by Ava Miles
“Oh, pfft. You and your fashion, Clara.”
“Only George got outed from the closet in a Beverly Hills bathroom by an undercover cop who caught him soliciting sex, and it didn’t go so well after that. So sad.”
“You think Beau is gay? Good Lord, Clara, sometimes I can’t account for your thinking. That man is no more gay than I am.”
She laughed. “Of course he’s not gay. He wants to eat her up.”
He put his hands over his ears. “Lalalala.”
“Arthur, I only brought up the comparison because Beau’s makeover was so drastic. Heavens, I’m going to need a gin and tonic after all this. Do you think they have the fixings?”
“The French hate the British and vice versa, so it’s doubtful. Come on, we should eat. I’ll probably end up waiting up for Caitlyn. Seeing her leave for a date reminded me of Jill and Meredith.”
“Who are both happily married to good men and who’ve given you great-grandchildren. Oh, Arthur, sometimes I wish we could have had children together.”
The wistfulness in her voice caught him by surprise. “We both led other lives, Clara.” But while his other life had been happy, he knew hers had not.
“But you don’t ever wonder?” she asked, sitting up and gazing at him steadily with those big blue eyes of hers.
The eighty-year-old in him wanted to give a snarky answer about being grateful he still got it up every day. That wasn’t the man she needed to hear from now. “When we first met, when I was a young, handsome man, and you were an adorable beauty yet total brat—”
“Hah!”
Since she’d always loved his playful nickname, he didn’t apologize. “Back then, yes, I did wonder. I thought they’d be rather wonderful, those children.”
She sighed and scooted closer to lay her head against his chest. “I do love you, Arthur Hale.”
Another love match this late in life… Wasn’t he the luckiest man alive? “And I you, dear Clara.”
He kissed the top of her hair, and she wrapped her arms around him. Sunlight filled the main room, prisms dancing on the stone walls. He’d been reluctant to retire from the career he loved, but holding this woman in a French farmhouse surrounded by lavender? It wasn’t a bad way to go…
“Come on,” he said, pulling her up. “Let’s go find Hargreaves and see if he’s taken care of your gin and tonic fixings. Then we’ll talk him into putting dinner on the table and joining us out on the portico. Someone needs to silence that darn goat.” He could still hear it crying forlornly.
“Let’s persuade Ibrahim to join us too. The man works way too much. Arthur, did you know he just lost his wife?”
“Loved her, did he?”
“Very much, Caitlyn says. I thought you might talk to him. Since you went through the same thing…”
When he’d lost his Harriet, he’d never expected to love like that again. Leave it to a Merriam to surprise him when he thought he was close to knowing it all.
“I thought perhaps seeing us,” she said, reaching for his hand, “might give him some hope.”
Love. Hope. Family. He didn’t know much about perfume making, but situated as they were in the center of it, they seemed like the perfect base notes for one hell of a life.
Chapter 17
Caitlyn had held his hand through the entire car ride, but the tension between them hadn’t diminished enough for his liking. He’d decided this would be the most romantic night of their lives, and he intended to ensure it was so.
Claude left them off in front of the restaurant ten minutes before their reservation. Perfect.
“Give me a moment,” Beau said, kissing her cheek. He walked up to the service stand outside. “I’m Beau, Colette’s friend.”
“Oui, monsieur,” the young woman said. “Paula has everything ready.”
“We’re a touch early,” he said, smiling at her. “Would you happen to know if there’s a flower stand close by? I forgot to give my lady friend the ones I’d bought in the town square earlier today, and she’s still a mite vexed…”
The woman’s brow wrinkled. “Vexed?”
“Upset,” he finished. “Sorry, my English.”
Her lips twitched. “But your English is very good, monsieur.”
He laughed. “Touché.”
“And your French is improving.”
“I like you already,” he said. “Are all Frenchwomen so wonderful? Colette isn’t the exception?”
