From Daredevil to Devoted Daddy. Barbara McMahon
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had expended untold energy pushing his body to the limit scaling a sheer cliff.
And while he ate, she’d let him know it was a onetime meal. She didn’t provide dinner. She didn’t want him in her space. He’d be gone in a few days, nothing permanent about guests who came and went.
Mostly she felt flustered. Personal customer service was important in running an inn, especially if she wanted repeat customers, but that did not include sharing meals in her private domain. And especially with someone who without effort seemed to turn her upside down.
She and Alexandre had finished their meal by the time Matt returned. His hair was still damp; the cut on his cheek had been taped with a butterfly bandage. Obviously he was used to minor scrapes and had come prepared. His cheeks were slightly sunburned. But the rest of him looked amazingly robust and healthy. Jeanne-Marie was not one to have fantasies about strangers who came to the inn. This aberration had to end!
“I can serve you on the veranda overlooking the sea,” she suggested, jumping up and trying to get him out of her private space.
He glanced at their empty plates on the small table. “Since you’re finished, that’ll be fine with me.”
“I can sit with you to keep you company,” Alexandre volunteered, clutching two cars against his chest.
Carrying out the plate and utensils, she hoped other guests wouldn’t ask for similar service. She worked hard enough without adding an extra meal for all guests into the mix.
She placed his dish on one of the glass tables that dotted the veranda. The sunscreens had been lowered earlier to keep the heat from the lounge. She pressed the switch to raise one to offer a better view, but kept the one directly in front of his table down to shelter it from the last rays of the sun.
“I’ll get you something to drink,” she said, hurrying back to the kitchen. Normally she kept Alexandre away from the guests when they were eating, but the few moments it took her to get the water wouldn’t hurt.
She brought out a pitcher of water and a tall glass. She remembered how Phillipe gulped water as if he were dying of thirst when he returned from climbing.
“Do you need anything else?” she asked.
“No, this looks perfect,” he said when she set the pitcher on the table. “I appreciate the water.”
“I remember.” She sat gingerly on a nearby chair, looking at the sea glowing golden as the sun descended. It would be dusk and then dark before long. Alexandre would go to bed and she’d be alone with her thoughts.
She debated returning to the kitchen. Maybe in a moment. Would it be rude to leave? Did he want privacy or should she act as a hostess?
“You spent a long day on the cliffs,” she said.
“I got an early start, then prowled around a bit on the top. The view is stupendous. No wonder it’s highly recommended.” The words fit, but his tone lacked the enthusiasm she usually heard from climbers.
When he did not elaborate, she said, “The cliffs are so popular the government’s concerned about pollution and eco damage. There’s talk about closing them down, or limiting the number of people who have access.” She glanced at him as he ate. He seemed to enjoy the food. Good. She was an excellent cook. But since her husband’s death, she rarely entertained. At first she couldn’t face having anyone over. She’d wanted to grieve in private. The first few months after his death, she’d kept busy by closing their flat in Marseilles and moving here and learning the guest services trade.
“I saw some trash and debris while I was climbing. And there was a pile of trash at the top,” he said. “People can be thoughtless and careless. Those are the ones to keep out.”
She nodded. “Yet how to do that? Ask if someone is thoughtless before permitting them to climb? Who would admit to it?”
He shrugged. “It’d be a shame to close access because of the acts of a few.”
“If you eat all your dinner, there’s apple crumble for dessert, with ice cream,” Alexandre said, leaning against the table and watching as Matt ate. He’d scarcely taken his gaze off the man.
“This is a very good dinner,” he told the boy.
“I helped make the bread,” he said proudly. “Mama lets me punch it.”
“You did an excellent job.”
Alexandre smiled again and stared at Matt with open admiration.
“Did you climb a mountain today?” he asked.
“A cliff, not a mountain,” Matt replied.
“My dad climbed mountains. I will, too, when I get big. I’ll go to the top and see everything!”
“The views from the top are incomparable,” Matt agreed.
“Can I go climbing with you? Can we go to a mountain?”
“No. Don’t be pestering our guest,” Jeanne-Marie said sharply. She didn’t like talk about Alexandre’s climbing. Too often his grand-père encouraged him by telling him all about climbs he’d done with Phillipe. She didn’t think she’d ever like the thought, but realized Alexandre would be his own person when he grew up. If he took up the same hobby as his father, she hoped he wouldn’t come to the same end. It scared her just thinking about it.
“He’s not pestering me. Actually, I had already taken my son on a couple of easy rock climbs by the time he was Alexandre’s age.”
“I could go. I’m big now. I’m five.” He looked at Matt with a mixture of admiration and entreaty.
Jeanne-Marie felt her heart drop. He had a son. All the more reason to remember he was merely a guest and she the hostess of the inn. And to stay away.
Jeanne-Marie didn’t like that look on Alexandre’s face. He’d better not get a hero fixation on this guest. Matt was only here another six days. Once before, a year or so ago, Alexandre had latched onto a guest who had been staying at the inn with his wife and daughter and who had kindly included her son in some of their activities. Alexandre had moped around for weeks after their departure, not truly understanding why they didn’t come back.
“Alexandre, do you want to help me dish up the dessert?” she asked, standing quickly, anxious to put some distance between her son and guest. He wasn’t exactly Mr. Congeniality. She didn’t want Alexandre to pester him until he snapped something out that would hurt her son’s feelings. Though if he had a son, he was probably used to little boys.
“Sure. We waited for you,” he said, placing his cars on the table and running into the house.
Jeanne-Marie hoped Matt wouldn’t think she had deliberately waited to be included when he ate the dessert. He was obviously married and with a child. Where was his family? Had they stayed home since he wanted serious climbing, beyond the level of a child? Had they made other plans, separate vacations? She couldn’t imagine it, but some couples liked that.
Matt watched as Jeanne-Marie followed her son at a more sedate pace—but not by much. He thought of her that way, seeing her name on the brochure for the inn. He had trouble picturing her as Madame Rousseau.
She certainly hadn’t had to feed him; he knew the inn didn’t offer dinners. Maybe tomorrow he’d make a later start and sample both the breakfast and box lunch she offered.
Taking another deep drink of water, he watched the brush of the Mediterranean against the white sandy beach. He couldn’t believe he’d mentioned his son so casually. The world hadn’t ended. The searing pain had not sliced. Instead a kind of peace descended. His son had been so proud climbing the small hills they’d scrambled up together. He could remember his boasting to his mother.
He finished the simple meal and leaned back in his chair. For the first time in ages he felt almost content. He was pleasantly tired from the climb and replete with the excellent stew. And he had liked speaking of