What a strange turn her life had taken. Here she was, living in America, dressed like a teenage boy. Philippe had stifled a laugh when he first laid eyes on her in one of his shirts with a buckskin vest, and breeches cinched with one of his black leather belts. She had had to tuck the legs deep into her boots to make sure they wouldn’t slip off while she was walking. Her hair was shoved up under a hat. Philippe shook his head with a grin and insisted that if she lowered her voice and adopted a slow swagger, she could perhaps pass for a fifteen-year old. The breeches afforded her certain advantages. She no longer had to worry about crossing her legs or covering her ankles—it was divine! Maman, were she here, would have been horrified.
It took just over three hours to ride to Vallejo and ferry across the bay to San Francisco. Once they reached the Embarcadero, Sara followed Philippe to the train station to retrieve the bottles. With the flat wagons and drivers Philippe hired, it took them four trips to bring the bottles to the warehouse, just a short distance away. There was little time for sightseeing, or even conversation. In spite of Philippe’s objections, Sara insisted on helping the men unload and stack the cases of wine. She reminded Philippe that today she was his teenage employee and would be expected to lend a hand. It was a small victory. She might not have a man’s strength, but she could still carry her fair share. She knew she was equal to the task, although she did not relish the toll a day’s riding and heavy lifting took on her body. She ached from her head to her toes by the afternoon’s end.
By the time they had stacked a thousand cases and received their payment, it was four o’clock. She and Philippe had just enough time to catch the five o’clock ferry and make it home before nightfall, at around eight. When they arrived at the wharf, however, they were dismayed to find out that the five o’clock crossing had been canceled. Mechanical problems forced the steamship authority to turn away a crowd of rowdy passengers. Sara was silently relieved—she was too sore to ride tonight, though she’d never admit it aloud.
Philippe shrugged and looked up and down the dockside streets. “There are a few hotels I know of nearby. We could see if they have two rooms available …” His voice trailed off.
“What?” Sara asked, suspicious. “Did you have another idea? I’m in favor of anything that won’t eat too far into that check you have burning a hole in your pocket. Any money we save goes back into the vineyard.”
Philippe nodded in approval. “I knew I made the right choice hiring you. Yes, I do have another idea … but … well,” he stammered, “I don’t know if you’d—”
Sara cut him off midsentence. “Would you even hesitate to suggest it if I were a man working for you?”
“Ah, no. No, I wouldn’t.”
“Then?”
He shook his head and gave her a crooked smile. “I usually camp out at the beach. We can get supplies nearby.” He looked up at the sky. “It looks like it’ll be a clear night. I just find the beach more convenient and less stuffy than a hotel.”
“Great—let’s go.”
Philippe looked surprised. “Really? You don’t mind?”
“Of course not. I know how to pitch a tent and besides, I’d rather sleep outside. San Francisco is beautiful.”
After stopping for supplies—blankets, a tent and feed for the horses—Sara and Philippe galloped down California Street, past the Presidio to a small crescent beach. It took some effort to coax the horses down the steep, rocky incline. At the bottom, they tied their mounts to a hitching post. Sara’s wide eyes scanned the tall dark cliffs and jutting rock formations that sloped upwards from the shoreline, sheltering them on this small sliver of beach. Across the stretch of ocean before her, the lush green Marin headlands rose up from the bay in unbroken splendor. Everything in this part of the world was so expansive, so immense. She’d never seen anything like California. It seemed to stretch on forever.
“It’s a beautiful spot. How often do you camp here?”
Philippe continued unsaddling the horses. “Almost every time I come here. This beach used to be the campground for the Chinese fishermen until they were kicked out by the white men that run the city.” He shook his head in disgust.
Philippe pulled a quilt from his saddlebag and spread it over a patch of cool sand. Together, they scoured the beach for branches of driftwood large enough to start a fire. As Philippe worked on kindling a campfire, Sara sat down on the beach. It was a relief to finally take off her hat and release her hair from its pins. She had no hairbrush, so she combed her fingers through her tresses and shook out the knots. The light, salty breeze was refreshing, and cooled her itchy scalp. She tied her hair back loosely with a leather cord she had stashed in her bag.
