Page 32 of I Love You in French

“Hey, I’ve got this. Go see your man. Isn’t he playing soon?”

I look at my phone. It’s 3:54 p.m. Lily’s right. Earlier, I may have bent down under our table and looked up the band schedule for today’s event. Sure enough, they added Rafe, and he’s playing at 4:00 p.m.

“He isn’t my man,” is all I manage to say as I abandon the banner to pull boxes from under the table to organize some of the packaging.

“He wants to be.”

I look at her, but she hasn’t given me a face. She’s calmly starting her part of the tear-down process, which means she isn’t teasing me. “Rory, go. I’ve got this, really. And Liam already offered to take some of our stuff back to the shop. So, I’ll be fine.”

“You don’t want to go listen to music too?”

Lily shakes her head. “I’m peopled out. As much as I love good music, I’m ready for a glass of wine and the latest episode of The Man is a Rake. Who needs a show by the river when I can be home and watching a man rile up the womenfolk with a good trench coat and his fortune of ten thousand pounds a year?”

I laugh. She isn’t wrong. I think one of the funniest things about Lily is that she’s obsessed with Regency romances. I like them, too, but she’s the one who got me interested in them. It’s such a contrast to her sometimes-spiky personality that I forget she’s really a homebody and someone who would prefer to be away from the crowd.

It’s now four minutes till. The truth is, I don’t want to miss Rafe’s performance. I take off my apron, set it neatly in the bin near our table, and wrap Lily up in a hug while she says, “Don’t get sappy on me.”

I laugh and walk toward the bandstand. It’s a darling, raised platform with a roof and a lattice designed across the lower third of the structure. It’s just big enough for a band. A grassy section surrounds it where people have already stretched out blankets and lawn chairs to settle in for the show. I hear strumming and the sounds of musicians warming up. As I get closer, I make out three people on the stage. There’s Rafe, who has my heart hammering in my chest, and two men I haven’t seen before—a percussionist and a violinist. I’m so intrigued by this little group that I wander toward the back and near a line of trees.

I wave and say hello to people I either met at my booth or have known since I was a little girl and try to compose myself. Thermos of coffee in hand, I close my eyes and inhale sharply when Rafe’s voice breaks through the air.

“Good afternoon, everyone. Thank you so much for being here and for being willing to listen to some of my music.”

I open my eyes and see the effortless way he’s settled in behind the mic. It’s clear that he’s at home, and this is just an extension of who he is more than a show. He’s the same both on and off the stage. And this brings more comfort than I expected.

“I did write all of the songs you’ll hear tonight—and you may recognize one covered by a small French band known as Histoire.” Rafe is laser-focused on me.

I drop my Thermos and scramble to pick it up. He writes for my favorite band. How is that possible? It makes no sense. I’ve looked them up. There is a Durand. There is a Noémie. There is a François. Besides the image of their lead singer, Noémie, no one knows who they are (unfortunately)—at least no one I’ve met, and especially no one in my small town. But this means Rafe knows them. And I can’t even begin to think of what a small world it must be for this to be true.

Rafe starts strumming his guitar, and I’m spellbound. If I thought that the first time I heard him sing was magical, this is proving that it only gets better as I know the man better. I’m learning new things every moment now too.

Things like the way he scrunches his nose when he needs to hit a note in the higher range, or the way his hair looks in the setting sun, and the outline of his frame with the backdrop of the river behind him. He’s free, and he’s wonderful. I can’t help but think of how at home he looks not only with an instrument in his hands but also here in this place. I try to picture him not in Birch Borough any longer, and a chill hits my system. It just doesn’t seem possible that he’ll ever leave. How quickly meeting someone can change our lives, even when we least expect it.

From LA to the City of Light

Stay with me through the night.

Rafe’s lyrics are so . . . him.

I’ve hoped all my life

For you to see me, need me

Take away the pain and hold me as I am

Love me as I am

And find a way home.

The crowd claps song after song, and I realize that everyone is falling in love with him as much as I expected they would. He’s stunning. His voice is a mix of rugged creativity and softly spoken love letters. He’s everything good in this world, I’m convinced. Perfect? No. No one is. But beautiful? Without a doubt.

“Honey, you keep looking at him like that, and we’re going to need to get you to a doctor.”

I turn to my right and see Gladys in a lawn chair with an empty one beside her. I was so focused on Rafe I didn’t notice her arrival. Or did she pass by me? I’m honestly not sure. She motions for me to sit and hands me a blanket. I’m grateful for the warmth and the company. My movement must’ve shifted something for Rafe because he noticed. And as we make eye contact from across the lawn, he smiles—wider than I’ve seen him smile yet—and closes his eyes with a grin, like he’s committing however he saw me to memory.

“Sheesh. Now I understand.” Gladys is fanning herself, and I’m trying to keep the blush from my face (unsuccessfully). “So, how does he kiss? He’s a good kisser, isn’t he?” I’m too tongue-tied to answer. “Ah, of course he is. With a mouth like that and the voice of an angel, there’s no way that man can do anything badly. I mean, just look at how he plays that guitar.”

I try not to think of her tone, and the way she’s implying much more than kissing, and attempt to focus back on the music. It swirls around us, and a sense of peace falls around me.

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