The next day, I straggled downstairs at around ten o’clock. I looked for Madame Girard to see if I could help do anything around the house, but everything was quiet. Was it possible that I was alone?
I finally went into the TV room where Bruno was lying stomach down on the couch. I sat down in the armchair.
“Where is everyone?” I asked.
“Maman and Papa and Yves have gone to look at a secondhand tractor and Élise is over at my aunt’s house.”
“Oh.” I sat back, then glanced at the TV screen. “What are you watching?” An ad for Petit Prince biscuits filled the screen.
“Cartoons.”
I had glimpsed at enough French cartoons to know that I was better off going to get my breakfast. I started to sit up from my chair.
“Wait!” Bruno said.
I sat back down again. “What?”
“I need to talk to you about something.”
I wasn’t scared of Bruno—I knew he wouldn’t dare touch me or hurt me, but I did feel a little weird about being alone in the house with him.
“What about?”
“About my girlfriend.”
“What about her?” I asked. Maybe he wanted some advice from a female perspective.
“I miss her a lot. Especially at times like this when I’m not busy working. Do you have a boyfriend back in Canada?”
“No. Not back in Canada.”
“Do you have one here in France? At school?”
What would I call Thibaut exactly? Definitely not my boyfriend, especially not after the galette incident. He wasn’t anything, really. “Maybe,” I said. “Sort of.” I had no idea why I lied, but suspected it had something to do with wanting Bruno to believe I wasn’t available.
“Do you and he…?” Bruno thrust his hips into the couch a few times to indicate what he meant.
I drew back, disgusted. “That’s none of your business.”
“I really miss doing that.” He thrust his hips into the couch a few more times just to underline his point. “Don’t you?”
“No,” I said, curtly and stood up to leave.
“Wait!” he said again. “Do you…you know…want to do it with me right now?”
I was standing above him now, and crossed my arms across my chest. “Non!” I said. “Like so, so…not!”
“I was just asking,” he said, petulant now, and went back to watching his Astérix cartoon while I stared at him in disbelief.
I went to the kitchen, my brain whirring as I heated up the milk and got myself a petit Suisse out of the fridge. Is that all Bruno thought of me, as someone to have sex with when he was feeling bored and horny? I was certain that I had never given him any indication that I was interested in him, but then again many guys, probably Bruno included, probably looked at most women that way.
He clearly saw sex as merely a physical release completely separate from what I truly wanted—love and romance.
I felt completely despondent. How many men out there were such pigs that they would ask a houseguest for casual sex with no feelings involved? Thibaut was far from perfect—like the part about not wanting any part of our relationship to be public or official, but he did seem to like me, and he was a pretty decent kisser. Bruno disgusted me so much that I began to doubt there were any good men out there in the world.
At that moment Bruno wandered into the kitchen, a raging erection still evident in his jogging pants. He plucked a pain au chocolat from the counter.
“Scooby-Doo is on if you want to come watch it,” he said, then wandered out, but not before reaching down the front of his pants to scratch his testicles. Nothing like a little French charm…
CHAPTER 22
By the time Monday rolled around and the hideous weekend was over, Thibaut’s overtures had become quite overt in nature. Playing like I didn’t care fueled something in him. He pulled me aside after giving me the bises several seconds longer than necessary.
“Next weekend,” he said. “Are you free?”
I thought of the previous weekend of boudin noir and Bruno. I would make myself free. There was no way I was going to spend another weekend in Noiron. “Yes.”
“Great,” he said. “It’s my birthday and I was thinking of having a party. I wasn’t going to but then…well…I thought it would be nice for us to be able to spend some time together outside of school. What do you think?”
I smiled back. “That would be nice. Where?”
“My father is going to rent the salle des fêtes in Puligny-Montrachet. I think I’ll invite the whole class. We’ll all stay overnight. Bring a sleeping bag.” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. I laughed.
“An overnight, co-ed birthday party? Is that some sort of Burgundian tradition?”
“It’s not uncommon.”
“I’ll have to ask the Girard’s for permission,” I warned him.
“Can you tonight? I won’t have it if you can’t come.”
I stared at him so long that he said, “Quoi?”
“That’s really sweet,” I said. “I had a rough weekend and…well…it’s just a nice thing to hear. Don’t tell me if it’s not true. I don’t want to know.”
Monsieur Girard, as it turned out, vaguely knew Thibaut’s parents from winetasting circles and getting permission for the birthday sleepover was not nearly as arduous as I’d thought it would be. They talked on the phone and apparently were reassured this was a parent-sanctioned event. Apparently, these two-day-long parties were quite common amongst Burgundian teens. My parents were relatively trusting of my sisters and me, but I was certain a sleepover with boys would not be condoned.
I wasn’t quite sure what to expect, but Madame Girard loaned me one of Yves’ sleeping bags and Sandrine came to pick me up on the way to Puligny-Montrachet.
“You’re not planning on getting together with Thibaut at the party are you?” she asked without preamble when I got in the car. The snow had turned to sleet that had washed away all the white fluffiness that had covered the village.
“I’m not planning anything,” I said.
