“Oh, no no no. That won’t work.” I glanced over at Elliott. “Any chance you’d be willing to switch sides with me? It’s just that I—”
“No. How about you take another Xanax and get comfy, princess. We’ll be there in an hour.” With that, he rolled his head to the side, closed his eyes, and didn’t open them again until about twenty minutes later, when I puked right into his lap.
Chapter Eight
Upon hearing me retch and Elliott shout in surprise, Gervais swerved off the road and into the pasture of a small farm. I leaped from the car, the smell of cow manure intensifying the wave of sickness, and I fought hard to keep my stomach from turning again. Once the nausea finally subsided, I folded myself into the back seat and offered to clean off Elliott’s shirt with a few napkins from my pocket. He swatted my hand away, rolled down his window, and let Gervais know we should keep going, clearly anxious about us wasting any more time.
I realized that unless he had a change of clothes in that tiny duffel bag (which seemed unlikely given its size . . . and his size), he would have to wait until the luggage drop-off later to get a clean outfit. I slumped back against the seat, grateful for the abundant wind now whooshing through the car. The pinpricks of sweat on my forehead cooled, and I tried to keep my humiliation at bay as Elliott elbowed me square in the boob.
“Ow!” I cried and shot a glance in his direction.
“Sorry, but I mean, I’m kind of limited here. Can you give me a hand?” I realized he had been wearing a zip-up hoodie that bore the brunt of my digestive pyrotechnics and was struggling to take off his overshirt. “Pull this sleeve, would you? I can’t maneuver around to yank it off myself.”
“Oh, yeah, sure.” I grabbed his sleeve and he leaned away, offering enough tension for me to be able to wrench it from behind his back. I rolled it in a ball, trying to arrange the vomit side of the shirt so it was concealed, and placed it by my feet. “I’ll get that cleaned for you. Once again, I really am sorry. But in all fairness, I did try to warn you.”
He didn’t need to say anything. His expression said it all. He closed his eyes and returned to ignoring me until the melodic chimes of the Maubec village belfry woke him from a deep sleep.
I pulled myself up to the window, trying not to blink, afraid I’d miss even one moment. Scrambling in my pocket, I drew out my phone, pressed it up against the glass, hit record, and marveled as we passed the half-timbered houses with their thatched roofs and small stone bridges that led to pastel-colored shops covered with lush ivy that crawled up every surface. And off in the distance, lavender fields as far as the eye could see.
I zoomed the camera’s lens in on certain items as we passed, allowing the background to defocus and fade into a Van Gogh–like impressionist haze behind the shot’s new focal point. After so much time curating my accounts on Instagram and TikTok, I found I not only had a knack for creating engaging content, but the constant practice evoked an unexpected interest in taking and editing photos. Though I never really loved being the subject matter, in this day and age, social media was a necessary means to stay relevant. However, now I could do it my way, and how I was portrayed remained in my complete control.
As we zipped through the narrow passages and hair-thin alleyways, the flowers from the street vendors were so close I could practically touch the petals of the fragrant bouquets. The crowded streets bustling with merchants, their wares, and the patrons who were shopping seemed to be no match for our zippy driver, who zoomed through like we were in a live-action game of Mario Kart. I held my breath, certain we were going to clip someone or something, and was suddenly very grateful to be in our very tiny roller skate.
By the time we arrived at the inn, I was ready to call it a day. And it was only 11:00 a.m. Covered in dried vomit, completely windblown, and majorly dehydrated, I could only imagine what I looked like. God forbid there were any paparazzi in the vicinity. I slid my oversize sunglasses from my hair and onto my face, hoping to conceal at least a little of my bloodshot eyes and clumpy mascara.
Gervais managed to shimmy my valise out of the front seat and was getting ready to take it inside when I stepped up beside him and grabbed for the handle. “Thank you, but I’ve got it. I don’t want to let this little baby out of my sight. I need a shower like pronto, and I don’t want this getting lost with a bellhop somewhere. But merci.”
As I struggled with my suitcase and toddled on my heels, I caught a glimpse of an old man across the street wiping down the café tables under a sweeping red awning. The man’s triangular head seemed even more apparent as it contrasted his round belly. On his head, a few wisps of gray hair flopped about as they blew in the breeze. He was eyeing our car as we continued to unload it, and the spectacle we were making in the otherwise quiet square seemed to annoy him as he pushed in the café chairs more forcefully.
