by Ava Miles
“Yankees haven’t cornered the market on honesty,” he said, his drawl purposely exaggerated. “I’m only getting the lay of the land here.”
“Is that all?” Flynn asked.
Had he given away his deeper affection for Caitlyn? He figured it was likely. Well, best clear the air either way. “Originally, yes, that’s what I’d planned. But then I met your sister, and she got to me. Right here.” He tapped his heart. “She’s pretty wonderful, and I seem to be falling for her. But I can tell that’s not news to you.”
He pushed off the door. “I’m a perceptive guy, and I noticed how you looked at her in the library. She is wonderful and trusting, with a heart like an eager puppy. She’s been hurt by ‘nice guys’ before.”
The words echoed in the room, the stone walls adding their own acoustics.
“I won’t hurt her.” He’d keep all his junk to himself and enjoy his time here with her. After that, he didn’t know. Couldn’t think that far ahead. He was still trying to take in the fact that he really wasn’t Beau Masters. He was only Beau, a man with no last name, with only half of his roots known.
“Glad we’re clear. Still, I find it interesting you could take off like this given your schedule. Most celebrities don’t have that luxury.”
So he suspected something? Well, good for him, but Beau wasn’t sharing. “I’m a lucky guy, what can I say.”
Flynn opened the door. “Nice talk. Get some rest. These Provençal dinners can go a few hours. I’m hoping Jean Pierre will be kind to us and let us beg off early since we all flew in today.”
* * *
The evening passed in a blur. Jean Pierre and his wife, Anais, were kind, and their two young children charmed everyone. Yet the excitement of coming here, to this magical place, had started to wear off. The doubts and anxiety crept back in, especially when he was introduced to Jean Pierre’s father and grandfather, both of whom had worked this land in their heyday. The signs of their family likeness were stamped into their faces, from their aquiline noses to their strong brow bones. These men knew who they were, where they belonged. Four generations graced this table, and Beau couldn’t stop thinking about the father he didn’t know. How his mama had asked him to change his last name to her maiden name prior to his first record, erasing Masters forever, without explaining why.
Jet lag led into depression, much like the pastis to wine during dinner, which he left untouched. He’d only reached for vodka out of desperation, and while Walt Masters wasn’t truly his father and those genes weren’t in his blood, he wasn’t going to use alcohol as a crutch. He hoped he was still a better man than that.
Much of the conversation slipped into rapid-fire French. He was the only person who didn’t speak it, something he hadn’t considered in the mad rush to come here. The whole table laughed at stories Beau couldn’t fully grasp. Caitlyn tried to translate, seated as she was beside him, but he finally whispered for her to cease because her eyes were drooping like his. Besides, while the language barrier made him feel like more of an outsider, he nonetheless enjoyed listening to the music this foreign language made. Its melodic feast surrounded him as he stared out at the moon-touched fields, the purple flowers now shaded in midnight blue and white.
He fed his body, noting tastes that were as unfamiliar—yet delightful—as the smells around him. Anais had told them what they were eating, but he’d forgotten, only remembering her comment that the recipes had been in their family for many generations. Again, their connection to history stirred up the agony inside him. The pain was pressing out, and he knew it couldn’t be held back any longer.
Finally, he excused himself, deciding it best to play the American card and beg off after the main course was removed. When Caitlyn offered to walk him back, he declined, saying he could walk back alone. It would be good for him even if everyone but Ibrahim expressed it was rather far. He didn’t bend, noting he would find it easily once he started walking west. After all, they’d left the lights on in the farmhouse, and the fields were a flat plain. Caitlyn’s face seemed strained, but she patted his arm, sensing he needed to be alone. Anais watched him warily—no doubt it was highly irregular to leave mid-meal—and he was sorry he’d hurt her feelings by leaving early.
The formal leave-taking with the Bisset males was awkward. He’d never had a man kiss him on the cheeks, three times no less. And his emotional state was such that it pained him when Jean Pierre’s father and grandfather both gave him a hearty embrace. His real father had never embraced him.
And if his mother had her way, he never would.
When he was halfway back to the farmhouse, the lights shining brightly, a beacon of home, he could contain the pain no longer. He sank to one knee, fisted his hands in the soil to steady himself, and faced a lifetime of lies in the lavender-scented moonlight.
He’d spent so long trying not to be something that he didn’t know what he really was in truth. He’d been given a list of nevers and always by a woman he could no longer trust. So, what did belong to him?
It was time to find out who, in fact, he was and what was true for him, even if that meant jumping into a sea of indeterminate depth.
Chapter 5
When Caitlyn and Flynn arrived home after bidding Ibrahim goodnight in the driveway, she took to the stairs immediately. Beau’s light was still on.
The door was open. Her scan was perfunctory. She knew he wasn’t there.
“Boy wonder still out?” Flynn asked from behind her.
“You don’t think he got lost, do you?” She’d worried about him leaving, not only because of the distance he’d need to cross to return to the farmhouse but because of the condition he’d been in. They were both tired, of course, but there was more to it than that. He’d seemed broken down somehow.
