Evan and Elle (9 page)

“Hello, Bron. We didn’t make any plans for the weekend yet.”

“Didn’t we?”

There was something wrong but he wasn’t sure what. “I still haven’t taken you to dinner at the French restaurant, I know. Don’t think I’ve forgotten. But I think I should stick around here tonight and tomorrow. The other fires happened at weekends. This time I’m going to be on the lookout. But I thought that maybe you’d like to demonstrate what you learned at cooking class?”

“What I learned?” She was looking at him steadily. Then she tossed back her hair. “I’m sorry, Evan, but I’m busy this weekend. I’ve already arranged to get together with some people I met at last week’s conference.”

“Tonight?” Evan’s face fell.

“We thought we’d have dinner together and do something tomorrow too. They were very amusing and it’s time I mixed more socially. I’ve been burying myself, shut away in this village.”

“Oh. I thought you liked it here.”

“Oh, I do like the teaching. Socially it doesn’t have much to offer, does it? Now if you’ll excuse me—I need to get changed . . .”

She turned away and went to shut the door.

“Bronwen, have I done something wrong?” he asked.

“You’d know that better than I, wouldn’t you?”

“What are you talking about?” he demanded.

“I really have to get ready. I have friends waiting for me.”

She closed the door, leaving him standing outside. Evan shook his head as he walked away. What was all that about? He would never understand women if he lived a million years. He was clearly out of favor for some reason and now it was up to him to find out why. It crossed his mind that the sex-with-no-strings-attached approach offered by Madame Yvette might not be such a bad idea after all.

The weekend didn’t improve much after that. Mrs. Williams served him a few chunks of beef and a couple of pearl onions in gravy that tasted of nothing because she refused to buy wine. Evan hung around outside the pub, keeping an eye on the street, but there was no fire. Worst of all, Bronwen was gone all weekend. Evan began to wonder if the other teachers she had met were all women.

On Monday Evan timed his afternoon patrol through the village to coincide with the end of the school day. Bronwen was standing at the gate, chatting to one of the mothers as he approached. She glanced up, noticed him, frowned and went back to her conversation. Evan lingered around until the woman led her child away by the hand.

“So how was your weekend?” he asked.

“Very nice, thank you. We’re thinking of doing it more
often,” Bronwen said. “It makes a change to be with stimulating company.”

“I was thinking we never set a date to go to that French restaurant, did we?” Evan persisted.

“Funny, but I’ve gone off French food,” Bronwen said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .” She hurried over to break up a fight.

Evan went home even more despondent and confused.

That evening in the pub Evans-the-Meat was waving a copy of Monday’s
Daily Post
featuring a half-page write-up of Chez Yvette with a photo of Yvette standing at her stove, managing to look sultry and sexy as she stirred something in a large pot. At the bottom of the article was an added note that Chez Yvette had received a nomination for Best New Restaurant from the Taste of Wales committee.

“Would you look at that?” Evans-the-Meat threw down the newspaper as he came into the pub that night. “Nominated for Taste of Wales! How can a bloody French restaurant be called a Taste of Wales—that’s what I’d like to know?”

“She’s using classic Welsh ingredients, so she says,” Betsy commented, pulling the butcher a pint of Robinson’s without being asked. “Get that inside you and you’ll feel better.”

Barry-the-Bucket peered over the butcher’s shoulder. “See, what did I tell you? She’s a sexy bit of stuff, isn’t she? Good pair of knockers on her—”

“Do you mind?” Betsy demanded. “This is a respectable establishment. We’ll have none of that talk here.” She
thumped a glass down none too gently so that froth spattered onto the bar top. “In fact I don’t think I’m interested in hearing any more about that woman and how sexy she is. Nothing but trouble, if you ask me.”

Evan had been drinking his pint, too caught up in his private depression to be interested in the conversation. Now he looked at Betsy with interest. Betsy was not one to fly off the handle like that. She usually liked to trade risqué banter with the customers. Something about Madame Yvette had upset her. He heard an echo of Bronwen’s unusually sharp retort, “I’ve gone off French food.”

