Opposites Attack: A Novel with Recipes Provencal (6 page)

“No, it is beautiful, Al-
ees.
If it was wrong, why did God make it feel so good?”

“So women would be willing to endure childbirth.”

“You do not wish me to use a condom?”

She set him straight on that one. “I’m on the pill. Condoms are for other reasons.”

The sounds of the birds, the scent of spring flowers, the naturalness of it all, made her forget where she was until—

“OW!”

A sharp pain in her right thigh caused her to open her eyes and look straight into the fiery glare of the Mother Superior. She was holding up a long stick.

It was not an olive branch.

“Julien,” she said, as they quickly put their clothes back on, “I think this is worse than the showerhead incident.”

6

The Muse Whispers

Jean-Luc’s affair with Isabella began, indeed, on a high note (after Robbie did, indeed, punch him in the nose). She was a wonderful lover, delightfully mischievous, and quite willing to foot the bill for their whimsies when he assured her a big check was coming and he would pay her back. They were soon frolicking in Corsica; exploring the cliffs and beaches by day, each other until dawn.

He took copious notes to convince himself he was doing work-related research. It also flattered Isabella to no end to think that he might write about her.

He should have stayed put in Marlaison, chained himself to his computer, and written anything, no matter how awful. The inevitable shift in Isabella’s devotion came after they returned home and an exceptional dinner in town ended with her credit card being declined.

The owner politely waived the charge for his old friend, Jean-Luc. “I know you will repay me,” he said.

“We spent 7,000 Euros in two weeks!” she screeched as she drove the Lexus SUV back to his place. She still didn’t know the car wasn’t his.

“Live, Isabella! Think of how much our trip to Corsica inspired your painting. You can write many of your expenses off your taxes. I will give you more than you spent. Be patient. You will come out ahead.”

He delivered the smile and hand-squeeze that always calmed women down.

“You’re right,” she said with a sigh and a pout, also perfected over her years. “Perhaps I can work for you and you can make me one of your expenses?”

Merde.
Someone to help with the dishes and grocery shopping would be nice, but it would put domestic ideas in her head.

“You should focus on your own work,” he said gently.

She dropped the subject. He wondered for how long.

The problem of how to pay for the next night’s meal was solved when his sister invited them to dinner. “Has Benoit forgiven me?” he asked.

“If you come with presents, he will,” Liliane replied.

He was still ashamed of missing his nephew’s birthday party. Benoit had bragged to all his friends that his uncle would be there to perform magic. Liliane was going to hire a clown, but Jean-Luc insisted it was the least he could do for her after all she had done for him. He truly meant it. The day came and he was felled by a crippling migraine. Instead of making up for it when he was better, he was too embarrassed to face the little boy.

Liliane, wisely, had hired the clown anyway as backup.

Before he and Isabella left for his sister’s that evening, he went into his musty basement with tall ceilings where he used to produce wine. He briskly moved past the wine presses, thousands of empty bottles still in boxes and the long row of oak barrels crowned with glass taps to trap escaping gas.

He opened the cupboard that once held scores of jars of homemade lavender honey. There were three left. He reached for one to take to Liliane.

There would be one less reminder of Colette and the fun they had making it.

“Jean-Luc!” cried Stéphane as he came through the front door.

He lifted up his six-year-old nephew. “You are almost too old for me to do this.”

“Then I don’t want to get old.”

“No one does.”

Three year-old Benoit clung to his mother’s leg while she sliced a shallot and warily regarded Jean-Luc. He made a caramel appear from under his chin and the precious boy grinned.

“A hug, please,” he requested with open arms. “I can’t bear to have you mad at me.”

Soon they were in a tight embrace followed by Benoit ripping open the presents he and Isabella had brought.

The first was a charcoal sketch from Isabella that she had drawn from a photo of him. In it, he was in awe of a butterfly that had landed on his hand. He now melted, not only because it was of him, but that it had been drawn by a beautiful woman who looked at him so adoringly.

Jean-Luc gave Benoit a classic toy, the Slinky. Plus, a long yellow gourd they found in Corsica that had dried out and was an excellent maraca. He showed him how to get different sounds out of it by shaking it in various ways. To everyone’s delight, Benoit ran to the top of the second floor of the house and let the Slinky make its way down the stairs while creating a musical accompaniment with the gourd.

Two hours later, after doing magic tricks for the boys, answering their ceaseless but adorable questions, flattering his sister, butting heads with Simon on politics (Liliane’s lanky, duty-bound engineer husband), and making Isabella feel included, he was back in good graces.

But why had the calculating Liliane invited them over?

After dinner, she asked Isabella to read a bedtime story to the boys. That was Simon’s cue to clear the table and do the dishes.

“Let’s take a little walk, Jean-Luc,” She threw a shawl over her shoulders.

They strolled along the sidewalk of her neighborhood, arm in arm, as though whatever they had to talk about was nothing serious. Oh, but it was. First she broke the news that the royalty check he was expecting was just over 10,000 Euros—less than half what they expected.

“I must give Isabella 8,000 immediately.”

“Jean-Luc, you cannot keep living hand-to-mouth. She is hardly the only expense you have.” She took a few more steps before saying, “It is time for you to sell your property.”

He halted, shut his eyes as if bracing for a terrible blow, and whispered, “I am a success
manqué.
”

“You are a brilliant writer who could make a lot of money if you wrote your memoir. Everyone wants to know the real Jean-Luc. The man behind the myth.”

“I am still in my 30s.”

“Barely.” She pulled him on.

“I would feel like my life was over.” And spending months on end thinking about himself; churning up and dissecting the Colette catastrophe. He would rather drink hemlock.

