Royally Seduced

by Marie Donovan

  Jack pointed to one pot and then the next. “Olive and dried figs for a sweet-and-salty mix, fresh tuna and olive, and chickpeas with cumin—a variation on hummus.”

  “And pasta,” Marthe-Louise added. “Jack, he no tell moi he come. Bad, bad boy.” She retaliated by smacking his arm. “I cook now.”

  Jack opened a cabinet and got out three wineglasses. He opened the under-counter wine refrigerator and pulled out a couple different bottles before settling on a white wine. He certainly was making himself at home in the manor house kitchen, and Lily glanced nervously at Marthe-Louise to make sure she didn’t think it was presumptuous.

  Jack set the full glass next to the housekeeper’s elbow, and she thanked him, so it wasn’t a problem for her. Lily relaxed a bit, especially when he lifted his glass in a toast. “A votre santé. To your health.”

  “And to yours.” He had lost the gaunt, pale look in his cheeks and this giant lunch would help fill out the rest of him. “Bon appétit.” He and Marthe-Louise smiled approvingly at her French.

  Lily didn’t know if gorged was quite the right word to describe what she and Jack did to the little slices of breads and savory toppings, but once she took artsy, foodie photos of the Provence-made yellow ceramic dish with its black fig spread and the red ceramic dish with the creamy tan chickpea spread, gorged came close. Good thing tuna spread wiped off her phone, which she used to make notes for her next blog.

  Marthe-Louise was pouring a green sauce into her top-of-the-line food processor to blend with several cloves of garlic and a couple egg yolks while a pasta pot bubbled on the stove. She stopped to shake a spoon at Jack and scold him.

  “Okay, okay.” He laughed. “We should save some room for her spaghetti.”

  Lily obediently put down her last crust of bread. She really needed to get some physical exercise in or else she would need to buy a second seat for her plane ride back to New York. Her plane ride scheduled four days from now. Well.

  Marthe-Louise drained the spaghetti and poured in the rich green sauce, letting it sit.

  Lily elbowed Jack. “Those are raw egg yolks. Haven’t you had enough digestive problems?”

  He whispered back, “Those are from her very own chickens and the heat of the pasta cooks them. No bad eggs allowed. Except for me, of course.”

  She giggled. Jack was about as far from a bad egg as you could find in a man. “You’re a good egg.” She rested her hand on his knee and aimed a kiss for his cheek.

  He turned his head and her kiss landed on his mouth. He deepened the kiss and Lily opened her lips under him. He tasted spicy and warm, and she promptly forgot they weren’t alone until he broke the kiss and smiled at her.

  “Ah, l’amour, c’est grand!” Marthe-Louise was smiling too, and Lily blushed at the housekeeper’s mention of love. The older woman gave Jack a doting glance as she dished green pasta. “Eat, eat. Then go sleep.”

  “How about it? Do you feel like an afternoon nap?” Jack murmured.

  “Do we have to sleep?” she replied, and he laughed again, a hearty, baritone sound.

  “Not unless you want to.” He twirled a forkful of noodles and popped it into her mouth.

  “Oh, yum.” The garlic and basil mixed with the creamy egg yolks slid perfectly over the firm spaghetti.

  Jack took a bite and hummed in pleasure, calling compliments to Marthe-Louise, who modestly waved a spoon at him.

  They nibbled away at the pasta until Lily really did feel tired. “Jack, about that nap…”

  He pushed away his bowl as well and glanced at the old ceramic clock on the countertop. “It is siesta time, and I have had enough carbohydrates to knock me unconscious.”

  “Let’s be unconscious together.” Lily hopped off the stool and wavered slightly. Jack steadied her.

  “Au revoir, Marthe-Louise.” He kissed her three times and pinched her cheek. She put one arm around him and scolded him affectionately, waggling her finger in his face. He protested tolerantly, gesturing nearly as much as she did. “She says to stop by anytime and she will cook us anything we want. She won’t be happy until I am round and portly like her husband, Jean-Claude. He has never been sick a day in his life thanks to her cooking.”

  The housekeeper nodded emphatically, pushing a platter of pastries and a second bottle of wine into their hands.

  “An afternoon snack?” Lily asked.

