I’m finishing the sweet potato and pecan waffle batter when Rose comes into the kitchen. “Good morning.”
“Good morning.” Her voice is low and timid.
Rose says her nightmares are an ongoing problem. Last night won’t be an isolated incident, so this is going to happen again and I don’t want her to not reach out to me when it does.
“You look well rested. Guess my snoring wasn’t too bad.”
She grins. “You snore like a congested hyena.”
“That’s one I’ve not heard before. Slept okay despite the hyena with its congestion?”
“Yes, Bastien. I was fine. Thank you for coming in to wake me.”
“What happens when no one is there to wake you?”
“Good question. Can’t really be sure but I suspect I fight it in my sleep for as long as the nightmare lasts. Sometimes I wake up and feel like I never went to sleep because I’m so exhausted.”
“Seems a legit assumption based on what I saw last night.”
“Again, I’m really sorry I disturbed you.”
She lowers her head and my heart goes out to her. I don’t want her to feel bad about this. “Don’t you dare apologize. I’m just glad I was able to wake you and stop your terror.”
She looks up and tears are pooling in her lower lids. “You can’t begin to imagine what last night meant to me. I mean you coming to wake me. And staying.”
“I didn’t mind.” Nor did I mind the way Rose clung tightly to me during sleep. I’ve missed the feel of a woman next to me.
She wipes the tear that has slid down her cheek. “Thank you.”
I don’t want today to be about dwelling on the negatives. “Coffee pods are in the cabinet above the coffee maker. I stopped by the market last night and picked up some light brew for you. The midnight brews are mine. I don’t suggest you use those unless you want to grow some hair on your chest.”
She bites her bottom lip, unsuccessfully concealing a grin, and turns her back to me. Hiding her face. What’s that about?
Don’t guess it matters as long as this girl is smiling. No crying allowed in this house. Ever. Only smiles and laughter.
I don’t know why but seeing her try to camouflage her smile makes me grin like a big goofy fool. “You said you like your coffee to be a dessert so I bought creamer and syrup for you too. But I can run to the market if you’re missing what you need.”
She turns around and looks at me, shaking her head. “How did you become such a thoughtful man?”
I’ve never considered myself thoughtful. In fact, I’ve spent my entire adult life being a selfish prick, only interested in what made me happy and what made me feel good.
Somehow, in such a short amount of time, Rose is doing something to me. Something I can’t explain.
She makes me want to see her smile and hear her laughter.
She makes me want to do nice things for her.
She makes me want to . . . put her needs ahead of my own.
It’s not a feeling I’ve ever experienced before. I saw it between my parents but never felt the instinct in any relationships with the women I’ve dated.
Until now.
Until her.
And I don’t know what it means.
“Sugar bowl is above the coffee maker as well.”
Rose lines up her coffee products across the counter. “Ooh. I feel like a Starbucks barista. I have all the fixings for a great cup of coffee to go with my . . . waffles?”
“Not just any waffles. Sweet potato maple pecan waffles.”
“Mmm,” she moans. “More Marie-Grace recipes?”
“Of course.”
“Are all of your mom’s recipes over-the-top delicious?”
“Absolutely. I cook almost as good as her.”
“You need to teach me how to cook like you and Marie-Grace.”
“Sorry. These recipes are top secret. My mom would come back from the grave to haunt me if I ever gave away her recipes. They are intended for family only.”
And they’ll end here because I don’t have a wife and family to pass them on to. The end of a legacy.
Sobering.
“Fine. Then you’re not getting my recipe for . . . monkey bread.” She bursts into laughter. “Yeah. That’s right. No secret monkey bread recipe for you, sir.”
I like this. Rose pulling me out of my somber thoughts with her cheerful and careful chatter.
“Sorry to break it to you but everybody knows how to make that stuff. Nothing but canned biscuits, butter, brown sugar, white sugar, and cinnamon.”
She puts her hands on her hips and I’ll be damned if she doesn’t remind me of my feisty mother. “You think you’re so cuisinely talented, don’t you?”
“Yeah, I do. Because I am. But I don’t think cuisinely is a real word.”
“I’m going to cook for you sometime and prove you’re not the only talented chef in this house.”
“What would you cook for me?”
She’s quiet and then her eyes widen. “Lasagna. I will cook you lasagna.” She lowers her voice. “As soon as I find a recipe for it.”
“I’ll think about giving you some cooking lessons.”
Her wide smile returns but this time she doesn’t hide it from me. “Really?”
“I said that I’ll think about it.”
“And you’ll teach me some of Marie-Grace’s recipes?”
“Maybe.” I shake my head. “No. Probably not.”
I pour batter into the maker for the first waffle. “These won’t take long to cook. You can get some plates out of the upper cabinet to the right of the dishwasher.”
“The first day you go back to work, I’m going to come into the kitchen and memorize the contents of the cabinets so you don’t have to keep telling me where everything is.”
No need to rush it. She’s not going anywhere. “Give yourself a little time and you’ll be able to find everything in the dark.”
“Syrup?”
“I’m warming some maple syrup in the small saucepan on the stovetop.”
