Then he leaned in further and Christmas did the same, so that their cheeks were nearly touching. ‘She is never wrong,’ he hissed. He straightened again. ‘But! There are others who revere her differently. They know she nurtures exceptionally powerful cacao beans, far superior to those from other trees. They are waiting for the day when her true value—as the provider of lifesaving medicines—is recognised. To them, she is known as the Cacao Queen, the one whose gentle benevolence is needed by many who suffer all manner of illnesses.’
Master Le Coutre folded his hands behind his back and nodded solemnly to Christmas, and she offered some kind of clumsy bow of thanks in return. Then he kissed her on each cheek and was gone.
What the hell?
She had no idea what to make of that story. But she had no time to think about it now; Jackson was calling to her because the taxi they were sharing had arrived.
Christmas put on her seatbelt with some degree of trepidation, concerned that the new level of intimacy they had developed yesterday and last night might be gone in the cold light of day and they’d be back to the hesitant, slightly awkward vibe that had been there when they’d first paired up to dance. But she needn’t have worried. The journey to Château de Fagan in Sauveterre was over an hour long but it flew by in easy, entertaining conversation. All too soon, she had to part with her new friend. The taxi pulled up on the sweeping driveway beside the central fountain in front of the castle, and the driver went around to retrieve her bags from the boot.
‘Well, goodbye.’ She smiled at Jackson, opening the door and letting in the pleasant sounds of water sprinkling into the stone pond. ‘Thank you for being such a great dance and chocolate-making partner.’
‘You too,’ he said, his voice gravelly this morning, as though he’d been up late drinking whiskey, though it was likely just fatigue from their long day yesterday.
She turned to step out but he put a hand on her wrist. ‘Here,’ he said, passing her a chocolate wrapper. On it was a mobile phone number. ‘If you need anything at all while you’re in France, just call. No matter what time or where you are. I don’t sleep much anyway.’
No, she couldn’t imagine he did. She pictured him as the eternal sentry, standing guard.
‘I look after my friends,’ he said.
Touched, she took the paper and put it in the pocket of her handbag. She bent forward quickly and pecked him on the cheek. He didn’t move. But she caught the scents of shaving cream and coffee. ‘Au revoir. Good luck with your French,’ she said, and climbed out of the taxi. She closed the door and it drove away, Jackson Kent staring straight ahead.
•
There was a knock at Elsa’s door, followed by the direct, clear voice of Lulu Divine. ‘You in there?’
Elsa considered ignoring her; she wasn’t in the mood for cantankerous old ladies right now. She was fulfilling that role quite well all by herself.
‘I can see you through the louvres,’ Lulu said.
‘Of course you can,’ Elsa muttered, and navigated herself to the door. The two women gazed at each other, their wheels facing across the threshold.
‘Hi,’ Lulu said.
‘This is a surprise.’
‘How’s Rita?’
‘Sarah tells me she’s doing fairly well. The hospital’s looking after her but it’s a bad strain of the flu so she’ll be there for a while yet.’
‘Still, it’s good to know it’s not worse,’ Lulu said, and Elsa thought she almost sounded sincere. ‘I’m off to hospital next week, too,’ she continued, her hair shifting in the winter wind. Elsa really should invite her inside.
‘You got the call, then?’
‘Finally going to get these old legs up and working again.’
‘Well, that’s great,’ Elsa said politely, trying to muster some sort of genuine feeling. It must be a relief for Lulu to know that her time in the wheelchair was almost at an end and she’d be independent once more. ‘You’ll be back on a horse before you know it.’
Lulu smiled slightly and her gaze drifted dreamily to the top of the bungalow roof. ‘That would be wonderful.’ Her eyes dropped again, sharp and pragmatic once more. ‘I think my riding days are well and truly over. But it will be great to be on my way, after the arduous rehab.’
‘Yes. Such freedom.’
‘Mmm.’
Elsa felt weird, as though a big empty space was yawning in her chest. She didn’t even like Lulu, yet the news of her departure had thrown her. ‘What will you do afterwards?’ she asked. ‘Do you have somewhere to go? People to see?’
‘I’ve rented a house in Launceston for a few months while I do my rehab. After that, who knows?’ Lulu thought for a moment, her head turned away to look down the driveway and out to the town of Oatlands. ‘I think maybe I’d like to tidy up some stuff. Finish unfinished things. Do you know what I mean?’ She looked at Elsa sideways.
Elsa let her imagination jump to some of the things Lulu might need to attend to—broken hearts, abandoned children, lies, estranged family members, long-held grievances, perhaps even retribution and payback. She could imagine Lulu having ties to all of those things. ‘Yes. I think I do.’
