Page 59 of Love on the Vine
“I see.” More pieces of the puzzle were falling into place. It wasn’t that he didn’t feel, it was that he didn’t want to. If anything, it just made me want to love him more. Yes, I was definitely headed down a dangerous path. But I was in too deep to turn around.
Lucie checked the time on her Cartier watch and inhaled. “Will you come with us to the photo shoot?”
“Yes!” My pulse raced at the idea of seeing Jake again and spending the day with him. “Just let me change first.”
* * *
If Jake was as anxious to speak with me as I was to talk to him, he sure didn’t show it. It was as if the old distant, controlled Jake had taken back residence in the same body that had devastated me yesterday.
Not that there was much opportunity for us to be alone. We spent most of the morning and afternoon at Monsieur Reynaud’s vineyard where Spencer Apsley, in the same beanie from last night, had convinced Jake to pose with the Aston Martin. In his designer clothes, with his hair styled, Jake wasdevastatingly handsome—and clearly miserable. The few times he allowed himself to glance at me, I could feel his mind spinning. It was exactly what I had feared: he regretted what we’d done, and I was in for another rejection tonight.
Or maybe I was making too much of it.
The arrival of Anne-Sophie Granger, the journalist interviewing Jake, did nothing to improve my spiraling self-doubt. A stunning blonde who reminded me of a chicer version of my cousin Brooke, Anne-Sophie had a jaw-dropping resume. The list of magazines she’d worked for was longer than my arm and includedVogue,Elle, andVanity Fair.
While she interviewed Jake, I scrolled through her Instagram where she posted photos of herself in designer clothes pouting next to celebrities at Paris Fashion Week or the Met Gala or posing languidly beneath the carefully curated art in her London apartment. She was an It girl, for sure, one I probably would follow on social media and be low-key jealous of all the time.
And she was clearly into Jake. I couldn’t take my eyes off them, and it was making me nauseous. Sick of hanging around in the shadows observing, I joined Monsieur Reynaud on his terrace where he was watching the photo shoot, getting a kick out of Jake’s misery.
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” I asked as I poured him a lemonade. We’d become friends now and I knew that, even though he was tough on him, he liked and respected Jake.
“Yes, it’s better than TV,” he said, settling back in his chair.
“I was surprised you agreed to having the photo shoot here.” I pulled up a chair next to him. “I know you don’t like publicity.”
“Why not?” He shrugged. “Maybe then he will accept my offer. I told him this could all be his. I won’t let him sell my wine, but I would leave him this.” He waved a mottled hand at the vines.
“Your vineyard?”
“Yes, I have no children. Who will take over? My nephews will sell the land to speculators and then they’ll build expensive, ugly block apartments withbalconandvue sur mer.” He clicked his tongue in disgust. “But he doesn’t think I’m serious.”
“How would he have time to take over your vineyards when he already has his business?”
“He doesn’t care about that anymore, but he just hasn’t realized it.” He took my hand in his. “There comes a time in one’s life when running around trying to impress no longer fills a need. Then you want to find somewhere to let yourself take root. And, of course, someone to share it with.” His face took on that dreamy expression he had when he talked about his wife, an Englishwoman he’d met after the war. They’d been married fifty years when she passed away.
Anne-Sophie’s tinkling laughter caught my attention. She had a hand on Jake’s arm, practically draping herself over him and giggling at something he’d said. I tried to tear my eyes away, but it was impossible. That self-critical voice in my head was already busy trying to convince me that they were much better suited. She was so much more successful and worldly than I was.
As if reading my mind, Monsieur Reynaud said, “He doesnotneed someone like that. Too superficial. That is who he would have chosen before, but not now.”
“Why? What has changed?” I sounded desperate to my own ears.
He winked at me then pushed himself up with his cane, groaning and rubbing his back. “I’ll go get some wine.” He disappeared into the kitchen while Jake went off with Spencer, and Anne-Sophie joined me on the terrace.
“Do you mind if I sit with you?” she asked in perfect English with a slight British intonation. She held her hand out. It was like touching silk. “I don’t think we met. I’m Anne-So.”
“Olivia.” I tried to smile, but I must have made a face because her perfectly groomed eyebrows drew together.
No sooner had she sat down than she began grilling me about myself and my relationship to Jake. When she found out that I was into food, her expression brightened. “You know, I took a short course at Ducasse. I’ve seen enough behind the scenes at restaurants to know that I could never do that kind of work. Too much pressure. But magazines and newspapers are always searching for recipe developers. You should consider it, especially if you write well.”
“She does.” Jake dropped into the chair next to me. My stomach fluttered. I hadn’t noticed he’d come back, which was strange because I had developed a weird Jake radar, a certain tingling in my skin, whenever he was near.
I sat up straighter in my chair having no intention of letting on to Anne-Sophie that there was anything going on between us. “What? How do you know that?”
“I read your articles. Don’t you remember when we were discussing food writing you agreed that Callie could send them to us?”
“You read them?” I don’t even think my family read them. I rubbed my sweaty palms on my skirt. I felt vulnerable in a way I hadn’t even when I was half naked in front of him. Some of those pieces I’d written had been about my family, my mother. It was so intimate. “Don’t tell me what you thought. I don’t want to know.”
He took a sip of Perrier, eyebrows drawn together. “Why? They were great. It’s too bad you stopped.”