Sara dug into her bag for the leftovers from lunch—cold chicken, apples, bread and half a bottle of chardonnay—and transferred the food to tin plates from Philippe’s saddlebag. They sat down to a satisfying meal, to revel in their accomplishment and plot their next triumph.
“A tavern? Really?” Philippe seemed cautiously interested.
“It wouldn’t have to be a tavern. We could start small—a wine wagon, perhaps,” Sara ventured.
“Hmm.” Philippe popped another piece of bread into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully.
Sara brandished a chicken leg in her right hand as she expanded on her idea. “Hundreds of tourists travel by rail from Napa Junction to Calistoga every year to take the waters at Aetna Springs. We could set up a wagon or a permanent stand at the station. It might be a nice cool place to stop in the summer heat for some refreshment. A glass of wine, some cake, a few bottles of chardonnay for the journey …” Sara beamed. The possibilities excited her. She took another bite of her chicken. “Mmm. It could be a gold mine.”
Philippe shook his head and grinned. “That brain of yours never stops scheming, does it? Your ideas are very creative and—well, unexpected.”
Sara wasn’t very comfortable with flattery, so she persisted with the plan. “So you’ll consider it?”
“I’ll consider it. After the harvest. Hammer out some more details for me. Location. Cost of construction. Cost of upkeep. We’ll talk about it at the end of September.”
“Will do, boss.” Sara mock-saluted him with her tin cup.
Philippe flashed a grin, then restlessly jumped up and stoked the fire with a branch. Sara watched the embers glow and sparks fly up, lighting the darkening sky like blue fireflies. When he sat down again he was closer to her side, closer than two people sharing a stretch of deserted beach would usually sit.
For the first time all day, Sara was self-conscious. She was here without a chaperone; in fact there was not another soul anywhere on the beach. She stared down at the colorful black, red and white geometric pattern of the quilt. As she ran her fingers along its stitches, she told herself she was being silly. If she were going worry about anything, it should be about Philippe discovering her crime, not being alone with him. A sick feeling washed over her, but she steeled herself. She had made her decision.
“Are you warm enough?” He was shoulder-to-shoulder with Sara now, resting his elbows casually on his parted knees. The fire’s blue-orange flames were reflected in his eyes, muting their sharp blue-green, but painting them with an unimaginable brilliance.
“Um, yes?” It came out as a mumbled question, but Sara was so distracted by his nearness, she wasn’t sure she had actually said anything. She would have felt utterly ridiculous had his eyes not rested on her.
“Yes?” he repeated, his face moving slightly toward hers. Now she could catch his scent—like honey and cloves. His face was close to hers now, yet she did not feel threatened by him. She did not shrink from his touch as he ran the back of his hand from her cheekbone to her jaw. She closed her eyes and felt a wave of desire like none she had ever experienced ripple through her. She pressed her lips together to keep from sighing. His nose grazed the length of her throat, and his lips brushed against the hollow at the base of her neck. She loved the feel of his warm, soft breath on her skin.
Then he lifted his head, searching her eyes again. The intensity was almost too much to bear. Her eyes flitted away from his, and she could feel herself flush. She hoped it was too dark for him to see her crimson cheeks. She was so inexperienced; she didn’t know what to do. But at that moment, she desperately wanted to learn. She needn’t have worried. Sara felt Philippe’s fingers graze her chin, and he swept his thumb gently across her lower lip. Every inch of her body went soft. His eyes never left her lips as his fingers continued their caress. When he finally spoke, his voice was a whisper. “May I?”
Sara tried to answer, but the words caught in her throat. Her body took the lead over her addled brain and she nodded, just barely. He smiled gently, amused, she imagined, by her inability to form a coherent phrase. Then, ever so cautiously, he brought his lips to hers.