‘There’s some people I’d like to see before . . . you know.’
‘Yes.’
Lulu sniffed and straightened as though only just realising she’d let her normally impenetrable guard fall. ‘Anyway, I just wanted to tell someone. You’re my neighbour and all.’ She smiled and shivered. ‘I better get out of the cold. They won’t let me have the operation if I get sick now.’
‘Certainly.’
Lulu reversed, the rubber wheels hissing over the concrete.
‘Thank you for telling me,’ Elsa said.
Lulu nodded and encouraged her chair along, cursing at the mongrel thing to go faster.
Elsa rubbed her shoulders against the chill and closed the door.
22
A day lazing in the French sunshine was well deserved, by Christmas’s reckoning, after the work Master Le Coutre had put them through. And ever since her last, strange conversation with him, she’d been replaying his words in her mind.
The Cacao Queen. The Compass. Life-saving medicines. Heavily guarded. What was she supposed to do with that information? She felt like she was in some sort of spy movie. And let’s face it, the master was more than a little eccentric. There was some genius there, sure. But he was also a good deal in his own world.
Right now, though, there was a lot to see and enjoy here in the grounds of the chateau—expansive, immaculate green lawns that led out into woodlands, with a trail that bordered the farm land of neighbouring properties, and with topiaries, pencil pines and two huge oak trees whose limbs stretched gracefully across the lake.
She spread out a complimentary picnic blanket under the oaks and took off her shoes, then sat down to watch the ducks on the water as they bobbed their heads under the surface, their neat tails to the sky and their feet paddling the air. On the far side of the bank, two large white geese wandered companionably together, pecking through the grass, the sun on their backs. Christmas inhaled a deep breath of warm, fragrant air and wriggled her toes. It was so beautiful here, an oasis of serenity.
Her plan for today was very simple—to relax under these trees, alone with her thoughts, allowing herself space to unwind, recoup, and be present in the moment. Then, she would explore the woodland, and later the rest of the chateau. This afternoon she would take a stroll down the road, past a neighbouring vineyard and a dairy farm, pick some wildflowers and press them inside the novel she’d picked up in Paris.
Giselle, the chateau’s young red setter, trotted over towards the lake. Spotting the birds, she dived eagerly into the water, chasing the ducks and the black water fowl through the lily pads, sending them into frantic take-offs and landings until they all decided to take off for good. Undeterred, she spied a large stick—a branch, really—floating in the shady waters beneath an overhanging tree and snatched it in her jaws. Dog paddling
expertly, her tail swinging behind her like a rudder, she made her way back to the grassy bank and pulled herself up before shaking vigorously, sending bullets of water shooting in all directions.
Christmas sighed happily and leaned back against the trunk of the oak, folded her hands together in her lap, and closed her eyes. She should probably check in with everyone back home today. And maybe she should try to contact Lincoln again? No, she quickly decided. The less said the better right now. She didn’t want to mess it up again. Instead she allowed herself to daydream of him, even daring to consider what it might be like to have him permanently in her life.
What would a future with Lincoln look like? Would he settle in Tasmania for her, or would she have to find a way to follow him around the world, or would each of them pursue their own careers in their own city or country, overcoming the difficulties of distance, then coming together again as circumstance allowed?
And then there was the matter of children. She couldn’t imagine that having kids was high on his list of priorities, being so in love with travel as he was, but what if it was on his agenda? She allowed herself to sit with the idea, testing out the feelings it conjured, mentally experimenting with the notion of children. She’d only recently told Val she didn’t want kids. But since then she’d thrown away the rules. She was free to make up a new plan if she wanted to. So would she consider it if Lincoln was interested?
She opened her eyes again, blinking into the contrasts of shade and light, and took in the pretty red flowers lining the front entrance to the circular driveway. One or two other guests wandered the gardens, picking flowers and enjoying the sunshine.
One of the guests, a tall man, walked purposefully towards her. She raised her hand to shield her eyes from the glare and he smiled and raised a hand to wave. She frowned, trying to work out where she’d seen him before. And then he reached her blanket and it hit her like a clap of thunder.
Standing in front of her—smiling, shaven, his hair trimmed and neatly brushed, an ironed shirt open at the neck, looking so completely different that she first thought she must be mistaken, then that she was hallucinating—was Lincoln van Luc . . . looking spectacularly cute.
‘Hi.’ Lincoln was smiling, but he was looking at her a bit off-centre, as though about to turn and leave if she objected to his arrival.
