Page 23 of The Devil Wears Orange
The old man drags Jack’s overnight bag (that he had packed “just in case”) into the room.
“Non,” Jack says. Speaking French, he tells Jean to put the suitcase in another available guest room, but the old man puts up a fight, repeatingpourquoi?several times. He’s getting on Jack’s nerves like a heckler at a standup show.
After the brief argument, Jean hauls his luggage away.
“You gave in too soon.”
Jack turns to Charlotte resting on her elbows, staring at him with a smirk on her face.
“I would have agreed to a clothesline and an extra blanket and played Clara Bow to your Clark Gable.”
Jack stuffs his hands in his pockets and leans back on the balls of his feet. “It was actually Claudette Colbert in It Happened One Night, and you do know they fall in love in the end, don’t you?”
“That won’t be us,” she says in a quiet voice then makes a face and holds her hands in the shape of a heart. “Still nursing a broken heart.”
“Someone let you get away? What an idiot,” says Jack, and he’s surprised to realize it’s not a lie.
There’s something in the lingering way Charlotte looks at him that draws him in, and he realizes he’s a little smitten with the person he’s been charged to spy on.
Chapter 12
“How did you twomeet?” asks Marianna, once Jack and I settle down to breakfast on the terrace. She pours us each a cup of coffee. Before us are mounds of jams and croissants and brie.
We turn to one another, stumbling through our answers, neither of us answering the question. Avoidance is key.
Probing, Marianna asks, “And how long have you been together?”
“Marianna, Charlotte and I are friends.”
“Acquaintances,” I say.
With a slight smirk, Jack says, “We discovered we both have a fondness for art.”
My eyes pounce on him.Don’t you dare.The last thing I need is to be kicked out of the vineyard. This is the kind of place that can make me forget my problems.
“We met over a painting,” Jack continues.
His easy laughter relaxes me, and I know he won’t betray me.
Marianna beams. “How lovely.”
After breakfast, Jack offers a tour of the vineyard. We walk among the pruned vines. A slight chill in the early morning air gives me a momentary shiver. Jack pulls at a vine and twists it to show me.
“They’ve been lucky in these parts. It’s warmer than normal, and you can see it’s beginning to flower. They’ll have a good quality vintage.”
“How do you know?”
“The calmer and warmer the weather, the better the grape…plus they gave a tour last year. In a few weeks, the berries will grow. In mid-summer, the grapes soften and swell significantly. This passage we’re on narrows between the spiral of the grape branches.”
Memories of my childhood Brooklyn home flood my mind. My grandfather had planted grapes and tied them to an arbor around our back patio. In full bloom, they offered shade as my family sat outside enjoying homemade meals. I miss those summer nights under the stars.
Following Jack on the guided tour, I look down at his loafers, then up to his shirt, sleeves rolled up over a brown cardigan, and neatly tucked into his belted khaki pants. A classic panama hat in tan tops his head. All very British-y,I think. He’s maybe a bit over six feet tall, with a medium build and strong jawline. His glasses are a bit goofy-looking. I could do something about his attire. After all, the only thing a woman can change about a man is his wardrobe. But from what little I know about Jack, he has the most crucial characteristic in a man – intelligence. And then there’s kindness. Humor. The list quickly grows in my head.
“So, you’re single?” The words escape my mouth, mortifying me.
Smiling, Jack asks, “What gave it away?”
“Good odds. I have a fifty percent chance of being right.”