As they kissed, Sara felt an electrical current surge through her chest and begin to burn deep within her. She instinctively placed her hands on his warm, hard torso, and then, worried he would think she was pushing him away, moved them up shyly to stroke his stubbled cheeks. Her heart was beating so violently she thought it would explode out of her chest. Sara was shocked. How could she have been so oblivious to her desires? She had craved this since the day she had first seen him again in the vineyard. Philippe parted her lips with his tongue and pressed his hand to the small of her back to pull her closer to him. A low moan escaped from his throat. Yet, Sara thought, he was controlled, never violent, so different from … And the warm taste of him—she never wanted him to stop.
When he pulled away, Philippe’s breathing was jagged. He stroked her cheek with his thumb and exhaled deeply. “I should apologize. I promised myself I’d be on my best behavior tonight. Honestly, this wasn’t part of the plan.” He smiled.
Sara shook her head and looked down at the sand, running her fingers through the cold granules in an effort to recover her senses. “No.” Her mind took the lead again, and she started to say what a respectable woman would say upon finding herself alone on a beach at night with a man: Take me home. But somehow she couldn’t.
“Are you very upset with me?” He brought his face down to hers, seeking her eyes, but she could only look down at her fingers, drawing lines in the sand.
“You’re blushing?” He sounded surprised. How did he know that heat burned in her cheeks? He would wonder why—he would think she had practice at this, her having been married.
Sara touched her face. “I suppose so, yes.”
“You needn’t be embarrassed.” He wound a loose strand of her hair around his finger and tucked it back behind her ear.
She pulled away and looked up at him. His face was luminous next to the dying fire. “It’s not that. It’s just that I didn’t expect—I know I should leave, that we shouldn’t be … together like this.” She didn’t know if she was making any sense. She inhaled sharply and gazed up at him again. “But I don’t want to leave.”
Philippe laughed lightly. “Neither do I.” Before she could say another word, his hand was in her hair, and he pulled her gently toward him. He kissed her again eagerly. All Sara’s reservations floated away like balloons snipped from their strings. She surrendered to the sensation and let the moment have her.
After a few minutes, Philippe pulled away again, this time abruptly, as if something had just occurred to him. “You don’t know much about me.”
“No, I suppose not.” What did he mean?
“I asked you so much about yourself before I offered you a job. It’s only fair that you have a chance to ask me a few questions. To know what you’re getting yourself into.” His expression suggested he was enjoying all of this a bit too much.
“I do know a little about your background, from what Aurora’s told me.”
“Oh, so you two have been talking about me behind my back?”
“A little,” Sara said unapologetically. “I know you are from Vouvray, that your father is an important wine negotiant in the valley and that you are the younger of two sons.”
“And that my brother was killed last year.”
Sara could not bear to look at him. She shifted her gaze to the expanse of ocean. The crests of the waves were barely visible now in the encroaching darkness.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured, managing to sound like any other sympathetic friend, but feeling a flood of regret.
Philippe’s eyes followed hers out to the water. “It was sad and untimely, but you understand that all too well, I would suspect, having lost your husband.”
Sara did not reply to this, nor did she glance in his direction. She kept her eyes fixed on the rolling waves. Philippe must have sensed she did not want to talk. When he spoke again, his voice was lighter, although Sara detected a hint of melancholy remaining. “C’est la vie, n’est-ce pas?”
Sara couldn’t think about the past. She was separated into halves now—one part had despised Bastien enough to end his life and the other loved Philippe too much to leave him, though she knew she should. Tonight, she would listen to the latter.
“Aurora did tell me one other thing.”
“That sounds ominous.” He chuckled darkly. “What is it?”
“That you have a woman in town.” Sara’s eyes drifted toward the shadowy outline of the jagged rock cliffs beside them and then back to his face.
Philippe exhaled loudly before he formed his response. “Had.”
Sara was suddenly ashamed for having asked him about something so scandalous. Yet she burned with curiosity and wanted to know more. She glanced down at the sand.
