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Chapter 9
Thanks to a newly charged phone, Melanie was able to set an alarm and be up with the birds. She and Rhys still shared their cozy little makeshift bed on the living room floor, but she made up her mind that one of the first things she would attend to would be to prepare two of those bedrooms upstairs and make them habitable.
At least she wouldn’t be waking up on the floor with her back feeling like a 70 year old’s. She rubbed a sore spot contemplatively as she made herself coffee, and before she could even begin to ponder what was for breakfast, Zanifa was already there, greeting her warmly before breezing into the kitchen.
As Melanie watched her pore over their cornucopia of delightful food, she decided that Zanifa was an angel in human disguise, roaming the Earth in search of lost causes to turn around.
A clatter in the living room told her that Rhys was up, and soon he and Zanifa were busy toasting boules of bread and choosing cheeses, while Melanie settled for more of those delicious peaches and cherries and yogurt. Bread: it went straight to her hips.
The yogurt was homemade, so there was no label to help her with the calorie count, and furthermore, it had a thin layer of honey on top, so Melanie ballparked it at 150. The peaches were sweet, and she wanted two as well as a big handful of cherries, so… another 200?
Good enough, she told herself. She’d go easy on lunch. There were loads of fresh vegetables. She followed the other two out to the porch, which seemed to have become the official dining area, and listened as they chattered about their plans for the morning. Yesterday, while she was reenacting a scene from The Swamp Thing on Corbin’s land, they had found a garden shed full of tools, and with the aid of measuring tape and string, had already mapped out a large semi-circular area where their herb garden would go. Judging from the size of the space, they would soon be supplying fresh herbs to half the French Riviera.
She let them chatter on, thinking as she did so about the garments she’d come home in yesterday. She’d been unexpectedly exhausted, and though determined to launder them before Corbin arrived, had neglected to do so. Only now were they in the washing machine, a device she had prided herself on figuring out, since the buttons were all labeled in French.
She wondered who they’d belonged to, that woman who no longer needed them. Girlfriend? Wife? Had the owner of those sweats inhabited the room she had erroneously attempted to enter? His reaction had been instinctively protective, making her wonder what secrets lurked behind that door. Definitely nothing good: his anguish and outrage had made that clear enough.
Her mind ran to the legend of Bluebeard, who had cautioned his new wife never to enter certain rooms in his castle. The woman had disobeyed him, only to discover that was where he’d stashed the corpses of all the brides who had gone before her.
Corbin is not a serial killer,she chided herself. And what’s behind that door is none of my business.
Speaking—or at least, thinking—of the devil, he arrived in his truck in a spray of gravel, pulling up next to Zanifa’s car. She noticed with a twinge of disappointment that the dogs weren’t with him. Nevertheless, that twinge was quickly replaced by another. She discovered with great surprise that she was happy to see him. It probably had to do with the fact that she was not long in a strange country and he’d not only shown her kindness and saved her skin, but he would for the next two months be the pillar upon which she would lean.
Or maybe it had to do with the fact that, having seen him soaking like a male wet t-shirt contestant, she couldn’t get the image of cotton clinging to his skin out of her mind. Or wondering whether, if he was that wet and she was dry, whether his body would have left imprints upon her….
Several times during the night, and even this morning, it had flashed across her inner eye, and she had used up way too much energy chasing it away. That was what happened when you’d stopped sleeping with your husband more than a year before you actually left him—or rather, he stopped sleeping you because he had found other, more interesting pursuits. The sexual desert you lived in after that left you so parched that a pair of well-toned pecs and biceps that had a mind of their own left you bamboozled.
None of that,she chided herself. Not today.
Corbin emerged, sober-faced, giving her just the slightest smile as she walked out to meet him. The hot little flash of anticipation she felt when he arrived quickly fizzled. She wondered with a pang whether he regretted his decision to help her. Then she reminded herself that this man, a man who looked like him, talked like him, and walked like him, had certainly expended no effort in thinking about her that way.
So maybe she better put a lid on that little fantasy.
“Bonjour,”he said mildly. “You have slept well, you and Rhys?”
She nodded. “Yes, thank you.”
“Bien.”He reached into his truck and withdrew a notepad and pencil and then asked with businesslike briskness. “We shall begin, yes?”
“Yes.” She kept her voice strong, but the chill wind blowing off him could have solidified butter. It made her shiver.
She looked on from the sidelines as Corbin paused on his way inside to shake hands with Zanifa and chat with Rhys, nodding approvingly as her son described in detail their plans for their herb garden. He even offered some advice, sharing his knowledge about the acidity of the soil in the area and suggesting ways to rectify it. With Rhys, he suddenly became relaxed and easygoing, making her feel almost jealous. Obviously, he was a man who liked kids. Her sentiments were compounded by the mantle of coolness he wrapped himself in the moment he turned his attention back to her.
What had she done, she wondered. It couldn’t have been her wildcat act yesterday morning, or her impossibly stupid attempt at mud-skipping that afternoon. Why was he so cool? So aloof?
She walked alongside him, trying not to feel intimidated. It was almost as if he figured he was doing her a big favor being here. What, were his hands so full fixing stuff for other people that he was willing to turn down the kind of money people like Queenie were able to pay?
The idea that he was here just to patronize her was so galling that she had to chew on the inside of her cheek to stop herself from saying something sarcastic. As irritating as it was to admit, she did need him, and he was doing her a favor. So rather than scuttle her own ship a second time by opening her big mouth, she sucked it up.
Her only form of defense was to be as professional as possible. So as they began their site visit, she took charge. While he’d suggested they begin in the kitchen, she insisted that they start with a walk around the grounds, even though she secretly agreed with him that when it came to fixer-uppers, the garden came last. You needed to eat, so the kitchen was at the top of your critical list. But being contrary just felt so good right now.
The Petty Princess was in the house.
He seemed to notice her attempt at staging a coup, but all he did was smile a little to himself and walk a step behind her as she talked, pointing out areas of concern. They took photos and made copious notes, trying to prioritize tasks and agree on possible courses of action.
Inside, the process was the same: she led and he followed, enumerating all the many issues and suggesting fixes. And even though she had already conducted a once-over before he got here, making sure she was well prepped, the dismal state of the house seemed even worse now that it was reflected in his eyes. Everything, from the uneven and faded floors to the horrifying wallpaper to the telltale brown spots on the ceiling where water had leaked, looked even worse than she’d thought. She felt almost embarrassed, even though she was in no way at fault.
And how, she wondered, was she ever going to get this all done in eight weeks?
