by Ava Miles
Chapter 21
As Beau looked at Caitlyn, sleeping soundly by his side, the sound of guitar, violin, and harmonica danced in his head, a morning symphony that flowed like the champagne they drank before dinner. He kissed her and left for his writing spot. The ache in his chest receded with each new song, and the day before the lavender harvest, he knew the answer to Ibrahim’s question, one he’d only given him a short three days ago: What have I waited my whole life to say?
It came to him, accompanied with the haunting strains of flamenco guitar. Boy, stop trying so hard.
The rest of the song flowed out, unlocking another facet in him, and this time he recognized it as sweet forgiveness for Old Beau, the one who’d been propelled into the cocoon by Dr. Clarridge’s revelation.
There’s nothing more to prove.
His ghost is gone.
The shadow no more.
He wasn’t the one haunting you.
You didn’t trust.
You weren’t sure of this heart.
You let people tell you who you should be.
You were good.
No one denies it.
But you don’t have to try so hard.
You’ve got nothing more to prove.
So have yourself some fun.
See where the river runs.
Your life is your own.
No one else can boss you around.
Find love and keep it.
For you and the woman with sunshine in her eyes.
Settle down.
And some days perhaps raise a little hell.
Don’t make you bad.
Boy, you’ve got nothing more to prove.
He sent the finished songs to Rye, knowing it would help his case to send them to his record label with his friend’s thumbs-up. Then he went to find Caitlyn.
He found her with Clara, and his heart warmed up like a potbelly stove, seeing her knitting something in yellow. Was that for him? Clara had started making him a scarf, saying all well-styled men wore one, which had moved him something fierce. Was Caitlyn doing the same? The shape wasn’t much more than a bunch of woven lines of yarn, but it touched him, this quiet, artistic side of her—a new facet.
“Hey!” Caitlyn glanced up, her hands continuing to move. “I’m finally getting more comfortable with this. Becca taught Clara and me when we were in Ireland. It’s going to be a scarf for Flynn. The yellow is going to drive him nuts, but that’s my evil plan.”
He found he was oddly deflated. “That’s awesome.”
“Flynn is going to love it,” Clara said, nudging her. “Anything made from your hands carries extra love.”
And if that line wasn’t enough to get the music playing in his head again. “Clara, you’re a genius. Can I use that for a song?”
She set her knitting project, one in a deep purple, down in her lap. That might be his. He was racking up a lot of purple these days, what with Colette and Étienne’s help.
“Of course!” she exclaimed. “I’ve never collaborated on one of those. Arthur is never going to hear the end of it.”
Humming it, he crossed to kiss Caitlyn. “Are you up for a night out? I just sent a batch of songs to Rye, and I feel really great about this album. I have a flamenco lesson with Hargreaves in a little while, but afterward, I’m yours if you want.”
“I want,” she said, beaming. “Michaela is coming late tonight—without Mom, unfortunately, who asked for a rain check. She just texted me. Decided to stop in Paris for a little shopping before heading down on the train.”
He was excited to meet her sister. When he’d met Flynn, he’d been in a state. He hoped to make a better impression this time. “We should take the train to the city too sometime. It would be a shame not to see the Eiffel Tower while I’m here.”
“Oh, that’s a drop in the bucket,” she said, resuming her knitting. “There are so many magical places. Right, Aunt Clara?”
“It’s one of the most beautiful cities in the world,” Clara said, sighing. “I’m going to get Arthur up there before we leave. We thought we’d wander a bit in the south and travel some, but we’ve… Never mind. I wonder where Arthur got along to. He left for a walk when I started to go on about buying more yarn and making him another sweater.”
Caitlyn winked at him. “She’s made him two already.”
“He gets cold in Dare Valley,” Clara said. “I’m only looking out for him, dear.”
Beau glanced out the French doors. “I’ll see if I can find him.”
“He needs a snack,” she said pointedly. “Thanks for looking for him, Beau.”
