Je T'aime

by Ursula Whistler

  He winked. “Seriously.”

  With a huff in feigned annoyance, she searched her brain for the words. “If you please, drive me to house.” She even praised herself for remembering the word and tense for drive.

  He bowed to her, said something with a lot of hard “C”s, and held out his hand.

  She loved his gallantries, even if she had no idea what he’d said. Between his bass voice, the twinkle in his eye, and the delight of the artwork in her hand, she was enthralled with life again. Armand’s thoughtless comments faded in her mind. She’d make this the best damn last week in France ever.

  Chapter Seven

  Étienne had expected Genevieve to sit beside him the couch when they arrived back at the apartment to have her talk. Instead, she vanished behind the door to her room with no explanation. He considered pouting over a glass of wine, but he realized he could lure her out with food. It was the way to get her attention. She was so like a man that way—motivated by food. He did, however, pour a glass of red wine for himself as he cooked herbed chicken with roasted potatoes. The fragrance alone would bring her to him as it always did.

  “Thank you, Étienne,” she said, followed by a soft kiss to his cheek. He set a glass of wine before her as she nibbled on the food with a notepad beside her. On it was a list of names and numbers. Some were local. One appeared to be in Toulon.

  “May I help?”

  “No. I can do this.” She stuttered over the words, but she got it right.

  “You can do this. Good.” Except he wanted her to need him.

  With a small smile, she bent back to her list and her food.

  He sighed. Her reluctance to speak to him soured the food in his mouth. Not even the excellent wine could overcome the bitterness of his soul. He let her eat as he forced himself to chew the chicken.

  As she ate the last bite, she announced. “I am going to Toulon tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” Why did she have to leave him so soon after a great night? He’d hoped it had meant so much more to her than a sordid tryst. It had for him. This focused American had needled her way into his heart.

  “Yes.”

  His lips began to turn into a pout, but he forced them into a straight line to show he wasn’t sad about it. He had nothing to offer her but words. She needed much more to stay with him. He was sure of that. “Why?”

  “Work?”

  “Work? You are on holiday.” His head shook.

  “Work.” She flashed him a stern look as she said it again.

  He shrugged. “Please be home for dinner. I cook for you.”

  “Okay.” She smiled, and his heart welled. If only he could lure her to stay in France with him only for his cooking.

  He would try words even in his terrible English. “We need to talk.” Exactly how he would begin, he was unsure, but she needed to hear what last night meant to him.

  “Not now.”

  “Why?” He asked that question too many times tonight. Too many questions and not enough answers. It was worse than any intel mission.

  She scrunched up her nose and pushed her black hair from her face. “I…um…ugh. I don’t know.”

  “You do not know, or you do not know the words?”

  “The words.” She blew out a breath. “I am going to school.”

  “School? Why?” Again, he was asking why. He berated himself inwardly.

  “To learn.” She sighed.

  He didn’t like that. It would put more distance between them, physical and emotional. In two weeks, his leave would be over, making his time with her precious. To see her everyday would be so much better.

  “I teach you. We learn…” He tapped her and then himself, bringing his hands to each other. He couldn’t think of the word in English.

  “You have much to learn, too.” She shook her head. “We can’t do it all together.”

  As he thought of what else to say, her phone rang, and she rose from the couch to answer it. Seeing her list laying on the table, he picked it up to read it. “Shit.”

  She’d written it in English. He took a picture of it with his phone to translate it later.

  She returned with a huff. “Your sister!” She shoved the phone into his face. “Talk. She is crazy.”

  He had no idea what Brigitte had done now. In French, he spoke to her as he stood from the couch. Talking with his stepsister always made him antsy. “Brigitte, Genevieve is quite upset. What have you done?”

  “I should ask what you have done to her. She sounds different, determined. Her holiday attitude is gone. Instead, she is driven, saying she has plans. Is she planning a wedding? I might return for a wedding.”

  “There is no wedding. What do you mean, ‘might return’? What are you planning?” He glanced at Genevieve, who leaned over her list.

  “I asked Genevieve if I could stay with her when she returns to the United States. I don’t want to leave. I adore this city. It is magnificent. You should come with her.”

  “I work, and you shouldn’t stay, either. You have university in the fall.”

  “I can stay until the summer. The apartment would be all yours. You could bed all the women you want without me knowing.”

  He shook his head. Everyone close to him thought he was such a gigolo. “I don’t bed women.”

  “Ha, what have you done with my brother? Convince Genevieve to let me stay or convince her to stay with you longer. Surely you aren’t too terrible a roommate. It will soon be Valentine’s Day. I will send you the things Americans give each other.”

  He turned to glance at Genevieve. Her arms were crossed, and her lovely face was tight with her lips pressed together. “What did you say to her? She is unhappy.”

  “I said nothing wrong. I asked to stay here and live with her when she returns.”

  Genevieve picked up her list and her glass of wine. “I go to my room.”

  He sighed as she left the room. He sank onto the couch, wishing she were beside him so he could tell her… What would he tell her? How could he have a conversation with her if he didn’t know what to say? Another sigh escaped. “Perhaps it is not you. Today has not been a good day.”

