by Karen Abbott
Back at the stables, Jean-Claude hitched Capitaine’s reins to one of the rails in the centre of the square and then helped her to dismount. She swung her right leg over Etoile’s back and slid down into Jean-Claude’s waiting arms.
It seemed the most natural thing in the world to lift up her face to his. She could feel the warmth of his breath on her face as he lowered his head towards her. She closed her eyes and her lips received his, gently at first, then more demanding. The warm tingles that surged throughout her yielded the softness of her body into the firmness of his, unleashing a passion that had eluded her until this moment. A slight moan escaped her as his lips traced a path across her cheek.
She arched her neck and his lips sought the lobe of her ear—then, without warning, Jean-Claude tightened his grip on her arms and took a step backwards.
“Je regret,” he apologised. “I should not have done that.”
Christi’s eyes flew open in disappointment. She stared at him. “Why not? I enjoyed it, too.”
“It is not …” He spoke in English, searching for the right word. “… fitting. I’m sorry.”
“Because you’re the boss, huh? And I’m only the hired hand?” Her voice portrayed anger. She felt scorned.
“There are reasons.” Jean-Claude was already turning away. “It was a good ride,” he said briskly. “You must ride every day ... with one or other of us. You will soon be proficient, I can tell.”
“Thank you.”
Christi’s voice was quiet. What had happened? Was he disappointed in her response to him? What had he expected? She felt humiliated and turned towards Etoile, in case the prickles in her eyes changed to tears. Furious with herself, she fought against them. He wasn’t the only man in the world, was he? No … but he was the only one she found herself to be so attracted to.
Maybe he already had a girl-friend? Was that why it wasn’t ‘fitting’? Yet, last night, though he obviously had lots of friends, no-one had seemed special to him and it was her whom he had taken home.
The small incident took away most of the pleasure from the ride.
Jean-Claude showed her how to unsaddle Etoile and she did it more or less on her own, dwelling more on her hurt feelings than on any trepidation at handling the horse.
She fell into step with Jean-Claude as they left the stable, expecting to walk back to the farmhouse together. Maybe he would explain his action …
At that moment, Virginie came round the corner leading her horse.
“Are you ready for a gallop along the beach?” she called to Jean-Claude.
“Yes. I’m coming!” He seemed relieved at the intervention. He unhooked Capitaine from the rail near the water-trough. “I’ll see you later,” he added to Christi.
She stood aside as he remounted and watched as he cantered over to Virginie, who had also mounted her horse with agile grace. The two cousins fell in side by side and down the long grassy borders of the drive. Christi heard Virginie’s tinkling laughter, followed by Jean-Claude’s deeper tones.
She watched until they reached the end and turned left towards the beach. They would be heading towards the area where Jean-Claude had parked the car last night. Would Virginie manage to steal a kiss from him? Maybe the girl was justified in hoping for more than cousinly love from him?
Christi’s heart felt hollow. She knew it was silly but she felt a bit foolish. Had she pushed herself forward, making the first move, putting him in a position where he felt he had to kiss her?
She hoped not … just as she hoped the laughter had nothing to do with her either. She had better take care to hide her feelings from now on.
Chapter Six
Marie came looking for Jean-Claude.
“He’s gone riding with Virginie,” Christi told her.
“His friend, Matthieu, is on the phone, wanting to make arrangements for tonight. What shall I say?”
Christi shook her head. “I don’t know. What do they normally do?”
Marie shrugged. “Much the same as last night, I think. They meet at a bar … or at someone’s house. It depends on who is available. Would you like to speak to him?”
Christi reluctantly picked up the phone, hoping she would understand the conversation.
She needn’t have worried. As soon as Matthieu realised who she was, he spoke in English.
“Ah, I am pleased it is you. Now, I can invite you personally. We are all meeting at Simon’s tonight. It is his birthday. I forgot to remind Jean-Claude last night. Tell him to bring some bottles or cans and something to eat. You will come, Christi, won’t you?”
She hesitated. Partying was the last thing she felt like right now. But, why not? She wasn’t going to let Jean-Claude spoil her week-end.
“Thank you. I would love to. What time?”
“About 8 o’clock. I’ll see you then. A bientot!”
“A bientot!”
Now she’d done it! Well,if Jean-Claude didn’t like it, that was his problem, not hers.
The party was a friendly, informal gathering; the loud modern music very similar to that enjoyed by Christi and her friends from home and she joined in the dancing, never short of a partner. She found the girls as friendly as the young men and chatted as freely as she was able. They all could speak some English and seemed keen to practise their skill with her.
Jean-Claude danced with different girls, spreading his attention around the group—but not with her. Her heart lurched when she saw him smiling or speaking something softly into his partner’s ear. She tried not to notice but it wasn’t easy, however much she tried to push him from her mind.
Amongst others, Matthieu made himself very attentive towards her. Determined not to let Jean-Claude know how much he had hurt her, she recklessly responded to Matthieu’s flirtation. She knew … hoped … it was nothing more than that to him. She liked him. He had a ready smile and was easy to talk to, even with the language barrier—and he seemed to like her.