“Be back in a bit,” he said, letting himself out. Chou-Chou came running from his bed under the portico. “Hey, little fella. Have you seen Arthur? Come on. Let’s find him.”
He let his gaze roam but didn’t see the silhouette of a lone man anywhere in the surrounding fields. He started for Ibrahim’s house. Somehow he knew he was going to find the two men together. Sure enough, he heard laughter through the open windows.
“Hey y’all,” he called out, opening the blue door at the back. “Coming in.”
“We’re in the lab, Beau,” Ibrahim called.
The strands of classical opera were playing, indicating Ibrahim had been working on florals. He caught notes of jasmine and orange along with a base note of something musky and woodsy.
“If that’s for the new perfume, I’m a fan,” he said when he reached the doorway. “It smells incredible in here.”
Ibrahim’s brow lifted. “I’m getting closer. How’s the songwriting going? Still pouring out of you?”
“Like a sieve,” he said, taking a seat next to Arthur when Ibrahim gestured to the empty chair. “Clara was looking for you,” he said with a nod. “Said you needed a snack.”
“That woman worries too much,” Arthur said. “I’m visiting with my new friend here.”
Everyone had remarked how well Ibrahim and Arthur got along, speaking of everything from politics to culture. He’d never met two more learned men. Well, except for Hargreaves, but his new friend and flamenco mentor didn’t talk much. Beau had come to appreciate his quiet presence.
“Ibrahim finally got me to do a little scent sampling,” Arthur said, kicking out his feet and crossing his ankles. “Then we got onto discussing the merits of age and knowing yourself better. There’s a lot to recommend youth, but I wouldn’t trade my years for some less lived-in bones.”
Now this was the kind of conversation he loved. “Tell me more.”
Arthur laughed. “You’re what? Just turned thirty, if I recall from my research.”
He shifted in his seat. It was still a little weird to think about Arthur researching him. “Yep. Right now, I’m starting to feel like I have a better grip on things. The song I finished today was about having nothing more to prove.”
“Then you’re ahead of your years,” Ibrahim said, his pencil-thin smile tipping up on the right. “I didn’t realize that until my mid-forties.”
Arthur patted his noggin. “I’m so old I can’t tell you when I got that pearl. Heck, don’t matter, I suppose. But you live differently as you age. Become your own man.”
“Exactly,” Beau said, folding his hands in his lap. He suddenly knew he was ready to share what he’d been going through with these two men. “I came here needing space. I’d just found out that the man I’d thought was my real father, Walt Masters, actually wasn’t. To say it was a shock would be an understatement.”
Arthur turned in his seat, his blue eyes ever sharp. “That would make anyone go on a bender. How did you find out, if you don’t mind my asking?”
Ibrahim rose and came around his desk, pulling his chair with him, joining their circle. Beau coughed to clear his throat at the gesture. It was something a friend would do.
“Turning thirty got me to thinking about my roots. For my new album, I decided to have some genetic testing done on me and my daddy. Kinda my way of facing the ghosts I suspected were hiding in my very blood.
Alcoholism and the like. But the sample I gave for Walt showed he wasn’t my father.”
Ibrahim only gazed at him, his stillness a balm.
“Hell of a way to find out,” Arthur said. “Did you ask your mother about it?”
He made a rude noise. “Of course. She was my first stop. She denied it until I told her about the sample. Then she refused to tell me who my real father was. I still don’t know much of anything, except he’s of Spanish and indigenous descent. Threw me for one hell of a loop.”
Arthur made a clicking sound with his tongue. “No doubt.”
“Hence the flamenco,” Ibrahim said, nodding slowly.
“Yes,” he said, coughing again. “It’s not like the genetics can tell you what country your dad might be from originally. So I turned to music. I’ll never be able to thank Hargreaves for his lessons.”
“He’s a man of many talents,” Arthur said. “Never tell him I said so, but he’s what we used to call a Renaissance man. Ibrahim is one of them too.”