“He seemed to be sure he could find his way back,” Flynn said, putting a hand on her shoulder and rubbing it for comfort. “I know you’re worried but taking to the fields to find him isn’t the way.”
And it wasn’t like she could drive the car through the fields either. “It’s been an hour since he left or thereabouts.”
“Anais knew you were exhausted, so she took pity on us. No cheese or brandy after dessert… We got away early.”
She was grateful for it. The other woman had given her a look as if to say, “Go after him.” “I’m going to sit outside and wait for him. It’s nice out and the lavender keeps the bugs away, thank God. I could probably spot him in the fields in the moonlight.”
Flynn chuckled. “If you spot him, he’ll have seen the house. Okay, I know when you’re going to be stubborn. Go wait for him then. I’m going to bed. Love you.”
She turned as he brushed a soft kiss on her cheek. “Love you too. Sleep tight.”
“Always,” he said. “But if he’s not back in another hour, come wake me up, and we’ll figure out what to do.”
God, she hoped they wouldn’t need a search party. “Thanks, Flynn.”
“I’ve always got your back.”
She left him and walked back down the stairs, only stopping to pick up her shawl again in case her arms got chilled. The night was cool as she stepped out of the house, but in an inviting way.
A few chairs were clustered under the portico by the fields. Curling up in one of them, she settled the shawl over her like a blanket. A powerful calm stole over her as she scanned the fields in the direction of the Bisset house. Moonlight spilled over the land, making the lavender spikes look like a princess’ magical silver wand. She inhaled the air, and the spice and perfume filled her nose. Yes, this felt like home.
He would come this way, and she would be here for him.
She didn’t have to wait long. His lone dark silhouette appeared, and her heart filled with new emotion. Happiness. Longing. Compassion. His shoulders looked slumped, even in the moonlight. He was a man downtrodden with troubles, and she planned to do her part to lighten them.
When he reached the end of the lavender fields, she stood. “Beau,” she call
ed out.
He jumped and held out his hands. “Goodness, Caitlyn. You scared the life out of me. What are you doing out here?”
“Waiting for you,” she said, coming toward him, her shawl wrapped around her. “I was worried when you weren’t back yet.”
His face seemed to go slack, the dark shadows slipping away as he stepped closer. “You didn’t need to do that, but I thank you. Seeing you here in the moonlight makes everything better.”
And yet, his burdens still weighed on him. She could hear it in his voice. “Want to sit a spell?” she asked, reaching out a hand to him. “Maybe tell me what’s got you so worked up. I know you already said it’s about a fight with your mother, but if you want to share more, I’m a good listener.”
He lifted her hand, turning it over in the moonlight as if in wonder. “I know you are, but you’re tired.”
“So are you,” she whispered. “Talk to me, Beau.”
An agonized sound crested out, and he lowered their joined hands. “Come, let’s sit then. If I had a jacket, I’d wrap it around you.”
“I have my shawl,” she said as they walked back to the chairs under the portico. “Besides, the temperature is perfect, not too hot, not too cool.”
“Yeah.” He sank into the chair next to hers after angling it closer, still holding her hand. “Have you ever had someone lie to you about something so important it sliced you cleanly in two?”
She curled toward him, gripping his hand, and said honestly, “No.”
“I’m glad for you,” he said, rubbing his thumb over the back of her hand. “It’s…the worst. Disappointing. Shocking. Cruel even. I’ve lived mostly a good life, Caitlyn, and it’s hard to wrap my mind around why someone would do this, especially… I don’t want to talk about the particulars yet. It’s still too raw.”
“That’s okay,” she said, wishing she could reach out and touch his cheek. “You take all the time you need. In the meantime, I’ll just hold your hand and be your friend.”
He snorted. “You’re more than my friend, and we both know it. But until I feel a little more solid in myself, I’m not going to act on that. I told your brother he could trust me with you. Caitlyn, I don’t want to mess things up with you, and right now, I’m struggling with who I am.”
Who he was? He was Beau Masters, one of the kindest and sweetest men she’d ever known—a man she’d already fallen for. Had his mother lied to him? Was that what the fight had been about? Or had they had a disagreement over the liar himself? Regardless of the answers, this man was hurting, and because she cared for him, she found she was hurting too, for him.
“Oh, Beau,” she said, uncurling from her chair. “First, I told you I trust you. Second, I understand not wanting to mess up whatever this is between us. I don’t either. But you should know, I’m here for you. I wish I could help you more.”
He raised her hand and kissed the back of it. “You’re sitting here in the moonlight, listening to me ramble on. You are helping, honey. More than you know.”
The endearment gave her the courage she needed to touch his face, and his eyes brightened, the white light from the moon sparking in them like a bright star winking in the night sky. “You’re hurting and tired. Rest. Sit with things. Find me if you need company. I hate hearing you don’t know who you are.”
“Perhaps it’s overdue. This is what my album is about, after all. Time to face the music, as they say. I just didn’t expect it would go like this.”
