The simple pleasures of a six-year-old. That simple pennant fluttering in the breeze as they whipped along gave him such pure joy it would have been churlish to point out that it was a Spanish flag from his grandparents and not perhaps the most politically correct item for the south of France. No matter.
This part of the Languedoc was not like Nice or Marseilles. There were no bright city lights, busy city streets or trendy bars or four-star restaurants. This was the working rural farmland that made France so very special. Even the tourist season was short here, and local small hotels like Sandrine’s were only truly busy between May and October when visitors flocked into the area to enjoy the wonderful beaches and small villages in the Carmargue or east to Provence.
She wanted, needed, more time with Dan. He was growing up so fast. And now she was his only parent her little boy needed her so badly it broke her heart to leave him in the evenings so that she could bring in some much-needed extra cash working as a cocktail pianist in Sandrine’s hotel. Of course he had the best babysitters in France catering to his every need, and it was only for special parties like this one, but she loved their time together in the evenings, especially when the weather was warm enough to sit outside with the dogs.
Only one more day to the summer school holidays! Fantastic.
A prickle of apprehension went through her and she shivered despite the warm breeze. The school holidays meant something else. Something she did not want to think about. Dan would be spending two weeks with his grandparents in Barcelona. The same grandparents who had fought so hard to take control of Dan away from her after his father died—and almost succeeded.
Oh, Christobal! You would have loved how your little boy has turned out!
She only had to look into Dan’s eyes to see the man she had loved and married in a whirlwind smile back at her. And nobody was ever going to threaten to take Dan away from her again. She was going to make sure of that.
Even though it had meant saying goodbye to her professional musical career.
The road lifted in a small rise and as she dropped her feet back into the pedals the call of the local seabirds brought her back to the real world and the fact that school would be closing for the day in under an hour. Time to get pedalling!
Seb slipped out from the cool interior of his car to stand on the grass verge in the warm sunshine.
Facing him on the other side of the two-lane tarmac road were the narrow gateposts of the Mas Tournesol. The Languedoc farmhouse where he had been born and spent the first twelve years of his life.
It seemed a very long time ago.
Which probably explained why he didn’t remember it being so narrow or overgrown, but perhaps his perspective was different as a boy of twelve from a man of thirty?
Back then there had been two matching heavy wrought-iron gates with the name of the farmhouse picked out in metal. Mas Tournesol. The Sunflower House.
Now one of the gates had been knocked off its hinges and was lying in the gravel and grass on the side of the path with weeds growing up between the filigree metal. The gate must have been lying there for months. There was no sign of its partner.
Memories of a childhood playing in these fields told him that there was a rippling river on the other side of the straight row of rustling shady plane trees to his left where he had spent many happy hours fishing with his dad. The hedges on the right formed the boundary to the vineyards and sunflower fields his dad had sold to their neighbour only days before they emigrated, but the branches were taller now, choked with bushes and flowering shrubs.
A rush of sadness swept over him as he thought of the last time he had travelled down this lane on his way to a new life and his breath came out of his lungs in a juddering rattle.
Perhaps he wasn’t as prepared for this as he thought he was?
Closing his eyes for a second, he saw his mother’s flower garden again in his mind’s eye, and walked along its winding paths, their heady scent filling the air against the buzz of honey bees and birdsong. And for a few moments he was transported back to that one place on this earth that would always be embedded deep inside and to the happiest period of time in his life.
Before his mother died.
Seb slowly opened his eyes into the glare from the sun and adjusted his designer sunglasses.
He had resisted coming back to this house for so many reasons. He might have lived in Sydney since the age of twelve and adored his life there, but he was still a Frenchman with his heart rooted in a deep heritage of land and culture. That could not be denied.
But something else drew him here. And the feeling unsettled him. At first he had put it down to anxiety about the business deal, but it was more than that. It was a strange sense of dissatisfaction and nagging unease that he had managed to push under the surface of his life for the past six months.
In fact, ever since he found out that his dad could not be his natural father.
Yes, he had been shocked by the surprise of it. Yes, he was astonished and taken aback, but he had not allowed the earthquake of the revelation to shake his world to pieces. He had grown up in a loving family with two caring parents and travelling the world on his charity projects had shown him just how precious a thing that was to a child.
No matter what the truth of his birth, he was proud of his mother and always would be. She had put him first. Only…he could not help but wonder why she had not told him the truth. Especially at the end when they all knew that time was short and he had spent many hours alone with her while she was still lucid. Just talking. And she had kept her secret.
Of course these past months had been filled with frenetic activity in the business. This was his first opportunity to take a real break, even if it was just a few hours in between discussions with Matt or the PSN Media legal team.
It made sense to spend a few days with Nicole and put his mind at ease.
Seb raised his shoulders up towards his ears, then dropped them back down to help relieve the tension. He needed something to put his mind at ease!
Because now he was back where he started!