  “For later. I may burst at any minute.” He blew Marthe-Louise a kiss, leading Lily out of the kitchen to the gravel driveway leading to their guesthouse.

  “She certainly takes good care of you. She knew you were sick?”

  “Yes, but really, she’s usually like that anyway. Eat, eat, eat. It’s a good thing the men around here have physical jobs to burn off all the good cooking. And me, who practically has a doctor’s prescription to do nothing but gain weight? A dream come true.”

  He was, but not necessarily in the culinary arena. Marthe-Louise obviously loved Jack like a son. She’d seen her own mother make sure Mrs. Wyndham was well-fed and living in clean surroundings, but her mother had never evinced this degree of maternal affection toward a guest of the family—she’d saved all that for Lily. She blurted, “I should call my mother.”

  “Of course,” he said easily. “Feel free to use the phone at the guesthouse.” He shifted the wine bottle under his opposite arm and offered her his elbow. The gravel crunched under their feet as they strolled uphill. The air was hot and still, the buzz of the cicadas crescendoing with the rising afternoon temperature.

  “I have an international plan on my cellphone.” It would be almost cheaper to fly home to talk with her mother in person if they spent much time on the phone.

  “Unnecessary,” he said promptly. “Marthe-Louise would have my head if I let you do that.”

  “Hmmph.” She’d leave some money on the counter to pay for her bill.

  Jack showed her how to dial internationally and kissed her forehead. She stared dreamily after him and then snapped to attention as her mother’s voice came on the line.

  “Hello?”

  “Mother? It’s Lily.”

  “Lily. Are you well?” Her mother sounded pleased to hear from her.

  “Yes, I’m fine. How are you?” For someone who attempted to make a living with her words, she was certainly falling short.

  “Very good. I read your blog about how you’re in Provence now.”

  Lily winced. She should have called her mother about her change in plans, but she’d sent her an email and was too used to doing things on her own. “Yes, and it’s beautiful here. I’m in the middle of the lavender harvest and got some great photos that I’ll post later as soon as I get the blog post written.”

  “Sarah told me how to subscribe to your blog, so I’ve been reading all your posts. You met a man named Pierre in Paris?”

  “Yes, well, that’s not his real name. I don’t mind the publicity, but he works for a government agency and doesn’t want his name splashed around the internet.”

  “Oh, my.” Mother sounded amused. “Is he a French secret agent?”

  Lily laughed. “No, he does relief work overseas and they go into dangerous regions sometimes. Publicity would put them at risk.”

  “Well, as long as you know his real name. I assume he is with you in Provence?”

  Lily squirmed. Her mother didn’t need to know all the details of her traveling—and sleeping—arrangements, so she settled for a bare-bones outline. “He comes from here, so we’re staying at a guesthouse that belongs to his friends. The housekeeper fixed us several kinds of spreads and crackers and then we had this Provençal version of pesto sauce and spaghetti.”

  “Be sure to write down the recipes,” Mother reminded her. “Although the ingredients somehow taste different when they are grown somewhere else. Much like the homemade foie gras—I enjoyed your post about that.”

  “Holy cow, was that good.”

  “I think you mean ‘holy goose,’” her mother teased.

&nb
sp; Lily was taken aback for a second but then joined in the laughter. Mother had never laughed or shown much of a sense of humor in years past. Stan the Chef (Stan her Stepdad, she reminded herself) was a jolly guy, and maybe he was helping her mother lighten up. “And how is Stan?” she asked.

  “Fine, thank you for asking.” Her mother sounded pleased at her interest. “He’s at the market right now shopping for a dinner party tonight. Mrs. Wyndham is hosting one of the U.S. senators—he’s up for reelection next year and is working on his fundraising.”

  Lily made a terrible grimace. “Good grief, Mother, those dinners are even more deadly than her usual parties.”

  “That’s right, dear, you never did like that part of the job.”

  “But, Mother, how can you stand doing that stuff after all these years?” Lily burst out. “Don’t you want to do something else before—?” she broke off her sentence.

  “Before I get too old and feeble to work?” her mother replied. Fortunately she seemed more amused than offended. “Unfortunately I’m not even fifty yet, so retirement is a bit away.”