His finger gently coaxed her chin upwards. “Look at me, Sara.” His voice was almost pleading, and his eyes smoldered with an emotion that Sara couldn’t decipher. “Had. I broke it off with her the day after Aurora’s party.”
“But why? You didn’t even know me.” Sara was unconvinced.
“I know it sounds like nonsense, but it’s true. The day I first met you, in the vineyard, I was drawn to you, though I wouldn’t admit it to myself. That night at Aurora’s, when you spoke so fearlessly, with such conviction and intelligence, I knew how I felt.”
Sara didn’t know what to make of that. In truth, she knew she had experienced the same thing when she’d first seen him in California.
“Did you and she have … an understanding?” Sara wanted to be sure. She wanted to believe him.
Philippe shook his head and, for the first time since she’d met him, shifted uncomfortably under her scrutiny. “Not so much an understanding as an arrangement.”
Sara blinked, wide-eyed with surprise.
“Are you shocked?”
She instantly felt young and naive. She was nine years his junior and not at all familiar with the intimacies between a man and woman. He knew so much more than she did.
“A bit.” She looked down to hide her expression. In truth, she was stunned.
Philippe was silent for a few moments, and Sara didn’t dare speak. When he finally did explain, his candor was genuine and appealing.
“It’s not something I’m proud of, nor is it something I sought out. It just evolved, and I did nothing to stop it. But I assure you,” he said, taking her cold hand in his, “my intentions toward you are entirely honorable.”
Sara shook her head—she had heard enough. Who was she, of all people, to judge his actions? “You needn’t explain further.”
“Ah—but I do. You need to know,” he said as he kissed the back of her hand, “that after I saw you out in the vineyard, I didn’t want anyone but you.”
She could see the sincerity in his eyes, yet she didn’t know if she could trust her feeling of elation. She thrilled to know that he desired her. But had he chosen her to be foreman only because of his attraction to her? What about her experience and ideas? She would always want to be valued for her mind. A flash of what she was feeling must have registered on her face.
“Does that upset you?” Philippe asked.
“Yes. I mean, yes and no.” She shook her head, tryi
ng to think of the right words. In the end, she clumsily blurted out, “Is that the only reason you hired me?”
He tipped his head to the side, as if he thought her question absurd. “No! I hired you because you were the best man for the job. It wasn’t until tonight that I really allowed myself to act on my—what would you call it?—my ulterior motive, I suppose.”
Sara couldn’t help but laugh. “I guess I can’t blame this entirely on you. I was an all-too-willing accomplice.”
“Hmm, yes. So it would seem.” He pulled her tightly to him, and they sat in silence, listening to the gentle crash of the waves against the shore. Sara leaned against Philippe’s chest, enjoying the comforting, steady rhythm of his breath. She could not remember the last time she’d been embraced. Maybe before Papa left her for the last time, or before Lydia died. She exhaled deeply, feeling content and secure for the first time in a long while. She felt him tighten his arms around her. Before long, she drifted into a deep, tranquil sleep.
Sara awoke alone inside the tent, to the screeching of seagulls diving for their breakfast along the shoreline. She surmised that Philippe had carried her inside and slept outside by the fire, to tend to the horses. She rubbed her eyes, raked her fingers through her hair and retied the loose strands. She wished she had some mint leaves this morning to freshen her breath, but perhaps a swig of leftover wine or a sip of water would do the trick.
She stepped outside, sheepish and flushed from the memory of the night before. She could not see Philippe near the freshly lit fire, though the horses were still securely tied up and feasting on apples and hay. She scanned the beach for him, then inhaled sharply. He was stunning in the morning light as he washed his face and torso in the frigid ocean water. The musculature of his back, even from a distance, was smooth and flawless, marked only by two faint scars that ran from his waist up to his right shoulder blade. Her heart sank when she thought of someone hurting him. Had it been his father, Jean Lemieux? When she regained her breath, she was terrified that Philippe might see her studying him so brazenly. She ducked back inside the tent before he turned around, hoping he wouldn’t catch sight of her, and sat cross-legged inside her shelter, churning with confusion.
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