by Alix Nichols
“That was my goal.”
He pouts.
I grab the remote and turn off the TV.
Slouching, Sam drags his feet to the bookshelf and pulls out two of his beautifully illustrated books.
“Since my video talk is over, I can read for you,” I offer.
His back straightens, and his eyes light up. “Yay!”
We sit down on the thick carpet and open the first book when I hear the key turn in the door.
Zach’s back from his meeting earlier than expected.
“We couldn’t agree on either the price list or timeframes, so there was no point dallying,” he explains, sitting down on the floor next to us. “I’ll need to find another supplier for those vitamins.”
Zach runs an Internet-based food supplement business, which gives him a good profit margin and lets him work from home most of the time.
He gives Sam a playful nudge. Sam tries to do the same to Zach, undeterred by the obvious hopelessness of his endeavor. While the boy’s attention is focused on his own Mission Impossible, Zach gives me a questioning look, the same one he gives every time he comes home after a few hours away.
I shake my head discreetly and smile. All is well, no seizures.
His face relaxes.
“Did the playdate get canceled?” he asks.
I glance at my watch. “Evan will be here in an hour.”
“Ah, good.” He looks at Sam whose face has reddened with effort and lets the boy shift him a little.
Sam throws his fists in the air. “Yes!”
“And what about you?” Zach asks me. “Did you have your weekly chat with Marguerite?”
I nod.
“I have the impression she calls you more often than she calls Noah,” he says with a smile.
I shrug. “Marguerite and I are very close. But it doesn’t mean she misses me more than she misses her son. She adores him.”
“I figured that much.” He gives me a funny look. “Noah deserves every bit of her love. He’s a great guy.”
“Yes, he is,” I say, suddenly uncomfortable.
Funny how the only times I’m not at ease around Zach are when we talk about Noah or Sophie. Or when he mentions his ex, Colette.
Zach beams as if he just remembered something good. “My club is invited to Provence next weekend to play a scrimmage match against the club from Avignon.”
“I can look after—”
He interrupts me. “I recall you wanted to see the lavender fields in bloom.”
“It’s been my dream for years!” I frown, reining in my enthusiasm. “But how—”
“Well, now is your last chance this year, because the lavender harvest is in a week or so.”
“But how—”
“I have a plan.” He winks at me before turning to Sam. “Just give me a sec to do this.”
Zach scoops the boy up and stands him on his head.
Sam giggles and leans on his hands and works to align his legs and torso into a straight line.
“Avignon is next door to Arles,” Zach says, propping Sam. “We’ll take the TGV train on Friday afternoon. I’ll drop you off at my parents’ place in Arles, rent a car, and go to Avignon for the match. Saturday evening, I’ll drive back to Arles, and on Sunday, we’ll do a stretch of the Lavender Route while Sam is chilling in his grandparents’ pool.”
A host of questions swarm in my head.
What is he implying by “we”? Him and me? Noah, him, and me? Since they’re on the same team, Noah must be going to Avignon, too. What about the tall and gorgeous Sophie whom Zach plans to date? Surely, he’ll invite her to come along.
But he just said he would drive back to Arles on Saturday. In singular.
My pulse ratchets up.
“Woohoo!” Sam yells as Zach helps him back onto his feet. “I love staying with Grandpa and Grandma!”
“Of course, you do.” Zach arches an eyebrow. “They have a pool, and they let you watch cartoons for as long as you want.”
“Are they free to look after him next weekend?” I ask.
Zach nods. “They are. And they look forward to meeting you.”
I force a smile, feeling thrilled, confused, scared, overjoyed, and a bunch of other things I don’t even know how to describe. Nor do I know how to fight the urge to give this wonderful man a big, tight hug. And possibly a kiss.
So, I mutter, “Thank you so much! I’ll be back.”
And I rush to my room.
FIVE
Zach
“What on earth is this?” Uma points at the recumbent trikes I’m about to rent.
“Tricycles,” I say.
She narrows her eyes. “For grown-ups?”
“As you can see.”
“They’re… weird.”
“It’s because you ride them in a reclining position.”
She studies the contraptions for a few seconds and turns back to me, a question in her eyes.
“Yes,” I say. “We’re going to ride them from here to the Sénanque Abbey and back. It’s an easy trip.”
We’re in Gordes right now—the first stop on our lavender tour.
Uma and I got here at around nine thirty, parked the car, and spent an hour wandering the spiraling streets of the village. Gordes is as winsome as I remembered with its gray-white houses and a medieval castle that looks like something out of Tristan and Isolde.
The scent of lavender is everywhere.
It comes from flower beds and window pots, blending with the minty smells of the scrubland we call garrigue in the South. Throw in the heat coming off white stone walls and the fragrances of strong coffee and fresh croissants wafting out from cafés and bakeries, and you get that unique bouquet of a summer morning in Provence.
The smell of my childhood.
One of the reasons I want to take Uma to the abbey is because, so far, we haven’t seen any lavender fields. Plenty of beautiful vineyards and olive tree plantations, but that’s not what Uma has been dreaming about. If memory serves me right, Sénanque is surrounded by purplish-blue fields, which spread out right from its doors.