Back to the house that now belonged to his former stepmother, Nicole, who won this house in the divorce from his dad.
It was hers to do with as she liked, even if that meant only using it as a holiday house for a few weeks a year. Or as a venue for her birthday party.
Nicole probably didn’t even realise that this was the same week as the anniversary of his mother’s death. And that his precious mother had taken her last breath in this house.
Seb pushed back his shoulders and lifted his head higher.
He knew one thing.
He would never again allow himself to love one person and one place so completely. Not when they could be snatched away from him at a moment’s notice and he was powerless to prevent it. Especially knowing what he knew now.
He didn’t believe in focusing on the past—only the future. And that meant honouring his mother through the charity work that was changing lives now. His old life was gone. Over. And the sooner he got back to Sydney and started on the new projects, the better.
He was here to spend the weekend with Nicole, catch up with his emails, then get back to the negotiating table first thing Monday morning before flying home. And that was all. The sooner the better.
A few minutes later Sebastien gingerly edged his rented very wide, very red and very shiny Italian sports car between the posts and started slowly down the gravel path, which was becoming more and more familiar by the metre.
A splash of frustration at his own inability to control his anxiety and apprehension for this stretch of rough roadway hit Seb hard and fast as cold as the air conditioning and he straightened his back and revved up the engine, oblivious to the flying gravel on the paintwork and thrilling to the glorious roar from under the bonnet.
He only hoped the gardens would not be as overgrown as the driveway, but he would find out soon enough. Once around the next blind corner, he would be able to see the roof
tops of the house.
He had been a fool to come here and expect the place to be the same.
The car picked up a little speed as he reached the corner, his eyes focused on the skyline looking for the house.
And then he suddenly slammed the brakes on so hard that the antilock brakes on the car activated and he came to a screeching halt on the loose gravel.
Something was lying in the road. Looking at him.
CHAPTER TWO
HEART thumping, it took a few seconds for Sebastien to catch his breath and unclamp his fingers from the steering wheel.
Knuckles still white, he flung open the car door, stretched his long legs out of the bucket seat and onto the path, the full heat of the afternoon sunshine hot on the back of his neck.
Laid out across the middle of the road only a few inches from the front of his car was a large grey and dapple brown dog who clearly had no intention of moving. Anywhere.
The dog was lying with its head on his paws, his shaggy coat thick with dust from the road and an extra layer of gravel that had been scattered by the car’s sudden stop.
And it was not just any dog. It was a hunting griffon, just like the one the kids on the next farm used to have when he was a boy. There was no mistaking the whiskers and heavy grey eyebrows on an old bearded face. He had not seen a griffon for years and just the sight of those intelligent eyes looking up at him made Seb smile as he stepped closer to check the dog was not injured.
Seb breathed a sigh of relief and hunkered down onto the back of his heels to take a closer look at this strange beast, who simply pushed a brown nose into Seb’s outstretched hand and sniffed heavily through wide open-flared nostrils before yawning widely, displaying a good set of teeth.
‘Not the best place to choose to have a nap, old mate,’ Seb muttered as the griffon wagged his tail, then turned on his side to have his tummy tickled, completely unharmed and apparently oblivious to the heart attack he had almost given the driver of the car who had come close to running him over.
The dog clearly liked what he smelt because Seb’s hand was given an experimental couple of licks before the ears twitched and the intelligent yellow eyes below the hairy eyebrows looked up into his face.
Then suddenly the griffon’s head shot up and both ears lifted as he pushed himself into a sitting position.
‘What is it, boy? What have you heard?’ Seb asked in French, but before the dog could bark a reply a gaggle of energy and four legs burst through the bushes and under-growth and leapt up, barking loudly, and struck Seb straight in the chest with enough force to send him flying backwards from the gravel path into the thick grass. And briars. And nettles. And whatever other bio matter the local wildlife had left there since it was last cut.
It took a few seconds for Seb to gather his wits and raise both of his hands to fend off the attack from a very wet tongue and even wetter fur ball, but it was too late to block the pair of wet muddy front paws dancing and prancing with delight on the front of Seb’s couture south sea island cotton business shirt. He didn’t want to think about his suit trousers. Not yet. From this angle the monster looked like a younger version of the dog on the path. The dog equivalent to a hyperactive toddler high on additives and sugar.
The grin and tail wagging said it all.
This was dog language for: Look what I’ve found! Someone new to play with! This is fun! Shall we see what tricks it can do?
Its older friend or relative decided that guarding the path was boring and took to hunting in the bushes.
Okay. Time to move.
Seb pushed himself up on one elbow and was immediately pounced on by the young hound, who had found a piece of stick for him to throw, his paws diving back and forward for attention.
Seb stared at it for a moment before chuckling out loud to himself.
This was turning out to be quite a day! Being knocked over by a playful puppy was nothing compared to a very long flight followed by two days of hard business negotiations and a short drive in a strange car on French roads he had last seen eighteen years earlier.
