He shook his head. “We eat dinner late in this part of France. You need a good lunch.”
“Fabrice said something about that last night, when I served dinner at six thirty.”
“Here it can be very hot and... what is the word?Maggy?Very humid in the summertime. So people take advantage of the cool of the evening to sit outside and enjoy their meal. It doesn’t cool down until well after eight. Let’s stop here: La Cour du Louvre is a wonderful restaurant.”
Cady might have passed right by the small passageway had Jean-Paul not pointed it out. It led to a courtyard strung with fairy lights, the restaurant’s decor bohemian but elegant. Jean-Paul asked if she would let him order for her, and, feeling adventurous, she agreed.
Cady sat back in her chair and noted, with some surprise, that she was extraordinarily relaxed. Partly it was the simple fact that Jean-Paul preferred to speak English. As much as Cady enjoyed exploring the world opened up by a new language, and knew her fluency was improving, speaking French with Fabrice had been draining. Cady feared that she missed at least twenty percent of what he said—maybe more—and virtually all of the nuance. She had to concentrate at all times, imagining where one word stopped and another began, but taking care not to get so caught up in the mechanics of syntax and grammar that she lost the flow of the conversation.
It was exhausting.
So it was a welcome respite to be able to speak her own language, and Jean-Paul rarely failed to understand. But there was more to it than just the ease of communication. There was something comforting about Jean-Paul, an ease with which he operated in the world. She envied him his self-confidence.
“Do you know this wine?” he asked, holding up a bottle with a fancy label.
“No,” said Cady. “I’ve been to Napa and know a little bit about California wines, but French wine is a complete mystery to me. I am, I fear, an uncouth savage.”
Jean-Paul laughed. “Then we must do something about that,ma chère sauvage. This is Châteauneuf-du-Pape.”
“Again with the popes?”
“It is the name of a village, not far from Avignon. I believe a pope had a castle there, yes.” He poured the ruby red wine into her glass.
“Well, I do love the name.Châteauneuf-du-Pape.” She repeated it: sha-toe-nuff-du-pop. “I could say that all day. Châteauneuf-du-POP!”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be. You are charming. I’ve just never really thought about the name before.”
Me, charming?That was a first. But then everything about this trip was a first.
“Try it,” Jean-Paul urged.
She brought the glass to her lips, but paused when she noted his eyes tracking her movements. “You always watch me when I eat and drink. Is it like the walking thing? Do I drink like an American or something?”
He gave her a slow, sexy smile. “It is nothing like that. You seem to enjoy the flavors so much... and what is more sensual than a beautiful woman eating and drinking?”
“I’m hardly a beautiful woman, Jean-Paul. What is it you want from me?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The first time we met, you offered to buy my rabbit from me. And then you took a day to escort me around Paris, and now all around Avignon. Why?”
“As I said, you are—”
“A beautiful woman. Right. Sell it somewhere else.”
“I’m sorry, Cady, but I don’t understand how I have offended you.”
Cady took a deep breath and tried to rein in her temper. Was she just being paranoid? Probably. The French were famous for being sensualists; maybe that’s all there was to it. She took a deep quaff of the wine, which was full-bodied and delicious. This time Jean-Paul made a point of looking away as she drank, which struck her as funny somehow.
“I’m sorry, Jean-Paul,” Cady said. “I’m just... not good with people.”
“If anyone deserves to be angry, it is I. You have moved in with my cousin, and I imagine you are supporting his belief that he should fight against my attempt to sell the château. Isn’t that correct?”
“You’re saying I’m interfering?”
