“Ah, Celine. What a ray of sunshine you are!” Monsieur Ménard exclaimed, greeting both girls with a wide grin which crinkled his white moustache. Jacques, who was sitting idly beside him and already in uniform, immediately burst into a warm smile the moment he heard Celine’s name. “Come sit my dears, the day is getting better and better.”
“High bets?” Celine asked, well aware of the harrying pressure Jacques was under. Especially today.
On a deep, deep level, she realised, they didn’t differ that much from each other when it came to pleasing their families.
“High as the sky,” Monsieur Ménard replied proudly, waving his hat up in the air. “But Ménards always win, hence I have no intention of losing my money today.”
The notion of Monsieur Ménard betting on his own grandson disturbed her greatly, but Celine plastered on adazzling smile for the old man nonetheless. To her right, Anaïs displayed no interest whatsoever in the gamble, already making heart-eyes at one of the jockeys.
“I thought you had decided to stop fooling around for a while,” Celine said, loud enough so that only Anaïs could hear. Although, between the pandemonium of discussions over the bets, the onlookers finding their seats, and the horses neighing as they were led around the course, Celine’s words were probably lost in the commotion.
Anaïs lifted one of her shoulders in a shrug. “I’m just perusing. Everyone is allowed to peruse.”
Celine pulled a face. “You don’t even like men.”
“That doesn’t mean I don’t like looking at them,” Anaïs went on as though that was enough of an explanation. “Especially when they’re in uniform.”
Tutting at her, Celine descended the stairs towards their seats where a round table with refreshments awaited them. Monsieur Ménard was squinting at the starting gates through a pair of binoculars. “Today’s race,” he said, “will make Jacques the second winner of thePrix de l'Arc de Triomphecup in history.”
“As long as we keep our fingers crossed grandfather,” Jacques jumped in humbly. He gave Anaïs a side hug as she pushed past the chairs, towards their grandfather to greet him with a kiss. Jacques meanwhile had fastened his gaze on Celine, approaching her from the other direction. “Hello,ma jolie,” he said, drawing her in a loving embrace. “How did shopping go?”
Celine brushed a quick kiss to his lips. “Charles could barely get the car started with all the weight of our bags.”
The voices around them magnified in volume as more people entered the grandstand and the discussion of the weather or the reasoning behind each bet became inevitable. The race was about to start.
Jacques narrowed his eyes at her. “I’m starting to think you're looking forward to this party just for the gifts.”
“They're a fringe benefit.”
“Like the cake?”
“Oh, the cake will be divine.”
“Yeah?”
Celine nodded. “Mhm.” Staring at Jacques, she was beginning to understand Anaïs’s fascination with the racers. Maybe it was just her mind, focusing on the details of his uniform, but Celine couldn’t deny that the royal blue stripes on his jacket made him undeniably dreamy. “You look handsome.”
“Hmm, maybe I’ll use my charms to get the trophy today,” Jacques teased, stepping closer, when a hurricane of mixed perfumes and a dishevelled white suit rushed past them.
“Isn't this a little risky brother?” Bastien grimaced. “Kissing in public and all that? I thought you two were keeping it chaste.”
Before either of them had a chance to reply, Bastien levelled his grandfather a feigned apologetic look. “Do forgive my tardiness. As per your request, I live a little further away now.”
Monsieur Ménard managed to look past the barb and Bastien’s bedraggled state. “It’s a beautiful day. I’m only glad the entire family is here to enjoy it.”
With both of his hands in his pockets, Bastien hooked his foot around a chair’s leg, dragging it back. “Whatever you saypadrino,” he remarked and plopped himself down unceremoniously.
“I do not care for being associated with the Cosa Nostra, Bastien. Leave your comments for when we're in private and be silent.”
The tone prickled Celine’s skin to the point of goosebumps, but she wasn’t there to advocate for Bastien. Nor did Bastien seem to care. He tossed his hat on the table, nearly knockingover Jacques’s drink, then slid his green-tinted shades on and leaned back on his chair.
Jacques ran a soothing thumb over the back of her hand, bringing her attention to him.
“Everything alright?”
“Huh? Oh, yes. Everything is fine.” Wanting to switch the subject, she glanced at the track. “Is Pharaoh number five again?”
“We’re five again, but Pharaoh cannot compete anymore.” The issue clouded his expression just then. “The vet said his injury wasn’t going to recover properly. I’ve been training with Meringue ever since.”
