Once Upon a Rose

by Laura Florand

  Was she saying something wrong? Maybe he just didn’t understand. “I can write my music anywhere. The land doesn’t matter.”

  He took another step back. Why did he keep looking like that? She was doing the right thing, wasn’t she? Healing the hole in his heart, no matter what it cost her?

  “It doesn’t really,” she repeated, insistently. “All of this”—her hand waved to encompass the church with its time, the views outside of the Côte and the valley, this whole world of his that was so beautiful—“is secondary.”

  “It’s what?”

  She shook her head, trying to get at what she meant. “None of that is the heart of things.”

  “You don’t care about it?” His voice sounded so flat, so numb.

  Her words were coming out all wrong. Maybe she should have written this in a song first. With rewrites. “Not as much as I care about—”

  “You.” His accusation cut her off. “And your music. And your fans. And your touring, and whether people are clapping for you. Not as much as you care about that, right?”

  What? She stared at him, as shocked and hurt as if he’d slapped her. Even though she hadn’t been going to say any of those things at all, temper touched her at his tone, and she argued against the wrong thing: “Well, that’s my career, Matt. It’s okay if I value my career, isn’t it? That clapping you’re so contemptuous of is how I know if I did a good job.”

  “And that’s more important?” His hand had come free of his pocket, fisted tight around something. The other hand flexed and closed. “You’re just going to dump this? All of this? Like some toy you got tired of?”

  “I don’t—” She scrubbed her hands across her face. How had this gone so wrong? Wasn’t he supposed to be overjoyed and relieved right now? Feel whole again? Trust her? Wasn’t he supposed to be showing her that even if she gave up her legal claim to part of his heart he would still keep her safe in it? “That’s not what I meant.”

  “You weighed them up, and you figured it out, right? Between your music and this. What really mattered.”

  “It’s not supposed to be an either/or choice,” she snapped, anger growing. This was the man who hadn’t even gotten properly mad at her for lying to him, and now, just when she was making herself the most vulnerable, he was acting like this? “And you shouldn’t make it one. If who I am and want to be really matters to you.”

  He stared down at the hand he had fisted around something and then at her. “I can’t believe you would give this up. I—God damn it, I thought it meant something to you.”

  He shoved hard at the nearest pew and turned and strode down the aisle.

  ***

  God, Matt hated churches. They dotted this country so ubiquitously, and everything bad in the world happened in them. His parents’ funeral. His grandmother’s. Raoul’s mother’s.

  A sulky, brooding child, being dragged there by his grandmother every Sunday, being made to go to Confession as he got older, when he wanted to punch the screen between him and the priest. You stole my parents! he’d wanted to shout. All I did was sneak out of the house at midnight to build a bonfire with my cousins. So Tristan melted the bottom of his shoe! Why am I the one apologizing to You?

  He reached the back of the church. All those backs of churches. All those funerals and, yes, weddings and baptisms, at which he and the men in his family had stood, biceps pressed against each other as they squeezed in, leaving the pews to the women because they couldn’t all fit. That mass of heat and strength that they made when they stood together.

  He stopped. The echo of his strides died away.

  He reached out and rested his hand against the stone, pressing Niccolò’s seal against the same wall where his and his cousins’ backs always pressed when they were here for weddings. Or funerals. Always, a restless peace would settle over them as they prepared themselves to be patient and respectful and stand still for an hour of prayers and singing and, half the time, Latin. They’d done it so many, many times, to keep their grandmother happy, or to do their duty by the family and honor someone’s wedding or the new life being born into the family, or, yes, to grieve together, to press their shoulders together to bear up an unbearable weight. He could half hear the echoes of those Latin chants now, as if the stone held so many of them they sifted down over anyone present like dust motes dancing in soft light.

  In this old church, the quiet sifted off the stone, centuries of pleading and gratitude, of grief and joy, of guilt and promises, all of that absorbed and cleansed from the air, released back out in this long, soft hush.

