Opposites Attack: A Novel with Recipes Provencal (16 page)

Alyce couldn’t understand how some women were capable of such enormous stupidity. “So why did you stop driving?”

“I just did.”

There was something about the way he said it that told Alyce not to push it. She wasn’t going to mention Colette again, either.

Within minutes she regretted renting the car. Jean-Luc yelled, “Faster! … Slow down! … Give it gas! You drive like an old lady! … Forget the lines in the road!”

“Dammit, Jean-Luc, I have no idea where I am and I have to translate what you’re saying. If you don’t like how I drive, drive yourself!”

“No, you are worse than an old lady,” he said in English. “You drive like a Chinese doctor from New Jersey. They are the worst.”

In the next instant she was giggling from what he said, plus his pronouncing Jersey “Joisey” like he was from there.

Something shifted. She saw his banging on the dashboard with his gray hair flying as side-splittingly funny; like a harmless cartoon. She planned to pull over until she calmed down but he would have none of that.

“Go, go, go!”

Funny or not, she couldn’t wait for nice, calm Nelson to arrive and do the driving.

“Where are we going, Jean-Luc? Your place is the other way.”

“To the
supermarché
to buy groceries for the delicious meal I will teach you to cook tonight for the Mansfield Mafia. It will knock their argyle socks off.”

Alyce first had to adjust to the term Mansfield Mafia. She found it eerily accurate. Then she saw herself cooking for everyone in that gorgeous kitchen just as if it were her own, which it might very soon be. Okay, nothing wrong with that.

“Only one problem. The Mafia doesn’t take kindly to changes in plans.”

In frustration, he pulled at his long white hair. “This is your gift to them!
Mon Dieu.
”

“Gift? Let me guess. I’m paying for everything.”

“Consider this part of your education. And when you marry Nelson you will get it back a million times over.”

She thought over his idea. “You need to have a date for this. It won’t look right if you’re alone.”

“I will ask Pauline.”

“Are you seeing her?”

He didn’t answer right away. “Perhaps.”

“I know how much you’re asking for your property. You could lose 50,000 Euros, maybe more, if she gets involved in the sale.”

“I don’t care about money!”

“How can you live like that?”

“I am a great artist and the universe always takes care of people like me.”

“Oh, yeah?” She slowed down for a traffic light. “Didn’t Van Gogh die penniless?”

He looked out the window and said nothing until they started up again. “I will ask Liliane and her family to come over. We will dine
en famille.
”

“I’ll send Nelson a text so they’re not caught off guard. It’s called manners.”

Jean-Luc kept his mouth clamped shut after that retort. A little bickering was fun. Too much, no.

As Alyce steered the car into a space, she shared with him that the first time she came to this supermarket, she’d taken someone’s shopping cart by mistake. She didn’t realize you had to pay for your cart then receive a refund when you returned it to the area where they neatly waited to be used again.

Jean-Luc lit up in a way that he could see pleased her as well. “You are helping me view my own world in a new way.”

As soon as they walked into the supermarket, heads turned, voices lowered. He was used to his celebrity by now. Alyce, though, was visibly agitated. When a young woman pretended to absentmindedly push her cart into theirs, then recognize him, Alyce grimaced and walked away.

“Don’t walk off again,” he hissed when he extracted himself from his admirer. “I need you to keep us moving. Be nice to someone like that but say we are running late.”

She tossed a can of tuna into the cart with a bang. “Yeah, yeah. I know the drill.”

“What do you mean?”

“Never mind.”

He’d get it out of her.

He examined the can of tuna and deemed it acceptable.

They stopped at a display where the cheerful Marie-Laure was surrounded by large bowls of different olives. She delighted in his wanting to try each one. He placed a big green one in his student’s eager mouth.

“I am switching to English for a while,” he said. “My head is starting to hurt.”

“Mine, too.”

After choosing four kinds of olives, he declared, “We will buy as much as we can here, then move on to the specialty stores.”

She stopped at a jar of truffles. “These are special, aren’t they?”

“Ah, when fresh. Put them in a jar with brown eggs. Only use brown ones. They have better yolks. The eggs will become infused with the truffles.”

“Then what?”

“Make pasta with those eggs and you will taste what I mean.” He touched her shoulder. “You must come back after the first of the year and we will go truffle hunting. It’s done with a muzzled female pig because the truffle smells like a male.” He was struck with a ridiculous idea. “I will muzzle you, my little sow!”

She curled her lip at him like a tough street thug.

“Term of endearment
, chérie
, term of endearment.”

Other fascinating information he imparted to her that day: After being transported, wine should rest for two days before being opened… Never buy butter that’s too yellow. It shows that the cows it came from have grazed on too many buttercups, which will affect the taste… Plant parsley after the full moon… The lighter the rainfall, the stronger the aroma of herbs. Provence herbs are the best since they get 300 days of sunlight a year. Most herbs are best fresh, except oregano. Buy it only as dried leaves, then crush them between your palms.

She gave him a strange look.

“What is going on in that interesting mind of yours, Al-
ees?
”

“I was thinking about old photos of you I saw on the Internet.”

Ah, she was Googling him.

She cocked her head. “You looked good clean-shaven and with short hair.”

“Al-
ees
,” he said, discouraged, “once your hair turns gray, it makes no difference what you do to your appearance. You are
old.
”

“Dye it. Be it a metrosexual.”

“I will forget you said that.”

She was already attempting a makeover and they had not even kissed!

After stopping at the bakery and fish market, they returned home. She began throwing things in the refrigerator.

“No, no!” He had a specific method of storage based on how often products were used and the variations of the zoned temperatures in the refrigerator.