“Oh, she’s exceptional to be sure, but we all have our own traits to commend ourselves. Since Colette spoke so highly of you, I will call the flower shop and have them bring an arrangement for you to give to your lady over there. Any preference?”
“I did think the wine-colored dahlias were bold. No roses, though, if they’re out of the other.”
“We will do our best, monsieur,” the woman said.
“Thank you,” he said, finally feeling like he could manage things in this foreign land although it was feeling less foreign every day. “What is your name, by the way?”
“I’m Bernadette,” she said. “Enchanté. Good to meet you.”
“You as well,” he said. “Thank you, Bernadette. Just let me know how best to reimburse you.”
“Bien sur,” she said. “Bring your lady friend. I’ll show you to your table.”
He spanned the short distance to where Caitlyn stood waiting. “Everything worked out?” she asked.
“You bet. They have the table ready.” He took her hand, eager to reestablish their connection.
A server showed them to the corner table under a blue awning. A candle was sputtering in a clear glass jar next to a short blue vase stuffed with wildflowers. He pulled Caitlyn’s chair out, and when she sat, he indulged himself by touching a lock of her silky dark hair.
“You really do look beautiful,” he said, taking the opposite chair. “I never get tired of looking at you. Although I told the hostess I thought you were still a mite vexed with me. Are you?”
She set down the drink menu she’d picked up and gazed at him, her green eyes searching his face. “When I look at you, it’s like seeing someone else. Sometimes it makes me do a double take is all. There’s been a lot more emotion on this trip than I expected. I’m feeling vulnerable. Not my comfort zone.”
His mind circled back to their earlier discussion, the one causing the underlying tension between them. Ultimately, he understood her confusion. “What can I do to make it easier for you? It’s important to me that we get to know each other, Caitlyn. I know attraction and after-dinner strolls can only take us so far, and honestly, I want to go as far down the road with you as I can.”
“Maybe be a little patient with me too.” She blew out a breath, but the server approached them to ask about wine. He fought off his impatience.
“Done.” Beau asked, “How about some champagne? I noticed most people seem to have that, and it’s one of your favorites.”
“The French often have a glass of champagne to start dinner and then switch to wine,” she told him. “I’ve always loved the idea. Seems to me it’s like kicking off the celebration.”
He liked that too. He’d never seen drinking as much of a celebration. Growing up, the glass of burning rot-gut Walt always had in hand had signified anger and bitterness. He’d been a messy, mean drunk. The French’s approach to drinking was notably different, and he was starting to appreciate the new perspective. “Then let’s follow suit. Since this is new to me, please select what sounds best to you. I’m out of my league there.”
She ordered in French, and when the server left, he said, “Hearing the sound of your voice is as pleasing as wind chimes on a summer day. Maybe that line will go into the song I’m writing about you.”
Leaning an elbow on the table, she rested her head against her palm. “It’s a little funny, thinking about you writing a song about me.”
The closer intimacy of her pose suited him, and he crowded the table with his big body, propping his elbows on the edge, and leane
d toward her. “Honey, I’ve been writing a song about you from the moment you walked into my office.”
“And you wonder why I’m feeling so emotional,” she said, but with a smile. “Not every girl has a wonderful man write a song about her.”
Seeing himself through her eyes helped settle him. “I’m still working on your song, but here are some of the lyrics so far. Don’t poke fun, all right? It’s still pretty rough, but it’s taking shape.” A flush of heat spread over his face as he gathered his breath, knowing he needed to sing the words to her.
“She was more than a breath of fresh air. She was a hurricane coming in off the Gulf.
The cloth of her sexy blue dress moved with her as if storm winds stirred around her.
She was young and beautiful, and she spoke with the full force of her heart.
She talked about women picking flowers, their babies resting on blankets beside them.
When she came out of her shoe and I bent down to help, her arch seemed like a long road I’d traveled, one I’d been on too long alone.
She’s the one I’ve been waiting for my whole life.
My own kindred spirit.
