LOVE IS IN THE HEART: Verne Estate Series, Book 4

11. ROMY

The rest of the morning flies by. Alistair serves customers with a smile while I collect cash. Several times, I suggested he go home, but he insisted on staying. I don’t know what to think of it. Okay, he’s pretty nice and we had a good night, but it’s not like he’s a friend of mine.

Customers are delighted. I seem to be one of the few people in the village who doesn’t know the young Englishman. I’m surprised to see that they call him several times by his first name and that he knows them. Even Leo, Cora’s husband, chats with him for a while and promises to call him the next day to discuss a construction site. Do they work together? I’m a little ashamed when I realise that I didn’t even ask him what he does for a living. Apart from the fact that he lives in the big house at the edge of the village and that he’s English, I know almost nothing about him.

I turned the sign on the door that said we’re closed. Sergio and Max are already long gone. Only Alistair and I are left in the shop. I declare:

“Looks like we got through this morning! Thank you, I don’t know what I would have done without you. You’ve done like a boss! Looks like you’ve been doing this your whole life.”

“I was finally able to satisfy my old fantasy of playing shop thanks to you.”

He gave me a wink. Suddenly, I wondered if his remark had a double meaning. Or else it’s me who has the wrong idea. That must be it, and then there’s the language barrier. Although Alistair speaks impeccable French, we’re not immune to the fact that he hasn’t mastered all the subtleties.

“How can I thank you?”

His eyes twinkle, and I feel like there’s an implication again. But he just offers:

“Lunch with me! I have two éclairs for dessert.”

I note the sudden passage to familiarity. And also that I want to say yes to him. But instead, I replied:

“I have a family meal.”

I could see the disappointment crossing his eyes. Does he really want to have lunch with me? I hear myself suggesting to him:

“Could we put it off for another day? One evening during the week, for example? We could go for a drink at the Café de la Place.”

His smile reappears. I noticed it’s something he does a lot; smiles. In fact, his face is very expressive.

“So it’s noted, it’s a date.”

A date? What does he mean by that?

“Yes... well... it’s not really a date…”

I felt my cheeks ignite. Alistair raised an eyebrow. I’m making a fool of myself! Of course, he doesn’t imply that we have a date, in the sense of a romantic date. No, it’s just that he made a mental note of our mutual commitment to meet again. A bit like when your dentist says to you: See you again in six months! After all, I may not be old enough to be his mother, but at least his babysitter. So there’s no risk that he’ll be interested in me for anything other than my amazing pastries – and maybe my sense of humour.

“Anyway... I’ll call!”

“For that, you would have to agree to give me your number,” he laughs.

I didn’t want to give it to him last night, even when he pointed out that he already knew where I lived and worked. I guess it can’t have happened often to him that a girl refuses to give him her number. And at this very moment, I also find myself a bit ridiculous for having had this kind of archaic reflex. As he said, he knows where I live, where I work… What am I risking giving it to him? That he fills up my answering machine?

I grab a pad of sticky notes lying next to the cash register and scribble the ten digits of my cell phone. I hand it to him, he grabs it and slips it into his pocket. Judging by his smile, he looked like he had just won the lottery.

“I’ll call you to set a date then,” he said.

He takes two steps back without taking his eyes off me.

“See you soon, darling,” he says with a wink before turning on his heels and leaving the shop.

I stood for a few seconds watching him walk away through the window, before remembering that I’d better close the store.

I go to my parents'. My childhood home is a little out of the way. But as in Locron, it’s not far. It takes no more than ten minutes by car to get there. When I arrived, everyone was already there. Being the only one to work on Sunday mornings isn’t unusual. It’s Ben who opens the door for me. I kissed him and asked:

“What is it today?”

He displays a grimace that doesn’t bode well before announcing:

“Lasagna.”

My expression must strongly resemble his. I guess in a lot of families, the idea of enjoying motherly lasagna comes with a little more excitement. But at home, the idea of a home-cooked dish by my mother is more a source of anxiety than anything else.

“Don’t make that face,” Guillaume said, coming over to kiss me. “I’ve seen her take it out of the oven, and at least this time it really does look like lasagna.”

“Who knows? It might be a nice surprise. A day when she’ll be able to cook us something edible,” I tried without much conviction.

If there’s one thing I have no doubts about, it’s my mother’s culinary skills. They are almost non-existent. Sometimes I think to myself that maybe it was because of the fact that she’s a terrible cook that I was pushed into my vocation. It must be said that my brothers and I quickly realised that if we hoped to eat something edible, we would have to learn to manage on our own.

