by Ann Mah
“Well . . .” Her face softened. “Let me think about it.”
Rose was waiting for me in the churchyard, three streets away. “We’re in,” I told her.
Chapter
11
A trio of poached eggs quivered on the plate before me, nestled atop a puddle of meurette sauce, rich with wine, laced with bacon. With the tines of my fork, I pierced a yolk, and used a spoon to scoop up a luxurious bite.
“How is it?” Walker was watching me from across the table.
“Oh my God.” I closed my eyes to finish chewing. “How’re the escargots?”
“The snails are kind of rubbery but the parsley-garlic butter is amazing.” He dabbed a morsel of baguette into one of the hollows dotting his dish.
Walker had called three days ago—not an email, not a text, but an actual phone call; I’d almost fallen out of my chair—to invite me out to dinner.
“Oh, is your wine group meeting up?” I had asked a little warily. I still hadn’t managed to join one of their tastings, and was beginning to suspect they didn’t exist.
“No, no. I’ve been hearing good things about this restaurant—Chez Pépé? I’d like to try it. With you,” he added, without a shred of irony in his voice. When we agreed on Thursday night, he said: “It’s a date!”
I froze, unsure of my response. Was it a date? Did I want it to be? I had no idea, so I settled for a cheerful “See you then!”
Chez Pépé’s walls were lined with wine racks, the room lit with spotlights that cast a soft bright glow. The crowd was about half local, half tourist—the latter were inescapable in Beaune, any time of year—and our waiter, with his scraggly moustache and sleeve of tattoos, would not have been out of place in a Brooklyn beer garden. He had taken one look and addressed us in English, an assumption that had annoyed me—albeit unjustifiably—though Walker had happily complied. The two of them spent an inordinate amount of time discussing the wine list—even given our profession, even given our location in the heart of Burgundy—engaging in the type of oenophiliac one-upsmanship that made my eyes glaze over.
“So”—I speared a butter-crisped crouton with my fork and swirled it around the yolk-enriched sauce—“what’ve you been up to lately?” In fact, I’d been wondering for some weeks what exactly Walker did with his time.
He blinked. “Did I tell you I’ve been working with Louise?”
I assumed this was a rhetorical question—he had not told me and we both knew it—but still I shook my head.
“I’ve been giving her a hand with the bookshop. Just sorting and shelving, that sort of thing.”
“Oh, wow!” I said politely.
“I needed some extra cash.” He shrugged. “She’s got an awesome collection of antiquarian wine books. She spends a lot of time at estate sales and secondhand stores hunting them down. That’s why she was so eager to buy all that stuff at the charity shop. Remember that afternoon we saw you and Heather?”
My mouth was full of poached egg, so I nodded.
“Actually, it’s something I’ve been meaning to bring up for a while.” He broke a baguette slice in half. “I know Louise still feels weird about it, but honestly, her intentions were innocent. She only thought those boxes might have some stuff for her shop, that’s all.”
There was something disingenuous about his explanation, but he spoke so naturally—with a faint twist of his lips, slightly embarrassed—that I decided not to pursue it. “I think Heather and I were a little surprised, that’s all,” I said. Our waiter removed our empty plates, returning a minute later with the main courses— steak-frites for Walker, and salade aux gésiers for me, the lettuce leaves topped with sautéed chicken gizzards. “But it’s not a big deal.”
“Okay, cool.” He took a deep breath and exhaled. We both picked up our cutlery. “As long as we’re being honest”—he paused to slice into his meat—“what’s the deal with you and Jean-Luc?”
My fork scratched across the plate. “What do you mean?”
“Every time I see you two together, he’s got a scowl on his face. Do you guys have some sort of history?”
“Not really.”
He shot me a look of disbelief.
“Well, sort of,” I amended. “We knew each other in college and there was . . . something. But that was a long time ago.”
“Louise is convinced he’s in love with you. It’s breaking her heart.” He clocked my skepticism, and shrugged. “Whatever you may think of her, she really does love him.”