When I look at her, I see sunshine in her eyes.”
The light in those cat-like green eyes seemed to shower over him, and he sang softly, pitching his voice low: “Sunshine in her eyes.”
He saw the tears in those sunshine eyes. Ignoring the heat in his cheeks, he reached for her hand—but she had already reached for him. Her fingers curled around his, squeezing hard in a way that told him she couldn’t find any words to respond to him. That was okay. He wasn’t sure he could speak right now either.
They were still holding hands when the server brought their champagne. Not letting go of each other, they reached for their glasses at the same moment.
“My toast,” he said, spellbound in a moment he knew he’d never forget. “To the woman who brings the sunshine, even in the darkest times. You make everything brighter. Caitlyn, it’s no wonder I fell for you.”
Her brows shot up to her hairline. “You’re on a roll, but I love it. Beau, I’m falling too.”
“Good. Hate to be alone here.” Her laughter trickled out as he took that first sip, the bubbles tickling his lips gently in a pleasing way. Perhaps it was Ibrahim’s influence, but when he tasted it, he smelled apple and pear and a fresh batch of yeast, almost like from baked bread. The notes reminded him of an expertly blended perfume. No one had ever told him this was possible with drink, and he was glad to have discovered it. It brought light into what had been a dark place for him growing up. He looked around at the other patrons, talking and laughing with their loved ones, sipping champagne, drinking wine.
No one was drunk. Caitlyn was right. Here was celebration.
“The French seem to know how to enjoy life,” he said, taking one last look. “I didn’t realize until this moment, but no one has their phones out.”
She shook her head. “No, it’s not like the States. People are present here. They have a phrase you may have heard. Joie de vivre. Joy of life.”
Joy. He was finding his way to it, he realized, here in this sleepy little village sitting across from the woman he knew he could gaze at forever. “Earlier you said it’s like doing a double take, seeing me like this. I’m doing the same each time I look in the mirror. When I saw this Frenchman walking in town today, he looked…comfortable in his own skin. I wanted to feel like that. In these clothes or ripped shirts and dirty jeans. Whatever I’m wearing.” He ran a hand over his stubble. “And I’m done dithering. If I like something or want it, I’m going to reach for it. No waiting around or following some guidebook someone else gave me.”
“Not all of the suggestions in that guidebook are wrong,” she said, keeping her voice low. “I rather like the gentleman side of you, although I was going crazy waiting for you to kiss me.”
“If I could go back, I’d ask you out when we were talking at the elevator after our first meeting.”
Her lips twitched. “I wanted you to ask me out too. That’s why I lingered.”
Taking one of her hands, he raised it to his lips and kissed it. “Now I’m hoping to linger with you in a different way. Honey, I want to linger over every inch of you.”
“You steal my breath when you talk like that,” she whispered.
“I keep wondering how much quieter your voice can get,” he teased. “Am I embarrassing you with this talk?”
She blushed a delicate pink. “A little.”
“Good,” he said, pressing her hand back down on the table. “I plan to do a lot more of it. Oh,” he said, catching sight of a young man heading toward the restaurant with a bunch of those wine-colored dahlias, “get ready to blush again.”
Sure enough, Bernadette took them from the messenger and brought them to their table, smiling brightly.
“A present from the gentleman,” she said as Caitlyn pulled her hands away to take them.
Funny to hear that word—in English—all the way over here in France, so far from home. Although he’d decided to revise the rulebook he’d been given, he found he still identified with being a gentleman. Always would.
“Oh, goodness! These are gorgeous. I love dahlias! How did you know?”
He preened like a prize rooster at the state fair. “They’re bold and beautiful like you, honey. Thanks, Bernadette.”
“You’re most welcome,” she said. “When you’re ready to order, Paula said to tell you the chef has something special prepared if you’re willing to go with a tasting menu.”
“I’d love that,” Caitlyn said. “And thank you for the flowers, Beau. Oh, I’m flustered.”