  A hush that said: Even when hurt to the deepest part of his heart, a man could still be strong.

  He looked back at Layla.

  Her face had crumpled. She was hugging her middle as if he had hit her in it, and trying not to cry.

  Oh, hell.

  “I’m sorry,” he said uneasily.

  Her face crumpled more as she stared at him, and then she did start to cry, covering her face with her hands.

  Hell. He came back to her, pulling her into his arms. “I’m sorry, Bouclettes. I’m sorry.”

  But you just…you want to throw me away? Give me back? You don’t want to keep me?

  I’d do about anything to keep you.

  His special present of himself. That she didn’t need. That didn’t matter. That wasn’t the heart of things. She was going to take it back to the store and exchange it for something more practical.

  “I was trying to say something,” she cried. “I think I must not have said it right.”

  Oh, hell, he was such a bastard. Such a grumpy, stupid, touchy bastard. “Come here,” he said, drawing her out of the church and away from the statue of Mary looking down at him with a maternal forgiveness that made him feel as if he’d just killed a damn kitten.

  He drew her to the great rock that interrupted the wall of the terrace looking out over the valley. An old cypress shaded it, so old that Niccolò must have sought its shade once, too.

  He leaned back against the rock and drew her weight against him. “I’m sorry,” he said yet again. “Tell me what you were trying to say.”

  “I don’t want to anymore.” She tried to push a glare through her tears, but it got all blurred, and her mouth trembled over her attempt to scowl. “I don’t trust you with it!”

  Ouch. That really hurt. “Okay, I’m sorry. Shh.” He rubbed her back, tightening her into him. “Shh. I’m so crazy about you, Bouclettes. I just…I thought you loved this valley, too.”

  She slapped her hand hard against his chest. “I love you. That’s all I was trying to say. I do love your valley, but not as much as you. You jerk.” And she burst into tears again.

  Shit.

  And…oh, wow, really?

  Really?

  “Shh, shh, shh,” he murmured, easing her into him, soul lighting up with this strange, scared wonder. Did she mean that? And had he just broken it?

  “I wanted you to be happy,” she told his chest accusingly. “I wanted you to feel whole. I wanted you to feel safe with me. I thought for sure that I was safe with you.”

  That hurt so much. “It’s just a fight,” he said anxiously. He was one of five male cousins. They had fights all the time. Most of the time they didn’t even bother to make up but shrugged and went on as if it had never happened. Once the dust settled, it was settled, after all. No sense stirring it up again. If any extra calming of the waters needed to happen, someone made a joke or someone shoved the other in the shoulder, and it was all good.

  But she was an only child. Almost as bad, she was a girl.

  Maybe she didn’t know how to make up after fights by going on as if they’d never happened.

  Maybe she didn’t know how to forgive a man for acting like a jerk.

  “I just misunderstood.” He rubbed her back more and more coaxingly. “I thought—you know, for a songwriter, you really need to work on your word choice.”

  “Hey!” She lifted her head and glared at him. Her eyes
were still wet, but at least the tears stopped actually falling.

  So the pushing-her-buttons had worked, a little bit like that would work with his cousins. He gazed at her helplessly, not quite sure of his next move to smooth things over. Probably not punching her in the shoulder and saying something rude.

  “You certainly seemed to have some nasty assumptions about me ready to pop out at the least misunderstanding.” She scowled at him.

  “I had a crappy experience with my last celebrity girlfriend.” He kissed her forehead. “I’m sorry, Layla.”

  “Okay, quit saying that,” she said as her eyes filled again. “It makes me cry.”

  Saying he was sorry made her cry? So…did that mean it was a good thing she was crying? It would be so helpful if he had had a little more exposure to women growing up and could actually figure one out.

  “Well, I am sorry,” he said firmly, and scooted them back on the rock, until he was sitting against the cypress and she was tucked between his upraised knees. The position anchored them into the very solidity of the earth and at the same time hovered them on the edge of the whole vast world, falling away below them and rising blue above them to the heavens. “Tell me what you meant?”