  “I am sorry. Maybe you are dwelling on one bad part. You do that often. Are you brooding on the couch? Stop. Go to the gym. It clears your head.”

  “Good idea.” He stood and walked quickly to his room. He’d figure it all out. He could calm angry warlords; he knew he could figure out Genevieve. “Brigitte, I don’t care whether you come home or stay there. Just do more than party.”

  “You are such a brother. All work and no play—”

  “Makes me a good person.”

  “No. Play.”

  “I have. Now, it is time to work.”

  “For what? You have money to live.”

  “Not money. Now I work for something I desperately want.” That put a smile on his face. He wanted Genevieve in his life, and not just until she left. He needed to prove to her that she could stay in La Seyne sur Mer with him.

  Chapter Eight

  As she walked onto the waterbus from the busy dock in Toulon, Genevieve thought about the past five days of classes and the flurry of emails, painstakingly written and rewritten for proper French grammar. She’d managed to learn how to speak French well enough to interact with people on the street and in shops.

  The intensive course caused her head to explode and left her with a headache each day, but it paid off. She even had a phone conversation with Michel, and he seemed interested in her plan if slightly confused. It could have been her French. It was passable but not great. Now, to get enough courage to speak with someone who could print the fabric and help produce her designs. Then, she could take Brigitte up on her crazy idea of assuming each other’s rent until the fall. Ah, to do that…

  She’d put that conversation off with Étienne, too. How would she be able to tell him that she wanted more than the occasional romp in the sheets? They definitely had chemistry when naked. Their one night in Avignon had not be
en enough, but she didn’t want to complicate things until she knew she could stay for longer.

  With three days left until her scheduled departure, she didn’t know what to do. They’d been so distant with each other. Her days ran late with school and sourcing materials for the skirts, dresses, and coats she planned to make. He spent his days doing something, but he didn’t share what. She assumed he worked at his military job and wouldn’t be able to tell her even if he wanted to.

  The only thing they preserved from their first days together were the dinners each night. He cooked lovely, fragrant meals that enticed her to sit with him each night. They ate. She cleaned the dishes and pans. Lost were the moments sitting with a glass of wine discussing the day. They were both too tired.

  She stared at the mountains rising behind the white buildings of Toulon as the full boat pulled away from the dock. Somehow, in the short weeks she had been here, she’d fallen in love with this place. The blue water of the Mediterranean mixed with vibrant, welcoming people had snared her heart. One person in particular could have all of her if he were only willing.

  As she thought of Étienne as the water splashed alongside the water taxi, a message from his sister popped up on the screen of her phone. I am in love with how Americans celebrate Valentine’s Day. Love is everywhere here.

  She tapped out a message to Brigitte, who was clearly having too much fun in New Orleans during the Carnival season. I had forgotten it was that day. I don’t like it. Too many hearts and red and pink. Ew.

  Then she had to laugh at herself as she considered her outfit for the day—a long plaid skirt with a red sweater. She’d dressed for the day without thinking about it. But I do miss the tiny hearts with messages on them. Eat some for me.

  As the smaller skyline of La Seyne sur la Mer seemed to grow, Genevieve realized again how much she didn’t want to leave this place. Today, she would tell Étienne her feelings. No matter how tired he might be from whatever he was doing at work, she would slowly tell him in French how everything about him made her want to be with him.

  He was beautiful with his tan skin and muscles, but what set him apart was how he interacted with people. He spoke to his neighbors and chatted up the workers at the market. His ease with speaking to staff wherever they went showed so much of his heart—a good man. And, he cooked. How she loved that.

  What she loved more than all of those qualities was how he treated her. He seemed to know her mood and desires without her even voicing it. She’d never known anyone quite like him. She sighed, and it rattled to her core.

  An elderly man beside her smiled and uttered, “You are in love.”

  She let the words tumble in her head to find the meaning. When she realized what he said, she answered. “Yes, I am.”

  “Does he know?”

  “No.” Étienne didn’t know. She hadn’t told him because she just realized it herself this week. This mixed-up week of learning and building what she hoped would be a burgeoning enterprise for her. This week could be the key to her remaining in France.

  The old man patted her on the knee. “Tell him. Life is short.”

  She would tell Étienne that she loved him, except thinking about it caused her heart to leap into her throat.

  When they docked, she gathered her bag and let the old man leave before her. He turned to her and repeated his words. “Life is short.”

  She agreed with his proffered warning. Her month in France was too short. If only she had figured out earlier how much she cared for Étienne and if they had traveled to Les Castellet earlier to meet Michel and see his odd finger-smudge painting method. If she could keep her courage during the walk home to tell Étienne all that waited to burst from her heart, she would reschedule her flight and change her entire world.

  A smile spread over her face as she waited to get off the waterbus. She’d stop at the patisserie and get Étienne’s favorite dessert. It was too late to buy flowers and chocolate, but not too late to give a Valentine to him in the form of pastry and crème.