“Hope gives life,” comments Benjamin. “Did you bring some stuff from the bakery, at least?”

I handed him the bread.

“No cake?” he wonders.

“I sold everything and couldn’t produce anything this morning. I was swamped.”

I won’t dwell on the reasons why I spent my morning at the checkout, it would only generate more questions that I don’t want to answer. I enter the living room where I find my father and Jeremy deep in conversation. I kiss them, and I notice that Jeremy hugs me a little more in his arms than usual. I know what that means: he and Ben were definitely present during my little humiliation the day before. It’s his discreet way of supporting me. Where Ben is some sort of rough-and-tumble Viking, his friend is someone of disconcerting sensitivity and insight.

Since I can hear Mom grumbling in the kitchen, I figure it is best to avoid that combat zone for now. So I go in search of Jade, whom I find in my old room.

“Hey! Hello, beauty!”

She barely looks up from her phone, but I’m used to the typical indifference of people her age. And since I’m a bit of a pain in the ass, I sat down next to her on the bed.

“Did you have a good weekend?”

At the sigh with which she responds, I could believe that she’s just annoyed by my presence, but the fact that she avoids my gaze challenges me. There’s something else.

“Is everything going well at school?”

I know that my question is the one that must be hated the most by ninety-nine per cent of teenagers. Nevertheless, I try anyway. Jade is a pretty good student and popular, but you never know...

“Yes, everything is going well,” she eludes.

“Do you have a problem with one of your friends?”

“No.”

“A boy, then?”

No answer, except for a sigh that confirmed my suspicions.

“Dad told me you had a boyfriend…”

This time, she looks up at me suspiciously.

“Dad told you about Jason?”

I have no idea the first name of the crust punk he was complaining about a few weeks ago, and I don’t want to throw my brother under the train, so I’m keeping it vague.

“I don’t know. He just vaguely mentioned a boy you were seeing…”

I’m not sure I’m convincing. I’m sorry I don’t have Leona’s talent for acting. Jade frowns but, strangely, begins to confide:

“I was seeing a guy, everything was going well... and then suddenly, he became super strange, and now he doesn’t answer my calls.”

This situation sounds familiar to me, having had one or two such experiences myself, but I don’t think telling her now would be a good idea.

“Are you sure nothing special happened?”

“No! He even came to dinner. Dad didn’t even mess with him, he was even so nice that it was almost scary.”

I smiled internally. Here’s one who listened to the advice of his little sister.

“Maybe that’s what scared him?” suggests my niece out loud, as if she had never thought of it before.

“Surely not. He just… Maybe he wasn’t the guy for you. Forget him: if he doesn’t call you back, he’s not a reliable guy.”

Jade gives me a sceptical look.

“He was really cute,” she sighs. “He’s an artist, he wants to be a tattoo artist. He had promised to give me one soon.”

“Don’t you have to be an adult to do that?” I asked, half choking.

I doubt that Guillaume is aware of this project. It would surprise me, otherwise, he would have already locked her up at home.

“In a tattoo parlour, yes, but not if you do it at home,” she replies nonchalantly as if it were quite normal to get tattooed on the kitchen table on Sunday afternoon.

My frightened face must express everything I feel at this moment because Jade adds:

“No need to make that face. I won’t, since, anyway, he doesn’t even answer me anymore.”

“I’m sorry, darling.”

I try to sound a tiny bit sympathetic, though inside I think I probably have more reason to be happy.

She sighs.

“At least I didn’t get dumped in front of everyone.”

The look she gives me before getting out of bed confirms that this remark was addressed directly to me. Hey! Me, who was trying to be nice not even thirty seconds ago! Talk about gratitude!

“Jade, don’t be disagreeable with your aunt,” Guillaume says, entering the room as his daughter leaves.

He takes her place.

“Everybody knows about it, don’t they?”

He nods.

“Let’s say that your little scene yesterday didn’t go unnoticed. Ben and Jeremy were there, but I don’t think they were the ones who spilt the beans. I overheard some guys talking about it in the gym this morning, and the neighbour called Mom.”

My brothers are the owners of a gym and, believe me, you learn even more gossip there than in my shop. People often joke in the village that we invented a unique concept to run our two businesses: people eat my cakes and then go to the gym to get rid of the excess calories; when they come out hungry, they treat themselves to a pastry at the bakery. It’s a vicious cycle in a short circuit.

Guillaume puts an arm on my shoulders and pulls me towards him.