“As are you, my friend,” Ibrahim said to Arthur with a smile. “You know one of the reasons why I love perfume so much? Every note is distinctly its own. A foul stench can’t disguise a rose’s smell. Did you know the most rotten smells always decay anyway? There’s a reason, and it applies to your situation. Someone else’s lie or secret can’t change your truth. In perfume terms, we’d say essence. Beau, if you’re born a rose, you’re always a rose—no matter what anyone tells you.”
Arthur patted him on the back. “Remember that, kid. Words of wisdom from the Perfume Jedi.”
Ibrahim’s brow shot up again. “I beg your pardon?”
“That’s what Caitlyn and Beau and Clara call you,” Arthur said with a snort. “You’re lucky. I don’t have a nickname.”
“Not yet,” Beau said, his throat still tight. “Thank you for saying that, Ibrahim.”
Arthur stood, placing his hand on Beau’s shoulder. “Masters or no Masters, you’re still your own man, Beau. Keep the good. Leave the rest behind. It’s all any of us can do. From my perch, you’re doing pretty good after this dust-up. Well, I’m going to see what Clara’s up to and have that snack. She still knitting? That woman will have me wrapped up in Irish sweaters all year long if I let her. See you two back at the farmhouse.”
Beau was glad to have a moment with Ibrahim. “Those little questions you’ve been giving me have really helped. When I came here, I can’t say I had any idea what all perfume making involved, but I’m very grateful to have been here for part of it. Once again, I want to ask if there’s anything I can do as a way of saying thank you.”
“Do your fans ask for ways to thank you for singing your songs?” Ibrahim asked.
“Some do,” he mused, “but it’s not why I do what I do.”
Ibrahim rose. “It’s not why I do this either, Beau. Perhaps you should ask yourself why you’re always so eager to give back a kindness beyond saying thank you.”
He blinked. “Why do I have a feeling you know?”
“I might postulate you’re generous, but that would only be a surface answer. People who are abandoned by parents often feel they have to repay people for being kind to them.”
Something tingled inside him, a bone-deep revelation sparked by Ibrahim’s words.
“Or it’s because my mama always made me give her something when she did something for me. I mean I know she started managing me when I was a teenager, but it started well before that. Bottom line: it’s still trading for love.” As a kid, he’d picked her flowers. When he’d gotten rich, he’d bought her a house. All because she’d done things for him and would sweetly say, And how do you want to show Mama you love her and thank her for everything she’s done for you?
“You’re finding love isn’t about such checks and balances,” Ibrahim said. “Love just is. Like the beautiful scent of the rose.”
He made himself unclench his fists. “Thank God.”
“Before you leave,” he said, twisting another blue bottle open and dotting a smelling strip with it, “I was hoping you’d smell this base for the men’s cologne. I haven’t run it by Caitlyn yet, but I thought you might have strong feelings about it. Again, it’s not complete. Only the base and middle notes.”
Beau took the smelling strip Ibrahim presented to him. “I like it, but it’s a complex base. I’m not sure I can distinguish it.”
“Our bases are often complex,” Ibrahim said. “Some call them foundations, you know. If you keep inhaling the fragrance, the truth of the notes will make themselves apparent with patience and perseverance.”
More wisdom from their Perfume Jedi, and his mind was already blown. “You aren’t going to tell me what the notes are?”
Ibrahim laughed. “What’s the fun in that? Take the strip with you. See what your senses tell you over the next couple of days.”
“You’re thinking a couple of days, huh? I was thinking weeks, Ibrahim.” He extended his hand to the man. “Thank you. For everything.” Right now, in light of what his friend had told him, the words and a handshake seemed enough.
“We’re far from done, Beau,” Ibrahim said. “But we’re all on the right track. I’ll see you at dinner.”
“Actually, I was thinking about taking Caitlyn to dinner in the village,” he said. “To celebrate.”
“You have much to celebrate together,” Ibrahim said. “Tomorrow then.”
