“Oh, no, don’t worry about us. Elliott and I can fend for ourselves.”
“But I am just about to rustle something up. If you can wait for a bit, we’d love for you to join us.”
“Yes, please do. It will be so much more lively that way,” Odette said, coming out from behind the reception desk.
“Oui, go shower and clean up and come back down in fifteen minutes. I will have at least a petit amuse-bouche for you both,” Agnès said. “Pascal was hoping you might be home a bit early tonight for your lesson. He found some of Odette’s old books from l’école primaire, or how you say in the States . . . elementary school? He thought they might be useful.”
“I know Pascal has refused, but you must let me start paying for my lessons. He has already given up so much of his time.”
She leaned in close to me. “He would never admit this, but I think he is enjoying playing the role of teacher. There is so much around here that he cannot improve—the foundation, the roof, the pipes. But your French? With that, he can make much improvement.”
Agnès and Odette shooed me upstairs to wash up while they shuffled off to the kitchen to prepare some light snacks. I couldn’t hear the shower running anymore, so I figured Elliott had finished and I could hop in for a quick rinse. I quickly shimmied out of my clothes, wrapped a fresh towel from the stack on the bed around me, grabbed my toiletry caddy, and headed down the hall to the bathroom.
The door had been left ajar, and grabbing for the handle, I burst in—and straight into a still soaking, half-naked Elliott who was shaving in the mirror. His back muscles were impressive, and my mouth fell open as my eyes trailed all the way down to his—
“Excuse me! What are you doing?!” he yelped.
I picked my mouth up off the floor and swallowed. “Um . . . what are you doing? The door was half open! Seems reasonable to have thought you’d finished.” I shrugged with a bit of sass, but the motion caused the towel to start to slip and my edge quickly gave way to mounting embarrassment.
He held up his razor and continued to eye me through the still mostly fogged-up vanity. “I had to let some of the steam out so the mirror would defog and I could see what I was doing. The light in here is bad enough as it is, I didn’t want to cut my face to shreds . . . again.”
I put a hand up in retreat. “Okay. Okay. Finish up. I’ll wait.”
He grimaced at me from the mirror and said, “Well, actually, I think you’d need to wait anyway. There’s um . . . no hot water. Sorry about that.”
Throwing my head back, I groaned. “Ugh!” I turned on my heel, making an effort to nudge Elliott with my caddy as I left and not ogle the broadness of his shoulders . . . again. Returning to my room to change back into some clothes, I resigned to just shower before bed, once the hot water was restored.
When I came back downstairs to the dining room only about ten minutes later, Agnès and Pascal were busy setting up a small buffet of assorted cheeses and canapés paired with pieces of warm crusty baguette while Odette set a round table in the back of the dining room. Along with the cheeses, Agnès set out a small plate of pâté and a bowl of fat green olives rolling around in their golden oil, which was flecked with herbes de Provence.
“Hmm . . . these look incredible. What are they?” I asked, my mouth watering at the different scents of thyme, rosemary, and citrus as I scanned the savory dishes.
Agnès slid a few more items around the table to make sure they were evenly spaced and nodded with satisfaction at her work. “Oh, you must try. This here is salmon rillettes, a creamy dip made of smoked salmon, cream cheese, lemon juice, and dill served with slices of cucumber. It is very fresh, the fish. I just bought everything at the market this morning.”
I plucked a cucumber slice from the serving platter, used the small knife to plop a dollop onto the round base, and took a crunchy bite. She was right. Not only was the fish bright with flavor, the lemon a prominent contrast to the salty salmon, but the cucumber—which was equally fresh—brought a clean crunch to the whole profile. If I wasn’t careful, I was certain I could eat the whole plate! A few minutes (and a handful of cucumber slices) later, Elliott clomped down the stairs, freshly showered, shaved, and looking (and smelling) like a million francs.
Pascal grabbed a bottle of wine with a nondescript label and five glasses and said, “Let us first feast and then immerse ourselves in study, for no one can truly learn on an empty stomach.”
We eagerly heaped our plates with delectable morsels and settled into our seats at an intimate table tucked away at the room’s far end, removed from the lone remaining guest who was leisurely sipping an after-dinner cup of tea. Pascal, with an inviting smile, poured us each a generous glass of the wine, urging both Elliott and me to taste.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“It’s really delicious. I don’t think I’ve ever tasted anything quite like it.”
“Prune, en français s’il vous plaît.”
“Le vin est délicieux.”
Pascal clapped his hands together. “Très bien.”
I arched my right eyebrow and teased, “Hey, I thought we were eating, then learning?”
“We can do both, non?”
“Agnès, you didn’t have to go to all this trouble. But I’m not gonna lie, this is awesome,” Elliott confirmed as he took another sip between bites of his baguette and pâté.
“Oh, I love that word awesome!” Pascal squealed with delight as he clapped his hands together. “It is just so American, is it not?”
“Papa, Parisians say awesome all the time. In fact, they have adopted many American words and phrases into everyday speech. Walking around you would almost think you are in Californie,” Odette said, a wistful longing in her voice. It was clear she missed her life in Paris.
I turned to Odette. “Will you be going back to La Sorbonne soon?”
“Unfortunately, non. I have decided to . . . how do you say . . . postpone my studies next semester to help Maman and Papa with the inn.”
Odette kept her face bright as she explained, but I could see, as someone who fiercely understood what it was like to put on a brave face, that there was something not quite settled behind her eyes. I’m sure she didn’t want to make her parents feel guilty about her decision, but I could tell, from all the conversations we had before and now from the look in her eyes, that half her heart was in Paris, even though the other half remained here.
I felt foolish for unintentionally bringing up such a sore subject and tried to steer the conversation back to the incredible wine. “So”—I held the wineglass up high as if to inspect it—“what is this we’re drinking? It’s delightful! I want to send my father the name of the vineyard so that maybe we can carry it at our B and B? My father’s been on the hunt for a prize-winning white for forever. Even though it’s not his, he might jump at the chance to have something this delicious as a nice substitute.”
Agnès held up the wine bottle and proudly displayed it around the table. “If you can believe it? The wine, it is from Château Mirabelle.”
“Château Mirabelle? But how?” I asked.
“Only a few crates remained after the cellars were bombed. The Muniers gifted one to us at our wedding. We only drink it at the most special of occasions,” she explained, her smile reaching all the way up to her twinkling blue eyes.
I glanced down at my shirt, still stained with a faded purple splotch from my failed attempt to hoover my melty mess of lavender ice cream earlier, and my very wrinkled shorts. I cringed. “If I had known I would’ve . . . made more of an effort to clean up. You see, Elliott used up all the hot water so . . .”
He rolled his eyes, barely looking up from the plate of food he hadn’t stopped eating.
“If my English is not clear, forgive me. Tonight is special because you and Elliott are special. You have come to Maubec, and you have shared with us your stories and a little bit of your lives . . . for us here in this small town, this has been a whole new adventure. It is nice to have new blood surge through this place. More than nice . . . it has been . . . what is the word . . . nécessaire?”
