Opposites Attack: A Novel with Recipes Provencal (15 page)

A little… bored.

15

Guns and Grunks

Jean-Luc roused Alyce with a tender offering of breakfast on a silver tray covered with a metal dome, like room service in a fine hotel. She rubbed her eyes as he set it on her dining table and whisked off the top with great flourish.

There were two eggs sunny-side up sprinkled with herbs and nestled on brioche. Fanned across the top of the plate were paper-thin slices of green apple and pear decorated with swirls of cinnamon. Next to his last jar of lavender honey was a slice of toasted lightly buttered baguette.

She pleased Jean-Luc by saying, “It looks too perfect to eat.”

Pointing to a small white bowl that was filled with steaming brown liquid, he said, “That is the best Italian roast coffee you will ever drink.”

She took her time sitting down, as if she wasn’t sure how to respond to his gesture. “When I first saw you drinking coffee out of a bowl,” she said, “I thought you were weird. I didn’t know that’s how a lot of people do it here.”

“There is still far more to learn about France, my little sow.”

She rolled her eyes and groaned. “Would you stop calling me names first thing in the morning?”

“It is permissible to call you names later?”

“Fine. I’ll call you my wild boar.”

“Superb!”

Even though a smile had crept onto her face, she remained cautious as he took the items off the tray and laid them on the table. When he was done, she didn’t move.

“Is something wrong, Al-
ees?
”

“What do you want me to do
now?
”

“You think I have an ulterior motive?”

“Yes.”

He motioned for her to try the
melon de Cavaillon
he had cut into bite-size pieces. “I want you to experience something truly divine.”

After several slurpy chews, she said, “How will I ever eat the cantaloupes back in America?”

He loved to watch Alyce in these moments of simple delight. It was as though all the tension inside her vanished. But like a wrecking ball that had momentarily swung away from its object of destruction—

“Now what
is it
you want?”

“I would like to get the car today.”

“You were so drunk last night I hoped you’d forgotten about that. After classes, okay?”

“With your wonderful Nelson coming today, how can you concentrate? And you will learn far more with me.”

She studied him momentarily. “You know how to be a jerk better than anyone I know.”

“Is that so?” He produced a piece of paper from his back pocket. “This was in my printer.”

Subject: The future

From: Nelson Mansfield

To: Alyce Donovan

Dear Ally,

I’ve spent hours on the net researching properties over there. Jean-Luc’s is a steal of a deal. I’m very excited about seeing it.

Can’t wait to see you even more!

Yours forever…. N

“
Steal of a deal.
I may as well have bandits break in and ransack the place!”

At least she cringed. “How did that print out?”

“It is just the screen image. You must have hit the Print Screen button.”

“Oh, right. I forgot. Well,” she yawned, “he’s a businessman. It
is
a steal of a deal or he wouldn’t be interested. And I’m sure you’ve said unkind things about us. But can you please try to get along with him while he’s here?” She turned her big brown eyes the color of pecans on him. “Please? It would really mean a lot to me.”

“Only because I take pity on him.” He reached the door and said, “Pay particular attention to the lavender honey. It is my last jar.”

She examined the unlabeled glass container. “You made it?”

“No, the bees did. I put the hives where the lavender grows and simply gathered it. As soon as you are done we will forage for herbs and then get the car.”

She saluted him. “Aye, aye, Captain.”

Alyce finished Jean-Luc’s delicious breakfast, put on shorts and a T-shirt and waited for him at her bistro table by the Tree of Love. Her now-ragged copy of
French is Fun
was as closed shut as her eyes as she turned her face to the morning sun.

The air was still crisp. The morning light bathed everything in gold. The birds sang in full force. She was particularly fond of the cooing doves. Their low “whoo-whoos” almost sounded like owls.

Just as she was feeling like nothing could possibly be wrong in the universe, Jean-Luc appeared and warned her in English only to go in the woods where he instructed.

“There are
real
wild boars. I am not joking.”

He went on about how, even though related to a pig, the boar’s meat is dark instead of light. It should be slow-cooked for several hours and served with baked apples,
cèpe
mushrooms, and dauphin potatoes.

“In mythology, Adonis was mortally gored in the groin by a wild boar. My friend François was killed in the same way, though he was no Adonis.”

He examined the blades of his clippers and handed them to Alyce. She pretended his words didn’t concern her in the least until she saw Didon growl and back up at the edge of the path that led into the woods.

“Don’t worry.” He patted the canvas bag that was slung over his shoulder. “I have a gun.” He then took it out.

“Put that away!”

He admired it. “This is one of the few American products I own. It is a Smith and Wesson .45. Don’t be afraid. The safety lock is on.”

Alyce had learned to shoot at summer camp when she was 12 and knew all too well how many accidents happen when people thought a gun was locked. She examined it herself.

“Please be careful, Jean-Luc.”

“You will be glad I have this if we run into a boar.”

Alyce tried to erase the gun and wild boars from her mind as she listened to his precise tutorial on what each herb looked like and how to cut it.

“Not exactly like snipping them out of a window box,” she said.

“If you get any scratches or insect bites, I have an aloe plant that will fix them.”

