French Escape. Barbara McMahon
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The evening was cool. Settling in the shadows, she gazed toward the sea, dark and mysterious this late. Reviewing her in-laws’ visit, she wished they’d spoken about Phillipe more. She missed him. Missed all the family traditions they’d just begun. Like La Victoire de 1945. Last year she and Alexandre had gone with her friend Michelle and her family. Alexandre had enjoyed the activities, but she’d felt out of place every time Michelle’s husband had swung his son up onto his shoulders so he could see better. Alexandre should have had a father to do the same thing! He was growing so big, it was hard for her to pick him up. Not that her holding him gave him that much extra height.
The last fete she’d attended with Phillipe, Alexandre had been an infant in arms. She remembered the day with a soft smile, startled to realize that the achy pain that normally came when she remembered something done with her late husband was missing. She hoped she’d reach the stage to remember their time with nostalgia and a poignant feeling of days gone by. But for the first time she didn’t feel crushed with the weight of grief. Was she at last moving on, as so many had told her she would?
Did meeting Matthieu Sommer have anything to do with that? She almost gasped at the thought.
THE NEXT MORNING Jeanne-Marie was in the midst of preparing individual quiches for her guests when Matthieu Sommer walked into the kitchen. She looked up, feeling a spark of delight, which she firmly and immediately squashed.
“I can serve breakfast in the dining area,” she said, finishing the last of the crusts and carefully lifting portions into the miniature pie pans she used for the individual servings. Guests usually loved her quiches; her crusts were light and flaky, the warm filling an assortment that so many seemed to enjoy.
“Here’s fine,” he said, sitting at the same place as yesterday.
“This is a working kitchen.”
“Is there a problem?”
She frowned, wondering how to convey how self-conscious he made her without sounding like an idiot. Please, go in the other room before I lose sense of what I’m doing and just stare at you, wouldn’t go over very well. Sighing softly, she began to make his hot chocolate. Taking the mug to the table, she placed it down in front of him. His hand reached to hold her arm. “Is there a problem? “
The tingling that coursed through her warmed deep inside. She took a shaky breath. “I guess not. I’m not used to people being in here while I’m working.”
There was a definite, huge, mega problem—she was so aware of him as a man, and her own dormant needs as a woman, she couldn’t think of anything else. His hand was warm on her arm. The scent of him had her own senses roiling. She’d give anything to be brave enough to sit down with him and forget about the rest of her guests while she learned every aspect about his life she could discover.
“I’ll be as quiet as a mouse,” he said solemnly.
“Not a good analogy to use in a commercial kitchen,” she said, reluctant to pull her arm from his gentle grasp. His thumb brushed against her skin lightly. It sent shivers up her back. With that, she turned away and scurried behind the high counter, doing her best to remember she was in charge of the inn and he was a guest who would be leaving soon. Not a man to get interested in. No someone to start a relationship with.
The thought stunned her. She’d never thought to fall in love again. She’d adored Phillipe. They’d had a wonderful marriage. Too soon over, but she’d never expected to become involved with another man.
Then, she’d never met a man who piqued her interest as much as Matthieu Sommer. Or was as different from Phillipe as he could be. Where her husband had been friendly and outgoing, easily making friends wherever he went, Matt was quiet, kept to himself and seemed to ignore the rest of the world.
“The quiche won’t be ready for a half hour. I have some fresh croissants and breads,” she said. “I can make you an omelet.”
He checked his watch. “I’d planned to leave early, but my friend Paul called last night. He and I’ll climb together today. I’m meeting him in Marseilles. We’re tackling a cliff on that side. But he won’t get up until I pound on his door, if I know him. He was probably up until after two.”
Jeanne-Marie looked at him. “So why didn’t you stay in Marseilles?”
“This place suits me.”
“Mmm.” If he’d never come, she’d never have met him. That wouldn’t have been all bad. She didn’t like the sensations that rose whenever he was near. It reminded her of all she’d lost. And filled her with a vague yearning for things that couldn’t be.
Matt watched Jeanne-Marie as she worked. She seemed to enjoy cooking. She could make so much more money if she expanded her meals. Not everyone was so talented or content with less than she might achieve.
Thinking about it, he realized she’d not changed her attitude toward him, either, once she’d learned about his family’s situation. She still treated him as any guest, no more sympathy or less than for any other. At least she didn’t tiptoe around, afraid to say anything that might remind him of his wife and son.
Jeanne-Marie was that rare individual who seemed genuinely content with life as it was. Too bad he couldn’t feel the same way. The raw grief that wouldn’t fade drove him. He wanted to escape his thoughts and find some change in climbing, in pushing himself to the limit. Sleep then would be uneventful and deep.
“Here you go. And I warmed a croissant for you,” she said, placing in front of him a heaping plate of cheese, pepper and onion omelet, along with a fluffy croissant.
“Thank you. When do you eat breakfast?”
“Before I prepare, or I’d be nibbling all morning.”
He began to eat, enjoying the flavors that burst in his mouth. After a moment, he said, “I might eat dinner in Marseilles before returning tonight.”
“I won’t worry then if you’re late back. The center doors are left open for any guest coming in after I go to bed.”
“You’d worry otherwise?” Now that was interesting.
She looked up and shrugged. “I’d worry about any guest climbing those cliffs.”
He ate, finishing the delicious breakfast she’d prepared. Drinking the last of his hot chocolate, he debated asking for another cup. Instead he put it down and looked at her.
“I could take your son on an easy climb tomorrow afternoon, if you’d permit.” He’d thought about it long into the night last night. Being with Alexandre was different from being with Etienne, yet on one level it was the same. Both young boys exploring their worlds. It wouldn’t hurt him to spend a few hours helping in that exploration.
“Why would you do that?” she asked, studying his face as if looking for clues.
“For my son.”
“Oh.” She glanced away and nodded. “Then if you think Alexandre won’t be a pest, I guess we could take advantage of your expertise. I don’t want him to try more than he can do. But he pesters his grandfather all the time to take him climbing. Maybe trying it once or twice will have him lose interest.”
“Or capture his interest even more.”
“There is that risk.”
“You’re a good mother to let him try this when I know you don’t approve.”
She continued working. “It’s not that I disapprove so much as I don’t want him hurt. I think all mothers feel that way. But I’m trying very hard not to be overprotective. If I had my way we’d live someplace totally flat where the most exciting thing he could think of would be to ride a bicycle.”
Matt nodded. He