“Me too, honestly,” he decided to say. “I forgot the other bouquet I bought earlier at the farmhouse.”
She pressed them to her chest, inhaling them. “You can give them to me later then, and I’ll act just as surprised and happy.”
His heart turned over in his chest. “That sunshine in her eyes can make the flowers grow.” Another perfect lyric to add to what he had so far.
Her green eyes were liquid pools when she looked up. Bernadette excused herself, but Beau barely heard her. All background noise faded. All he could hear was Caitlyn’s soft breath and the steady beat of his own heart. God, he wanted to kiss her. He rose halfway out of his seat, thinking why not? She leaned forward, and the flowers tickled the underside of his jaw as his lips met hers, all soft and sweet.
When he resumed his seat, she smiled with the full force of that sun inside her. “Thank you, Beau.”
“You’re most welcome, honey,” he said, liking that word as much as the honey he liked to put on a hot, buttered piece of toast.
He could feel the stirrings of a song, but he couldn’t put his finger on the music or words yet. Let them come.
Like Rye had said, he couldn’t bottle up his truth. This album was turning out to be the most honest he’d made, the songs chock full of truth, no sugar-coating.
Paula finally come over and introduced herself, saying she and Colette had known each other since they were children. They talked about Beau’s fashion transformation. Colette had told the petite blond woman about his visit that day, how he’d come in wearing a torn shirt and jeans and cowboy boots. She said, “I wish I’d seen it. Colette is right. No one wears jeans like the Americans.” Caitlyn barked out a laugh at that, and he found himself grinning as Paula told them about what their chef had in mind. His mouth salivated at her description of roasted beets with sea salt and goat cheese, a whole fish stuffed with citrus and farigoule—what Caitlyn translated as thyme since Paula couldn’t remember the word in English. Everything he’d eaten so far had suited him, and he was eager to discover more.
Ibrahim had said not to rush the experimentation process. Beau was going to pull out a lawn chair and bask in the sun.
Caitlyn selected a rosé after consulting with Paula, and he sipped it with something akin to revelation. If someone had told him a month ago he’d start drinking one da
y, he’d have called them a liar. But if that person had said he’d enjoy drinking champagne and a pink-colored wine, he’d have laughed until he cried. But he liked the dance of the fruit and citrus on his tongue, much like he enjoyed the feel of the fine cotton shirt against his skin and the way he could run his finger over the velvet of his jacket and leave a mark.
If anyone had ever told him he’d fall for France and its people, he’d have laughed at that too. This land seemed fragrant with perfume, the bold colors, and the happy sounds of laughter.
The first course came, and he and Caitlyn got down to the business of eating, trading groans and moments of eye-closing silent enjoyment. When she leaned across the table and fed him some of her beets, he picked up his fork later and fed her some of his fish. She asked if he still liked to fish, and he told her he picked up a fishing pole every once in a while. Not as much as when he was a boy, trying his luck in the creeks with a makeshift pole from a hickory tree and earthworms from Mrs. Prentice’s garden, which he’d sneak into in the hot humid mornings, plucking a tomato he’d eat on his way to catch something.
He’d forgotten about all that, he realized after finishing the tale. He’d stolen a tomato and technically the earthworms. More than once. His mama had never found out, and if Mrs. Prentice had seen him in the early morning light, she hadn’t said a word. And had the sky fallen? No, he’d only been a lonely boy seeking the comfort of the creek, with all its redolent sounds, and the victory of a few rainbow trout for supper.
When the server brought a salad of simple greens after the fish, Caitlyn explained the French often had salad and cheese after the regular meal. He’d never been much for greens, and these windy, curly things were unrecognizable to him, but they tasted peppery yet sweet from the vinaigrette.
“So tell me why you really, really wanted to create this perfume?” he asked after the server had cleared their plates again, only to bring them a fig tart, the dark purple fruit encased in the most buttery crust he’d ever tasted. “Man, this is good.”