by Ava Miles
Beau watched as Hargreaves took off after the man in brisk strides. He didn’t understand whatever he said that made the man halt and turn, but he did so, an almost disgruntled expression on his face. The two conferred, and finally the man laughed. Rich, baritone notes much like his cologne. They exchanged a few lines of brusque French, then he sauntered off. This time Beau noticed his shoes. They were a rich caramel, somehow a perfect contract to the navy suit.
As Hargreaves returned, he found himself floundering. He’d left his cowboy hat in the car, and thank God. He’d have looked even more like a fish out of water than he did now.
“I have learned of a couple of shops I believe will see to your needs, sir,” Hargreaves said. “If you will follow me.”
Beau wanted to ask what the man had laughed about. He couldn’t imagine Hargreaves making fun of him. They walked slowly, turning at this street and then another. Beau only followed. The square was filled with the scents of fresh baked bread, roasted meat, and jasmine from flowers planted in the large containers flanking a few restaurants with open seating. Then the sharp, pungent scent of coffee hit his nose, and he inhaled deeply.
“I hope you’ll let me take you to lunch after this, Hargreaves,” he said, nodding to a woman who smiled as she passed him, almost in amusement. “I must look like the worst kind of tourist to them.”
“We’re about to remedy that, sir.”
He hadn’t expected Hargreaves to answer. At the next street, Hargreaves stopped in front of a store window showing two men’s suit jackets, one in a deep maroon that reminded Beau of the last shade of sunset while the other was in a rich cream he’d dot on cherry pie.
“Here we are, sir,” Hargreaves said, opening the door.
Beau stopped short. Was he being crazy? Seeing some guy in a suit and wanting to look like that? His mother wasn’t the only one who’d encouraged him to stick to the down-home look. Tommy Penders had done the same, hadn’t he? “I don’t know if I can pull this off.”
But New Beau said: You don’t know who you really are. Why not find out?
Maybe his real father had a penchant for nice-looking suits, ones that made a man look confident, elegant even. He’d have never imagined wanting to look like that, but he wanted to present himself as a man who knew how to treat a woman, and he’d bet that Frenchman did. He wouldn’t blunder over a restaurant menu or order the wrong bottle of wine. And he certainly wouldn’t balk from kissing a woman he wanted.
“Like I told my mistress when she was very young, fashion is a matter of the heart. Come, let’s see what yours is telling you.”
A matter of the heart. He was still reeling from that statement when the female shopkeeper called out to him. She left the severe-looking man behind the counter, striding forward in a bold red dress, uneven at the edges. It looked like someone had been drunk when designing it, and yet, the cuts were too precise. They were intentional and somehow perfect in their imperfection.
Then she smiled at him, a kind smile that lit up her brown eyes. It was the same kind of encouraging smile a few of his schoolteachers had given him when he’d wanted to ask another question about a subject—everything from why beavers dammed up a river to why geese traveled in a V— but was afraid of other students poking fun at him for being an egghead.
Then she spoke, and her soft, foreign words went straight into his soul.
Hargreaves translated, “She says ‘Come inside. There’s much to discover, and you look like a man ready to discover it.’”
The words echoed his conversation with Caitlyn last night, which seemed like a sign. As he stepped over the threshold, the suited man behind the counter came out to join the woman in the red dress. Hargreaves listened to him for a moment and then introduced the man as her husband. Beau understood that look now. The suited man was protective of his woman.
No other customers or employees were in the shop, so Beau took the leap and told them, via Hargreaves, about the changes he’d been making in his life. About the good-old-boy style he’d grown beyond like a dried-up houseplant that had run its course. Hell, he’d been dressing the same since he’d made it big at sixteen, he realized—like he was still in high school.
Somehow it was easier to put his feelings into words, knowing they couldn’t understand him. He found himself sharing how he’d torn his clothes, looking for something different inside him. A new image for the musician he was, yes, but also for the man. They needed to be one and the same.