“I’m certain Louise’s heart will be fine,” I said. It came out sounding harsher than I’d intended, so I added: “What I mean is that I’m sure Jean-Luc cares a lot about her, too.” With a slash of my knife, I sliced through a beautifully seared chicken gizzard. “Is it weird to be talking about hearts and eating them at the same time?”
Perhaps he recognized my joke for what it was—a feeble attempt to change the subject—for he smiled and speared a french fry. For several minutes we ate without speaking, listening to the rise and fall of voices at the other tables.
“What about you?” Walker said suddenly, staring at a fixed spot on the table. “What about your . . . gizzards?”
“Oh, they’re delicious—” I began to say, when he covered my hand with his own.
“Kate,” he said. “I like you. You have a weird proclivity for offal, but I still like you.” He reached across the table and brushed something from my chin. “A crumb.”
“Fromage? Dessert?” Our waiter dumped a heavy chalkboard menu onto the side of our table.
Walker squinted at the board. “Do you want to do cheese, then dessert? Let’s do that,” he declared, without waiting for me to respond. “Époisses et crème br û lée?” The waiter scribbled our order on a notepad and hurried away.
I gulped some wine without tasting it. Walker liked me? What did that even mean? I gazed discreetly at his hands—strong fingers, the backs threaded with dark hairs—and tried to imagine them touching me. The thought was not unpleasant. Then again, it had been a long time since I’d been touched by anyone. Without warning, an image of long fingers flashed before my eyes, Jean-Luc’s hand entwined with my own, his tawny eyes darkening as he leaned toward me . . . No, no, no. I forced myself back to the present. “I hope you’re going to share that crème brûlée,” I said, giving him a sidelong glance.
At the end of dinner, Walker rebuffed my credit card. On the street, our hands brushed together until our fingers entwined, his palm hot and dry against my own, my wrist twisting at an uncomfortable angle. Would it seem aloof if I pulled away? Before I could decide what to do, our steps slowed in the shadows of the Hospices de Beaune, and then we were kissing. It was a soft kiss, sweet, but even as his hands touched the nape of my neck, I was too conscious of the situation, my mind skittering from thought to thought: Am I getting lipstick on his face? Can he feel the mole through the back of my sweater? Is that unappealing? My neck kind of hurts.
“Kate,” he sighed, when we drew apart. “I just can’t get enough of you.”
I settled for a noncommittal “Mmm.”
“Do you want to go somewhere?” he murmured near my ear.
I leaned into his chest, breathing in his scent, which was dark and spicy, and unfamiliar. An image of Jean-Luc and Louise rose unbidden, the two of them laughing over some private joke. I shoved it away. “Sure.” I was just tipsy enough—and uninhibited enough—to agree.
He looked uncertain. “I’m still staying in Jean-Luc’s guesthouse. But he’s probably asleep by now.”
Though I suspected he was right, I shook my head. “No.” It came out more forcefully than I’d intended.
If he noticed any vehemence on my part, he didn’t remark upon it. “Okay, well, how about your place?”
I spoke without thinking. “Only if we use the back staircase.”
“Let’s use the back staircase.” His lips brushed my neck, and a shiver crept down my spine. “We’ll tiptoe up in our socks, like nineteenth-century s
ervants. It’ll be just like a costume drama.” His grin went crooked and when I laughed, he bent and kissed me again.
Back at the domaine, the downstairs windows were filled with light and I saw Heather moving around the kitchen. Walker parked at the far end of the driveway and we crept across the gravel, moving slowly to muffle the sound of our steps, edging closer to the side door just a few feet away. Suddenly lights blazed down upon us. I’d forgotten about Heather’s security spotlights, set off by the motion detector. Before I could dart into a shadow, the back door flew open.
“C’est qui?” she demanded. “Who’s there?” She caught sight of me and Walker in the glare. “Ohh!” Her voice arched. “Hey, guys! How was dinner?”
“Good, good,” I mumbled.
“Looks like it! Hello, Walker!”
“Hey,” he said, ducking his head. “What’s up?” His face had turned bright red.