As Beau was walking back to the house, his phone rang. It was Rye.
“Hey, man!” he answered. “That was fast.”
“Once I read the line of the first song you sent, I was hooked. Bubba, it’s some of your best stuff ever. I mean that song ‘Damn Her’ about slayed me in the best way possible. And ‘Sunshine in Her Eyes?’ Boy, you better marry that girl.”
He stopped short. Yeah, he’d better. “Hope to. Meeting her sister later tonight.”
“That’s good. Family is important. Speaking of, I hear Boone crying, and I’m on solo baby duty, but before I go, I should say, I loved ‘Sometimes Country, Sometimes Confident.’ That lyric about the rosé? I about wet myself laughing. I’m sending over a case of some fancy rosé when you get back to Dare River.”
He laughed. “Thanks, I guess. I’m not ashamed to like it.”
“Who would have guessed?” Rye mused. “You tell Tommy Penders I think this is your best album yet. They can quote me on it. See ya, Bubba.”
“Thanks again, Rye.”
“It’s what friends do,” he said before ending the call.
Yes, it was what friends do, and he was adding more to his stable, so to speak, here in the south of France. Who would have guessed?
He picked up his pace and headed to the house. First, he would send the songs off, then he’d grab his new guitar.
He might not know much about his Spanish heritage, but one thing was certain.
Flamenco resonated with the contents of his soul.
Chapter 22
Beau was transforming right and left, everything from clothing to enjoying a good rosé, and Caitlyn couldn’t have been happier.
But she was grateful he’d suggested bringing her to meet Colette and Étienne before their shop closed for the night. The couple had been essential in helping him design his new look. Today he sported designer jeans, a simple white T-shirt under a deep purple velvet jacket, and his cowboy boots. It was a hot look.
The couple greeted Beau warmly, and she was surprised to see him so at ease with the traditional three-kiss greeting from Étienne as she started translating. Even Trevor, who’d spent a good amount of time in Europe, used to laugh about how weird it was to be greeted like that, but Beau was unfazed.
“His look is incredible, is it not?” Colette said, circling Beau with the eye of a woman sizing up her handiwork. “Étienne, mon chéri, if only you could wear jeans and cowboy boots like this one.”
He laughed. “We would never leave our home, chérie, and then our store would close for good. It is better this way, I think.”
They all laughed, and Beau opened his arms. “Colette, I know that look. What?”
She ran a finger over her mouth. “I have something for you, I think. It’s a bit more daring than you would normally go, but I think it will be perfect. For a concert perhaps. Or perhaps your lady friend will be like me and wish you to wear it at home.”
Caitlyn waggled her brows. “Now I’m really curious.”
“It’s Italian,” she said, going around the counter and pulling out a box, “but we French forgive them because of their fashion. You don’t have to take it, of course. It’s only a suggestion.”
“You haven’t guided me wrong yet,” he said, resting his elbow on the counter.
Colette held up a leather vest with ties, all in a deep plum. Caitlyn had to give the woman credit. Not only was it a beautiful piece of artistry, what with the tooled leather, but it would look good on Beau.
He took it from her. “What am I supposed to wear under it?”
She laughed, and Caitlyn had to bite her lip to keep from joining in. “Chéri, you wear nothing except that sun-kissed skin of yours. Am I right, Caitlyn?”
His mouth had parted, she saw, when he turned to face her. “Nothing?” he asked. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“How is this different from the torn clothes you’ve been wearing?” Caitlyn asked. “I love it.”
“I wear those at home,” he said. “I’ve never…shown my bare chest like this on stage.”
Colette ran a teasing finger over his jacket, making Beau blush. “It wouldn’t be all bare, and that’s the point. Tell him, Étienne.”
“She’s right,” he said, “but what do two French people in Provence know about country music?”
“We’ve been looking at videos on YouTube,” Colette said. “You asked for an integrated look for Old and New Beau. This is my idea. Try it on before you decide.”