With a sigh he turned to the hopeful hound that was still prancing with his throwing stick and waved him away with one hand before speaking.
‘Not a chance, fella. Let me get back on my feet first.’
Only he never got the chance since the dog suddenly dropped the stick and took off at great speed back down the lane towards the main road, leaving Seb alone with the older dog, who was shuffling towards him for an ear rub.
‘Just you and me, mate? Where do you live? Um?’
‘Milou doesn’t speak English. And he lives with me, Mr Castellano.’
It was a woman’s voice. Her words were spoken in perfect English with the same type of accent he had heard many times from his British colleagues at the Castellano Tech headquarters back in Sydney. This particular bodiless voice was coming from the part of the lane he had just driven down so that its owner was hidden out of view behind his car.
Great! The first person he met in his old home village and he was flat on the back in the grass. And he had already been recognised. So much for wanting to keep a low profile!
He wondered how long she had been there watching him.
Seb sighed out loud and shook his head at just how ridiculous he must look at that moment. He had two choices. Start yelling about out-of-control hounds off the leash, which would hardly be fair considering that this was a private road in the middle of the countryside, or smile and move on.
By pushing himself up with one hand in a spot with the least number of stinging nettles, Seb managed to get himself to a sitting position without looking too much like an idiot, before paying more attention to the woman—who clearly knew who he was.
‘Hello! Are these your dogs? They’re quite a handful,’ he asked in English.
A pair of straw-coloured espadrille shoes on the ends of slim tanned female legs appeared in the space between the gravel and the bottom of his sports car, then walked slowly around the front so that they were standing directly in front of him.
The ankle within touching distance wore a thin ankle bracelet with tiny ceramic flowers—but the lace in this shoe was green while the lace in the other was stripy blue.
Suddenly more than a little curious about what the rest of the outfit might look like, Seb tried not to ogle as he lifted his gaze up at a yellow and white sundress with thin straps, which hung from tiny collarbones to fall above dark green cut-off Capri pants.
The last time he had seen an outfit like that was at a Christmas charity concert his company has sponsored at a local primary school in Sydney.
He was looking at Peter Pan. Or perhaps it was Tinker Bell?
Lifting his sunglasses with one hand, he risked looking into her face and a pair of shockingly pale blue eyes smiled down at him above a button nose and bow lips.
Her straight light brown hair was tied back from a smooth forehead with a broad green headband the same colour as her trousers.
He changed his opinion. Peter Pan was never this pretty, or petite. She was tiny! Tinker Bell.
And for a moment his voice did not seem to work as she took one more extra look at him without the slightest bit of concern, then turned to play with the dogs, who had clearly learnt not to jump up on the hand that fed them.
‘Hello, gang!’ she said in French. ‘How are you doing? Sorry that I’m so late! Have you missed me?’
Her knuckles rubbed each of the dogs in turn, and then she flung the stick down the road away from the car—‘Go on. Meet you back at the house!’ Then stood back and smiled as they raced away.
Only then did this lovely apparition smile down at Seb and switch back into English.
‘Don’t worry. You can play with them later!’
Play. He had no intention of playing with them! Seb sighed out loud and shook his head. Her cheery tone was too infectious for him to be angry with her for the ridiculous position he was in.
‘Are they always so…welcoming to strange
rs?’
‘Oh, no. Only men. Especially men in suits. They just love men in suits.’
Her eyes locked onto his shoes then his trousers and she shook her head from side to side.
‘On the other hand you are never going to get the stains out of those trousers. Maybe that wasn’t the best choice of outfit for rolling about with the hounds!’ Choice! He hadn’t been given any choice at all!
‘Do you need some help with the car, Mr Castellano? We don’t have a garage but I’ve cleared a space in the barn for you to use during your stay. There is a mistral forecast.’
Staying? How did she know that? Maybe there was more to this girl.
‘What makes you think that my name is Castellano? Miss…’
‘Mrs Martinez. Ella Martinez.’
She cocked her head to one side for a moment and gave him a smile that created little dimples in each cheek as though she could read his mind as easily as a book.
‘Relax. I’m not a journalist, or a mind-reader. Just Nicole’s housekeeper. This means that I’ve been dusting your photographs on top of the grand piano every week for the past three years.’
She paused, then glanced sideways at the sleek red car blocking the lane. ‘My little boy loves the pictures with all of the pretty ladies from the Monaco Grand Prix, but Nicole prefers the yacht racing. Strange she doesn’t have one of you sitting on your…best pants, in the grass. Shall I run and find my camera?’
Seb dropped his head towards one shoulder before snorting out a reply. Nicole had a housekeeper! That made sense.
‘Pleasure to meet you, Mrs Martinez, and please call me Seb. As for a camera? Thank you, but no. In fact I am highly relieved that you do not have a camera. I am embarrassed enough as it is.’
She chuckled gently before replying.
The Last Summer of Being Single Page 2