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“No, no!” she denied hastily, even though she was. She thought again of his beautiful, elegantly designed house, filled with art and books, and wanted to boot herself for her own narrowmindedness. Why should she be surprised he had a higher education? “I don’t. I’m not—” she began defensively.
“Enough; c’est bien.” he said shortly. And left it at that.
He led her down a paved path to a boardwalk that ran a considerable distance, curving around the lake like a happy hug. It was bordered by small, cute stores that clearly catered to tourists: ice cream parlors, souvenir shops, quirky restaurants with funny names, and places where you could rent paddleboats and skidoos. She twisted and turned in excitement, wanting to take in everything. She was in the south of France, could you believe. Queenie’s words came back to her: one of the most romantic places in the world. She wanted to soak it in through her pores, let it consume her. She had to make sure that every second of this experience counted.
“We will visit many times, I promise you. Little by little, you will come to know it as well as I do. Love it, too.”
Was he psychic? This man had an almost alarming way of figuring out what was going through her mind at any time. The thought made her shiver. Was she especially transparent or was he especially perceptive?
Without asking, Corbin strode to one of the small lakeside booths and ordered “deux” of whatever they were selling, and she watched as the vendor deftly picked up two half-baguettes, poked a hole down the center with the handle of a wooden spoon and shoved a long, skinny lamb merguez sausage into it. The man looked at her enquiringly and said something, and Corbin translated. “What condiments do you prefer? And please don’t say ketchup. You Americans! You would put ketchup on a plate of white truffles if you had the chance.” He winced in mock horror. “You’ll have harissa, yes? It is the best way.”
She bit back the instinct to protest that there was absolutely nothing wrong with ketchup and allowed the man to squirt spicy looking harissa along her French-style hot dog. Somewhere at the back of her head, her built-in calorie calculator was whirring. The bread alone was more than a foot-long sub, and that sausage, hot and delicious thought it may be, was sizzling and dripping enough fat to clog a sink. Too embarrassed to pull out her phone and fire up her diet app, she hazarded a guess. She was holding about 450 calories in her hand. Cringe.
“Eat, Melanie,” he said in such a kind voice that she knew at once what was going through his head. “Relax. Indulge a little. Learn to give yourself pleasure.”
She wasn’t sure whether he had deliberately chosen the expression ‘give herself pleasure’, but the image that came to mind almost made her choke on a mouthful. The soda she had been sipping on (140 calories) came shooting out her nose, spurting embarrassingly. She rubbed her nose with the napkin the hot dog had come in, feeling awkward. He already knew she was clumsy and careless. All she needed right now was to trip over her own feet and tumble into the lake. She felt color rush into her cheeks.
Corbin seemed to get the joke, because he, too, reddened a little. “Pardon,” he said with an impish grin. “As delightful as that image might be, please believe that was not what I meant to imply. Après tout, I am a gentleman. But you know what I mean.”
“I know,” she conceded, struggling to catch her breath.
Even if they were inclined to further ponder the concept of pleasure, they never had the time, because both Melanie’s and Corbin’s phones buzzed simultaneously. They both looked down at their screens. Queenie had messaged that she had a special order for them to pick up, an item that the client wanted them to include in their redecoration.
“This is no problem,” Corbin said. “I know this place. It is the next town; twenty minutes, perhaps. We spend an hour here, in the stores, and then we go collect this gift from your Queenie. You agree?”
She agreed, and so, as soon as they had finished their dangerously spicy hot dogs, they wiped their hands and headed away from the boardwalk, deeper into the shopping heart of the small town.
Two hours later, as they walked back to the truck, Melanie was so excited that she was sure she was gliding, rather than walking on solid ground. Corbin had proven to be a strong ally, relaying her needs to the shopkeepers and craftspeople, and offering great ideas. He also contracted two teams to begin work on the ceiling and the parquet immediately.
What made it even easier for her was that rumors of her presence—the first of the famous Queenie’s Missed Opportunities Princesses, was here and ready to begin her challenge. Suppliers were only too happy to be part of the big adventure and have their brand out there on an internationally loved program.
One boutique owner, who sold fine linens, promised to have two 800-count cotton sheet sets delivered to the cottage the next day, free of charge for their personal use. “I see on your live feed, on the website of Madame Queenie, that you and your small son, your little boy, you sleep on the floor. We cannot have this,” she insisted in her slow, careful English. “The people of Villeneuve, we want you to be welcome, and feel very comfortable.” Melanie couldn’t express how delighted and grateful she was.
She clutched several bags of pamphlets and samples to her chest like a kid walking out of Comic-Con with sacks of loot, and next to her, Corbin was equally weighed down. He unlocked the door but didn’t step away. He was looking down at her, staring intently at her face.
Awkwardly pressing her bags against the car door so as not to let them fall, she asked him suspiciously, “What?”
He was close—very. Examining her face as if there were secrets written there. “I enjoy your passion,” he finally said.
“Passion?” she echoed, thinking, not this again. Not this man sending my thoughts in the wrong direction again.
“You were so happy, touching things that pleased you.”
Jeez, Corbin,she thought. The wad of shopping bags began to slip against her hip, but she didn’t try to stop them.
“I can see your delight. That you love pretty things, are excited for this project. That’s a very good start.” Without warning, he touched her cheek with a finger, and then seemed to collect himself, and instead let his hand fall to her shoulder in a much less intimate gesture. “We will do this. We will succeed, and Madame Queenie will be very pleased.”
Yeah,she surprised herself by thinking. But I wouldn’t mind if you touched my cheek like that again, I promise I won’t bite your finger….
Having spoken his piece, he threw open the back door and tossed his bags inside, retrieved hers and did the same, and then gestured with almost old-world courtesy for her to enter the truck. These Europeans and their courtly manners, she thought. Damn them.
The drive to the next town was much more comfortable than the one to the lake; Corbin had set aside whatever monkey had been riding his back that morning, and instead chatted and joked with her. As it turned out, he was a great tour guide, slowing down along the way to point out a special site or a curiosity. “There, you can ride horses. They have several from the Camargue.”
“The brown ones that turn white.”
He looked pleased that she had remembered. “Exactement. One day, we go with Rhys, yes? He will find it wonderful.”
There he was, again making assumptions where Rhys was concerned, but she felt none of the irritation she had this morning. This man was showing kindness and concern for her son. She put down her earlier discomfort to the fact that she and Rhys had been on their own, without needing anyone else, for so long that anything else felt weird.