  How much easier it would be to search through a box of candy hearts to find the words “Je t’aime” or “I love you” on them. When she was a girl, she would blush when a boy would give her one of those. Today, she wished she had a box to give to Étienne.

  A cool wind blasted her as she emerged from the cabin, and she bent her head to keep her hair from covering her face. Except the wind whipped her hair across her eyes anyway. She stumbled a bit, but a hand caught her elbow.

  “Thank you,” she said as she moved her hair from her eyes.

  The person her helping her off the boat was Étienne, his white teeth such a contrast to the bronze of his skin.

  “You are welcome, my dear.”

  His voice brought chills of delight shooting down her neck to her core. Her whole body warmed though he held only a small part of her arm.

  She breathed out his name. “Étienne. How did you know I’d be here?”

  “I didn’t. I have waited on each boat.” He grinned as he took her hand and led her to the sidewalk. “You are speaking French beautifully.” He switched to English. “I am not as practiced in your language.”

  “I hope to make your language mine.” She chanced a quick glance at him. Still gorgeous and still the man she wanted by her side.

  “Do you?”

  “Yes. I have so much to say.”

  “Please wait. There are many places you must go with me.”

  She tugged on him. “But I need to tell you something.”

  “Yes. You can, but I go first. Please. I have waited hours.”

  The way he said please with that bass voice and expectant puppy eyes swayed her. “I go with you.”

  “Good.” He grabbed her bag, slung it on his shoulder, and glanced at her feet. “Ah, boots. Better for walking. We go quickly. A march.”

  “Why?” She jogged a bit to keep up with him.

  “Three places we visit.”

  “Can we make a stop at the patisserie?”

  “Why?”

  “It is Valentine’s Day. I wanted to get you something.”

  He stopped long enough to give her a loud smack of a kiss on her cheek. “Thought is enough. Now, go.” He pulled her to match his long strides, so different than their normal strolls to the market. He shouted out “pardon me” as he marched her down the lanes to the heart of the small city. They reached a row of shops, and she recognized one with an assortment of fabrics and sewing machines that she sometimes strolled through to get an idea of cost. None of it could she afford currently. She’d need to rent a machine if they even did that here.

  The petite owner of the shop greeted her and spoke in accented English. “Which machines will you choose?” She indicated a row of five top end models with a sweep of her hand.

  “I, uh, I…” With her mouth open, she turned to Étienne. “What does she mean?”

  He took both her hands in his and gazed into her eyes. His stare was so intense that she nearly looked away. “This is one of three gifts to you from me. Madame will rent two of these sewing machines to you.”

  “Oh. But I leave in two days.”

  “I hope you will find these gifts reason enough to stay longer. You see, I took your list, and I have worked to fill your needs. First, machines to sew.”

  “And,” Madame added, “I will rent you the space next door as a shop. It is vacant and needs activity in it. You sew and sell from there.”

  “But I have no money.” Her heart thumped in her chest. This didn’t seem real.

  “I do.” Étienne squeezed her hands.

  “And I do as well. Plus look what we have accomplished.” Madame walked to the back of the store and pulled a roll of fabric from a bin. As she unrolled it, Genevieve gasped.

  “It is Michel’s painting.” Tears sprung from her eyes. “Oh, Étienne. How did you…” Her astonishment and happiness stole her words.

  “Madame mends and tailors my uniforms. I knew she had connections. I begged.”


  Madame continued for him. “He did not need to plead too much. The fabric is beautiful, and I will help market for you. My son and daughter will help sew. If you succeed, I succeed.”

  Her mind raced from happiness to worry. Étienne risked so much for her as well as the shop owner. Would she be able to meet their expectations? “I need permission from Michel.”

  “I have that.” Étienne pulled a folded paper from his coat pocket. “He will sell clothes in his gallery, too, but he would like some of his muted colors used.”

  Her mouth opened, and she placed her hands over her heart. Its wild beat made her light-headed. “You got that, too? My God, Étienne. You have done so much for me.”

  Madame opened a side door. “Come look at the space. It is small but good.” They followed her into the next shop. It wasn’t anything special, but there would be space for sewing machines, a large table, dress forms, and racks to display the clothes they would make. “You can meet my son and daughter tomorrow. Étienne has one more place to take you.”

  All she could do was thank the woman. Her brain was close to overloading with excitement. “Merci, Madame. I will do well here and with you as a partner.”

  “Summer dresses first. We sell a season before, then fall, and gorgeous scarves for winter.”

  “Yes. Yes.”

  Étienne led her out the front door of the small shop.

  She pulled him to a stop. “You are wonderful. I will stay in France.” She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him. When she was through with the embrace, she grabbed his face and kissed him hard on the lips. “I will stay, and I will design, and I will sew, and I will be happy.”

  “Good. Come with me.” He grinned as he tugged her.

  “Where?”

  “Home. Our home.”

  He’d spoken in French, and she wasn’t sure if he had actually said “our.” In very slow, painstakingly enunciated French, she stated, “You said ‘our home.’” Her hands rested on his shoulders. People returning to their houses walked around where they stood on the sidewalk in front of her new shop.