“I just don’t…I just don’t think that would be a great idea,” she said. “I was relieved when I thought it was over after that thing with the galette de roi.”
I turned to her. “Look Sandrine,” I said. “I’m lonely. I’m bored. There is nobody else on the horizon.”
“Join the club!” she snorted.
We drove out of the village, each lost in thought until Sandrine turned onto la nationale towards Beaune, and then on to Puligny.
“You need to meet Franck,” she said.
“Who? Stéphanie’s brother?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not going to pin all my hopes on him,” I grumbled. “Besides, I don’t like being set up. I’m not that desperate.”
Sandrine didn’t say anything for a while after that. By the time we got to Puligny-Montrachet, we were in stitches—Sandrine had recounted a story of how her father had, that morning, found a married woman from the village having sex with her lover in the back of a Citroën parked on a path that intersected the vineyards.
The salle de fêtes was a beautiful stone building across from the picturesque village church.
“This is where we’re having the party?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said. “Thibaut’s parents are winemakers you know, lots of premiers crus and a few grands cru.” Sandrine rubbed her thumb and her forefinger together. Very wealthy.
I had never bothered to think about that before. Then again, how else would they afford throwing a two-day birthday party including food and wine for their son’s entire class?
“How old do you think this building is?” I asked, getting put of the car.
Sandrine looked at me strangely and shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said. “Old.”
Several other cars were parked already, and a few parents, who were being shooed away by their offspring, lingered around the entrance to the building.
Sandrine slung her s
leeping bag over her shoulder. “There was no way I was allowing my parents to drive me here.”
We found Thibaut inside, being pestered by an elegantly officious-looking woman who shared his bulky build and dark eyes. She had to be his mother.
Sandrine and I went over and kissed Thibaut, and I had to work at acting nonchalant. My heart was beating too fast. Thibaut’s face flushed and he introduced us to his imposing mother.
“I know you,” she said to Sandrine, then she lifted her chin in my direction. “So you’re the Canadian girl we’ve been hearing about?”
Thibaut had mentioned me at home?
“I guess so,” I said.
“Hmmmmmm,” she said darkly and narrowed her eyes at me.
Sandrine tugged at my arm. “Come on Laura. Let’s go find a place to leave our sleeping bags.”
“Why does Thibaut’s mother seem to hate me?” I asked when we were far enough away, mystified and a little hurt.
“She thinks you’re going to steal her son, bien sûr, and whisk him off to Canada with you.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I said. “I’m eighteen. I’m light years away from committing to a serious relationship.”
Sandrine found a spot near the corner where all the other guests had started leaving their backpacks and sleeping stuff. “Maybe so, but all Burgundian mamans are going to be worried and protective of their sons. If my brother said he was going to leave the vineyards and take off to travel the world, my parents would have an apoplexy.”
“Thibaut’s mother doesn’t need to worry.” I nudged Sandrine. “Hey! What about you and Thibaut? You are both from winemaking stock. I bet your mothers would love that.”
“They would,” Sandrine gave her sleeping bag an unnecessary kick. “Trust me.” Something in her voice made me twig.”
“Wait a second. Have you dated Thibaut? That’s why you are always warning me away from him. If you’re still interested—”
She motioned at me to speak more quietly and shook her head. “We did date for a little while two years ago. Our parents were thrilled, especially mine—and his family’s crus are more prestigious than mine. However, he dumped me unceremoniously and then pretended like nothing had happened. I got over it, but he really hurt me. I don’t want him to do the same thing to you.”
I would much rather lose Thibaut than to risk losing Sandrine, who had been such a good friend to me from the start. “If you still like him—”
Sandrine shook her brown curls. “I don’t. That’s the truth.”
“OK,” I said.
We all milled around for some time after that. Kirs were served, as well as a dizzying assortment of petits fours, mini quiches, feuilletés, and canapés. It was all extremely sophisticated for a teenage party where everyone was wearing jeans.
I thought back to our high school parties in Canada, where AC/DC’s “All Night Long” and “Back in Black” were played in a nonstop, deafening loop. Drinking beer via homemade bongs had been the main source of entertainment, especially after a Grade 12 boy stole a pink plastic flamingo from someone’s garden and transformed it into what became known as “Bird the Bong.” Beer and cheap wine coolers were spilled all over the floors. There was never any food offered. The party usually ended when the police came to break it up and poured out all of our alcohol. As a result, I didn’t know quite what to make of my first French high school party. I wasn’t used to anything this refined. The Canadian free-for-alls were much more relaxed.
Rose came up to me and gave me les bises. “Ah, Laura! I didn’t see you, but of course you would be here. We all know how much you like Thibaut.” She batted her eyelashes meaningfully.
“He’s amusing,” I said coolly. I didn’t like Rose. She struck me as the type of girl who needed to push other girls down so she could be at the top of the pile. I had little time for that. Still, she persisted.
“Maybe tonight is the night, n’est-ce pas?” she asked.
Sandrine must have been behind us. “It wasn’t so long ago that you were going out with Thibaut, Rose,” she said. “Jealous?”
Rose looked momentarily decomposed, but then laughed prettily. “Oh no. After I finished with Thibaut, I changed to older men and I haven’t looked back since! None of these young boys for me.”
