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At the market we find some baby courgette flowers, a small punnet of organic tomatoes, frisee lettuce, the first peekings of a glorious spring of fresh salad. When he's practicing his French, arguing with the stall owner over the difference between French and Argentinian wine, I duck over to the neighboring stall for a jar of their strawberry jam, a bottle of fresh cream, and a small bowl of fresh berries. I came back with them tightly wrapped and slip them into the market tote while he's still distracted, laughing with the stall owner.
When he turns back to me, his cheeks glow with the flush of good conversation and a long walk.
"Ready?"
I nod. "Oui, monsieur."
"A bientot" he says to the stall keeper. Then, as if it were an action we had been doing for a hundred and one years, he takes my hand, sliding his fingers in between mine.
And just like that, we walk home.
Not a word spoken between us.
Not a word needed.
After building up the fire and his ritual cup of tea, he excuses himself. "I have to run a few errands."
No. Stay.
"When will you be back?" I ask as delicately as I can.
"When would you like me back?"
"As soon as you can be."
He comes back barely two hours later. Dressed simply in a pair of navy blue pants, and a lake blue pinstripe shirt, top button open. His hair, freshly washed, but unstyled, with his growing bangs, caressing his forehead. He brought a bottle of champagne and makes up an ice bucket, putting it on the table I've set up on the deck, with a centerpiece of local wildflowers and handfuls of sand from the nearby beach.
Candles line the middle of the table with a simple table setting of two plates, two bowls and water glasses I found at the antique shop, complete with lace hemmed, cotton napkins I cut from old curtains and dyed robin's egg blue.
He comes back from putting the champagne on the table, joining me in the kitchen as I mix a simple vinaigrette for the salad. The pasta boils in its pot, a soft foam forming on the top.
"What can I do to help?"
I point to the colander waiting in the sink. "Can you drain the pasta? I just have to get dressed."
He blinks, his eyes on my face. "You don't need to change. You look nice."
"Drain the pasta, Monsieur B."
He doesn't argue again.
In the bedroom, I pull the brand new white sundress from the hanger. It hangs down to just above my knee, with a thin woven blue ribbon hem, and a blue ribbon cinching the waist. Simple lace straps hang the dress off my shoulders. I bought ityesterday, after the rain stopped and I wanted to find a dress for his birthday dinner. I'd found a thin bolero cardigan to match it, to cover my arms and shield me from the cold.
Something he hadn't seen on me before.
Something new.
Something that doesn't remind me of any other time I'd been with him.
I consider makeup, but just decide on a thin layer of lip tint, and a sweep of my eyeliner around my eyes. I slip my feet into a pair of blue sandals, and pull my hair from my messy bun, and sweep it to one side, securing it with a single barrette.
Taking a deep breath, I scold myself for the butterflies.
He's not in the kitchen when I come out, and I step out onto the deck.
He's on the pier, standing staring out at the view, his hands in his pockets.
As if he can sense me, when I make my way towards him down the path, he turns, slowly.
