Faking It (23 page)

He gets up, flicks his sister in the head, and returns to his seat at the front of the bus.

Kayla lowers her book.

“He’s not a complete moron,” she says, looking at me through her fringy bangs. “He’s right. Things will work out for you, too. Just stick to fictional guys.”

* * * *

The Agriturismo La Lucianna is actually a posh stone hamlet built around a medieval castle and surrounded by rolling vineyards. The stone and stucco outbuildings have been renovated to serve as guest cottages. La Lucianna is an
Agriturismo,
a working farm that accommodates tourists, which means they produce their own wine, which means free wine with every meal. Score!
I’m not a wine aficionado like Nathan and Fanny, but who’s gonna turn down free Tuscan vino?

We’ve gathered on the terrace to dine al fresco. The view is spectacular. A patchwork of ochre fields and vineyards draped over the rolling land. Slender Cypress trees stand at attention atop the hills, silent sentries watching over the countryside. It’s like Napa but on steroids. I could stand here forever, gazing at beautiful Tuscany unfurling before me.

“That’s San Gimignano,” Luc says, pointing to a sprawling castle perched along the ridge of a distant hill. “It is perhaps the most beautiful medieval hill town in the region. It’s called the Town of Fine Towers because of the dozen well-preserved tower houses located within the ramparts. It’s also home to the world’s best
gelateria.”

“The whole world, really?”

Luc nods.

“Hmmm,” I say, narrowing my eyes. “Such a bold theory demands testing. I think I shall have to visit this
gelateria,
and several others in the area, and conduct my own experiment. Just for scientific purposes, of course.”

Luc chuckles. “Are you sure you want to undertake such a dangerous experiment?”

“If my research can somehow aid mankind, I am prepared to make the trifling sacrifice in the name of science.”

“
Bon courage, mon amie
.” He raises his hand in a sharp salute. “Go with courage!”

His mock serious expression makes me laugh out loud. Luc is proving to be the remedy for all that ails me. It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single woman in possession of a broken heart, must be in want of a good laugh.

Luc turns his back on the other members of the group who have clustered around a long wooden table behind us.

“I missed you today.” His voice is low and husky. “I wanted to talk to you on the bus, but Chantal insisted we use the time to go over some business matters.”

Hello,
Chantal
! Now, whenever I think Chantal’s name, I imagine myself saying it the way Newman says Jerry’s name on Seinfeld.
“Hello, Chantal.”
It’s probably irrational, but I’m developing an intense dislike for the little French woman. I sense she doesn’t approve of Luc’s interest in me. I get that she’s his boss, but it feels deeper than that.

“I missed you, too.”

“Did you think about me?”

“Yes.”

“What did you think about?”

What did I think about? Come on! Were you on the boat yesterday, or was it your gorgeous doppelganger that boffed…banged…whatever…me?

Chantal, dressed in a chic black pants suit, a silk scarf knotted around her slender neck, strolls over and puts her arm around Luc. A bitter black bubble of jealousy bursts inside me.
Whatthefuck? Could you be any more obvious or territorial?
I want to reach out and garret her with that stupid ugly scarf. Seriously? I’m hardly a Fashionista, but who wears ascots?

“
Bon soir
, Luc, Vivia,” she says, smiling tightly. “They’re about to serve dinner. Coming?”

There it is again! That look. Definitely hostile. She was friendly when she picked me up from the TGV station. So what happened?

Luc.

No. I’m being ridiculous. She’s married. Then again, she is French. The French have an entirely different attitude about fidelity than most puritanical Americans.

“We’ll be there in a minute, Chantal,” Luc says, firmly but politely. “I need to speak to Vivia.”

Chantal’s smile slips. Her arm drops from around Luc’s waist. “If you’re certain?”

“I’m certain.”

Damn! You were just shut down, girl.
Au Revoir
!

“Vivia,” she says, smiling. “I missed you on the Cannes tour. I was hoping we would have a chance to get to know each other better. Would you sit by me at dinner?”

“Sure.”

Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, is that it? I hate to be so uncharitable and I really hope my impression of Chantal is skewed, but my sixth sense is warning me to be wary.

Chantal leaves us, but her presence lingers. Luc avoids my gaze and needlessly adjusts his collar.