He argued, “My property will be worth more when the new airport is built.”

“I agree, but that’s at least five years away. And nothing will improve its value without a lot of money to fix it up. If you want to keep your land, write your memoir.”

He wanted to scream. He didn’t have the energy after learning about the check.

“There’s something else I would like to discuss with you, Jean-Luc.”

He stopped again. Now what?

Liliane wanted him to consider having an American student, a young woman in her 20s, stay in his cottage.

“An American? How dare you ask me this!” Then it hit him. “Wait. Is she the girl who stayed with the Devreauxs? Fabien and Fabienne? Solange?”

“One of the worst students in the history of the school.”

Liliane may have been the bane of his existence at times, but he respected her intelligence and instincts. When she coyly said, “I think your Muse will love her” he had to know more. She regaled him with a few stories he hadn’t heard through the Marlaison grapevine. His body turned stiff as a guard dog that just heard a door creak open. She was a goldmine of material!

“She’s been kicked out of every host home, Jean-Luc. Including the
convent.
”

“What could she have possibly done there?”

“She was caught in their garden in a compromising position with Julien Devreaux.”

He gleefully imagined the scene. “Was she moaning ‘Oh, God’ when she was found?”

His all-business sister let out a much-needed laugh. “Very funny, but there’s nowhere left to put her.” She got them walking again. “I am at my wits’ end.”

What was this American girl’s story, he wondered. With the insecure Isabella here, drama was sure to ensue that would dislodge his writer’s block—or one, or both, of the women.

“Would she help out around the house?” he asked. “
No cooking.
”

“I’m sure it’s negotiable.”

“Let me think about it.”

The ride home was uncommonly quiet. Isabella finally said, “Is there a reason why we left in such a hurry?”

“The check was half what we thought it would be. I will still repay you, don’t worry, but she wants me to sell my property.”

Isabella didn’t waste time assessing the outcome. “How much is it worth?”

“I could net, maybe, a million Euros.”

“That’s
all
, for your house, a cottage, a swimming pool, a three-car garage, a vineyard and how many
hectares?
”

“Forty-eight, but I let the AOC lapse.”
Appellation d’origine contrôlée.
“Too many regulations.”

“But
Vins de pays
are all the rage now because they are often as good and cheaper. Can’t you reinstate it?”

“It’s not going to be sold to anyone! I am going to write another novel!”

“Even if you had it finished today you would not see that much, would you?”

He pulled back. “Thank you for that vote of confidence.”

“I meant they don’t pay the full amount up front, no?”

Nothing was said until the car turned on the dirt road that led to Jean-Luc’s home. “I know it is a sensitive subject,” she said, “but what is stopping you from writing your memoir?”

His answer never came. He was too preoccupied trying to figure out how to tell her goodbye so he could take a stab at writing it—and whether to tell her about his new tenant. He had a feeling it would make her want to stay even more.

He knew what he had to do. The Grand Gesture.

As she did her nightly ablutions, he dug into his bedroom closet and brought out his hidden 1929 Matisse lithograph. He kept it out of sight after what happened to the rest of his valuable art collection. He felt differently now. What was the point of owning something of such value if he didn’t enjoy it?

It was waiting for Isabella on her side of the bed.

“Jean-Luc, is this what I think it is? Please turn on more lights.”

He did. She held the image of the reclining nude as if it were made of spun gold. He wondered why that particular work of art was the one he chose to keep. It didn’t seem that special now.

“It’s worth a lot, Jean-Luc. Why haven’t you sold it if you don’t display it?”

“I will only pay off my debts with proceeds from
my
work, not someone else’s.”

“
Caramba
, I have never known anyone like you.”

“I hope you enjoy it.”

“This is a gift?”

It gave him immense pleasure to see her so touched. She put it aside and reached to pull him toward her. He stopped her.

“Isabella, I must write. I cannot do it with you here. Please leave tomorrow.”

Her shock and hurt were hard to take in.

“Where am I to go?”

“You have friends all over the world. Sell the litho and go wherever you please.”

“I can’t sell it. It came from you!”

She sobbed as he wrapped his arms around her.

“Isabella, there is nothing wrong with you. You are a sensational woman. But I cannot give you what you want.”

“I thought we were having a great time together.”

“We were, but I liked my life as it was.”

She dabbed at her nose and softly said, “It’s been a long day. Let’s not make any decisions right now. Tomorrow, eh?”

After making sure Isabella was sound asleep, he walked down the hallway to a locked room that looked out on the front entrance. Using a large old metal key, he opened the door. The smell of fresh paint had finally lost its battle against time. He stepped inside, closed the door, and flipped the light switch. It produced nothing. The bulb, too, had relinquished its power.

Slowly his eyes adjusted to the darkness, aided by the moonlight. He could make out the mural he’d been working on in the cozy room. His eyes moved downward to open cans on the floor. The paint in them had hardened so much that the brushes he’d been using jutted out like branches in a frozen pond.

He saw the photo next to one.

The tape on its back still had a little stick. He pressed it on the wall again. “So you can watch.”

He would resume working on the mural at night. The daytime was too cheerful.

He needed to do this for himself.

Even more so, for Colette.

By morning his Muse had worked on him and decreed that Isabella should stay longer, at least until he saw how it went with his new tenant. He made a special breakfast for his awakening Spanish princess. She loved his
chevre
and fresh chive omelets.

When she saw what he had created for her, she showed her appreciation with an amorous hug and a promise of more to come.

Wearily he said, “Enjoy this first. The eggs are from my neighbor’s hens, popped out an hour ago. The chives are from out back. The
chevre
is local.”