“Such a chilly evening! Cozy!” She wrapped her arms around herself and grinned.
“Chérie, is everything okay?” Nico appeared behind her, then caught sight of us. “Bonsoir, vous deux.” He gave us a polite nod and shot Heather a look of mock disapproval. “Come on, chérie. Stop embarrassing them.”
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” Heather called.
“Bonne nuit!” said Nico, firmly. And with a little wave, he closed the door.
I raised my hands and covered my cheeks, which were aflame. Beside me, Walker had begun to laugh. “This is like being in high school, but with the world’s nosiest and most permissive parents.”
Somehow we made it to the third floor without further commotion. Walker waited in my room while I went to the bathroom and when I returned he was standing by the desk, wearing a thoughtful expression. Through his eyes, I saw afresh my barren quarters—the narrow bed with its thin blanket, the bentwood coatrack holding my clothes, the scuffed desk with my laptop, wine books, and notebooks scattered across the surface. I closed the door behind me, threading the hook through its latch.
“It’s a little Spartan,” I admitted.
“A little? This is like a nunnery.”
“You get used to it after a while.”
“Come here, Sister Kate.” He drew me close with a wicked grin. “Let’s ratchet up some sins.”
I wasn’t quite sure what I’d been expecting, but in the end, it was all a little more awkward than I had anticipated. The vintage bed squeaked mercilessly—I had known it, but forgotten—so we ended up on the floor, which was harder and colder than I would have guessed, and in need of a good sweeping. Walker was attentive, but there was a dust bunny near the left side of my head and I kept worrying that it would drift toward us and get tangled in my hair. Still, our encounter was pleasant, if not particularly passionate and, as we put our clothes back on—the hardwood floor impeded cuddling—I felt good, attractive, and confident. That was nice, I thought. Nice. But bloodless.
Unaware of my thoughts, Walker’s head emerged through the neck hole of his sweater, his hair ruffled. He caught my eye and at his self-conscious smile, I felt an unexpected pinch of sympathy. As it turned out, Walker was a good guy. It was too bad we had almost no chemistry.
For a few minutes we sat side by side, very still on the edge of the bed. I considered how I could extricate myself gracefully from the situation. More than anything in the world, I wanted to put on my pajamas, drink three glasses of cold water, and go to sleep without worrying about waking him up in the middle of the night when I went to the bathroom. In the end, he spoke first. “Hey, did you ever look at those MW practice exams I sent you?”
“I did!” I said, a little too brightly. “I’ve been working on the essay questions, but some of them are pretty tough. I keep meaning to ask Jennifer to take a look.”
“I could read them,” he offered. “If you want.”
“Really? Would you?” It had been so long since I’d had a peer review my practice essays that I jumped at the offer.
“Of course,” he said.
I shifted my weight and the bedsprings emitted a bloodcurdling shriek. “Um, I would invite you to stay over, but I’m afraid this bed would massacre us in the dark.”
“Oh.” Did a flicker of disappointment cross his face? He reached out a hand, smoothing the tiny strands at my hairline. The bedsprings protested with a shrill squeal. “Jesus, I think you might be right.”
From the depths of the house, a small voice called: “Mama! Mama! What’s that noise?”
“That might be my cue to go.” Walker rose and the bed released a screech of fury.
“Mamaaaaaaa!” Thibault cried.
Walker grimaced, slipped his jacket on over his sweater, and picked up his messenger bag. He hovered by the desk. “I can take the essays now if you want me to look at them. The bookshop’s closed tomorrow so I have some free time.”
Was he looking for an excuse to see me again? I felt it again, that little squeeze of sympathy. “Well, if you’re sure it’s not too much trouble. They’re in the green notebook on my desk,” I said, and he slid it into his bag.
I sat motionless on the bed as he drew close and kissed me a final time, a soft brush of the lips. “I’ll text you tomorrow, okay?” he said. And then he was gone, closing the door softly behind him. As carefully as I could, I collapsed onto my pillows and exhaled.