  Lily winced. She always forgot how young her mother was, only twenty when Lily was born.

  “Besides, I’m not like you, Lily. I don’t get bored easily and I enjoy routines and organization. For me, life is better when I know what’s happening next.”

  “Gee, you sound like Jack. He’s very organized and a real homebody, too.”

  “So your mystery Frenchman is named Jack?”

  “Jacques, actually.”

  “I assume he’s treating you well?” Mother’s voice took on a steely tone she reserved for rich, drunken letches and lazy housemaids.

  “Very well, Mother. I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

  “Good.” Her tone softened. “I wish I had seen things differently when you were younger. I didn’t understand your situation at school.”

  “Well, rich guys are pigs.”

  “Lily!” her mother scolded her. “Those particular young men were pigs, but don’t be a reverse snob.”

  She shifted on the desk chair, remembering how she had accused Jack of snobbery, and that had proven so untrue as to be laughable. “Sorry.” But he was just a regular guy anyway.

  Mother was never one to harp on an admonishment. “When do you come back, dear?”

  “My ticket is up in four days.” Unless she extended her stay. Maybe there would be a general strike and they’d close the airports. That grim thought cheered her up.

  “Please call when you get back. And come see us here in Philly. We’ve finished remodeling the carriage house kitchen and it’s Stan’s pride and joy.”

  “He cooks at home?” Why would he want to, after a long day in the kitchen at the main house?

  Mother giggled like a teenager. Lily’s jaw fell open—she’d never heard that sound before. “Sure, he does. He takes good care of me.” That simple statement, filled with pride and love, made Lily’s heart flip and her eyes tear.

  “He’d better,” she blustered, sniffing discreetly. “Or else I’ll hide his favorite knives and sharpening stone.” She’d grown up in a kitchen and knew how to punish a chef.

  “Oh, my, how fierce.” Her mother laughed again but cleared her throat. “And Lily, be careful with this man. I would hate to see you hurt.”

  “Mother, he’s very nice.”

  “A nice man can break your heart as easily as a bad man. Sometimes worse, because you’re not expecting it.” Her tone had the ring of past experience.

  Lily hesitated, but didn’t know how to reply. “I understand,” she finally said.

  “I hope you won’t have to,” she said simply. “But keep up the good work and get those recipes for Stan and me,” she emphasized with a chuckle.

  Lily agreed and blew a kiss into her phone before hanging up.

  Mother had found happiness after heartbreak and many long, hard years alone. Lily knew she wasn’t ready to settle down herself, but couldn’t help wondering what the future would bring.

  Hopefully not heartbreak, but like Mother had said, it was unexpected. Lily just hoped Jack wouldn’t be the one to bring it.

  13

  LILY SAT CROSS-LEGGED on the stone patio behind the guesthouse kitchen, her camera aimed at an industrious bee buzzing around a purple sage plant. Not being a fan of bee stings, she moved slowly to frame her shots. One set had the golden-and-black insect in front of a solid wall of purple blooms, and for the second set, she lay down on her back and aimed upward. That angle showed the bee more in profile against the blue, blue sky.

  She took a few pictures of the sky to capture the color. No wonder painting legends like Cézanne and Van Gogh, Picasso and Matisse had immortalized Provence in their art. She only wished she had the talent to do the same.

  Ah, well. Her talent was with words, and maybe her photos would illustrate the land in some small way.

  A shadow fell over her and, still looking through the viewfinder, she rotated to see Jack looking down at her. She fired off a couple shots of him silhouetted against the sky.

  He looked startled. “That’s an odd angle for a photo. Wouldn’t you like my regal profile instead?” He turned his head to the right and put his finger under his chin, staring haughtily into the distance.

  “I’m aiming for the artsy look. Don’t worry, I won’t put that one on my blog. But you do have that snooty expression just right.”

  He chuckled and extended a hand to her, the bee buzzing around him for a second until it decided to find greener pastures.

  “You must not be scared of bees,” she told him, standing and shutting down her camera.

  He grinned. “Working on a flower farm knocks that out of you pretty fast. I don’t bug them and they don’t bug me.”

  She groaned at his pun.

