Page 79 of The Paris Trip

It now seemed almost a blessing, what had happened to her when she’d stopped to help Madame Rémy. It had been dreadful, of course, as she’d told Beatrice. Even frightening, especially when she'd regained consciousness to find everything gone, including her money and passport.

Yet now, looking at this view and thinking how close she’d grown to the Rémy family, perhaps it was also the best thing that had ever happened to her?

Her life in England had grown narrow, dull and samey, she had to admit. She could no longer imagine returning to it after this adventure, or not with much enthusiasm. Especially now she knew her mother and grandmother were both still alive and in Paris. Her mother had made it clear she was not a clingy woman and wouldn’t be pressing for a closer relationship now they’d been reunited. But perhaps she could visit Paris again next summer, to check in on her family… and perhaps see Leo too, if he was likely to still be interested by then? Or was that mere wishful thinking on her part?

Trying to live in the moment, rather than dwell on what might happen in the unforeseeable future, she took a shower and then soaked her hot, aching feet in cold water. Her body being unused to such intense heat, it felt like her feet had almost doubled in size during the long train journey. She had visions of needing clown shoes…

Afterwards, once her feet had returned to a daintier size, Maeve lay down on her bed in the stultifying summer heat to rest, just for a few minutes.

Only she began to dream of tall, dark Leo, standing before his easel, paintbrush in hand, the biggest paintbrush she had ever seen, and it was growing bigger and bigger the harder he painted…

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Shocked by a loud crash, Maeve sat up groggily and realised she must have dozed off. Either that or she was still asleep and no longer dreaming of Leo and his enormous paintbrush, but of some imperial palace in China, where some dignity in rustling silks had just been announced and everyone was bowing down to them. Because she could have sworn that a gong had just been struck somewhere below her in the house.

A gong…

Hadn’t Beatrice mentioned something about a gong?

She blinked, confused. How long had she been asleep? It was still sunny outside her window and she could hear birdsong. Yet there was a golden-orange glow to the light now that told her the time must be well into evening.

The gong sounded three more times, each resounding GONG louder and more insistent. She got the impression someone was standing there with a large gong mallet, enthusiastically whipping a large, gold-foil-wrapped after-dinner mint for all they were worth…

Come down to the terrace when the gong sounds. Wasn’t that what Beatrice had said, or words to that effect?

Jumping up guiltily, Maeve splashed her face with cool water, using the handy corner sink in her room. Then she dragged a cool summer dress over her head and fastened a slightly loose pair of sandals borrowed yet again from Bernadette, before descending to the terrace as quickly as she could in flapping sandals without falling downstairs. Talk about clown shoes…

Embarrassingly, she found the whole family already assembled under burgeoning vines supported by a lattice structure of wooden slats and wire cables, soft purplish grapes dangling here and there, thick foliage providing gentle shade as everyone sat enjoying pre-dinner aperitifs on the terrace. There, a glass of some milky substance called ‘pastis’ was pressed into her hand, and she was introduced to Henri and Beatrice’s other grown-up children, several of whom still lived at home and worked in the vineyard.

After much handshaking and cheek-kissing, followed by a gulp of the aniseed-flavoured pastis that left her gasping and spluttering, she was directed to a seat opposite Leo.

He grinned at her. ‘Glad you could make it. I was nearly dispatched to find out if you’d got lost on your way downstairs.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she hissed across at him, ‘I fell asleep. I was tired.’ She frowned at him, trying not to be resentful of the fact that he still looked fresh and clear-eyed. ‘Why aren’t you tired?’

‘I was, but I had a power nap,’ he told her calmly, rising to shake hands with a late arrival, yet another of Henri and Beatrice’s children, this one called Francois, a shambolic young man whom Leo introduced to Maeve in such a flurry of dialect that she was left without a clue what was being said.

The long dinner table was set with a cheerful, red-striped tablecloth and matching red linen napkins, with glassware sparkling by the light of many fat candles flickering inside glass containers. Bowls and dishes piled high with colourful salads, vegetables and succulent-looking meats had been arranged all the way down the middle, interspersed by water bottles and stoppered pichets of red wine.

Having carried out the last dish, which looked like trout sprinkled with almonds, Beatrice sat down, shaking out her napkin with a flourish and a comfortable smile. ‘Bon appetit, tout le monde!’

Following the others’ example, Maeve began to help herself to salad and roast chicken, deeply aware of Leo’s gaze on her face.

Okay, what was he looking at?

Paranoia began to work on her, aided and abetted by the milky pastis, which tasted less fierce after a few mouthfuls. Maybe her hair looked like a haystack. Or maybe she had red marks on her cheek from having slept so long and so deeply in one position…

Leo was looking strangely presentable in a crisp, short-sleeved white shirt opened at the neck to reveal a broad chest with a few manly hairs curling just within view. His shoulder-length sleek black hair had been recently washed, she suspected, and combed into a John Wick lookalike style. He had not shaved again though, so there was a faint dark shadow about his chin and jaw that gave him a broodingly sexy air…

A power nap, eh?

‘I, um, hope the fire damage wasn’t as extensive as you feared,’ she said at last, addressing Leo in English while the others were chatting around them.

He broke apart a crusty baguette and dipped a fragment into a spicy bean mix dripping with olive oil. ‘No, it wasn’t complete devastation, you’re right. And it’s almost sorted now. They’re just waiting on an inspector to check and sign off on the rewiring. Then the showroom will be back in business.’ He ate for a moment, then poured both her and himself a large glass of water. ‘The timing couldn’t have been worse though. Henri relies heavily on coachloads of tourists stopping here to taste the wine. Still, the place has only been out of commission a short time.’ He grimaced. ‘The insurance premium will be through the roof when we renew, unfortunately. But that can’t be helped.’

Clearly having caught some of their conversation, Henri muttered something in agreement, and gestured her to try one of the pichets of red wine. ‘Let me know what you think,’ he told Maeve. ‘It’s drawn from a cask of our own Rémy label. Rich and earthy, with intense notes of raspberry and a lingering plum aftertaste.’ He grinned as his son Pierre guffawed at this, and clapped him on the back. ‘According to a recent review, that is,’ he added with a wink. ‘But I’d welcome your opinion.’

Feeling all eyes upon her, Maeve gingerly poured herself half a glass of the fragrant red wine, and took a cautious sip.

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