Although I knew I looked like a hot mess, I offered him a smile and a wave. But his face turned even more sour. He muttered something to himself, turned away without any acknowledgment, and returned inside.
“Okaaayy, nice to meet you too,” I said to myself, before returning to my suitcase struggle.
Do I pull? Push? If I pull it, will it fall on me? Crush me? Should I—
“Jesus, please, for the love of God. I can’t watch this anymore.” Elliott grabbed the bag from me and effortlessly lifted it with one arm, forgoing the cobblestone entirely and carrying it inside.
“Oh, um . . . wait . . .” I chased behind him, my heels finding the cracks between the stones with every other step. Once inside the inn’s lobby, he dropped it down on the smooth wood floor, where the wheels finally worked.
To my horror, the lobby was brimming with enthusiastic faces, a whole welcoming committee ready to greet us. I tried to smooth my hair down using the sweat from my palms, but it was no use. I was the definition of a disaster.
“Bonjour, Mademoiselle Everly. We are so delighted to have you staying with us for the duration of your project here,” a delightful older woman with rosy cheeks and a silver bun exclaimed.
“Please, call me Plum.” I extended my hand to meet hers.
“Ah, Prune, I am Agnès Sauveterre, and this is my husband, Pascal.”
“Sorry, but my name is Plum,” I repeated, exaggerating the pronunciation, “not Prune.”
Pascal chuckled. “Ah oui, but Prune means Plum en français.”
“Oh, um . . . okay. Well, when in Rome . . . uh, I mean, Maubec.” I smiled, even though I wasn’t sure I loved my new nickname.
“You don’t speak French, then?” Agnès asked.
“No, no. Not really. Juste un peu.” I pinched my fingers together to illustrate just how un peu I actually knew. “My dad gave me a French phrase book before I left, but all I’ve managed to master is merci, enchantée, où sont les toilettes, and je voudrais un verre de vin, s’il vous plait.”
“Well, that last one is most necessary. Wine is the water of France!” Pascal joked.
“Speaking of, vous avez faim? Uh . . . hungry?” Agnès asked and directed our attention to a buffet of cheeses, breads, fruits, and coffee cups displayed in the small eating space adjacent to the lobby. It was decorated with white linen tablecloths and a bouquet of hand-tied lavender sprigs on every table—which was a little like the equivalent of putting lipstick on a pig. The structure of the inn was clearly struggling, apparent by the sway of the roof and the deep cracks in the ceiling. Sunlight flooded in from the big picture windows, and despite the shabby-chic vibe (emphasis on the shabby), it was still quite charming.
“Yes, I am hungry! Desperately! But more than food, I’m in even greater need of a shower,” I confessed.
“Yes, of course. But there is only one shower. It is communal, for everyone, so as long as it is not occupied, it is all yours.”
“Wait, I’m sorry. What? One shower? For everyone who’s staying here?” I spoke out loud without even realizing how rude I must have sounded until Elliott elbowed me in the side. “Oh, um . . . I mean, how quaint.” I forced a smile.
“I know it is not convenient, but we have been having some plumbing issues with the other two showers, so for the time being, we are down to only one. These pipes are hundreds of years old. It is a full-time job keeping these old buildings in working order,” Pascal explained.
I turned to whisper to Elliott. “Just so you know, the second this conversation is over and I head upstairs, I am gunning it to the shower. But as a courtesy, since, you know, I barfed all over you, I’ll give you a head start.” I nodded up the stairs.
“Very generous of you. But I don’t have anything to change into. Yours was the only bag that could fit in the clown car, if you recall.”
A small pang of guilt struck me between the ribs but diminished when I considered his gruffness. I apologized. I’d given fair warning. I mean, what else did he want?! “Well, I’ll ask Pascal if he has something. They probably won’t fit you, though, since you’re the size of a mountain troll, but they should cover all the necessary bits.” I glanced down. “I’d assume.”
Elliott snorted and swiped his key off the counter, blinked at me once, and then took off with a jolt. But surprisingly, before turning in his mad dash for the shower, he grabbed my suitcase, and without a word, carried it up the steep stairs for me.
Agnès, sensing the need for a change in topic, interjected, “I almost forgot. We have a little welcome gift for you.” She turned and called down the corridor, “Odette, viens-ici. Ils sont arrivés!” She turned to me. “Our daughter, Odette, is home for the summer holiday in between her semesters at La Sorbonne, the Université de Paris. I know she was very much looking forward to meeting you.”