  “Bee-sides,” he continued, “you have probably never had lavender honey. It is a local delicacy and Marthe-Louise has a wonderful recipe of duck glazed with lavender honey.”

  “Oh, yum. Do you think she would give me the recipe?”

  He shrugged. “Sure, but she’ll cook it for us if we ask.”

  “We could bring her the ingredients.”

  Jack rubbed his chin. “Let me talk with her and see what she would prefer. I know she has a little understanding with the butcher and likes to pick out her own fowl.”

  “The sign of a true artist,” she told him. “Stan would never let anyone else pick the giant beef roasts that Mrs. Wyndham likes to serve at her dinner parties.”

  “Fortunately for us today, we will benefit from Marthe-Louise’s culinary generosity. You can’t come to Provence in the summer and not have a picnic. She fixed us a basket full of food and we’re going up into the hills for the afternoon.”

  “Great.” Lily tightened the laces on her sturdy hiking boots and socks. Bees and bare feet were a bad combination. “We’ve been staying close to home for the past several days.”

  “I haven’t heard any complaints.” He nuzzled her neck. “On the other hand, we could eat here. Later.” She shivered as he nibbled her ear. “Much later.”

  “Oh, no, you don’t.” She pushed him away, though gently.

  “Rejected.” He pressed a hand to his heart.

  “Hardly.” Jack laughed and Lily realized her unintended pun. “Oh, you.” She started to blush and his grin widened.

  “Yes, me indeed. But alas, it is picnic time.” He locked the back door of the guesthouse and they went around to the driveway. The picnic basket was already waiting in the car’s backseat, and they drove up a dusty road deeper in the hills.

  They stopped at a field full of workers. “Would you like to see how they harvest the lavender?”

  “Absolutely.”

  A couple dozen harvesters, mostly young men and a few women, straightened as they approached. An older man started to chastise them for pausing but caught sight of Jack. He shouted a greeting. “Eh, M’sieu le…Jacques!”

  He rapidly picked his way across the lavender fiel
d like a plump but nimble ballerina, not trampling or bruising a single plant. He wore a button-down shirt that had seen better days, a vest with several pockets, work boots and a round, flat-topped hat that she had seen on several of the older men. His face was round as well, bisected by a luxurious black mustache. “Jacques, mon brave.” He slapped Jack on the back. “And who is this?” he asked in heavily accented English.

  “Lily, this is Monsieur Jean-Claude Chailan, husband of Marthe-Louise. Jean-Claude, this is Mademoiselle Lily Adams from America.”

  “Pleased to meet you.” Lily extended her hand.

  “Ah, Mademoiselle Lily, I am sorry we have not met before. I have been supervising the farm workers and Jacques has been keeping you all to himself.” Jean-Claude swept off his hat and actually bowed to her. He replaced his hat and clasped both of her hands, gazing at her with such a fond expression that she was momentarily taken aback. She saw the cheek-kiss routine coming, though and was prepared for it, although the third and fourth kisses were a surprise. Jack had told her that a fourth kiss was basically reserved for special occasions.

  Jean-Claude drew back, still holding her hands in his work-hardened ones. “Ah, Mademoiselle, my good wife said you were beautiful, and I can see she was not exaggerating.”

  Lily reddened and Jean-Claude shook his head. “Ah, the touch of the rose on your cheeks. Jacques, you old dog, what did you ever do to deserve such a pretty girl?”

  “Nothing, mon ami, nothing.”

  “Too true.” The older man barked out a loud laugh. “Eh, but I should not tell all of your secrets today, no?”

  “No,” Jack said firmly.

  “Oh, you’ve known each other a long time, then?” Lily asked.

  “A lifetime, chérie,” Jack answered. “Jean-Claude came to Provence with the Roman legions and liked it so much he stayed.”

  Jean-Claude gave him a narrow stare. “Are you calling me an old man?”

  “Just joking,” Jack said hastily. “You are a man of experience, seasoned like an expensive red wine.”

  “That is better, you young punk.” Jean-Claude let go of Lily’s hands and slapped Jack on the back again. He bent and broke off a lavender sprig. “Voilà, Mademoiselle. This is the best lavender in France.” He offered it to her.