Amanda's Guide to Love (19 page)

“Cross my heart. But beware—I’m
going to destroy you.”

Liviu grinned.

“Can I play, too?” Manon yelled
from the kitchen.

Amanda glanced at Liviu, who nodded
his consent.

“OK!” she shouted back.

The boys behaved, and when the
bistro hit its midmorning lull, Amanda was only too happy to keep her promise.
She was brimming with energy and needed something more active than folding
napkins to skim off the excess.

The players formed two teams—girls
against boys.

“Prepare to lose!” Liviu boasted
with a gleeful expression.

“This is a boys’ game,” Denis
chimed in with a patronizing smile. “You have no chance.”

“Why is this ‘a boys’ game,’ sweet
thing?” Manon asked just as she sent the tiny ball past Liviu’s skewered
goalkeeper.

“Because there are no ponies in it.
Girls only play games with ponies in them,” Denis explained. He didn’t look so
smug anymore.

“Girls play all kinds of games,”
Amanda said. “Especially the big girls.”

Jeanne guffawed from behind the
bar.

Amanda scored another goal. “Take
that, gnomes!”

Ten minutes later, it was over.
Amanda and Manon had scored ten goals to Denis and Liviu’s measly five, and
Daniela announced their unquestionable victory.

Manon turned to Amanda and raised
her hand. “Well played, partner! Girls rock!”

Amanda high-fived her.

The kids looked as if someone had
just told them the holiday was over and they were going back to school
tomorrow.

“Who wants ice cream?” Jeanne
asked.

“Me, me!” Liviu began to jump up
and down.

“Me, too!” Denis ran to Jeanne.

“Me, three,” Amanda raised her hand
and then turned to the smirking Manon. “What? She asked who wants ice cream,
not who among the losers wants ice cream.”

“We need to get back to work,”
Manon said, pulling rank.

Amanda looked around. “There are
just four customers, and Jeanne has the situation under control.”

“I certainly do,” Jeanne confirmed.
“And I have just decided that everybody gets ice cream—the boys’ team, the girls’
team, and the referee.”

Manon cocked her head. “Marriage
has mellowed you, boss.”

“Heat has mellowed me,” Jeanne said
as she doled out generous blobs of pink and cream goodness.

Denis and Liviu swallowed their
portions at lightning speed and went back to play another round of foosball.

The grown-ups took their time,
savoring the welcome respite from the heat.

“I’m getting this place
air-conditioned before next summer,” Jeanne said and licked her spoon.

Amanda watched Daniela. The woman
could do with a little more grooming than she currently displayed. A lot more,
actually.

“Do you ever wear makeup, Daniela?”
she asked.

“Never.”

“Well, you should. You’d look
pretty with some makeup, better clothes, and a good haircut.”

“I can’t afford good clothes and a haircut,”
Daniela said. “As for the makeup . . .”

“You can buy it from discount
shops,” Amanda offered.

“I know. It’s just . . .
My current boyfriend doesn’t want me to wear any.”

“Why ever not?”

“He says that when I wear as much
as a bit of lipstick, I remind him of Romanian hookers.”

“Dump him,” Amanda said. “How can
you be with a man who puts you down like that?”

Jeanne nodded eagerly. “That’s what
I keep telling her.”

Daniela sighed. “Anyway, I don’t
care if I look pretty. I just want to look . . . ordinary.”

Manon frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t want to stick out,”
Daniela said. “Either in a bad or a good way. I don’t want people to laugh or
gawk at me. I’m not even sure which would make me more uncomfortable.”

Amanda stared at her bowl,
remembering the conversation she’d had with Kes last night on the train back to
Paris. She’d told him she wished he’d been less flamboyant. More ordinary and
within the norm.

He’d spread his arms. “I’m afraid
it’s quite impossible.”

“Could you at least try?”

“What would you have me do?
Renounce my Gypsy family? Bleach my skin and dye my hair?”

“God, no!”

“Quit doing what I’m really good
at?”

Amanda looked at him. “You make it
sound like you’re an expert at something worthwhile. You go to casinos and
gamble, Kes.”

“Didn’t you, two months ago?
Doesn’t everyone, all the time? Every decision we make is a gamble. Living is
gambling. We bet we’ll have a good life if we work hard.”

“True, but you don’t work, strictly
speaking.”

“Would you make the same reproach
to an artist who paints or sings for a living?”

She chewed on her lip, considering
his question. “I guess not. But it’s different. Artists make art.”

“And I take advantage of casinos
that make their owners heaps of easy money while ruining a lot of people.”

“So you’re a clever little parasite
feeding on a monster.”

“That’s exactly who I am.”

He had sounded so proud when he
said that.

What a shame.

Why couldn’t he be more like
Daniela, preferring normalcy to difference? Why couldn’t he see the point of
being ordinary and fitting in?

Amanda stuck the bowls in the
dishwasher and began to set the tables for lunch.

What a crying,
bloody shame.

* * *

The vegetation outside the train
window took on a Mediterranean quality with olive trees and cypresses replacing
oaks and beeches.

Amanda smiled with glee. Even if
the sea was still far away, just watching the landscape change from verdant to
coastal desert sent positive vibes to her brain. When traveling in France, arid
vistas foreshadowed good things: they meant you were moving away from the drab
and humid north and approaching the sun-drenched coastline of the
Midi.