She’ll love it.
Uma swallows nervously. “You know I never learned to ride a bike, right?”
“Which is exactly why I’m renting trikes.” I grin. “Believe me, they’re very comfortable and so easy to ride you don’t need any previous experience. There’s no need to balance.”
“Have you done this before?”
“Yes, and it was great fun.”
She chews on her lip, still hesitant.
“OK,” I say. “Why don’t you get on one and ride around here a few minutes? If you hate it, we’ll drive or walk to the abbey. It won’t take more than an hour on foot.”
She sighs in relief. “Deal.”
I help Uma onto the trike.
It’s a low-sitting model, and a newbie might have a hard time descending especially if her leg muscles aren’t strong enough. Besides, the trike might do something silly like roll away from under her. And—
Who are you kidding, man?
She can manage this on her own just fine. All I need to do is to suggest that she squeeze the hand brakes the moment she sits down.
But instead, I seize the chance to hold her hands.
My so-called “helping” Uma is not gentlemanlike. Quite the contrary. It’s one of those cheap, awkward, and opportunistic moves I haven’t tried since college.
“So, is Sénanque a functioning abbey?” she asks, lowering herself into the seat.
Now that we’ve been to the pool together and I’ve feasted my eyes on her shape, the temptation to acquaint my hands with her is so strong I’ve been dreaming about it at night. In addition to the daydreams.
I crouch and slip my hands under her arms.
Presumably, to make sure she doesn’t plop down and hurt herself.
“Very much so,” I say. “It’s home to a Catholic order. The monks make amazing lavender honey in addition to their religious activities. T
hey also host spiritual retreats should you ever need one.”
“I’m a Hindu.” She looks up at me and smiles.
I roll my eyes skyward. “I’m an idiot.”
“Absolutely not.” Uma shifts in the seat and sets her feet on the pedals. “Catholic or not, I find the idea of retreating into the peace and quiet of a lavender-growing abbey very appealing.”
“Find the hand brakes on the front wheels,” I say, “and squeeze them.”
“Like this?”
“Yes. That’s what you’ll do to brake, OK? Don’t try to stop the bike by lifting the rear wheel just because it seems like a cool thing to do.”
Her lips twitch. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“It’s just so you don’t get ejected from your seat,” I explain.
“Personal experience?”
“Yeah… So, learn from my mistakes.”
She nods. “Now what?”
Now you ride.
Except I’m still holding her.
With a sigh of regret escaping me, I take my hands off her. “Mash the pedals.”
She does—and takes off.
Five minutes later, we’re on our way to Sénanque, our unusual conveyances attracting amused glances from hikers.
“Yahoo!” Uma beams at me. “I’m loving this!”
I’m loving that you’re loving it.
I point to her happy face. “You know what they call that expression?”
“What?”
“Recumbent grin. That’s what riding a recumbent bike does to people.”
“Is it permanent?” She screws up her features in fake concern.
“Wait and see.”
The abbey comes into view and we both gasp. The sober, light gray building sits between green hills on its left and right and a field of blue gold in front of it. The combination of colors, shapes, and smells is glorious beyond words.
Uma pulls over, gets off her trike, and sits cross-legged on the grass. I follow suit. When she turns to me five minutes later, her eyes are glistening.
She blinks and smiles. “This is more beautiful than anything I’ve ever seen.”
I nod and turn away to gaze at the building. Not because I can’t get enough of it, but because if I continue looking at Uma, I’ll take her sweet face between my hands and kiss her.
I mustn’t.
For her sake, for Sam’s sake, for the sake of my friendship with Noah. It’s bad enough to grope her under false pretenses, but if I go ahead and kiss her, my inappropriate lust will be out in the open. And that would ruin everything.
When Uma and I finally get down to the abbey, we discover it’s closed to visitors on Sunday mornings.
“I’m sorry,” I say to Uma. “I should’ve checked.”
She pats my arm. “Don’t be silly! We’re here to admire the fields, not the cloister. What’s our next stop?”
The next stop is Sault.
We return our trikes and drive to the fortified village that offers one the best views in Provence—magnificent carpets of blue lavender alternating with stretches of golden wheat as far as the eye can see.
At the marketplace, Uma buys a homemade soap and a fragrant sachet of dried lavender. To my surprise, she picks the most expensive one on display without even trying to haggle.
“It’s because of this,” she explains, pointing to the embroidered bouquet on one side of the sachet. “See the tiny buds? The technique is called ‘French knot.’ You cluster them on either side of a stitched stem, and you get a spring of lavender. Simple and impactful. I want to practice it before the school starts.”
We grab a late lunch on a sidewalk terrace. I pick a table in the shade of an oak tree with the light being too sharp now and the heat too intense to sit in the sun.
For dessert, I order lavender sorbet.
“If you’re trying to make me sick of lavender,” Uma says, licking her spoon, “It’s not working.”
“Please,” I protest. “All I want is for you to get the full experience.”
Her expression grows serious. “Zach, I hope you know how grateful I am for today’s ‘experience.’ How on earth am I going to repay your kindness?”