“That’ll be so sexy when I see Nelson. I’ll be itching all night.”

“No, you won’t.” In a gentle voice he said, “Think about this instead. Soon you will be watching the phases of the moon. You will predict the weather by the color of the sky, the shapes of the clouds, the number of bees and butterflies.”

They passed a dilapidated structure he said was a rabbit hutch. Her first night in France, when the old farm couple, Fabienne and Fabien, served her
lapin
, she gagged when she found out what it was. She loved rabbit now.

He pulled back branches and uncovered a cute stone house he said was a
pigeonnier
, where pigeons used to live.

He swept his arm toward a field of thick growth. “This was a thriving vineyard.”

“What made you give it up? Writing your book?”

He stood for a moment taking in the landscape, arms crossed. “An unusually cruel winter.” There was something tired in his voice when he said it.

They split up in silence. She gathered what she hoped were rosemary, thyme, savory, and lavender into a wicker basket. If only she could have stopped scratching long enough to enjoy the experience. Then she heard Jean-Luc singing in French in the distance. All negative thoughts vanished. She was utterly enchanted, easily daydreaming about what it would be like to live there. It was that peaceful.

Snip. Snip. La la la.

Grrrruuunnnk. Gruunnk.

A rustling in the bushes followed the scary sound.

Grunk, grunk, grunk.

Though Alyce had never heard a wild boar, every hair on her body that was now standing at attention knew that’s what it was.

She wanted to run but couldn’t move. Her legs felt like toothpicks about to cave in. She managed to grab the closest branch. It snapped off. It wouldn’t have supported a cat!

The noise was to her left, toward the house? Away? She was lost and afraid to call out to Jean-Luc for fear that the wild beast would come after her.

It was closer. Only a few feet.

Gruuuunk. Grunk, grunk, grunk, grunk.

Jean-Luc crashed through the bushes. “AAIIIIIIEEEEEEE! It’s your wild boar!”

Her basket flew into the air and clumps of herbs landed on her head like clods of dirt.

“You shit!” Alyce yanked them off.

He bent over, convulsing with glee.

She stormed off. As soon as she was out of his sight, she covered her mouth with her hand to suppress a laugh.

16

Fury. Food. Repeat.

They walked to rent the car for what seemed like forever with him yapping about art, writers, and politics. Alyce was more interested in thinking about the Mansfield Express.

In nine hours, Nelson would be driving Glorianna and her assistant Luther over to Jean-Luc’s, they’d quickly scope out the property and head out to dinner. Nelson would stay with her in the cottage and, at long last, all would be right with the world. She’d decided she wasn’t bored with Nelson. She was bored with texting. She wanted the real thing.

Jean-Luc gently pulled her elbow to get her walking again, as if he sensed she was putting down mental roots in another place.

The only thing she remembered him saying on their walk was that when two writers died—Hugo and Sartre—600,000 mourners turned out for their funerals. Just as she was realizing that being a writer was a big deal here, a car driven by one of his fans pulled over and offered them a lift. He declined, saying he was enjoying the walk. Alyce wondered if he didn’t want people to know he had no car.

Shortly after they arrived in town, he was kissing the cheeks of a woman who was pushing a stroller with a little girl in it. She and Jean-Luc chatted while the man who was with her said nothing. Was Alyce supposed to talk to him? They were not introduced. She waited for him to speak first. He never did.

When they walked on, she said gruffly, “I felt like a nitwit standing there while you two gabbed.”

He found the word nitwit amusing.

“That was not her husband. Here we do not make introductions in those instances because the person may be a lover. And that is the very last time we are to speak English today.”

She was still pondering that take on life when they arrived at the car rental office. The woman who helped them was clearly flirting with him. He made Alyce do the entire transaction in French even though people were waiting behind them and she was unbearably slow. They seemed to enjoy watching Jean-Luc Broussard do anything.

She could understand a fair amount, but when she opened her mouth to speak, she froze trying to sort out if words were masculine or feminine, assuming she even knew the right ones. He prompted, explained, repeated, and praised her when she did well. She found herself thinking what a great father he’d be. That is, if he would stop being a child.

She didn’t want to embarrass him by haggling, but when she heard what the cost would be her mouth dropped.

“Uh, is there a less expensive model?”

He had insisted on a Peugeot that wasn’t the top of the line (“too ostentatious”) but still showed class.

He gave her side a pinch and said to the rental lady, “We will take that one. I have misplaced my wallet and will pick up all charges as soon as I find it.”

The lady politely acted like she believed him.

The real shock came when they reached the Peugeot she’d rented. He handed her the keys.

“I don’t drive.”

“What do you mean? That woman left her Lexus with you.”

“Isabella drove it.”

When she climbed behind the wheel, she said, “What about the Lamborghini you drove into a lake?”

He didn’t seem surprised that she knew. “It was a kit car, a fake. I would never have done that to the real thing. Wait! You have not checked your side mirrors. Always do that every time you get in a car.”

She complied, checked the rearview one, too. “You still
drove
it.”

“And the woman who gave it to me loved me even more after that. She claimed I was the most passionate man she had ever known. Not the reaction I was hoping for.”