bringing her boots out from behind her back. “Diane asked me not to wear heels upstairs because they mark the old oak floors.”

  “Well, let me give you a lift downstairs then,” he said stepping forward to pick her up.

  She swung her boots at his hands, “Don’t you dare. I’m not feeling ill this time. We’re friends, remember. Just friends.”

  “It’s difficult to remember that when you’re standing there looking so hot. I’m tempted to come in, lock the door behind me and throw you on the bed.”

  He grinned and stepped aside, offering his arm. “At least you can take my arm. We don’t want you falling down the stairs, do we?”

  Sylvie paused for a moment. Without boots or shoes, she only came up to his shoulder and so she rested her head on his upper arm and gave him a squeeze. “Jean-Luc, thank you for looking after me this afternoon.”

  “Don’t mention it; I owe you a double duty of care.” he said. “I’m your friend so your welfare matters to me, and I’m your boss so I am responsible for you.”

  “Which are you tonight?” Sylvie asked softly, tipping her face and looking up into his eyes.

  “Definitely your friend, but if you keep looking at me like that I might not be able to keep it at that level.”

  Sylvie smiled quietly to herself. “Come, let’s go and join your boisterous family.”

  They descended the stairs arm in arm and in a companionable silence. Sylvie sat down on the bottom step to put her boots on, before stepping off onto the limestone flags. They walked into the salon to find that everyone else had beaten them to it. Raoul handed them both a cocktail. The girls swooped down on Sylvie and dragged her off to talk fashion and careers. Jean-Luc joined his brother and the other guys who all stopped talking as he appeared.

  “Oh no. I suppose you were discussing the season’s hunting? You don’t have to worry about my feelings. I’m not against the controlled hunting of the deer. We’d be overrun with them otherwise.”

  “But Jean-Luc, what would you say if we had too many wolves and hunting them was permitted? That day may come, you know,” asked his brother Sacha.

  “There’s a great difference between a deer and a wolf, just in terms of intelligence, cunning, family values and social life but I think I’ll wait until we get to that point to form an opinion. We’re a long way off with the current rate of attrition, and I’m only talking about the poaching and illegal killing. Don’t forget the government has just raised the quota for legal killings to twenty-four; that’s just under ten per cent of the total population in France.”

  “Hey Sylvie,” one of the men yelled out across the room. “Don’t you ever get tired of wolves?”

  Sylvie turned round, darted a look of sympathy at Jean-Luc and replied, “No, never!” and resumed her conversation with Jean-Luc’s sisters.

  “A table,” Diane called out and they all walked across the hall to the dining room.

  With much good-natured pushing and shoving, everyone scrambled for a seat. It reminded Sylvie of a game of musical chairs at a children’s party.

  Down the center of the long table stood four three-tiered oyster stands, one in easy reach of every diner. The crusty French bread was cut, and lemons and chopped shallots passed round the table; hands stretched out and loaded up plates with the succulent mollusks. Raoul and Sacha walked round the table filling the fine crystal glasses with chilled Muscadet. Glasses were clinked and toasts drunk.

  The volume of the conversation rose. Sylvie didn’t know how people could talk so much and yet eat so much, and with such relish. Shells clattered down as the piles grew. Sylvie liked oysters but she could never eat as many as this family did. She stopped after eight, but many of the others were onto their third dozen before they all called a halt.

  A lobster bisque followed and then a civet of wild boar - a boar shot by Raoul in the woods just north of the estate. Raoul brought out the Pomerol and everyone drank a toast to the success of next year’s vintage.

  Sylvie turned to Joyce, “Joyce, how much longer is this going on? I’m full to bursting already.”

  Joyce grinned. ”You just wait. Now we have the trou Normand. That’s a pear sorbet with pear brandy poured over the top. It’s to die for and supposed to give your poor stomach a break before the rest of the meal.”

  Diane said she had made the sorbet from her own pears and the brandy had come from a friend who had an illegal still in the next valley.

  It was as delicious as Joyce had said and Sylvie scraped her bowl right down to the last drop. As she put down her spoon, she became conscious of Jean-Luc watching her. She looked up and smiled across the table at him and he smiled back.

  All the girls helped clear the table for the main course. Raoul carried in a huge roast goose. It was accompanied by diced potatoes sautéed with cèpes and garlic. Another Christmas tradition, said Diane. Everyone went out into the woods when the first autumn rains fell and gathered cèpes and other wild fungi.

  “Don’t they eat any vegetables?” Sylvie asked Joyce quietly.

  “We’ll have a big lettuce salad with the cheese when the goose has been cleared.”

  After the cheese came the Bûche de Noël or Christmas Log - smothered in chestnut and chocolate butter icing. It was far too sweet for Sylvie; she toyed with a small piece and then pushed it to the side.