  “No.” She scowled at him, very stubborn. But she wasn’t crying anymore.

  He sighed. This was what he got for trying to defend his heart when he was supposed to be opening it. He kissed her hairline, and a little part of him still could focus on the pleasure of the texture of her curls against his lips. “Layla. I don’t want you to give me back the land, all right?”

  “You don’t make any sense whatsoever!”

  Well, at least it was mutual. “I want you to have it,” he said, and loosed his hand from her back to show her what he held.

  “What?” She jerked her head up to stare at him, not even seeing what he offered.

  He nudged it at her again, making her look down at what he held in his palm. A small, enameled gold oval depicting the valley, exactly as it looked from where they sat. The hills that framed it. The fine thread of the river. The tiny patch of limestone cliffs the river cut through to enter the valley.

  “That’s beautiful,” Layla said, instantly distracted from anger and hurt by her own wonder. She was so generous she couldn’t stay wounded and mad worth a damn, could she? She stroked her fingers over the smooth enamel. “Is it a copy of the old seal you were telling me about? The one your ancestor had made…Niccolò?”

  “It’s not a copy.”

  It took her a second. And then she gasped. “You found it?” That fast, she had forgotten all about their fight. “Matt! That’s wonderful.” She hugged him.

  “You’re a really nice person, aren’t you?” he said softly.

  A sulky frown hinted its way back. “I thought I was the kind of person who cared more about whether people were clapping for me than anything else.”

  He sighed and rested his forehead against the top of her head. “I was stupid,” he said. “Sometimes I’m a little sensitive.” That idiot soft heart of his. She’d slipped in under all its shields, and it made his heart a little jumpy to have someone in so close where it could get hurt.

  She tightened her hug enough to rest her head against his chest. So maybe this was the way he made up with her. Not a punch on the arm or a rough joke, but a touch of her hair or a kiss of the top of her head.

  Well, then. He could definitely do that, too.

  It made him feel a lot more vulnerable than punching somebody’s arm, but he was going to try to handle it.

  “Tante Colette had it all this time. She gave it to me.”

  “Well, I’m glad she finally did the right thing,” Layla said approvingly. “It’s your valley.” She stroked his chest. Look at that, she was already petting him. She was lousy at grudges. “You are here and here you’ll stay.”

  He took a breath. “Turn it over.”

  She did, with the care of someone who had never touched a piece of jewelry four hundred years old in her life, and stilled at the gold seal revealed on the other side. Her finger felt the shape of the gold very carefully. The roses growing up out of the ground. The gold bloom at the top. The words…her finger hesitated over them. “I thought you said the motto was…”

  “I guess we changed it, over time,” he said. “Apparently what Niccolò said was ‘It all starts here’.”

  “I like that. Not a resting place, but a starting place. A place to help you bloom.” She stroked it again, her face wondering and a little wistful. “That’s incredible, roots like that.”

  “Yeah,” he said softly. “I thought you might like it.” What an idiot he’d been in the church.

  “It’s amazing. It’s even a rose. It’s perfect for you.”

  He took the chain and slipped it over her head, settling the seal over her breastbone. “It’s perfect for you.”

  Her hand covered it. “What?”

  “I want you to have it.”

  “Matt, you can’t—”

  He put his hand over her mouth before she could throw his heart back at him again. “Because I thought,” he said carefully, “that it didn’t have to be an either/or choice. That maybe you could stay here and bloom. And pursue your career. Maybe you, you know…needed me. And…I can give you that. Me.”

  “Your valley is not you, Matt. I mean—”

  “It is,” he finished for her. “It really is. And I want you to keep that, too. But I also meant…me. I can give you me.”

  “Oh.” Her loose fist rose to her lips, and she bit into the side of her index finger, staring at him.

  “Don’t give it back,” he said anxiously, gesturing to himself.