“Good grief. Warmed maple syrup? You go all out, don’t you, sir?”
“I enjoy food that is done well.”
She takes a sip of her coffee and nods. “You’re going to spoil me.”
“I’m certainly going to try.”
“Do we have plans for tonight?”
I’m actually excited about Christmas for the first time in years. “Nothing but getting ready for Papa Noël to come.”
“My best friend, Genevieve, and her husband, Xavier, have invited me to join them for Bonfires on the Levee. They have reserved seating on some kind of tour. I agreed to go weeks ago when they bought the tickets.”
I was hoping we could spend the evening together but I’d never deprive her of being with her friends on Christmas Eve. “It’s a lot of fun. You absolutely should go.”
“They reserved four seats. I’d love it if you went with me.”
Bonfires on the Levee has always been in my blood and is yet another part of life I haven’t experienced since my parents and Bernard died. It hurts too much.
We were one of the many families burning a teepee on the levee, something I always enjoyed. No tour bus for the Pascal family. My mom would cook for two days and then fill a huge folding table with Cajun food. Our friends and family came by to visit and eat while we lit the way for Papa Noël and his eight reindeer.
I always thought I’d get to share it with my wife and children the way my parents did with Bernard and me. But since my diagnosis, it’s yet another dream I’ve had to forgo. Seeing Rose’s genuine delight and excitement provides a long-forgotten desire to go, to experience it with someone whose memories aren’t shadowed by loss, grief, and abandoned dreams.
“I would love to go. Thank you for inviting me.”
“Good. I’ll text Genevieve and let her know we’re coming.”
I guess the arrangement we have is a two-way street. “What will you tell your friend about me
and who I am to you?”
“I won’t tell her anything. She already knows you negotiated a deal with Vale in exchange for me.”
“What?”
“Genevieve was a Duet for Vale until about a year ago.”
Then she and her husband haven’t been married long. “Does her husband know?”
“Of course. That’s how she met him. Xavier was her client.”
“I guess Vale wasn’t kidding when she said that unexpected things happen in these arrangements.”
“Nothing about Genevieve and Xavier was unexpected. She came home after their first date, and I knew she was going to marry him. Or die trying. The girl was completely obsessed. I thought she’d keel over before he booked another date with her. That was eighteen months ago and now they’re married and expecting their first child. A little boy due next month.”
“Then I guess Xavier wasn’t the typical older client.”
“He’s forty-four.” Shit. That’s pretty damn old to be having a kid.
“How old is Genevieve?”
“Twenty-four.”
Twenty years between them? He’s old enough to be her dad. Hell, he’s old enough to be his own kid’s grandfather. “You don’t think that’s crazy?”
“I did at first. I couldn’t wrap my head around why she’d want someone so much older. But then I saw them together and it . . . just works. They fit together better than any couple I’ve ever known. It’s not weird to me at all now.”
“How long have they been married?”
“Three months.” Rose grins. “Yeah. She was very knocked up when they got married.”
“Was the pregnancy planned?”
Rose’s brows lift. “I never asked but I’m under the impression they weren’t doing anything to prevent it.”
“So he didn’t freak out?”
“Oh, God no. Xavier is deliriously happy about their son.”
A baby at forty-four. Probably half of his life gone and he’s bringing a child into the world. I can’t imagine what that must feel like.
I’ll never have the chance to know what it feels like . . . at any age.
Chapter Eleven
__________________________________
Rose Middleton
∞
I’m already awake when I hear the knock on my bedroom door. I prop on my elbows and pull the bedding up to cover my chest. “You can come in.”
Bastien opens the door and leans in, holding the doorframe. “Merry Christmas.” Oh that smile. What a lovely thing to wake to.
“Merry Christmas to you.”
“Papa Noël came.” I love hearing him say Papa Noël instead of Santa. And I love the enthusiasm I hear in his voice. Reminds me of an excited kid.
My guess is that Bastien has spent every Christmas of his life in this house. I bet he has some wonderful Christmas morning memories with his parents and Bernard.
“Hurry up and come downstairs.”
I’m not going down with bedhead and morning breath. “Give me a minute and I’ll be down.”
Bastien is wearing sleep pants and a T-shirt, obviously his sleepwear from last night. I hate to fully dress since I don’t know his plans for this morning—or if they even include me—so I opt to stick with pajamas as well. But with an added bra and robe.
I stop midway down the stairs when I see the many gifts that have magically appeared under the tree since we went to bed last night. “Looks like you weren’t kidding. Papa Noël really did come.”
Bastien stands by the sofa with an elegantly wrapped gift in his hand. “Sit here and I’ll pass your presents to you.”
There’s at least twenty gifts under the tree that weren’t there last night. And I suspect they’re all for me.
“I only have one gift for you.” He’s gone all out for me. I feel like such a Scrooge.
“I’m sure I’ll love it.”
I take the gift from Bastien and tear the paper away to reveal a Tiffany & Company gift box. I’ve shopped in the store with Vale on many occasions but never owned a piece from there.