“What’s the deal with you and Chantal?”

He genuinely looks shocked. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. I get the feeling she doesn’t like me very much.”

“Nobody could dislike you.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

He’s not really giving me an answer, but I’ll let this one slide. Just because we had mind-blowing sex on the deck of a ship off the coast of Cannes—in broad daylight—doesn’t mean we’re together. I have no claims on Jean-Luc.

Oh my God! I don’t even know Luc’s last name. How’s that for putting things in perspective?

We join the others at a long scarred wooden table set beneath a pergola covered in pungent purple flowers. Luc takes a seat at one end of the table and I take my seat at the other end, between Chantal and Mrs. Rosenthal.

Chantal waits until the end of the second course before turning to me and striking up a conversation.

“Fanny told me you heard from your fiancé. That’s wonderful. Will you reconcile?”

She’s good.

“I doubt it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m not.”

“You’ve had a change of heart about Monsieur Edwards?”

I take a deep swallow of liquid courage before turning my full attention to the inquisitive little French woman.
Okay, Chantal, you wanna go there? Bring it.

“That’s the funny thing about being dumped by your fiancé just days before your wedding; it sorta changes your feelings for him.” My voice heavy is with sarcasm.

“So no reconciliation?”

“No, Chantal. Nathan has retaliated by getting me fired from my job, demanding I return my engagement ring, and publicly branding me a whore.” Okay, so I am exaggerating the last part a wee bit but she’s pissing me off. “I have a better chance of winning the next Tour de France than reconciling with Nathan.”

I take another sip of wine before resuming my assault.

“What about you, Chantal?” I smile sweetly. “You must miss your husband. Does he mind you taking these trips with Jean-Luc?”

“Luc?” She laughs and it sounds like tiny tinkling bells. “Of course not. Why would he?”

I look at Luc, shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal muscular forearms, easy smile stretched across his handsome face.

“Why would he? Why wouldn’t he? Look at him.” I nod in Luc’s direction. “He’s gorgeous, smart, funny, kind.”

“Vivia”—Chantal places her manicured hand on my arm—“he’s also my husband’s brother.”

What? Did she just say Jean-Luc is her brother in law?
Damn.
I was just shut down. Could I feel any more stupid?

Chantal looks at my face, takes in my shocked expression, and laughs her tinkly bell laugh.

“La! You thought—” She pauses, shakes her head, and laughs again. “Luc? And me?
Non
.”

Obviously, I have a wonky sixth sense. I completely misread the situation.

Chantal takes pity on me. She leans close and lowers her voice just above a whisper.

“You probably sensed I was treating you coolly?” She doesn’t wait for me to respond. “I was…am afraid you will hurt Jean-Luc.”

“Why?”

“Jean-Luc is free with his affections.”

Chantal must have correctly read my
whatinthefuck
expression because she hurries to correct herself.

“That’s not right, is it? I’m sorry, but I struggle with your American sayings. What does it mean when one displays their feelings openly?”

“We would say, ‘he wears his heart on his sleeve.’”

Chantal frowns and her perfectly arched brows knit together. She might have a slamming wardrobe, but Luc’s sister-in-law is seriously challenged when it comes to understanding and throwing down American idioms.

“I would never hurt Luc.”

“Perhaps not intentionally, but you are vulnerable. Monsieur Edwards broke your heart, and you haven’t given yourself time to heal.”

She thinks Luc is my rebound guy and she might be right, but what a bounce he is. It’s way too soon to say I love Luc, but I can say that I am more than infatuated. He’s all I think about.

Chantal grabs my hand and squeezes it.

“Luc had his heart broken last year. It devastated me to see him in such pain. He fell in love with the wrong woman. She did not love Luc, the man, but Jean-Luc de Caumont, the
noble
man.”

Nobleman? Did she just say the Luc the tour guide, Luc the man who craves Taco Bell, Luc the man who quotes cheesy western movies, is an aristocrat?

I look at Luc again. How did I miss that one?

“So, Château de Caumont is…”

“The château belongs to Jean-Luc.”

“What is a castle-owning aristocrat doing leading a bike tour? Why isn’t he home counting his riches?”