Five or six creative ways flash in my mind.
I give her a tight smile and turn away, disgusted with myself.
Three hours later, Uma, Sam, and I board the TGV back to Paris along with most of my teammates.
Noah’s already in Paris, having left right after the game. He had to fill in for someone at work today. He might’ve stayed if I’d invited him on the lavender trip. But I hadn’t. In fact, I hadn’t even mentioned it.
As I lean back into my seat across from Uma and Sam, a wave of shame washes over me while I think of that “oversight.” My teammates joke and laugh a few rows behind us, but I don’t have the heart to join in the fun. Pulling out my laptop, I open my Excel spreadsheet and try to get some work done while Sam plays a game on his tablet.
Uma looks out the window at the cloudless sky and sublime landscapes, her expression dreamy. I force myself to stop staring at her, and—for the first time in weeks—admit the truth.
I’m lusting after the most off-limits woman I could possibly find. It must stop. Like, soon before I lose control and do something I’ll regret bitterly.
The irony of the situation is that I have a remedy at the tip of my fingers. It’s time I used it. Tonight, as soon as I’m alone, I’ll call Sophie—quite possibly the hottest woman both sides of the Atlantic—and ask her out.
SIX
Uma
I’m building a Lego garage that will stand next to Sam’s Lego house. Sam is eager to complete the whole project by the time Zach comes home so he can prove his engineering acumen to his dad. And the reason he’s so eager is that he was unable to fix his helicopter after it finally died a few days ago. Neither could I. Or Zach.
After I finish my task and pick up my embroidery frame to practice French knots, I am reminded of the weekend in Provence.
Again.
Just the fact that I saw those coveted lavender fields was amazing, but Zach’s being there with me made the trip magical. He was so sweet. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he were courting me. More than once I caught him staring. He’d quickly look away or say something funny. The first few times I thought it had just been my wishful thinking.
But then he held me longer than was necessary to help me onto the trike. When he finally let go, he didn’t just take his strong hands off me—he trailed them up over my ribs, “accidentally” brushing the sides of my breasts.
My toes curled with the pleasure of that touch.
And in Sault, he kept looking at my mouth while I ate, and his hazel eyes darkened. They became black when I savored the lavender ice cream he’d ordered, licking it off my spoon.
On the ride back to his parents’ house—parents who’d been wonderfully kind to me—Zach kept pointing at the fields to our left and right. I looked at them, but I no longer saw them. All I could think was, Zach is attracted to me.
But then…
We boarded the train back to Paris, and he said something that hit me in the pit of my stomach like a sucker punch. God, it hurt. It shouldn’t have, but it did, so much so that I had to go to the restroom and do some slow breathing to compose myself.
“That’s it,” Zach had said. “I’m asking Sophie out. I’m calling her tonight.”
But he didn’t. He texted her instead.
That’s what he told me when he came down to breakfast the next day. She’d texted back that she’d love to see him again, as a friend.
How crazy is that?
I can see only two circumstances in which a single woman would say no to a man like Zach. One, she’s not right in her head. Two, she’s in love with someone else.
Either one is OK by me.
As he related Sophie’s response, Zach didn’t sound particularly upset. In fact, he sounded almost relieved that he wasn’t going to date her.
Great new
s, right?
Let’s get the pom-poms out and celebrate!
Only, despite Sophie’s response, Zach didn’t go back to his “Lavender Sunday” ways. He became more reserved with me—even distant—spending more time in his office upstairs. In fact, all of his time at home, unless he’s reading to or playing with Sam.
When he and I are in the same room, I still catch him looking at me. Those stolen glances are filled with the same dark intensity as before. They make my heart stop and start again. The high they give me is so powerful, it almost kicks the ground from under my feet.
Noah has never looked at me like that.
Nobody has.
But the moment my eyes meet Zach’s, he looks away. In fact, he turns his whole body away from me and finds an excuse to leave the room.
He’s been like that for two weeks now.
Freja—my new Swedish friend—got in touch, and I did a fair amount of sightseeing with her gang. She’s the kind of person who spends three weeks in a new city and becomes the leader of a funky group made up of expats and locals. Which means that, suddenly, I know a bunch of people in Paris I would’ve never met on my own.
Lucky me.
When I lie in bed at night, and all kinds of unwanted thoughts rush into my head, I can’t help wondering about Zach. Was his flirting with me two weeks ago some weird anomaly? Did I imagine it? Or was it real, until he reminded himself I’m his son’s nanny? Does he wonder about the connection between Noah and me?
Is there a connection?
Marguerite keeps telling me there is, but I doubt it. Even more than Noah’s feelings, I doubt mine. If I were in love with him, why would I wish he looked more like Zach, sounded more like Zach, moved more like Zach? I have no prior experience with romantic love, but I think I’d want the object of my affection to remain exactly the way he is, and not morph into his friend’s clone.
The doorbell rings.
Sam looks up from his Lego house. “Colette?”
He never calls her “mom.” Until recently, when she began to show a little more interest in him, he didn’t even know she was his mother.
I nod.
We go to the door, where I lift Sam so he can check the identity of the visitor through the peephole.