  Coffee and chocolates and cognac and Bénédictine. Wow! Sylvie glanced down at her watch. They had been eating for over four hours - eating and talking, that is.

  Raoul caught her looking at her watch and he checked the time. “Mes enfants, Maman, it’s time to go to Mass. We must
hurry. We only have twenty minutes to get there.”

  Napkins were thrown on the table, chairs squeaked against the stone floor, coffee and cognac were hastily tossed back, and the whole party moved out into the hall en masse to don their coats. Diane said she was staying behind to baby sit; Joyce was to drive. She wasn’t drinking because she was breastfeeding Roméo. They piled into Jean-Luc’s Range Rover with its two rows of back seats. There weren’t enough seats for everyone; Sylvie and Sacha’s girlfriend had to sit on Jean-Luc’s and Sacha’s knees respectively. Sylvie perched herself on the edge of Jean-Luc’s knee with as big a gap as possible between them and held on to the bar above the window.

  “Hold tight, everyone. It’s not a long way,” Joyce called out as she let in the clutch and the car lurched forward.

  Sylvie was jolted back against Jean-Luc who had been enjoying the liberal supply of wine and cognac all evening. He put his arms around her waist - to hold her steady! - and pulled her close. She couldn’t miss the fact that her nearness had aroused him, but neither could she decide whether she was enjoying his attention, or whether she was annoyed that he was taking advantage of the situation. She struggled for a while but then gave in and leaned out as far as she could, the muscles in her thighs too taut to respond. It wasn’t far enough to escape from Jean-Luc. He blew the tendrils of her hair about her face, getting closer and closer until he was nestling his face in her hair.

  As they drew in under the streetlights in front of the church, she succeeded in disengaging his hands and she was out of the car as soon as Joyce put on the handbrake.

  She rounded on Jean-Luc as he jumped down beside her. “What was that all about? We’re supposed to be work colleagues not lovers.”

  Jean-Luc put his hand out to calm her. “Sylvie, don’t be so cross. It’s Christmas and I was only trying to keep you from hitting yourself against the seat in front every time Joyce slammed on the brakes.”

  She shrugged him off and turned away to join Joyce and Raoul as they walked into the church. Jean-Luc ended up sitting in the pew in front of her and all during the service he kept turning round and winking at her.

  Joyce couldn’t help but notice, and she raised her eyebrows in question.

  “Don’t take any notice of him, Joyce,” Sylvie whispered. “He’s had a bit too much Christmas cheer and he’s carrying on as if this was the office party.”

  She was annoyed that he was behaving so stupidly; she had been counting on him to give her some support when she entered the church, as he was the only one who knew how upsetting it would be for her. As it turned out, she didn’t need him; being in church did not bring back memories of that day at St. Xavier’s. She said a little prayer of thanks that the pain had dissipated and gave herself up to listening with enjoyment to the choir who sang a medley of carols. She couldn’t understand what they were singing but the sound was beautiful.

  Joyce nudged her and whispered, “They’re singing in Occitan, the old Latin-based language of the South of France.”

  Sylvie smiled her thanks.

  While the choir was singing, the village children walked up the aisle towards the altar to a crèche where they placed symbolic gifts.

  “Santons, Sylvie!” Jean-Luc called out over his shoulder at Sylvie, and pointing at the Nativity figurines.

  “Shush!” said everyone and Sylvie shrank down in her seat, trying to pretend he wasn’t talking to her.

  The service over, the church doors were opened. It was snowing, a light flurry melting as it touched the ground, but it was still snow. Everyone exclaimed how lucky they were to have a white Christmas. Lucky for some. It was slippery. Sylvie hurrying out to snag a seat in the car before anyone else got there, missed her footing and skidded right off the top step, landing on her bottom with a thump.

  Jean-Luc rushed down the steps after her, sobering up as he did so.

  “Are you all right, Sylvie?” he cried as he knelt down and took her in his arms.

  Sylvie felt her legs; they were sore but only bruised. “Help me up Jean-Luc. I’m fine; just a little shaken, that’s all. If you hadn’t been playing the fool in church, I wouldn’t have been hurrying to get away from you.”

  “You’re not hurt? No broken leg? No excuse for me to carry you?”

  He helped her to stand. She stood on her right leg, favoring her left.

  “Let me try my weight on my left leg,” she said touching her toes to the ground and gradually sinking back onto her heel. “It’s fine. You don’t need to carry me.”

  “Oh, but I do,” he answered, sweeping her off her feet and into his arms before she could resist.