“Jean-Luc is not rich. After his parents died, Jean-Luc and his siblings inherited Château de Caumont. The children voted to sell the château and split the proceeds, only Jean-Luc and Philippe abstained. They refused to part with their family’s legacy. So Luc signed a contract agreeing to buy his brothers and sisters shares in the estate. It has taken him ten years, but he has turned the château from a crumbling family home into a lucrative venture. He renovated the castle so that it could accommodate tourists, improved production in the vineyards, and helped us form this tour company.”

“So Jean-Luc isn’t just a tour guide?” It’s taking me a while to wrap my head around what she’s telling me.

“Is that what you thought?” Chantal releases my hand and sits back. “When Luc isn’t working to preserve the estate, he’s a
professeur de littérature
at Université Montpelier. He only agreed to lead this tour because Philippe was injured.”

“A professor?” I’m stunned. “Of literature?”

I look at Luc, sitting at the end of the table, casually talking to one of the divorcees. The man who gave me my most erotic sexual encounter is still a stranger.

“He let me believe he was just a tour guide. Why didn’t he tell me he was a literature professor, and a nobleman?”

“That’s not Luc’s style. Hard work has made him very humble. His title means nothing to him.” Chantal can’t keep the note of pride out of her voice. “Luc is more Republican than Aristocrat. He believes honor and high moral principal make a man noble, not luck of birth. Unfortunately, there are people who would use Luc and his connections.”

The silence between us is painful. She thinks I am a gold digger, a title hunter. That’s why she’s been so protective of Luc.

“I can tell you like Luc.” She looks down the table at her brother-in-law and smiles warmly. “He likes you, too, but…”

“But you think I am a gold digger?”

“
Quoi
?” She frowns. “I don’t know what this is. What is a gold digger?”

“You think I am after Luc because he is rich.”

“
Non
!” Chantal chuckles. “
Mon Dieu, non
! I don’t think that at all.”

“What is it then? I’m not imagining it, am I? You’re not happy that Luc and I are attracted to each other.”

Chantal draws a deep breath and sits back in her chair. She takes a minute, perhaps to compose her response, and then leans forward, lowering her voice so only I can hear what she has to say.

“It isn’t personal, Vivia. You seem very nice, but you did just end your engagement. You’re vulnerable. Luc’s vulnerable.”

“Luc? Why is Luc vulnerable?”

Chantal looks at Luc. She takes a deep breath, exhales, and looks back at me with a tremulous smile.

“Luc suffered a bad break-up last year. Celine—that was her name. She treated him horribly. She lied to him about many things. She was false and faithless. She ran on his heart.” She frowns. “That is the right saying, isn’t it?”

“Close enough.”

“She ran all over his heart.”

Mrs. Byron taps Chantal on the arm and asks if it would be possible to add a few miles to our next ride.

While Chantal discusses logistics with Mrs. Overachiever, I think about what she just told me. What am I doing? She’s right. I’m still picking my way around the wreckage of my last relationship. Getting involved with Luc, pinning even the slenderest of hopes to him, would be stupid.

Chantal turns back to me, a concerned expression on her face. “I am sorry if I have upset you, Vivia. I don’t want to hurt you, but this situation requires candor.”

“I’m not upset.” I am lying through my teeth. “I understand your desire to protect Luc, and I appreciate your honesty.”

“
Bon
,” she says, smiling. “So we are still friends,
oui
?”

“
Oui
.”

I smile back at her even though she has made me feel a little melancholy. The meal continues. The wine flows as freely as the conversation. The divorcees take turns telling humorous stories about their travels together. Everyone laughs.

Everyone, but me.

I sit, silently, brooding over what I know I must do. It’s time to put the brakes on Luc, before we both get hurt.

Back in the Saddle

“I have a crushing headache,” I say to Chantal, rubbing my temple. “I am going to my room to get two aspirin.”

I don’t wait for her to respond, and I don’t have a headache. I need to be alone, to think. I don’t want to spend the night sitting in my room, feeling sorry for myself, so I pop back to our cottage to exchange my strappy sandals for a pair of suede Converse. Maybe a long walk in the moonlight will wear me out enough to sleep.

I grab my pashmina, wrap it around my bare shoulders, and close the cottage door behind me. I am following the flagstone path to the vineyards when an arm reaches out of the darkness, grabs me around the waist, and pulls me into the shadows.