Madame Yvette—that had to be the reason for Bronwen’s strange behavior. The local grapevine must have been at work again and reported that he had visited Yvette late at night. He was stupid. He should have told Bronwen himself before the gossipmongers started.

He put down his glass and slipped out of the pub.

“Where’s Evans-the-Law off to in such a hurry?” he heard someone call after him. “Don’t tell me there’s another fire.”

“More likely a craving for a little Taste of Wales,” Betsy retorted.

A strong wind blew in Evan’s face as he ran up the street.

Bronwen came to her door in her flannel dressing gown and slipper socks. “What is it?” she asked, her eyes darting nervously. “An emergency?”

“It is an emergency when you’re angry with me and I don’t know what I’ve done.”

She shrugged. “If you don’t know what you’ve done, then I can’t help you.”

“Bronwen—is this something to do with going to Madame Yvette’s late at night last week?”

A spasm of hurt crossed her face, but then she tossed her head defiantly. “What you do with your spare time is no concern of mine.”

“Bronwen”—his voice rose—“I was called out. She got a threatening note and she was upset.”

“Called out at eleven, I understand, and didn’t get home until she kicked you out at one?”

“Kicked me out? Who told you that?”

“She did.”

Evan could feel the heat rising to his uniform collar. “The nerve of it! Kicked me out? She asked me to stay because she was scared and upset.”

“And so you, being the good boy scout as always, stayed to comfort her?”

“Yes, I did . . . until I found out what she really wanted from me. Then I made a polite but hurried exit.”

“Oh.” Bronwen stared hard at him as if she was trying to see inside his skull. “That’s not how it was related to me.”

“And you believe a lot of old gossips?”

“It was Madame herself. She told me that she showed you the difference between a woman and a girl.”

Evan actually laughed. “Come on, Bron. Do you really believe that I’m the kind of bloke who winds up in bed with strange Frenchwomen?”

“How do I know?” Her voice was edgy again. “I’ve no
idea what makes men tick. I thought maybe it was too good an offer to refuse.”

“Well, I refused it.”

They stood in the light of her doorway, staring at each other.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve no right to get upset about what you do or don’t do.”

“You’ve no right to get upset with me without checking with me first,” he said.

“I know. I’m sorry. I’m so stupidly insecure. I thought she had something to offer you that I don’t have.”

Evan smiled at her. “She does. A black lace bra.”

“She showed you her bra?”

“It wasn’t on her at the time.”

“That’s even worse,” Bronwen said, but she was smiling now.

“Bronwen,” Evan said quietly, “it’s cold out here. Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

The following Saturday night Evan and Bronwen finally went to dinner at Chez Yvette.

“I’m not sure I want to do this,” Bronwen said as Evan parked the car.

“Don’t be silly. We agreed, didn’t we? I want her to see us together.”

“I want you to taste all my food first,” Bronwen said as they walked up the flagstone path to the front door. “She might have poisoned it.”

“So you’d rather
I
died. That sounds like true love.” He opened the door for her. Bronwen grinned.

The restaurant looked different, lit only with candles in glass globes. No longer was it an austere former chapel. The flickering candlelight created little pools of intimacy at each of the six tables. The vaulted ceiling above and the far corners
were lost in darkness. Madame Yvette was serving at the one occupied table as they came in. She looked up and the delight registered on her face as she saw Evan. “Ah, Monsieur le Policeman. You come back!
Magnifique
.”

“I’ve brought my girlfriend for dinner, Madame,” Evan said. “She’s been taking your cooking classes and raving about your food, so I’ve come to try it.” Evan’s hand was on Bronwen’s shoulder as he steered her across the parquet floor.

Madame Yvette nodded graciously. If she was at all put out, she wasn’t showing it. “Please—take a seat. Here—my best table, in the corner. So romantic,
non?
I bring you a menu and the wine list.”

They studied the wine list and Bronwen suggested a Merlot.

“Any suggestions on food?” Evan muttered to Bronwen. “I don’t know one French dish from another.”