  The rest of the party had been waiting to see how badly Sylvie was hurt. When they saw that she was all right and that Jean-Luc was carrying her to the car, they moved off. When they reached the vehicle, Jean-Luc handed Sylvie to Raoul while he seated himself. As Raoul handed her carefully into the car, she found herself sitting on Jean-Luc’s knee once more.

  She was too tired and exasperated to protest and leaned back onto his comforting chest with her head against his shoulder. Jean-Luc’s arms came round her and held her safe against the corners as Joyce drove them back to the house. He nuzzled his nose into her hair, but didn’t continue with his earlier schoolboy antics and Sylvie was grateful for that. It was difficult enough enforcing a distance between them because of her private feelings for him, without having to keep up the business colleague charade.

  The family went straight to bed, leaving all the clearing up for the next day, although Diane did warn them all that there would be no distribution of presents until the kitchen was spick and span.

  There had been another sprinkling of snow in the early hours of the morning but it was already melting when Sylvie drew her drapes and looked out onto the balcony on Christmas morning. She had a hot shower to wake herself up and to ease the bruising on her leg. A quick dab of moisturizer and lip-gloss and she was ready to go downstairs. Feeling guilty because she hoped she wasn’t going to be the first one down to tackle the mess from the night before, she went down the stairs and across the hall to the kitchen.

  She needn’t have worried; she could hear voices when she was only halfway there. She wasn’t the first; she was the last and everything had been put to rights.

  “Come on in, Sylvie,” called out Diane. “We’re all waiting for you so that we can start the present-opening ceremony.”

  Jean-Luc broke off from a loud argument with Sacha, pushed back his chair and came over to take her hand and lead her to the seat beside his.

  “What would you like? Hot chocolate or coffee? And a croissant?”

  “Hot chocolate and a croissant, please,” said Sylvie taking her place. “Why didn’t anyone wake me? I’m so sorry to have kept you all waiting.”

  Joyce looked up from feeding Roméo, “We thought you needed the sleep after your dizzy spell and then the fall at the church. Diane said to leave you be, as you were probably worn out from being shut up in this madhouse.”

  “Oh no! I don’t think that but you are just a tad overwhelming!”

  Jean-Luc put Sylvie’s breakfast down in front of her and she curled her fingers round the hot cup and drew in the comforting aroma. All around her there was a heated discussion going on about what they were all going to do for the rest of the week. Sylvie let it rage. She would be quite content to go along with the flow.

  They finally settled on an agenda of sorts. The guys would go to a local rugby match the next day, spend one day hunting, one at a clay pigeon shoot in a nearby village and for the rest of the week they would be at the girls’ disposal. Martine and Louise wanted to go with the men on their expeditions and, when asked, Sylvie said she would like to, too. Diane reminded the men she needed their help for the two days before the party on New Year’s Eve; getting in the wood, moving furniture, preparing the wine and champagne and other manly jobs. She would like the girls to help with the preparation of the food.

  The presents were handed out. There
were a few raised eyebrows and some teasing about the fact that Sylvie and Jean-Luc were giving their gifts as a pair, but Jean-Luc soon explained that it had been a purely business arrangement and that no one was to read anything into it.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” said Diane in an aside to Joyce. “I like the girl.”

  18 : La Saint-Sylvestre, New Year’s Eve

  The week passed pleasantly with everyone busy with amusements or work. With so many young people around and so much to do, Sylvie and Jean-Luc were able to keep their distance from each other. Sylvie had talked to her mother via the internet several times and heard that her mother and the Professor had spent Christmas Day together.

  It was New Year’s Eve and the house was ready to receive its guests. As it was a party for the younger members of the family, most of the invitations had gone out to their old and new friends with Raoul being allowed to invite only a few cronies of his own. It was a question of the mayor’s daughter being invited but not the mayor.

  There were to be two local bands in attendance: one a blues/rock band and one a musical group who specialized in Occitan music.

  Once Diane was satisfied that everything was ready, she shooed the family upstairs to dress for the party.

  Sylvie chose to wear the one long dress she had brought with her. It was made of pale turquoise silk and had a full multi-gored skirt and a deep, scooped neckline with long gathered sleeves, over an ultramarine slip. She cinched it in with a gold belt, highlighting her small waist. To match the fairytale effect of the dress, she had woven turquoise and gold ribbons into her hair and let it hang down her back in a long loose braid.

  She was looking forward to the party and a chance to dance, hopefully with Jean-Luc if he didn’t get tipsy and silly. Raoul had left a play-list of dance music going down in the hall and the beat filtered up to the bedrooms. Her dress was more suited to romantic ballroom than club, but she took a few gliding steps to test her sore leg and then shimmied her way to the door. She opened it to find Jean-Luc on the point of knocking.