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Chapter 8
Corbin allowed Melanie to precede him into the house, watching her as she looked around. She made no effort to hide the fact that she was staring, and as they walked, it almost felt as if he was seeing the house for the first time too, through her eyes.
The living and dining areas were open plan, leading smoothly into a kitchen and breakfast nook. The plants in the corners were thriving, the art on the nicely painted walls well chosen, the furniture modern and comfortable. But a sense of sterility hung in the air, like the well-maintained reception area of an expensive private clinic. Impersonal, devoid of natural warmth. Of heart. If it weren’t for the half-dozen dog toys strewn haphazardly around and the boots and jackets waiting by the door, a person would be forgiven to assume that he didn’t spend much time here.
The three dogs bounded in after them, excited to have guests, as well they might be considering he rarely entertained anymore. It wasn’t that he was naturally reclusive or shy; that was just the way it was these days.
He took the opportunity to study her as she studied the art on his walls, the way droplets of water still clung to her eyelashes and dripped down her back from her loose ponytail. Even covered with traces of mud, she was fetching. Full-bodied and round, like an excellent Merlot, her clothing clinging to her breasts and hips, her jeans emphasizing the shape of her bottom and thighs. She’d taken her filthy shoes off at the entrance, and he noticed that her toenails were painted hot pink. That made him smile. She was a woman who took care of her feet, even though the rest of her clothing seemed to have been hastily put together.
It felt to him as if they shared a secret, that though she cared little for flashy garments, she prided herself on these little touches, little indulgences like pampering her feet. For a second there was a flash of intimacy between them, a tiny, unexpected bond.
She breathed out in pleasure. “Your paintings are wonderful. But I have no idea who any of the artists are.”
He chuckled. “That’s because in your world, they don’t exist.” He began to give her a tour of his art, pointing. “Almost all of them I have bought from artists along the south coast. This one, was from a woman in Marseille who holds a booth in a craft market. This is from Aix-en-Provence; the artist, would you believe, is just 19. He is still in college.”
“Wow.”
Corbin stepped closer, until he was shoulder to shoulder to her. He could almost feel her warmth—or maybe he imagined it. “That carved stone, that’s older than the rest. It is an artefact from Carcasonne, the site of a walled city and castle that have been standing for a very long time. The city itself predates the birth of Christ, and the carving? It may be 500 years old.”
She reached out and gently stroked it with her fingertips, a caress, as if she were touching the cheek of a small child, so intimate that he almost felt her fingertips gliding silkily along his own skin. He shivered. He felt a burst of pride knowing that she appreciated something he loved almost as much as he did.
He pointed to a painting of horses, some white and some brown, galloping across a marsh. “Those are the horses of the Camargue; they are very rare, and very celebrated throughout Europe. They are born brown, but become white as they grow older.” He added with a whimsical quirk to his lips. “Many believe that Mary Magdalene fled to that region after the death of Christ, to escape persecution. Some even claim she was buried there. There is even a final resting place that is visited by many pilgrims.”
Her eyes rounded, as did her mouth, making him once again notice the plumpness of her lips. It was silly, the fierce pride he felt in the region where he was born, but sharing it with someone else gave him pleasure.
Then he saw her shiver, and kicked himself. “I’m sorry! You’re cold. Come.” He beckoned her towards the rear of the house. “The third door on the left, that is the bathroom. You can go run yourself a bath if you wish, or a shower if you prefer. Place your dirty clothing outside the door and I will put it into the washing machine. I will try to find something you can wear while it washes.”
She looked about to protest, as if it was an imposition, but he cut her off. “Please, go. The hot water will make you feel better.”
She gave in, nodding, and walked towards the bathroom. Then, she extended her hand, grasping a doorknob. She’d chosen the wrong door, and immediately his spine stiffened. The hairs along his arms snapped to attention as if he was jabbed by a live wire.
Wrong door!He wanted to shout. Not there! He heard himself bark, “Not that one! You do not touch that one!”
She flinched, looking back at him with a flicker of fear, and immediately he was contrite. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to be harsh. The door you are looking for is the next one.”
Her face was aflame, and as she timidly hurried to the next door he felt a moment of anger, not at her, but at himself. Talk about overreacting! But that door, it had been Luca’s door. The room, it was Luca’s. Nobody entered. Nobody but him. It was as simple as that.
He hurried to his room and began rummaging through an unused drawer in his closet, pulling out a pair of women’s sweatpants and a hoodie. They didn’t match, but they would fit. Fabienne was as curvy as Madame Meyer, so at least he wouldn’t have to subject her to being swallowed up by his own much larger shirts.
Carefully, he placed the towel and clean clothes outside her door and tapped lightly to let her know. Then he went to his own en suite and scrubbed himself down.
By the time he was dressed, she was also ready, looking quite fetching in her borrowed clothing, staring down at herself doubtfully. “Are you sure that the owner of these clothes wouldn’t mind—”
“The owner of the clothes,” he said bitterly, “left them behind in error. However, she does not consider them worthy of collection.” That was all there was to it. Fabienne would rather set herself on fire than turn up at the home they once shared for anything as trivial as old clothes.
Melanie nodded, hovering uncertainly in the hallway as if she was planning on bolting out the door as soon as possible.
He wanted to apologize again for his sharp outburst earlier, but instead he invited her into the kitchen. “You must be hungry.”
“No, actually, I’m not. We received loads of food this morning.”
He smiled. “Yes, I saw this on the live stream. The people of Villeneuve are very generous, non?”
She stared at him, flushing madly. “You were watching us?”
“I confess, it does make for fascinating theatre, but in reality, I was wondering myself if you and your son had anything to eat. I was checking in to determine whether I should bring you breakfast.”
She looked surprised. “You were going to bring us food after I—” She stopped short, reddening even further.