She’d raised an eyebrow then and said, “Musicien,” which he understood. Her nod communicated a new piece of the puzzle of him.
Hargreaves continued to provide rapid-fire translations.
“What kind?” the woman asked.
“Country,” he answered.
Another mysterious sound came from her, and she looked him up and down again. “Any Italian in your blood? Your coloring and those eyelashes make me think Rome.”
“No, Spanish,” her husband corrected. “Madrid. That nose…”
His heart started pounding. “Not that I know of.”
The questions that followed, translated in Hargreaves’ voice, seemed to open up the hollow area in his heart.
What is it you wish to say now?
What do you want people to know of you when they see you on the street?
He found himself thinking of that damn cocoon Ibrahim had mentioned. He responded: he wanted people to know he was more than he seemed. That he still had goodness but he’d been touched by shadows, ones he couldn’t make sense of yet. She loved that answer and spun away to a wall of stacked golden-colored drawers under their displays, pulling out shirts and jackets.
What kinds of colors grab your attention and captivate you?
He looked to the window display, saying, “I would never have imagined liking that maroon in the window, but it’s arresting, isn’t it? I figure I’m an open canvas.”
When Hargreaves translated, “Music to my ears,” Beau laughed.
They got down to the nitty-gritty then, everything from linen to the finest cotton he’d ever felt, so soft and breathable it could have passed for a second skin. He went on instinct, nodding his head when he liked something and shaking it when he didn’t. Hargreaves continued translating, and then the husband asked him a question that floored him:
What have you been waiting your whole life to say as a man?
Is this how the French chose their clothes? Good Lord, no wonder their outfits suited them so well, as if every inch of fabric they’d chosen aligned with their attributes and traits. It was much like Ibrahim talking about how a person picked a scent. It had to be individual, unique, something that expressed their very nature. A matter of the heart, as Hargreaves had said.
He discovered a new truth about himself. He was a man who was as comfortable wearing torn clothes as he was these fine threads. He liked being country and confident.
He was proud of the man he was becoming.
“Hargreaves,” he said, feeling himself standing taller every minute. “Would you ask them what their names are and give them mine? Please.”
They were helping him unearth a new aspect of himself, and it only seemed right that they should do so on a first-name basis.
“Colette,” she said with a warm smile.
“Étienne,” her husband replied, his cheekbones sitting high as if he spent most of his days assessing what looked best on people from atop a mountain.
“Beau,” he said. “Beau Masters.”
Hargreaves introduced himself as well, his smile welcoming. A new camaraderie was born, and then Étienne went to another set of shelves and brought out trousers. Some matched the jackets Beau favored, but a few others were in direct opposition, almost as different as the sound of a piano from a trio of spoons. But Beau knew two very different things could make music together, and after Colette held a few combinations up against him, a hairsbreadth away from his body, he was ushered into a dressing room.
They quickly fell into a pattern.
He’d try something on and then make an appearance. The husband and wife sometimes smiled in tandem. Other times, they argued about whether or not the outfit worked, but even in their passionate exchanges, Beau noticed how they touched each other. A finger to the cheek as they spoke or the slight caress of the hand. They spoke a language all their own and weren’t afraid to let others see it.
He lost count of how many combinations he tried on, but they seemed to settle on four outfits in the end. He’d decided early on to disregard the price tags; it wasn’t like he spent much money on himself. Besides, he wouldn’t scrimp on a good pair of boots. Why would he with this? He’d never gone on his very own tailored shopping spree before.
The black velvet jacket was one of his favorites, along with a fine white shirt that felt like silk against his skin. Colette told him he could wear it with jeans, and then she laughed, saying she’d noticed he looked very good in jeans when he was standing outside their shop. She blew a kiss to her husband, and said, “No men wear jeans quite like the Americans. You should definitely keep that part for your new look.”
Eyeing himself in the mirror, he could rather see himself wearing that fine shirt open at the collar with a leather belt and torn jeans. His boots would add pure country.
