French Escape. Barbara McMahon
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to join with, each climbing at his or her own rate, yet within yelling distance in case anyone got into trouble.
She tried to imagine putting her life at risk for something as nonessential as climbing. Granted, she could understand challenging oneself, but her most daring adventures were diving in the shallows of the Mediterranean. Phillipe had loved scaling all different terrains, however. Never tiring, even on climbs he’d done before. So there had to be something to recommend it. That gene had eluded her.
As her guests came and went through the day, she couldn’t help growing on edge as the afternoon waned and dusk approached. Matthieu Sommer still had not returned. She prepared dinner for herself and her son. Telling Rene to let her know when Monsieur Sommer returned, Jeanne-Marie didn’t fully enjoy her dinner as worry began to rise. The minutes seemed to race by. Shouldn’t he have been back by now? What if he’d fallen? What would she do if the police showed up to inform her of his death and collect his things from his room? She almost groaned in remembered agony of when she’d been so notified.
She had climbers all the time staying in the inn. She’d not worried about any of them beyond the normal concern. This was getting ridiculous. He was fine! And it was nothing to her if he weren’t.
“The kid at the front desk said you wanted to see me when I returned,” Matt said from the doorway to the kitchen.
Jeanne-Marie looked up and caught her breath. He looked hot, tired and a wee bit sunburned. The climbing clothes he wore were dirty and scuffed. He had a small cut on one cheek that had bled and scabbed over. His hair was gray with dust. His dark eyes held her gaze, intense and focused.
She felt her heart skip a beat, then race. Her worry had been for naught.
“I, uh, just wanted to make sure I knew when you returned. So I didn’t call Search and Rescue,” she said lamely.
“Hi,” Alexandre said with his sunny smile. “You need a bath. Then do you want to walk on the beach with me?” His hopeful tone almost broke Jeanne-Marie’s heart. It wasn’t often he asked anything of their guests. She wished she had found a male friend who would provide a strong role model for her son. He saw his grandfather too infrequently.
“No, honey, Monsieur Sommer’s tired and probably needs to eat supper.”
“I am hungry,” he confirmed.
She nodded. “Did you have anything to eat today?” Climbing took a lot out of a body; surely he knew enough to eat for fuel.
“Got breakfast at the bakery and they made up some sandwiches, which I ate perched on a small ledge with a view that encompassed half the Med. I’m thirsty more than hungry.”
She jumped up and went to get him a glass of water, relieved he was safe, annoyed she had even noticed.
She handed him the glass and his fingers brushed against hers, sending a jolt of awareness to her very core. She backed off, wanting him out of her kitchen, out of her inn. He awoke feelings and interests best left dormant. She normally didn’t mingle much with her guests. He had already trespassed by coming into the kitchen. Rene could have let her know.
“You can eat dinner here. Mama’s a good cook,” the five-year-old said.
Matt raised an eyebrow in Jeanne-Marie’s direction, a silent question.
She wanted to tell him her inn provided two meals a day, and no one ate in the privacy of her own quarters. But looking at the angelic expression on her little boy weakened her resolve. He asked for so little, was content with life as they knew it. How could she refuse?
“Never mind, I’ll get something in town,” Matt said, placing the glass on the counter.
“If you want to freshen up first, I’ll warm up what we’re having. It’s a stew that’s been simmering all day. I can have a plate for you in twenty minutes.” There was plenty—she had planned on it serving her and Alexandre for two days. A plan easily changed for her son’s sake.
“Deal. I’ll be back in twenty minutes.” He left without another word.
Jeanne-Marie let out her held breath with a whoosh. Turning, she went to the stove. The heat had been turned off the stew, so she quickly began warming it. She had fresh bread she’d made that morning. A salad and apple crumble would be a nutritious meal for a man who 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