Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 117278 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 586(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117278 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 586(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
I blew out a breath and cracked open another egg. “I’m here,” I agreed. “And that’s going to have to be enough for now.”
She hummed, the sound uncomfortably similar to my own noncommittal noises. “I won’t push you anymore, Titou. Only keep in mind that there is a young woman here who is alone and uncertain about life too.”
As if I could forget.
CHAPTER FIVE
Emma
After Lucian’s abrupt departure—make that after he up and fled the table—I’d spent the rest of the time making awkward conversation with Amalie and Sal.
Neither of them had made excuses for Lucian, and I hadn’t expected them to. Obviously there was something personal going on with him. It wasn’t my place to fix it—or him. But that didn’t stop me from wanting to know him. Which was disturbing.
I took a long walk on the trails that wove through the gardens facing the sea. By the time I finished, the sun was sinking in a liquid ball of fire behind an indigo sea. I watched it set, arms wrapped around myself for warmth, then headed back to my house.
I had told Amalie that I planned to stay in for dinner, and when I returned, I found a casserole dish on my stove with a bottle of red wine and a crusty baguette accompanying it. The casserole turned out to be a meltingly good coq au vin that I savored in front of the fire while dipping chunks of bread into the rich, dark sauce and sipping luscious cabernet.
One thing was certain. I was going to be spoiled with food here. I almost missed the little white box in my fridge, noticing it only when I went to put away my leftovers. Curious, I pulled the box out and untied the red ribbon holding it closed.
Inside was a golden-yellow tart, its custard so smooth and glossy it shone in the kitchen light like a little sun. A tiny whipped-cream heart sat in the center of the tart with a single rosemary leaf spearing the delicate center.
Delighted, I took the tart out and set it on a plate. It was almost too pretty to eat, and my diet certainly didn’t need more sweets in it, but I remembered the rich caramel-and-cream delight of the afternoon’s treats and couldn’t resist.
The custard cleanly parted for my spoon, the crust crumbling just a little. Closing my eyes, I pushed the spoon past my lips and groaned. Tart-sweet lemon, bright as the dawn, played with delicate cream and a butter-rich crust. Perfectly balanced, it slid over my tongue like a kiss, played along the sides in an elusive tease, prompting me to take another bite.
Hovered over the countertop, I ate that tart with my eyes closed, bite after luscious bite. Letting it fill my senses.
It wasn’t normal, getting emotional about dessert, but I found myself tearing up. It tasted oddly like hope, that tart. Like maybe everything would be okay if things like this existed in the world.
Someone put all their skill and care into something that wasn’t meant to last but was to be enjoyed in the moment. In return, I felt cared for too.
My spoon hit the empty plate, and I opened my eyes with a whimper. I refused to lick the plate. But then caved and swiped my finger across it to catch a last bit of custard. Sucking on my finger, I put the plate in the sink, then grabbed the thick wrap sweater I’d left on the chair.
I needed air after a treat like that. Still emotional but also content, I stepped out onto the balcony that jutted out from my bedroom. From my vantage point, I could clearly see the pool directly below.
With the pool lights on, it glowed a deep turquoise in the darkness. Wisps of steam rising from the water made it clear the pool was heated, and I thought briefly about going down for a swim. But I was too sated to move.
The view was enchanting. Lanterns marked the paths winding through the gardens. Édith Piaf drifted out, mournful and bittersweet, into the balmy night. Resting my arms on the balcony rail, I listened to “La Vie en Rose,” and it almost felt as though I was in a classic movie. I could see the screenplay now:
EXT. OLD CALIFORNIA ESTATE—NIGHT
Young woman stares wistfully out into the night. A sweater hangs around her shoulders, warding off the chill.
I was so caught up in the fantasy I almost missed the movement in the shadows by the pool. A man stepped into the light and stared at the water. Dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt of some dark color, he had his back to me. But I recognized his height and the breadth of those strong shoulders instantly. Lucian.
He set down a toolbox by the pool ladder and took out a screwdriver to tighten the bolts around the base. With that done, he set the toolbox aside and stood to stretch his muscles before lowering his arms.