“Why don’t we let her choose the menu?” Bronwen suggested. “That way we’ll get her favorite dishes.”

Madame Yvette seemed delighted. “ ’Ow very kind. I make you zee superb meal. We start, I sink, wiz zee scallops in white wine and ginger, zen my famous selle d’agneau—zat is zee local lamb—very good and tender, and a salad of baby greens. And zen, for dessert, zee
specialité de la minison.’
” She left them with a mysterious smile.

The first two courses were exquisite, the scallops delicate, melt-in-the-mouth, floating in a light creamy sauce, accompanied by crisp lattice wafers of potato. The lamb was rich brown on the outside, pink and succulent in the middle with just a hint of garlic and herbs.

“If she has any animosity, she’s not showing it,” Bronwen whispered.

“I think she’s happy to show off her cooking expertise,” Evan said. “She certainly knows how to cook.”

“And it’s lucky we came early,” Bronwen said. The door opened, sending in a cold breeze that ruffled napkins and flickered candle flames. A noisy party of four people, English by the sound of them, came in, and almost immediately a lone man followed, choosing the small table on the opposite wall.

Madame Yvette bustled from table to table, beaming.

“You liked your Welsh lamb zee way I cook it?” she asked as she came to remove their plates.

“It was wonderful,” Evan said as Bronwen nodded agreement. “The best meal I’ve had in years.”

“Ah, you wait for zee dessert!” Her eyes sparkled like those of a naughty child keeping a secret. “I will take zee orders from zese people, zen I return.”

She disappeared, then came back with a bottle of wine for the lone man and a bottle of champagne for the noisy party of four. Then she wheeled a trolley up to Evan and Bronwen’s table.

“I make for you my special crêpes suzette,” she said. There was a small spirit stove on the trolley. “I bring zee cointreau,” she said, and crossed the room to the bar. The man at the far table beckoned her. She bent to him, had a brief conversation, then came back to Evan’s table, stopped, stared into space and then said, with an embarrassed laugh, “Ah, zee cointreau. I forget my head next!” and crossed the room again.

Evan watched her as she came back and fumbled with the bottle top.

“Here, let me,” Evan said.

“Sank you. I don’t know why I can’t . . .” Her voice was shaking.

Evan glanced back at the man in the alcove, but he was calmly sipping a glass of red wine.

She folded a crêpe and placed it in the pan. She tipped up the bottle and liqueur came splashing out onto the tablecloth and floor. “I am sorry,” she said. “So clumsy of me.”

“Is something wrong?” Bronwen asked.

“No. No, nozzink at all.” She shook her head. “Now we make zee flame . . .” She lit a match. Flames shot high from the pan, licking out so that Evan could feel the heat. Bronwen stared at him in alarm. Madame Yvette stepped back with a muttered
“ooh-la-la!”
Evan reached for his water glass but almost immediately the flame died down again.

“Voilà!”
Madame Yvette tipped the first crêpe onto a plate and put it in front of Bronwen. She completed the rest of the crêpes with no more conflagrations.

“What was that about?” Bronwen whispered as Madame Yvette made a hurried retreat with the trolley. “She was upset about something, wasn’t she?”

Evan nodded. “Maybe someone complained about her cooking. They’re supposed to be temperamental, these famous chefs.”

They lingered over coffee, so wrapped up in their conversation that Evan was quite surprised when Bronwen whispered,
“I suppose we should go. She might be waiting to close up.”

Evan looked around and saw that they were the only patrons left. They paid the bill, exchanged pleasantries, and went.

“Brilliant meal,” Bronwen said. “I can see now why she was nominated for the award.”

“She certainly can cook,” Evan agreed.

He felt relieved and content as he finally let himself in to Mrs. Williams’s house just before midnight. The evening had gone smoothly. Bronwen had forgiven him, Madame Yvette seemed to have accepted the fact that he had a girl-friend, and the food had been outstanding—even if his pay-check wouldn’t stretch to that kind of meal again for a while.