In this particular instance, the
arid vistas meant she and Kes were getting closer to Provence, where Kes’s
little nephew would be baptized tomorrow. Tonight, Amanda was to sleep in
Arles, in a guesthouse not far from the railway station, while Kes joined his
family somewhere “just outside the town.”

“Where exactly are they staying?”
She turned to Kes, who sat next to her on the upper deck of the TGV train
.

“In a place called Fourchon.”

“Is it a village?”

He shook his head. “It’s a
dedicated parking site for Gypsy caravans.”

Her eyes grew wide.

“I think the official name of the
place is ‘Halting Area for Gitan Travelers,’ ” he said. “It’s only a few
kilometers south of Arles off the main highway.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“Absolutely not. The clan arrived
there a week ago and will stay for a month or so before they take off.”

“In their trailers?”

“We call them caravans.”

“Are you saying your folks will
live in a huge parking lot on the side of a highway for a whole month?”

“A
halting site
. You’ll see
it tomorrow. It’s one of the best here in Provence. The authorities renovated
it a few years ago, and now it has electricity, showers, and even outdoor
kitchens. Everything a Gitan’s heart may desire.”

“Well, thank God I’m staying in
Arles,” she said. “I couldn’t survive in a place like that.”

He said nothing.

“Will there be time to go to the
beach tomorrow?” she asked.

“I doubt it. My cousin Marco and I
will pick you up in the morning so you can take part in the christening
ceremony. It’ll be held in a small church in Arles. When it’s over, we all go
to Fourchon, eat and drink ’til we’re sick, and party.”

“All night?”

He nodded. “Campfire and all.”

“Sounds fun.” She nudged him
lightly. “I’m looking forward to it.”

He gave her a happy grin.

Marco was waiting for them at the
Arles station, the roof of his shiny red Citroën convertible pulled back for
the occasion.

The Moreno men drove Amanda to her
guesthouse and lingered for a drink with her at the bar next door.

“We’ll pick you up at ten in the
morning,” Marco said when they stood to leave.

“I’ll be in the lobby,” Amanda said
with a polite smile.

“Don’t bother,” Kes said. “Marco
means ten GST—Gitan Standard Time. It could be anywhere between ten-fifteen and
eleven.”

“Oh.”

“I’ll call you when we get here.”

“OK.”

An awkward pause followed, with
Amanda hesitating as to what to do next. How did you say good-bye to your lover
who wasn’t your boyfriend in the presence of his relative?

Kes ended her indecision with a
cheek kiss.

Marco followed suit.

“I’ll see you guys tomorrow
morning, then,” Amanda said. “Sometime between ten and eleven.”

They nodded and left.

Amanda spent the rest of the
evening exploring the town’s Roman ruins and reading her travel guide about its
rich history. She returned to her room only when it grew too dark outside to
admire ancient stones. Just as she picked up the TV remote, her phone lit up.

It was a text message
from Kes.

Hey.

She smiled and tapped
her reply.

Hey.
Can you call me?

Not
before Grandma falls asleep.

What?

Are
you rooming with your grandma?

Yep.
We’re separated by a partition, but it’s not soundproof.

How
do you know she’s still awake?

She’s
talking to my aunt.

His aunt. Of course.

What’s
your aunt doing there at midnight?

“Touching
base” with Grandma—gossiping.

Amanda rolled her
eyes.

Ask
her to leave.

I
can’t. But I’ll sneak out and come to your hotel as soon as she’s gone.

What
do you mean by ‘come’? You’ll borrow Marco’s car?

I
can’t. Marco drove away on some business. I’ll just walk.

He no longer sounded
weird. He sounded like he’d lost his mind.

You
don’t mean that, I hope. It’s too far, too late, and too dark.

Doesn’t
matter. I want you.

Amanda bit her lip. God knew she
wanted him, too. But she didn’t like the idea of him walking in the dark
through parking lots and wasteland and crossing a busy highway just so they
could sleep together. There was no emergency. They’d have other nights—at least
a dozen of them—before they parted ways.

Perhaps they could try something
different tonight? An alternative to physical lovemaking . . .

Her fingers hovered
over her phone for a moment, and then she made up her mind.

How
about phone sex?

No.

That was . . .
fast.

Why
not?

It’s
weird. And I’ve never done it before.

Neither
have I, but I hear it’s fun.

She waited a couple of
minutes, and when no reply came, she texted again.

Or
we could have text sex instead.

???

How unsporting. But she wasn’t giving up without a
fight.

What
are you wearing right now?

Nothing.
It’s too hot inside this f-ing caravan.

She pictured him
sitting on his bed, his back against the wall, his toned legs stretched out,
ankles crossed. To cool his body, he’d have bunched his blanket under his feet.
And there’d be nothing—absolutely nothing—to hide the naked gorgeousness of him
from a chance onlooker.

She typed frantically.

I
want proof. Send me a pic.

A few seconds later,
she was staring at a portrait of a muscled, smiling Gypsy god—from the waist
up.

Now
the bottom half.

The next photo was a
close-up of his toes. She smirked at his unexpected display of modesty.

They’re
sexy. And you’re chicken.

:-)
What are you wearing, ma belle?

Pajama
shorts.

Take
them off.

She obliged and then
sat back against the cushions and pulled up the first pic he’d sent her.
It
took her some time to type the next message as she was using only one hand.