They had a cool drink together and then Matthieu drew her towards the opened patio-windows and they danced out onto the terrace. There was a chill to the air.
Christi shivered.
“Are you cold?” Matthieu’s arms closed around her.
She knew he was going to kiss her and welcomed his soft, smooth touch, as his lips strove to master hers. There was no inner turmoil. But neither were there waves of ripples down her spine, as when Jean-Claude had kissed her. Nor did her inside melt into liquid fire. And, try as she might, it didn’t erase from her memory, the taste, the fragrance, the very essence of being that Jean-Claude had indelibly stamped upon her.
She knew her motives were wrong—but, in spite of her self-protestations to the contrary, she was hurting and needed the reassurance that her kisses were not repulsive.
When at last, they drifted back into the room during a slow smoochy waltz, she knew immediately where Jean-Claude was and glanced up to find his eyes resting upon her.
His face was inscrutable, though his eyes seemed to darken. They held each other’s gaze for a moment, before breaking away. Christi found it impossible to guess what his thoughts were. She longed to be able to call out to him that it had meant nothing, but her inner defence mechanism made her smile brightly, as if nothing else mattered.
Not happy in deception, she was relieved when Matthieu was claimed by one of the other girls and she was able to attach herself to a small group who were planning to meet at the open market the following day.
“We’ll meet you at Jean Bart’s Café—outside if the weather is fine,” Martine said. “It’s where we all gather, okay?”
Christi agreed. It would be nice to have some friends from outside the St. Clare family. She was missing her friends from home, although she had had a letter from Fiona wanting to hear about all the gorgeous Frenchmen she was meeting. After Sunday, she might have someone other than Jean-Claude to write about.
A light touch on her arm drew her attention. It was Jean-Claude. “Do you need a lift home?” he asked diffiden
tly.
Did he care? She couldn’t tell. “Yes, please … unless you have someone …”
“In five minutes?”
“Yes.”
When Matthieu asked if he might see her home, she was glad to be able to tell him that Jean-Claude was taking her. He didn’t appear to mind. He asked if he might see her again and she lightly agreed. She was a free agent, wasn’t she? He kissed her cheek and with a sweeping bow, wished her good-night.
Jean-Claude was quiet on the journey home. “Did you enjoy yourself?” he finally asked.
“Yes, thank you. Very much indeed. And you?”
“Yes.”
He didn’t stop anywhere to park by the sea, she noticed, and when they arrived home she slipped from the car and made her way upstairs to bed. She lay for a long time, trying to imagine herself dancing in his arms, resting her head on his shoulder, scenting the fragrance of his after-shave. She had to admit that she was falling in love with him, even though he had spurned her.
It was too much. To her deepest chagrin, a warm tear trickled from the corner of her eye and travelled slowly down her cheek.
The Sunday market was almost a festive occasion, Christi decided. Live music filled the air, spreading over the whole sun-drenched Square, where about eighty stalls were set out, providing a wide variety of goods for sale—household items, clothes, jewellery, shoes, plants, leather goods, furniture and an abundance of fresh food stalls—cheeses, fruit, vegetables, fish, meat, cakes, biscuits and bread.
The sights and sounds intoxicated the air. The musical French voices called out to each other or responded to the voices of the stall-holders shouting their wares.
A few girls she recognised from the previous evening were already sitting around two bright tables that flowed out over the pavements outside Jean Bart’s Café. They waved and beckoned her over to them.
Conscious that she had only the morning off work, Christi declined the offer of a coffee. “Later, if you don’t mind. I’d like to look around the market first,” she said, thankful that Jean-Claude had handed her a wage packet before she had set out. “Would any of you like to come with me? I might need help in understanding the stall-holders.”
Caroline and Sophie and two other girls who had finished their coffees volunteered. Sophie linked Christi’s arm. “Viens! We will ’elp you get some bons marchés, n’es pas!”
Christi laughed. Jean-Claude had used that expression. Some good bargains! She hoped so.
They did, too. In high spirits, the girls haggled over the prices that were first offered and it wasn’t long before they had helped her to choose some trousers and a pair of boots for riding, a light jumper, a skirt and top, and a frivolous pair of sandals that Christi fell in love with the moment she saw them. After parading up and down all the aisles of stalls, they rejoined the others and ordered coffees and pastries. The other girls oohed and aahhed over Christi’s purchases—and then resumed discussing the merits of the previous night’s party.
Thankfully none of them asked Christi for any personal preferences amongst the men, though they teased her about her few minutes outside with Matthieu. They regarded Jean-Claude as a worthy catch, she noted, but no mention was made of him having a steady girl-friend—so what were the ‘reasons’ he had alluded to? Or did he simply not find her attractive?
The weeks flowed by. The sun shone hotter and hotter and Christi was thankful of the gentle breeze that whispered its way through the tops of the tall, silver-leafed trees or rattled the rigid fingers of the prolific palms. The tall spikes of hollyhocks, in all shades of pinks, reds, purples and cream began to unfurl their colourful petals throughout the island, adding yet more to her fast growing love of the island.
Gradually, she and Jean-Claude eased back into in a friendly camaraderie. She threw herself into the work and was enjoying the open-air life. Days that began overcast were generally bathed once more in sunshine well before lunch-time and she appreciated the two and a half hour lunch-break, to rest indoors from the unrelenting heat.
