Page 29 of The Devil Wears Orange
Chapter 15
Ahead of us, thevillage spreads out over a two-mile radius a short distance away, and by the time Jack turns the car into a narrow gravel road, my headache vanishes. Jack parks under a tree near vehicles sporting a selection of European license plates. I climb out of the car and gulp fresh country air. Jack is right – this is what I need. The sudden urge to shop smacks me as though losing myself in the act can return chaos to normalcy.
The village is pedestrian-friendly, with a labyrinth of tiny cobblestone walkways. Tourists outnumber the villagers two to one and, from where I stand, I spot a florist shop, cafe, bookstore, and aha! –pâtisserie. I read once only a bakery that employs a licensed master pastry chef can legally use the wordpâtisserie. The French are serious about their baked goods.
Beside me, Jack says, “Let me know what is of interest to you, and I can...”
I step away before he finishes, still angry with him. Then again, why do I expect more from him than my own friends? I’ve reached out to several people since leaving the police station, and not one has responded – save Harriet. Not only had Pierre snubbed me, but his assistant did, too. And my conversation with Anne at the station had been so bizarre and demoralizing that I didn’t leave a message after dialing her number.
Inside thepâtisserie, I drown in delicious smells of butter, lemon, and vanilla. It takes mere moments to choose what will satisfy my sweet tooth and, with my finger pressed against glass, I point. The handsome baker wraps the delectable item in wax paper and slides it into a white paper bag. By the time I exit thepatisserie, I’m biting into a strawberry custard tart.
“Do Americans usually eat dessert for breakfast?” Jack says, materializing like a magician after a disappearing act.
“You’re British. Do you want to discuss gastronomy withyourpalate? I keep hearing about this cheese and pickle sandwich and don’t understand how toppings can be a sandwich?”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but don’t Americans smother street meat in chili?”
“Hmmm. Point made,” I mumble. “So, what’s on the agenda for today?”
“How about a picnic? We’ll pick up bread, some cheese, olives, maybe somePâté de FoieGras.”
I wrinkle my nose at the mention offoie gras.
“Or not,” says Jack.
Inside the cheese shop, we order brie made along the nearby river banks, and another soft cheese with small dried grapes added for flavor.
“We mustn’t forget the camembert,” says Jack.
The shopkeeper offers me a taste of blue cheese, but I can’t put something that smells like dirty socks in my mouth. Jack and I finish up with baguettes and wine, having convinced ourselvesmore wine is necessary “obviously,” and “11AM is close enough to noon,” and “when in France…”
“We seem to have everything,” Jack says and lifts a fabric shopping bag overflowing with food.
I slip my hand through his proffered arm, memories from last night diminishing, but can’t prevent myself from saying, “Don’t read anything into this. You’re not entirely forgiven.”
We stroll to a quiet area and locate a bench near the small stream that runs along the outskirts of the village, the parking lot to our backs. Jack rests the grocery bag between us, then digs his hands in, fetches a napkin for my lap and a small paper cup. I take it from him in anticipation of wine.
“We don’t have a corkscrew for the wine,” I say.
“Screwcap.” Jack twists the top off and pours us each a glass. He proceeds to lay the cheeses on a sheet of wax paper and slices them with his Swiss Army knife.
In silence, I nibble on some cheese and tear into the baguette. “It’s so pretty here. This reminds me of Central Park.”
“It reminds me of the grounds at Oxford. The garden here is very well planned. Those there are peonies from China. The scent it will give off when in full bloom is incredible.”
“You know your flowers.”
“I work in my garden during my spare time. I’m a closeted horticulturist.”
Quietly, we chew our food. A bird flutters down and lands a few feet away in probable anticipation of crumbs.
Jack says, “Be wary of that bird. It looks ominous.”
I shift my body to look at the animal behind me. “She’s sweet-looking. Birds love me.”
“Yes, I heard them singing as they dressed you this morning.”
I turn to him, a smile winding its way on my mouth. “Speaking of dress, I noticed your stylish outfit today.” When he knocked on my door that morning, I was surprised by how well he lookedin aubergine-colored pants that perfectly matched one of the multiple stripes of the Paul Smith shirt he was wearing. His hair looked different, too, as though he had added product to give it style. I have a habit of being attracted not to the man himself, but to the man attached to the accent or attached to the Armani suit. Yes, I’m a byproduct of what I have created in my articles –don’t become who you want to be, become who you are wearing.I actually sold that idea.