“How can you keep this so neat and your office such a mess?”

“It is not a mess. I can always find anything I need.”

He ran a fresh strawberry under cold water, plucked its green top off, and popped the fruit in her mouth before she could say another word. He watched her face as he imagined the flavors of the fruit exploding then, too quickly, melting away.

She scooted onto one of his tall stools, her summer dress lifting up just a bit to show her toned legs. Her next question steered his thoughts in a different direction.

“What’s with you and money, Jean-Luc? You told me about being embezzled, and the ‘dirty money’ point of view your mother had when she made it, but that was a long time ago. And writing is
not
prostitution.”

He punched the air with his forefinger. “Money is pure evil. If it weren’t for money, I would be rich!”

With a sarcastic edge, she replied, “This I have to hear.”

He washed the rest of the strawberries in a colander and told her how his publisher cleaned house and dropped all of its authors who hadn’t made a sizable profit fast enough, or were known for not delivering manuscripts on time. He fell into both categories.

She shrugged. “I see their point.”

Blood shot into his temples.

“Being a media buyer is all about numbers. If a client wants college-educated women with a median income of 50K, you buy the top three platforms that deliver them. Not numbers 4, 10, or 20. If you don’t make your publisher money, why should they keep you?”

He fled to his office and slammed the door. I must remove her from my home this instant, he thought, or I will strangle her. And I must write. Though if it’s all a numbers game, why bother?

From the base of the stairs she called out, “Treat your writing like a job! Start at the same time every day.”

Which was worse? What she was saying or that goat-bleating voice? He bellowed back, “And how would you know that, oh paragon of literacy?”

“I read it in a magazine.”

She was priceless. “How silly of me! If you read it in a magazine, it must be true.”

“Go scratch your ass! And if you’re not going to feed me, I’ll feed myself.”

He leapt out of his chair and to the top of the stairs where he could see her. “No! You are not allowed in my kitchen until I am sure you know what you are doing.”

“Then get down here.”

In a deadly serious tone, he said, “I can’t.”

She looked concerned. “Why? What’s the matter?”

“I haven’t finished scratching my ass yet.”

She made her exaggerated eye-roll and walked away.

When he ambled into the kitchen, scratching his butt in an exaggerated way and talking like a hillbilly, it set her off laughing. Even more when he tried to scratch hers and she fought him off.

He was beginning to love that laugh.

After their lunch of
salade Niçoise
, during which he taught her so much French both of their minds went numb, he said in English, “Amuse yourself, Al-
ees.
Clear your mind. Relax. Then meet me in the kitchen at precisely 2:00 for your next lesson.”

She answered with a wink and a smile. “
D’accord, professeur.
But what I’d really like is to swim in your pool. Are you going to fix it up before putting it on the market?”

“No. The new owner will deal with it.”

Though he wouldn’t mind seeing her in a bathing suit.

17

Tears, Fears, and Bouillabaisse

Alyce’s next lesson began with a snack of goat cheese wrapped in oak leaves. Jean-Luc wasn’t surprised she’d never heard of such a notion. He spread the tangy
banon
on rounds of crustless, toasted, herbed bread while speaking almost entirely in French. It was exhausting.

“Shall we speak in English for a bit, Al-
ees?
”

“Thank you.”

He brought out a chilled bottle and flutes.

“Champagne now?” she said disapprovingly.

“It is not champagne.” He showed her the label. “Only wine from the Champagne region can be called that. It is a Saumur sparkling wine.”

He took the first sip. “It tastes like atonement. A moment of naughty damnation followed by a satisfying redemption. What do you think?”

She closed her eyes. Thank God she’d stopped wearing makeup. He hated how her mascara clumped her eyelashes together, her foundation covered her naturally pink cheeks, and the smell of powder buried her true scent.

“It tastes like kisses from a bashful child.”

He was floored by her poetic description. “Perhaps there is a writer in you.”

“After seeing how you struggle? I hope not.”

Next on the agenda was
herbes de Provence
: dried rosemary, sage, oregano, marjoram, savory, thyme, and basil mixed together in their own grinder. It was to the French what salt and pepper was to everyone else. That got him going on how much he hated American restaurants, the way the waiters immediately accosted you with a giant pepper mill without giving you a chance to taste the food to see if you want more seasoning. And the grated cheese that was proffered with any pasta dish.

“That is never done in Italy.”

“How many times have you been to America?”

“Once. That was enough. I was flown to Hollywood to be seduced into letting
The Horse
be made with a happy ending. I refused.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

She wrote down the herbs he used and wanted to know precise measurements.

“There are no set amounts, Al-
ees.
You must feel them.”

He excused himself, went upstairs, and came back with a black leather blindfold. Her face twisted in a most unattractive way.

“Listen, buster. Don’t be getting any ideas.”

“Sorry, mademoiselle. This is not your lucky day.” He slipped it over her head. “It is to help heighten the sensitivity of your poor, plugged-up, unused, withering senses.”

Once the blindfold was in place, he passed bunch after bunch of fresh herbs under her All-American petite nose. She was an exceptionally quick learner.

“Summer savory?”

“Excellent. Soon you will be able to tell wild thyme from garden thyme.”

Jean-Luc took another moment to admire her innocent, plain beauty.

Until she opened her mouth and tried to speak French.

That lesson over, he asked her to cut the greens off the carrots and fennel. She did, then scooped them up to throw them out.

“That is the salad!”

“Huh?”

Once again her foreign ways made him laugh.

The phone rang. He let the answering machine in his office above them pick up the call. Through the open windows they could hear the caller leave a message. It was a woman he had recently met.