Sometimes country, sometimes confident, he heard in his head, along with the heavy strings of guitar followed by a fiddle. More makings of a new song. Hot damn.
“Would you like to wear something new out of the store?” Colette asked him. “Not that I don’t like what you came in with.”
He looked down at his torn clothes. Yes, he liked the look, but somewhere in the middle of trying on all of these new textures and colors, he’d realized he’d torn his clothes because he’d been torn up inside. But he was mending, wasn’t he? He was finding out more about his essence, as Ibrahim would say.
“I’d like that very much, Colette.”
After dressing in his new threads, he emerged to find his purchases boxed up neatly according to type, so he could find what he wanted. He told Colette about his date with the most beautiful woman in the world tonight. She asked if he’d chosen a place yet, and he looked at Hargreaves, who seemed to shrug. “If you have a better place, I’m sure we’ll love it.”
Colette made the reservation herself for two at eight o’clock, saying her friend who owned the restaurant would take good care of them. Then she asked him about shoes, pointedly looking down at his boots.
“Do you sell shoes?” he asked.
“No, but we have a shop we’d recommend,” she said. “You can pick up your purchases later. I will come with you and tell Louis about what you’ve bought today. He will transform your feet in no time.”
Colette strode ahead of them as they walked to the new shop, her sandy blond hair waving down her back, a scent of something complex and yet floral trailing in her wake. Did everyone wear perfume here, their own special calling card? None of it was overwhelming. He needed something that fit him. Ibrahim would know.
Louis welcomed Colette warmly with three kisses on her cheeks and then turned to nod at Beau and Hargreaves as she explained the situation in fast, musical French. The man glanced down at Beau’s boots, his mouth tipping up to the right, before he met his eyes. Louis was in his fifties, and his outfit—a cream jacket, blue shirt, and pink and cream tie and pocket square—seemed to announce him as a man who liked cool breezes and even cooler drinks, like a mint julep, if he’d been visiting the States. Beau liked him instantly when he said, “Every man wishes to be a cowboy, but so few pull it off.”
He replied by opening his arms. “And here I was thinking I envied a man who could wear a fine suit so confidently.”
With that, a bond was struck. Colette told them she’d see them soon, and then Louis started walking around Beau. Feeling sized up, he let the man take his time. He was like Ibrahim, looking for the intangible things that made one person distinct from another. Beau realized he did the same with people in his songs, looking for the story of them, why they acted like they did, what was important to them.
Soon he was taking off his boots, laughing at the dust from the lavender fields. He explained it to Louis, who was intrigued to learn of the perfume farm. “A great work of art, a perfume.”
Beau asked him, “Why?” curious to hear his answer.
“It lasts longer than a set of clothes one wears for a day, and so must say more about someone and for a longer time,” was Louis’ reply.
Before suggesting any shoes to Beau, Louis offered them an afternoon coffee, calling for them from a place down the street. A young man arrived with a tray and three small cups. Beau thanked the boy and savored every inch of his coffee, and they sat, Louis and Hargreaves speaking for a spell before turning back to him.
After the small break, a happy luxury that reminded Beau of something small-town shopkeepers might do at home, he started trying on different shoes. No surprise, he selected a pair the color of Halloween caramels straight away, followed by four more pairs in suitable colors and styles. Again, he discarded his boots to pull on the caramel shoes. The boots didn’t really work with his new outfit. He almost laughed at himself, but he was having too much fun to feel embarrassed.
As Louis checked him out, two Frenchmen walked past the shop. One had on a green jacket with a navy scarf tied around his neck. Beau had never seen a man wear a scarf like that. His trousers were the color of sand while his friend wore a tan suit punctuated by a purple shirt and pocket square. They had that air about them. Bold. Confident.
He turned to Louis. “What makes a Frenchman his own man?”
