“Haven’t you heard? I’m a vineyard inheritor/composer/therapist. It’s verychic.”
“Now I get to ask a question,” she said, “to which I will add a challenge.”
“You are changing the rules of the game.”
She approached and leaned on the shed beside him. Their sleeves brushed up against one another. “What you said the other day, about being caught. I think that’s true.”
“That’s a statement, not a question.”
“So what is one thing you can do, soon, to change that?”
He turned to face her. Looked at her without guile. “I don’t know,” he said.
She turned to face him, too. They were close. “Think about it and get back to me.”
“And your challenge?” he asked.
“Go back to school, get better marks, go to university, study music.”
“A small thing, then.” He leaned down to pick up a paint can. “I will add a challenge for you, too.” His shirt rode up and revealed his hip bones. “While you are here,” he said, “do whatever you want. See how it feels. No one here has expectations of you. Why not?”
She took this in. Swirled it around inside of her to test it out.
He watched this happen. “I was sure you’d fight me on this, but you are full of surprises.”
“I’m doing my best.”
“So what is something you want to do? Tell me the very first thing that occurs to you.”
Kiss him. Put her hands on those hips with their delicious curve downwards, and kiss him. She looked to the windowsill, with the parcel of old maps lying there, tied with string.
“Go to Paris,” she said. It was the second thing to occur to her. Close enough.
Luc and Marlow reaffixed newly painted shutters to the other side of the house. In fact, Marlow was doing it, and Luc was spotting her, albeit reluctantly.
“Do you feel safer with me down here, doing nothing, holding this ladder?” he asked.
“Much.”
“In the history of Mirabelle, no citizen has fallen to their death from a ladder.”
“And you want me to be the first?”
“You are a citizen here, then?” He eyed her.
“Do you want me to be?” She eyed him back. She climbed down, but he didn’t step away, and she found herself with her feet on the ground, and his tanned, sinewy arms on each side of her, still holding the ladder. Neither of them said a word, and for a moment, just stood there, feeling their proximity. She turned to look into his gentle eyes, his square jaw covered in stubble. He didn’t move back, and she didn’t want him to.
“Did you hear my question?” she asked, low.
“I did. I’m thinking about it.”
“Hm. That’s awkward.”
“Not at all,” he said. “I’m thinking about how much I should say in my answer. Because I’m starting to feel—”
“Mon Dieu,” said a voice. They turned to see Guillaume, holding a box. Luc let go of the ladder and stepped away. Marlow eyed Guillaume to see if he’d caught the moment between her and Luc. Guillaume’s face was neutral—impossible to read. He was excellent at that face—the kind he might use, she imagined, in a business negotiation, to hide what he was actually thinking. And whatwashe actually thinking? Was he interested in her? She’d thought he was, with the caféau lait, cake slicesand little notes delivered to her office door. She’d thought she was interested in him, too.
“The change to the house is remarkable,” he said. “In just two weeks,en plus. Bravo.”
