“Yep. Safe drive back.”
And then, her cell phone pinged. She read the text. Her breath caught in her throat. “He said come! Now what?”
“Now we go to Paris.”
After the massage, Guillaume had more treatments lined up involving hot stones and reflexology and other luxurious things. Marlow tried to protest—they really ought to get back—but she gave up almost immediately. Truth was, she wished all this pampering would never end. So she texted Luc and Sabine that they should knock off early, and that she wouldn’t be home for dinner.
When the treatments were finally done, and Marlow felt so relaxed she thought she might melt into the floor, they made their way to the dining room. It had tall, grand windows giving onto the surrounding countryside, marble columns decorated all gold and white, and a fresco ceiling.
Dinner was out of this world. Impeccable service, candlelight, and the food, the food! It was the sort of meal that started with appetizers of a single enormous scallop on a giant white plate with a divine sauce drizzled over it. Her mouth died of happiness, and it just got better from there. The main course was a filet mignon, rare, two potatoes, and four string beans tied together in a bundle with something fancy and edible.
Guillaume chose the courses and paired the wines. For him to take care of all the details and not make a big deal of it … in Marlow’s life, she was the organizer, the planner. Here, she barely even cared about her outfit. Somehow, he made her feel as if she fit right in.
They talked about their lives—where they’d come from, where they were going. Guillaume travelled once a month to the United States, where he was working on distribution networks for Fortin wines. He was contemplating a partnership with awinery in California, and if they did that, he’d likely spend half the year there and half the year here.
The waiter brought a sauv blanc with creamy goat cheese—a pairing from the Loire that the chef had recommended.
“I’m impressed you can work with your family,” said Marlow, tasting the wine and cheese together and feeling like she was in culinary heaven. “My parents think I’m a failure. Not a total failure, but, oh, let’s see, in terms of career, being a single parent, still renting at thirty-nine, I’m dancing somewhere in the middle of the failure spectrum. Which makes for great conversation over Sunday dinner.”
“They’re wrong, of course. So you aren’t the manager of your department—yet. You will be in September. You wouldn’t be considered if you were a failure. Sabine is a joy, so you have succeeded as a parent. You don’t own your apartment? Most people in Paris never own. They rent. That is the way. These are poor indicators your parents have chosen.”
She inspected the wine label and tried to commit it to memory. Beaulieu Frères Pouilly Fumé.
“And your brother?” he asked. “Are your parents as hard on him?”
“No, they love Noah. And I love him too, but he struggles with depression. Not that I blame him—the restaurant industry is beyond stressful. He was running places like this, actually, in Toronto and New York. Everyone was always watching to see if he’d fail. And one day, he quit. If I could work with him, I would. We’re just in very different places right now.”
“Does he judge you as your parents do?”
“No. Yes. No. He loves me, whereas I think my parents are, honestly, ambivalent. But right before we left Toronto, my brother and I had a fight. He said some things about where I am in my life. That I’m bored at work and not living up to my potential. It was hard.”
“I know a woman who works for the Cannes Film Festival. I have provided wine for her events at the last minute, so she owes me a favor. I could see if there are any openings.”
“Seriously? Cannes? Wow. I’m not sure what to think about that.”
“Oh?”
Marlow nodded. “The idea of staying on here, in France, is sooo tempting and terrifying, all at once. Also, I couldn’t abandon Noah and leave him in Toronto like that.”
“Really?”
“No. He’s much better than he was—he’s good now, mostly, actually—but, you know. I still feel responsible for him.” She drank more wine, pairing each sip with cheese. “I’m going to try to remember these tastes for the rest of my life.”
“I’m not eavesdropping, I promise,” said a woman at a nearby table. “But me, too.” They all laughed, and she introduced herself. Her name was Ruth. She was maybe seventy, dressed in an off-white raw silk outfit with perfect silver hair. She was from Cincinnati and loved Toronto. “It’s so beautiful. So safe. And Canadians are so polite.”
“You haven’t met me after my computer’s crashed,” said Marlow.
“I used to work in Toronto,” said Ruth. “I was a consultant, and we had Canadian clients. My life was all about flying in, giving a presentation, rarely making it out of the hotel, then flying home. And never being finished with my to-do list.”
“I feel you,” said Marlow. “It’s too much, isn’t it?”
“It was. My husband and I saw next to nothing of each other, but I was making heaps of money, so I kept saying, we’ll spend time when I’m retired. We’ll go places and do things.”
“And did you?” asked Guillaume.
“We retired, and Lloyd had a heart attack a month later and died.”
“I’m so sorry,” said Marlow.