“Then what are you doing here?” asked Sandrine.
“Younger boys are fine for friends…”
Thibaut bellowed, “À table!” and everyone was ushered to find a place at the huge U-shaped tables that were covered by yellow paper tablecloths. Jaune tablecloths! I no longer had to search for the French word for ‘yellow’.
I sat down, not really sure what to expect. A veritable parade of women—many of whom looked enough like Thibaut to be aunts and other family members—streamed through a sliding door at the far end of the room. They were bearing platter upon platter of charcuterie—salty, paper-thin slices of jambon de parme, sliced sausages of every shape and size imaginable, rolls of pink jambon blanc, and thick slabs of jambon perseillé—another Burgundian specialty of salted ham mixed with parsley and garlic, which was in a terrine and served cold. It was delicious. Little ceramic bowls of cornichons were placed between each half dozen people.
I had just begun to wonder where Thibaut’s father was in all these preparations, when he appeared through the door bearing the biggest bottle of wine I had ever seen.
“What the hell is that? I asked Maxime, who was sitting with me and Sandrine and a few of our other friends.
“Haven’t you ever seen one of those before?”
“No! It’s like…it’s like a wine bottle for giants!”
“It’s called a Methuselah. It’s the equivalent of eight bottles of wine. They’re often served here in Burgundy for special occasions. Baptisms, birthdays, weddings—”
“Funerals?”
“Non. But they might as well be because there is always a lot of wine at those too.”
“Thibaut’s father came ceremoniously over to Thibaut and presented him with the massive bottle to uncork.
“They’re often tricky to uncork,” Maxime whispered to me. “Very stressful moment, tu sais? If he breaks the cork and it falls in the bottle…”
“Not good?” I could tell I was witnessing a crucial Burgundian rite of passage.
“Nope. That could ruin all the wine in there. It’s old wine too. Surely from the year of his birth. They must have put it away when he was born.”
I thought I could make out some beads of sweat on Thibaut’s brow as he carefully inserted the corkscrew and began to twist it gently out. A hush fell over the crowd. His father watched him.
“Doucement,” he said to his son. Gently.
Finally, with a soft pop, the cork was out and in one piece. The whole room erupted in a “ban Bourguignon.”
The meal became a bit of a blur after that. Wine after wine was served, most from Thibaut’s family estate. The food was a delectable boeuf bourguignon, and the cake was a pièce montée—a tower of sweet puff pastries filled with vanilla-tinted pastry cream and webbed together with filament-thin strands of caramel.
Finally the adults left; and music was played and we all starting dancing. Thibaut led me into a quiet corner behind a sort of makeshift screen to make out.
“I’ve been thinking about this all week,” he said.
“Me too,” I admitted. It was lovely to feel appreciated, especially after Bruno. Bruno had not mentioned the incident since, and I was pretty sure it was because, for him, it was forgotten instantaneously. It was an offer made to me simply because he wanted to have sex, and I was the nearest non-family member of the female gender around. My disgust continued, unabated.
“You know, though,” Thibaut continued between kisses, “we still can’t act like boyfriend and girlfriend at school.”
I froze. “Why not?”
“It’s just that…I want this to be just for us. It’s not like I’m with anyone else…I’m not. I don’t want it to be everyone else’s business.
Do you understand?”
“Yeah,” I said, distractedly, my mind trying to make sense of what he had just said. “I guess.”
“Are you all right with that?” He kissed me again.
“Sure,” I lied. “Whatever.”
CHAPTER 23
A few weeks after Thibaut’s party, I moved out of the Girard’s house and into my next host family’s house, right beside the huge cathedral in Nuits-Saint-Georges.
I was sorry to say good-bye to Monsieur and Madame Girard, who had never been anything but kind, even when serving me homemade boudin noir.
I couldn’t say the same for the children. Bruno gave me a lingering bises that made my skin crawl, Yves still didn’t look me in the eye, and Élise, that little cow, burst into tears and clung on to me, saying how much she would miss having a sister. Shock left me incapable of returning her emotional farewells, but I did feel a pang of compassion for her—eternally discontented little thing.
I was living back in town again with the Lacanches, although by then I had realized how small Nuits-Saint-Georges was compared to Beaune or Dijon. Still, anything was better than the isolation of Noiron. They prepared a fantastic room for me in an attic space right beside the belltower. The first time the huge bell rang, I nearly jumped out of my skin. It reverberated throughout the entire room and made the glass panes on my windows shake. Still, I loved the privacy and quirkiness of my little nest beside the belltower and far above the streets below.
As I headed down for my first dinner with the family, I was impressed with the stunning dining room, lit with stain glass windows and featuring a large, ancient oak table. Monsieur Lacanche sat at the head of the table. I had met him before at Ursus meetings and he struck me as a rigid man, in both appearance and demeanor. He made me feel as though I always needed to be on my best behavior, but I told myself he would loosen up when the family got used to me.
He waved me to the one empty seat that was not filled by his wife or two children—the athletic son and the adorable younger daughter, both as flaxen blond as Florian the Swiss grape harvester.
My Grape Year: (The Grape Series #1) Page 19