When the shopkeeper hesitated, Beau thought he’d phrased it badly. But then Louis ripped off a tag, and said, “How he holds himself, what he laughs about, how he makes love to a woman, how generous he is with his children, how great of a friend he is. Oh, so many things—all done with dignity.”
Dignity. Another simple word, yet laden with meanings as deep as a country swamp. Louis’ description was one he could chew on, especially the part about making love to a woman. Although the act was meant to be special, he’d never considered it as a reflection of his character, his essence. But when he thought about Caitlyn, and how special he wanted to make her feel, he thought he understood what the man meant.
“Thank you, Louis,” he said, managing to grab one of the shopping bags before Hargreaves could pick them both up.
The butler gave him a look, only the subtle lift of a brow, but Beau gestured to the other bag on the counter, the one he’d left for him. Because Hargreaves had dignity too, and Beau would not deprive him of it.
As he stepped out into the hot sunny street, he felt a foot taller. Walking back toward Colette and Étienne’s shop, he caught a few people staring at him, more out of curiosity and appreciation, he thought, than because he didn’t belong. His chest felt broader, and he held his shoulders back without thinking about it. A proud posture, he realized.
A tall brunette in a navy sheath dress and three-inch heels smiled at him as she approached them, walking in the opposite direction. Caitlyn would wear something like that, he thought. He smiled at the woman, and she said something in French.
Hargreaves waited a beat before saying, “She said you looked very elegant, sir.”
He beamed the rest of the way to the shop. Colette and Étienne greeted them warmly with perfunctory kisses. Again, it was weird to have a man kiss his cheeks, but he wanted to honor the custom. It was like a man hug, he told himself, only French.
Colette looked at his shoes with a knowing smile. “If your woman doesn’t appreciate you after tonight, come back here. I have a sister who would love to go out with a man with as many facets as you have.”
His head jerked back. Facets? Somehow the word was perfect for what he was discovering about himself. He was so much more than that one-dimensional guy trying to fit the constraints of a square hole. “Thank you both. So very much. You have made my day.” He wished he could do more to thank them but didn’t know wh
at that would be, so he and Hargreaves picked up the bags and left the couple standing in the doorway, holding hands. Somehow that last look felt like a chocolate mint after a satisfying meal. Sweet. Satisfying. They were in love. Worked together. Challenged each other. Grew together.
He wondered if he and Caitlyn might do the same. For the first time since all of this had begun, he found himself looking toward the future.
“I’d like to do something more, Hargreaves,” he found himself saying. “As a thank you to them.”
Which begged another question: how would he thank Hargreaves? He would have to ask Clara.
“I can arrange for a summer bouquet of the region’s flowers, sir, if you’d like. I believe Madam Colette would like them, and it wouldn’t be too personal a gift.”
He didn’t believe Étienne would be jealous, and flowers did seem to please most women. “That would be wonderful, Hargreaves. In fact, I’d like to get some flowers for Caitlyn before we leave town. Would that be all right?”
“As you wish, sir,” Hargreaves said. “There’s a flower stand in the square if I recall.”
There was indeed, and Beau was overwhelmed by the selection at first. But New Beau was finding his wings. Caitlyn had mentioned she didn’t care for roses, he remembered. They had more than enough lavender, and anyway, it wasn’t a flower. There were happy-faced flowers the shopkeeper told Hargreaves were asters, although they looked like purple daisies to him. They reminded him of Caitlyn’s playful side, but they didn’t feel bold enough for her. She was trying to make a statement, after all, and she’d launched this whole enterprise herself.
His gaze settled on a large wine-colored flower with a million petals, anchored by a thick dark stalk. “What are those?”
“Dahlias, sir,” Hargreaves said.
They were bold. Arresting. Strong. Everything Caitlyn was and more. He signaled to the shopkeeper. “I’ll take them all.”
“An excellent choice, sir,” Hargreaves said.
When they settled back in the car after stowing the packages, he slumped in the back seat. If he was this tired, he couldn’t imagine how the older man felt. “Do you want me to drive?”