Roots, he’d said. And lies apparently. She’d have to be patient until he wanted to fill in the rest of the puzzle for her, not her strong suit. “Let’s just sit then.”
He settled their joined hands against his chest. “Tell me something more about yourself. Anything.”
She said the first thing that popped into her head. “I love lavender.”
“Why?” he asked, closing his eyes.
“It’s calming and smells nice. Did you know it’s one of the top essential oils? From a business perspective, it’s a winner.”
“I sense there’s more to it than that.”
She inhaled deeply, noting how the fragrance wasn’t as strong now with the fields resting. “I don’t know really. I’ve just always loved the smell.”
His lips turned up. “And now you have entire fields of them. I liked walking among them in the moonlight. I think I’m going to find a place to sit and write some songs. The fields feel right to me somehow, the plants growing as nature intended but ordered all the same. I like the order just now.”
“I don’t,” she said, sinking deeper into the chair. “I like a little mess and chaos every once in a while. We had to keep things pretty orderly growing up. Clean rooms. Made beds. Dishes immediately in the dishwasher kind of thing. One of the best days of my life was when I got to my dorm and realized I didn’t have to keep it clean.”
He chuckled, the sound dark and husky in the quiet night. “You know what one of my best days was?”
“What?”
“When I wrote my first song. I was twelve, and I heard it while I was fishing on the river outside of town.”
The slow rise and fall of his chest was soothing to her. She could imagine her hand on his chest when they were in bed together, and she had to tell herself to slow down. “What was it about?”
He sang:
River take me with you.
Take me where I want to go.
To lands far away.
Help me see new skies.
Meet new friends.
Explore new worlds.
The power of his voice stole over her. She’d never heard him sing in person except at two of the concerts she’d attended with Michaela years ago. Sitting here, an audience of one, she didn’t feel like he was a famous country singer, only a man singing softly to the woman he cared about. “I love it.”
A soft laugh escaped from him, and she looked over. His eyes were still closed. “Not my most descriptive or musically complex, but to that boy… That song meant the world. On that day, I dove into the river, so to speak, and knew I’d go places.”
No wonder he’d become famous so young. He’d already decided to do something bigger, be bigger.
“Now I’m sitting in the French countryside holding hands with you on this beautiful night. Talk about an adventure.”
His eyes opened, and he caressed the line of her cheekbone. His touch was soft, but it left a wake of sweet warmth. She raised her hand to keep his fingers on her cheek. She wanted him to go on touching her forever. Sweetly. Softly.
“When I’ve imagined courting a woman, this is what I thought it would be like.”
That made her smile. “Are you courting me, Beau?”
Again, his mouth tipped up. “You bet I am, honey.”
Chapter 6
Walking the fields, Beau had struggled with painful truths. Holding hands with Caitlyn, talking with her, he only needed to be. It felt good to share stories of moments that had been true for him, like that first song by the river. It reminded him that his mama’s lie hadn’t tainted everything.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been courted before,” she said, curling back into the chair like she was wont to do. He’d noticed she liked to tuck her feet under her when they were on the airplane. The pose was sweet and oddly innocent, but he couldn’t wait until they knew each other better so he could suggest she curl up on his lap instead. Having her hand rest on his chest was enough for now, but it wouldn’t be in time. He told himself to be patient. He had a lot to work out. She deserved to have a solid man courting her.
“I’m not surprised,” he said, wanting to laugh when her face bunched up at his teasing. “It’s not because of you. You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met. Certainly one of the sweetest.”
“Thank you very much,” she said, squeezing his hand for good measure. “I was about to leave you and head inside.”
“Courting is a lost art,” he said, kissing the back of her hand again. “People are always rushing to th
e finish line. Isn’t that why you want your perfume to make women feel like they matter?”
Her lips twitched. “You remembered.”
“’Course I do,” he said. “And you need to feel like you matter. To me. As a woman. That’s the art of courting, honey.” Suddenly he remembered something she’d said during her pitch—in an odd moment of vulnerability, she’d talked about not feeling good enough. He’d seen the uncertainty in her eyes. Courting was something he would have done for any woman he liked, but he knew it would resonate with Caitlyn’s soul.
She sat up again. The woman never sat still long. “I want you to know you matter to me too. I guess I’m also courting you.”
He couldn’t help but chuckle. “Where I’m from, it’s the men that do the courting. Part of being a Southern gentleman. But I’ll accept your courting all the same.”
She settled back down in her chair. Only time would tell how long she’d stay there. “Good, because you don’t have much choice about it.”
“I like the fire in you,” he said. “I felt it in your proposal. Your words. You have passion. As an artist—and a man—I respect that.” He wouldn’t tell her he looked forward to exploring it. Not yet.
“Do you have a courting book, or do you just make up your game plan on the fly?” she asked.
He had to think about it a moment. His mama’s instructions came to mind, but he didn’t want to abide by her list any longer. He wanted, needed, one of his own. “Don’t worry none. I have some ideas, but the more I get to know you, the better I can tailor it to you. Your likes. Your interests. I’m looking forward to learning more about you. Tell me something else about you. Unless you’re too tired.”