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Melanie lay on the ground, as out of breath as if she was the one who had been doing the pulling, squeezing her eyes shut to block out the sight of him. She couldn’t decide whether her relief took precedence over her humiliation.
He was squatting next to her, and a gentle hand brushed her hair. “Allez, don’t cry. You’re safe.”
“Wasn’t crying,” she muttered stubbornly, though her eyes were burning. The feel of his fingers in her hair was foreign and strange, so long had it been since another human being had touched her like that.
He chuckled, allowing her the comfortable lie. “Up, then. Let me help.” Where was the snarling grouch who had first come to the water’s edge, she wondered. He was almost being nice to her.
She felt his arms around her, under her armpits, but resisted, pulling away. “I’m filthy!” she protested.
“And now, so I am. We have that in common, oui?”
She looked at him. The faded jeans and white t-shirt had indeed taken a beating in the rumble with the mud-pit, but the rubber boots had stood their ground. Splashes of muddy water adorned his cheeks, which, she noticed were covered with dark stubble.
She felt him take her hand and begin to lift her upright, but this time she was too speechless to protest, because she’d fallen into another deep hole; his chocolate brown eyes seemed to draw her in as surely as the bog had, only this time the experience made her shiver with something other than fear.
It took forever for her to notice that she was now standing on her own two feet, and that she was still clinging to Durant’s hand with both of hers, as if afraid she would begin to sink again if she let go.
She released his hand as if it was hot metal, causing him to laugh out loud, a rich sound that rose to the trees overhead. “Sorry,” she puffed, afraid to look at him now. For once she was glad that her face was muddy; maybe it would hide the embarrassing blush that spread across it.
She dared to look at him again, avoiding his eyes and looking just to the left, for fear that he would suck her in again. She tried to wipe her hands on her pants but there wasn’t an inch on them that wasn’t filthier than the next.
He looked at her long and hard, studying her. She wondered if she was being weighed and found wanting. “The road is safer,” he remarked. “A little longer, maybe, but it’s solid.”
“So I’ve discovered,” she said wryly. “I can understand why jogging past the cottage is such a great workout for you.”
He nodded, smiling. “I suppose it’s longer than it looks on GPS.” He considered her gravely. “Now, we go clean up.” He gestured towards the incline that led to the house above, now clearly visible.
“I should go back to the cottage,” she protested. “My clothes….”
“Nonsense. We will find what you need here. It is too far for you to return in such a condition.”
She gave in gracefully and turned alongside him as he began the trek uphill. The three dogs fell in next to them, occasionally glancing up to her in a friendly welcoming way. He introduced them, pointing in turn. “This is Hugo, that’s Camus, and the girl, the smaller one, she is Simone.”
Immediately, Melanie recognized the names: even though she’d never studied French, she’d done classical European literature translated into English in high school: Victor Hugo, Albert Camus, and Simone de Beauvoir. “French writers,” she murmured.
“Yes. Some of my favorites.”
She glanced at him sideways, trying not to be surprised that a man who made his living through manual labor was enamored of the classics. But then again, the French were fiercely proud of their patrimony, and all of these writers were considered national treasures. So she simply said, “It’s nice to meet them.” She had a thought. “Was it they who heard me call for help?”
“They did, yes, but by the time you began to cry out, I had already seen you and prepared myself.” He pointed at the rope dangling from one hand and the waterproof boots on his feet.
She pointed at the top of the hill with her chin. “You saw me from your house?”
“Non.”He shook his head. “I saw you via the webcam feed.”
She gaped. “The footage is live?” She’d assumed that Queenie would have edited the footage into short updates to air on the show. But was she really streaming?
He nodded. “There is a live site. As long as your cameras are on, it is streaming. I believe the footage is also being stored for playback.”
“And that means everyone, all of Queenie’s Minions, watched me—” She was about to say, ‘whale on you this morning’, but snapped her mouth shut.
“Oui,”he said, looking amused at her chagrin. “Exactement.”
“Oh, my God.” She didn’t know what to say, where to look.
They entered the garden through a small side gate rather than the main gates at the front, and immediately, Melanie was taken with the place. While the cottage she’d just left had been sedate, gentrified and old world, Corbin Durant’s house was large, smart, and modern, with graceful angles and confident colors. Windows were large, allowing maximum natural light, and everything, from the light fixtures to the patio furniture, was imposing, taking up lots of space, and yet elegant. Immediately, her designer’s eye began cataloguing and calculating, identifying and assessing. He’d done an excellent job with the exterior of the house and the garden. What would it be like inside?
She didn’t realize she had stopped short, staring, until she felt him pull up next to her. She was sure she was gaping, not just because of the beauty and modern ambience, but because it was clearly a very expensive, well-maintained house. The fleeting voice that made her wonder how a handyman could afford such a place of abode was immediately silenced by her inner censor. It was a patronizing, middle class thought and she should be ashamed of herself—