“Well, well, well! Look who we have here!” Heather caught sight of me at the kitchen table and beamed.
“G’morning.” I mumbled into my coffee cup.
“Is it? A good morning?” She began to fill the kettle at the tap. “Wait.” Her head snapped around. “He’s not still here—is he?”
“No! Are you crazy? He left last night.”
“Phew.” She exhaled. “I mean, it’s not a problem if he stays over—we can tell the kids he stopped by for breakfast, or whatever.”
“Actually,” I gulped some coffee. “I don’t think we’ll need to worry about it.”
She raised an eyebrow and straightened a spoon and fork on the counter, until eventually I fell prey to her silence.
“No chemistry,” I explained.
“Yikes.” She winced. “Was it bad?”
“No. It was, uh, nice. But it was like . . . married people sex. No offense.”
“Hey, don’t underestimate married people sex,” she said with a little twitch of her lips. “But,” her voice rose over the kettle’s whistle, “if you ask me, Walker looked pretty devoted last night.”
I stared at the bottom of my mug. “I think maybe he felt weird, too—and we can just pretend none of this ever happened.”
But several minutes later, when I ran up to my room to retrieve a hair tie and my phone, which I’d left charging, I found three texts from Walker.
The first one said: Hey.
The second was an emoji of a hand—a wave, or a high five?
The third said: Hope it’s not completely uncool to text you so early! Thanks for last night. I’m going to Paris for a few days, but let’s hang out when I’m back.
I gazed at his texts with mild consternation. Had I misjudged his feelings? I smoothed a finger across the screen and considered my response. Then again, maybe responding too quickly would give the impression that I felt similarly keen. I slipped the phone into my back pocket and began to prepare for the day’s work, gathering a flashlight, a couple of pens, my notebook.
But my notebook wasn’t in its usual spot, on the top corner of my desk. I searched through the stack, and then below the chair and bed, all around the floor, even as a sick feeling crept into the pit of my stomach. Had Walker taken it? I thought back to his hasty departure the night before. I had told him to take the green notebook—but there, in the middle of the desk, sat the green notebook. He must have taken the red one, the one where I kept the cellar list. Which begged a single question: Had he done it on purpose?
I snatched my phone out of my back pocket and tapped out a message, my hands shaking so that it took much longer than it should have: Hi! Good to se
e you, too! Thanks again for a great evening. Did you by any chance take the red notebook instead of the green?
My hand hovered over the keyboard, but in the end I decided to skip the emojis for some good old-fashioned punctuation: ? ? ?
I sent the text and it instantly marked itself “delivered.” A few seconds later, three little dots appeared in a bubble. Walker was typing a response. And then they vanished.
Silence.
For the rest of the day, a tight band of stress squeezed the side of my head and neck, twisting into a sickening ache. I kept hoping Walker would return my text but my phone remained blank—and when I finally tried to call him, the number went directly to voice mail. How could I have been so stupid? I was embarrassed to tell Heather and Nico what I’d done, and so I avoided them, working through lunch and waiting until they had left to pick up the kids from school before stepping outside for a walk.
I’m going to Paris for a few days, Walker had written in his text. But he hadn’t mentioned it last night. Had he been planning the trip all along? Or was this an unexpected visit based on the contents of my notebook? Had he seduced me so that he could steal it? Did he somehow know about the cave? As I sped toward the village, I examined every aspect of the situation in minute detail, until I felt hollow with despair.
In Meursault, I circled the central square and continued up the rue de Cîteaux, a pretty little street lined with vigneron cottages. I was so absorbed in my thoughts that the cemetery appeared out of nowhere, the headstones tucked beyond a low stone wall, and I was jolted from my thoughts. Why hadn’t it occurred to me before: If Hélène was buried anywhere, surely it must be here.
The memories swooped upon me as soon as I stepped amid the gravestones. I had been here once before, long ago—the day Jean-Luc buried his father. My head turned involuntarily in the direction of his father’s plot, and I gave a start as a tall figure rose from a bench and waved. It was Jean-Luc.