“Come on, come eat, mom asked me to get you. And if we don’t come back right away, it’s going to be a tragedy.”

We join the rest of the family as our mother places a plate of steaming lasagna on the table. We exchanged, my brothers and I, a surprised look. The appearance of the dish is almost normal: no sauce ten times too liquid, no charred garnish… Could it be that she has prepared something edible?

“It looks delicious, my dear!” exclaims my father with unfeigned enthusiasm.

And that’s the problem: Dad welcomes each of my mother’s culinary trials with enthusiasm, which helps to make her think that we’re the difficult ones, since he appreciates her efforts. I’ve wondered more than once in recent years if he was pretending to avoid incurring Mom’s wrath, or if he just had his taste completely destroyed after more than forty years of bad treatment.

We tend our plates in turn, and when everyone is served, I plunge my fork into mine to grab a piece of lasagna that I bring to my mouth. Could it be…? Oh My God!

I put it down immediately and rushed to the water jug. Too late! Ben was faster. He gives me a victorious smile as if he had just beaten me to some prize, but the next second, he becomes disillusioned when he realises that it’s empty.

“Will you go fill it, Romy?” he asks, handing it to me.

I lie:

“Why me? It’s you who are thirsty.”

“But you’re the youngest. In some families…”

“Jade’s the youngest,” Mom replies. “But leave your sister alone, Benjamin, and go get some water.”

I stick my tongue out at my brother trying to be discreet, but I have no luck. I get caught.

“Romy, stop being childish! It’s no wonder you can’t find yourself a husband if you act like a kid.”

That’s a low blow! Even Ben looks sorry for me. But that doesn’t prevent Mom from continuing:

“They told me what happened yesterday at the Café de la Place, Romy. Throwing that drink in poor Sabrina’s face, that wasn’t very elegant of you.”

Not very elegant?

“Uh... it’s her who…”

“Don’t blame her for being smarter than you,” she interrupted me.

“Smarter?”

“Yes! She managed to get a hold of Simon when you haven’t been able to all these years.”

“But... but Simon didn’t want me to put the hook in him! He wasn’t ready to commit, he told me that more than once, and…”

“Daughter, men like Simon don’t know what they want most of the time. It’s up to us to show them. Sabrina understood that, but you missed your chance,” she sighed. “Too bad, I liked him, and he would have made magnificent grandchildren.”

Now I’m angry.

“And what do you suggest, Mom? That I should have thrown myself at his feet years ago to ask him to marry me? Do you think that would have worked?”

“Of course not! But you could have used the oldest technique in the world: getting pregnant.”

“But it’s just horrible what you suggest!” I shouted.

Even my brothers look outraged. Guillaume casts anguished glances in the direction of Jade.

“It went well with your dad,” she added, shrugging.

The person concerned applies himself to finishing his lasagna in silence, and it’s Guillaume who’s offended:

“But you always told me that I was very premature!”

Mom rolls her eyes.

“That was the excuse for your grandmother to explain that you were born only seven and a half months after the wedding.”

Ben chokes with laughter:

“And she believed it? Because I saw the pictures, he was obese!”

“You can talk!” Our eldest gets angry. “You were barely six months old when we couldn’t even carry you in our arms, you were so heavy.”

My two brothers start a lively discussion and, as usual, it’s who will be the most annoying with the other.

“Boys! Stop your bickering right away and finish your plates!” she orders.

“Uh, Mom…” I tried to intervene.

“What is it, Romy? Are you going to comment on my cooking again?”

“Well, only to say…”

She cuts me off and says with an accusatory tone:

“You see, that’s one of your negative points. You’re a real kitchen snob. Okay, you make delicious pastries and you cook very well, but not everyone is lucky enough to have your talent. You shouldn’t belittle those who try to do their best to succeed, even though they know they’ll never come close to you. It may not be fine cuisine, but it’s cooked with love.”

Jeremy, who usually remains quite silent during our family games, allows himself an intervention:

“You can feel the love in your lasagna, Martine, but especially the salt.”

Mom looks at him as if he’s just confessed to her that he’s hated her all these years.” She grabs her napkin, puts it on the table and, without a word, gets up and goes to take refuge in the kitchen.

I exchange a look with my brothers, the silent question that everyone asks is: which of us is going to go and console her? Judging by their expressions, they clearly think it’s up to me.

I finally got up with a sigh. The orphan status of Oliver Twist or Tom Sawyer suddenly strikes me as quite enviable. They at least never had to attend a family meal…