I crack the red and gold leather box open to reveal a beautiful white gold and diamond pendant in the shape of an elaborate key. “This Tiffany key is considered a beacon of optimism and hope. The symbol of a bright future.”
How in the world could he possibly know something like this, a representation of a bright future, would mean so much to me? “It’s beautiful and perfect and so very thoughtful. Thank you.”
He takes the box from my hand and removes the necklace. “Turn around and lift your hair. I’ll fasten it for you.”
I do as he instructs and chills erupt over my body when his fingers brush my skin. He has to see them. I only hope he doesn’t misinterpret the reaction. I’m not accustomed to a man’s touch.
“Got it.”
I drop my hair and look down at the necklace hanging just above my breasts. I can’t resist touching it. “I love it so much. Thank you.”
I open one gift after another. Exquisite jewelry. Designer shoes, clothing, and handbags. It just keeps coming. Looks like a high-end department store vomited all over the living room. “You’ve spoiled me, Bastien. Thank you for everything.”
“I have one more gift for you. I saved the best for last.” I can’t imagine what in the world could be better than the things he’s already given me.
“Okay but wait.” I grab the gift I brought down with me. “I want you to open my present to you next.”
“You didn’t have to get me anything.”
“It’s not much. Nothing like the gifts you’ve given me.” Bastien is accustomed to exquisite things. I didn’t have an exquisite budget, but I’m proud of the gift I bought him.
“I’m giving you these things because I want you to have them. Not because I expected anything in return.”
Bastien has been so happy this morning, his smile and laughter pure as he watched me open one gift after another. Such a keen giver. I strongly suspect this is the first Christmas morning he has shared with anyone in this house in years.
We’re similar in many ways. Both victims of awful tragedies—although very different kinds—but we’ve come out on the other side and moved forward in life.
I’m happy when Bastien smiles as he reads the engraving on the Cartier fountain pen. “May our companionship be filled with smiles and laughter.” He nods. “Love it, Rose. Really. It’s perfect.”
“Glad you like it.”
He rolls the pen back and forth between his index finger and thumb studying it. “I promise you many smiles and lots of laughter. I will carry this pen inside my jacket pocket so it can serve as a reminder of that promise.”
He’s taken my gift and turned it into something deep. There’s no mistaking this man has so much below his wealthy businessman facade. I hope I have the chance to uncover it.
A Duet never knows what’s in store for her when she’s paired with a man. There’s never a guarantee they’ll be compatible. But I have seen some amazing friendships develop between a Duet and her companion when they click.
I wasn’t sure it could happen for me. Sure, I was taught how to talk and interact with men but a true connection . . . that’s organic. Natural. It can’t be forced or faked.
I sense a connection with Bastien.
I want to feel it with him.
He goes to the tree and fetches the last remaining gift. “During our time together—whether it’s three months or three years—I’m going to lavish you with expensive presents. But in the end, only gifts from the heart will matter and be remembered.” Bastien holds out a box wrapped in old-fashioned Christmas print paper. No doubt about it. This didn’t come from a fancy department store. He wrapped it himself.
“This one . . . it matters.”
He’s just given me a ton of luxury and high-end gifts but something tells me I’m going to love this one far more than the others.
I tear the paper away to reveal a once white—now yellow with age—box with much wea
r and tear on the corners. And I’m filled with wonder. “What in the world is this, Bastien?”
“Only one way to find out.”
I grin and bite my bottom lip while holding the box on my lap, savoring the excitement and mystery behind the contents.
There’s a delightful fragrance to it. Old, yet not musty. A smell I can’t quite give a name.
“The waiting is killin’ me, baby girl. Open it.”
Baby girl?
I lift the top and peel the delicate tissue paper away to reveal an old . . . I’m not sure what. For a split second, it looks like a homemade dress. Until I take it out and hold it up.
An apron. Old-fashioned cherry print, trimmed in red fabric with white polka dots. Very vintage housewife.
“It was my mother’s. She wore it every time she cooked.”
My heart fills with . . . something I can’t label. “Bastien . . . you can’t give this to me.”
“I want you to have it. And I want you to wear it while I teach you how to cook my family recipes.”
Giving me his mother’s apron. Teaching me his family recipes—the ones he holds so dear. These things feel like an open door into his life. Into his family, although his parents and brother are gone. A warm welcome. Acceptance.
I’ve never had that before. Not even with the family I was born into. The people who were supposed to love and protect me didn’t.
This is too much. Too special to give to me. A paid companion.
I don’t feel worthy.
Bastien becomes blurry as my eyes fill with tears. “Your mother would want your wife to have her apron. She’d want you to teach those recipes to her and your children.”
“I’m sure she probably would, but I’m never going to have a wife and children. Our family recipes are going to die with me if I don’t teach them to someone. Vale is too busy and has no interest. I want to pass them on through you.”
Oh. My. God.
Oh. My. God.
I was teasing him about teaching me his mother’s secret recipes.
I don’t even know how to respond to this.
I catch the tears that have rolled down my cheeks with my thumb. “You have no idea how much I would love that. Thank you.” They’re the only words I can manage to choke out. And they sound less than stellar, considering the significance of the gift he has just given me.
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