  “But—but—” She looked from him down to her chest and back. “You can’t give me something so old.”

  A little smile ghosted through him. “It’s a bit younger than the valley.”

  She gave a tiny, indignant shove to his chest. “I was trying to give that back! And anyway, someone else gave it to me. You know what I mean. This should stay in the family.”

  His smile grew inside him, even while his cheeks heated a little. It felt good, though, that heat in his cheeks. Like warmth escaping his heart to expand all through him. “I know.” He rubbed his thumb over the seal, resting the heel of his palm against the swell of her breasts. “But I bet if you let me, I could figure out a way to fix that problem.”

  Her breath caught. She stared at him, her eyes such a beautiful green. Just like rose leaves in the early gray morning.

  “I, ah…” He touched his chest, his cheeks heating more to try to say these words. He meant them, that wasn’t the problem. They just sounded so untough, so soft-hearted, so exposed. “You know I’m crazy about you.”

  There. He could say that. It wasn’t so…raw. It wasn’t so open.

  And she liked it. Her cheeks flushed a little, and she bit her lip, staring up at him in pleasure.

  But…yeah. She deserved the rawness. The openness. He bent his head to slide his face into her curls until his lips were by the lobe of her ear. “I love you,” he said, and his cheeks flamed like fire. Because it was true, and saying something so true could sometimes take all a man’s courage. “Moi aussi, je t’aime.”

  It was worth the courage, though, for the way she wrapped her arms around him and held on tight, as if she would never let go.

  She fit in his arms just right.

  Chapter 22

  “She’s really good, isn’t she?” Tristan said, stopping beside him at the side of the stage, their shoulders brushing.

  Matt beamed with pride, his arms folded to try to contain his chest before it swelled so much it exploded. “She’s fantastic.”

  Layla was chatting with her audience, teasing them by playing bars of “La Vie en Rose.”

  She had ended up calling her producers and stating flat out that she needed to delay the album. Her producers had said, “Better a delay than crappy music.”

  I told you so, Matt had said. Layla had gotten i
ndignant with him about that, but her relief had been enormous. She’d actually gone out on a blanket on the hillside and slept the whole morning in the shadow of the pines after that phone conversation, her face so relaxed and peaceful. Her joy in her music grew back from that point like a plant taken out of a dark closet and given some sun, her energy and pleasure more and more vibrant. He’d loved it, how excited she grew to share with him something she’d been working on, when they met for lunch, or she came down to the fields to sit on the back of the truck and play a while, or in the evening. When she was no longer under pressure, when she was in the shelter of his valley, when she had all kinds of things that gave her life and worth besides her music, it was amazing how attached she was to that guitar.

  But then, of course, the Rose Festival committee, half of whom were related to Matt and all of whom had seen the photos, came down on him like a ton of bricks to try to get Belle Woods to perform at the festival.

  Matt didn’t give a crap about the committee pressure, of course—would-be-dominant other family members were the main reason he’d had to grow up so growly and tough in the first place—but Layla laughed and said, “Sure. No problem.”

  Which was pretty damn annoying, actually. No wonder she was so stressed and overworked if she didn’t know how to say no.

  Of course, the only consequence he’d gotten for pointing that out and arguing with her over her acceptance had been this incredibly maddening and yet intimately delicious evening in which Layla teased him with all the ways and times she could say no.

  So here she was, on stage in Grasse, across from the great fountain with its huge, stylized jasmine and rose flowers.

  One side of the stage reached nearly to the wall of the esplanade, the valleys below Grasse spilling below it. Once those valleys, too, would have been full of flowers, the entire region so dense with them you breathed perfume. These days, all the land he could see from here was full of houses and buildings, all the way to the sea.

  One day, the Rosier valley would be the last valley of flowers in France. The land’s production would no longer suffice to justify its existence, and it would become just a show-piece of the larger Rosier SA. Kept for sentimental value, because they could afford it.