The continued sunshine dried out the grass and over the next few days, after helping Georges to clean out the stables, Jean-Claude introduced her to the mechanical mower and the grass-strimmer. She was soon manoeuvring the small grass-cutter in and out of the small grassy areas that made up the individual plots. This activity brought her into contact with many of the owners of the mobile homes, who were also busy getting their rented plots in good order for the season. Some were from the UK, though the majority were French.
She liked the way the plots were separated by bushes and trees, making them more private than other Mobile-Home Parks she had seen. If she got into difficulties, there was invariably someone on hand to help her out—mechanical appliances weren’t high on her list of previous experience.
She was amazed at how easily she fell into the general routine and was often to be seen leading a string of horses from one grazing area to another, grooming their coats to a glossy sheen and, when more and more visitors began to trickle and then pour in, leading the small ponies with young novice riders on their backs around the site.
And in the evenings, a cool swim in the open-air pool completed the perfect days.
Jean-Claude kept his promise of teaching her to ride—but she was painfully aware that he was careful not to come into close personal contact with her, except when it was necessary to correct her hold of the reins, when his touch warmed her heart.
His determined aloofness hurt, though she refused to let it show. How bright her voice sounded at times—even when she felt her heart was breaking!
Matthieu, Simon and a number of the others readily made up frequent surfing parties at the week-ends and Christi was introduced to the exhilaration of body-board surfing on the Atlantic side of the island. She was thrilled. Her body gradually turned honey-brown and her hair shone with golden highlights.
The only sadness was Jean-Claude’s absence. She had never known anyone work so hard. In the daytime, it was hard physical work and in the evenings he wrapped himself in the paperwork; working out schedules; ordering materials; dealing with invoices. It was as if he was driving himself to fill every hour of every day with activity.
At times, Christi secretly regarded his face, his expression, wondering what was the driving passion. Was he always like this?—Or, could it be, that he was affected by her? That, for some reason, he couldn’t openly acknowledge his feelings? She knew she was clutching at straws but it remained a hope in her heart.
One day, one of the cats was found to have a sore paw and Christi was detailed to put it into a cat-box, ready for Georges to take it to the vet. The cat decided otherwise and leapt from her arms, whisking itself away. She caught sight of its tail disappearing into what had always been described as ‘Grandmere’s room’. So far, Christi hadn’t been in there, though nothing had been said to deter her.
Calling, “Come on, puss,” she pushed open the door. The cat leaped onto a dresser, dislodging a photo frame. Christi nimbly grabbed the cat and held it close to her, murmuring the universal soothing language, calming its fast beating heart.
When the cat lay quietly in her arms, she picked up the photo frame, intending to simply replace it on the dresser but, as she did so, she gasped. She knew that face! It was a photograph of her mother—one of those made to look as if it were from an earlier era by being printed in sepia tints. In the background were the stubby palm trees, so plentiful on the site.
Her mother had been here! Why had Jean-Claude never said? Maybe it was before he was born—she looked about her own age now, so it was before she had met and married her dad. Had she come here for a holiday? But that would mean that Georges and Marie must have met her! Why had they pretended not to have known about her? They said they had lost touch with Angela … but that didn’t now make sense. Oh, if only mum and dad hadn’t died in that car crash! A sadness swept over her. She had lost more than her parents in that crash; she had lost her link with her past—and no-one had tried to fill
in the gaps. Who was she? Who was her grandfather? He must have been someone from this island—but why would no-one tell her? Had Georges and Marie known him? No, he would have died in the war before they were born. It was Georges’ mother, Francine, who was Angela’s friend—but the photograph showed that her mother, Fleur, had been here. Georges would have been a few years older than Fleur. He must have known her!
There were other photographs. One, a tall, dark-haired man standing by a magnificent horse, reminded her of Jean-Claude, except he was older. It must have been Ives, his father. And, facing him, another picture of a pretty dark-haired woman. Was she Jean-Claude’s mother? She studied the pair, wishing she had known them, remembering her grief at the loss of her own parents.
Then, another photograph caught her attention. It was an older lady dressed simply but with a regal air. It couldn’t be Francine. She had already seen a photograph of her. She was of a much smaller build and there was something familiar …. So, who …?
“Mademoiselle!”
It was Marie bustling forwards, arms outstretched for the cat. “Vite! Vite! Prends le chat á Georges!” ‘Quick! Take the cat to Georges!’ She took the photograph from Christi’s hand and laid it down on the dresser as she hustled Christi out of the room.
Georges was waiting impatiently, as his trip into town was taking him away from his work, but Christi couldn’t help feeling that part of Marie’s agitation was caused by the sight of her looking at the photographs. Later, when she tried asking about them, Marie couldn’t understand what Christi was talking about—or pretended not to.
She tackled Jean-Claude about them that evening. “That’s my mother!” she accused. “Why did you say no-one knew her?”
She had led him to the room and pointed to the sepia picture, but he was quite nonchalant, as if he already knew that she would be asking him about it. Had Marie told him? He took the photograph from her hand.