‘Oh my God. What are you doing here?’
Lincoln helped her to her feet and she brushed a leaf from her pants, grateful that, inspired by the elegance and beauty around her, she’d taken care with her appearance this morning. Now was not the moment to be caught at her worst.
‘I wanted to surprise you,’ he said, and she couldn’t take her eyes off his face and lips, entirely smooth, utterly transforming him. ‘You look great.’
‘Thanks. You do too,’ she said, and he looked pleased with the compliment. ‘And the surprise worked,’ she said, before being hit by a huge wave of embarrassment that the last time they’d been together they’d kissed, and it had been beyond perfect, and then she’d pushed him away. He was scratching the back of his neck, likewise embarrassed, she assumed, and suddenly she desperately wanted to ask him to give her another chance.
She was standing here, with him, with his full attention. And they were in Provence, of all places, and she looked good, and he looked scrumptious, and the sun was shining. If there was ever a moment to put her best self forward and win him over, it was now.
‘I hope you don’t mind that I’ve just turned up announced like this,’ he said, his voice hesitant.
‘No! Not at all! It’s wonderful to see you,’ she said, gushing. ‘I mean, it’s weird, completely surreal. But wonderful! Why are you here?’ she asked, touching his arm in a way she hoped was both charming and assuring.
‘Well . . .’ He stretched the word out and took a breath. ‘That’s a good question.’ He looked down at his hands then, as though suddenly nervous.
‘Before you say anything else,’ she said, ‘I need to apologise, properly, for what happened at The Apothecary.’
‘No, no, don’t,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘It’s okay, I think that . . .’
But just then, Giselle the red setter noticed the arrival of a new person, dropped her stick and galloped over, covering the distance in seconds. She jumped up on Lincoln, who gently pushed her away; still excited, she leapt at Christmas.
‘No!’ Christmas backed away from the big wet dog, not wanting muddy pawprints on her clean pants, but tripped on the edge of the picnic blanket and fell to the ground. As she tried to struggle to her feet, and Lincoln reached out to help, Giselle was on her in a flash. The dog hopped, bounced and leapt like a triple jumper at the Olympics and tackled Christmas to the ground. Barking rapturously she pinned Christmas down on the grass, her paws scrabbling on the white cotton shirt and expensive soft bamboo pants.
‘Off!’ Lincoln said, trying to get his arms around the dog’s chest and pull her away. But Giselle was wet and slippery and Lincoln lost his grip, stumbling backwards.
Christmas was horrified. If ever there was a time to be thrown to the ground and snogged by a saturated dog, it was not now. She managed to flip herself over onto her belly and cover the back of her head with her arms as the overgrown puppy embraced her, reeking of swamp water and algae.
‘Giselle!’ screamed Lisbet, the mistress of the chateau, running across the lawn and clapping and growling at the dog as though it would do any good. Christmas yelled out in pain as one of the dog’s sharp claws pierced her trousers and punctured the back of her thigh.
‘She doesn’t have a collar,’ Lincoln puffed, pushing the dog off with his knee. Hysterical with enthusiasm at this grand romp, Giselle spun back around and landed on Christmas again.
The setter tightened her grip around Christmas’s waist with her front paws and gyrated and . . .
Oh. My. God! The dog was humping her!
To her horror, Lincoln laughed helplessly as he attempted to wrangle the wet mutt.
‘Giselle!’ Christmas screeched. ‘This is wrong on so many levels! Wrong species! Wrong sex!’
Lisbet arrived, and between her and Lincoln, Giselle was dragged off, coughing as someone’s efforts pushed on her throat. Christmas flipped over and Lincoln helped her to her feet.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, through barely suppressed laughter.
Lisbet spewed mortified French and Giselle finally quietened, her face dropping in shame as she was likely called every bad word in the French vocabulary. Her tail lowered and she slunk behind her mistress.
‘I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,’ Lisbet repeated, herding the canine swamp monster backwards. ‘You will send us your drycleaning bill, of course, and we will discount your hotel bill, and oh, look at your pants! And your leg!’
Christmas craned her head around as best she could to see a long rip in her pants and a thick scratch down her leg, with tiny spots of blood popping up along the ridge of the swelling wound.
‘It’s fine, really,’ she said, burning with humiliation.
Lisbet made a hasty exit with Giselle, leaving her alone with Lincoln.
‘Are you okay?’ he said sympathetically.
‘I think so.’ She wasn’t entirely sure, awash as she was with mortification and shock.
‘I’m so sorry for laughing,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t laughing at you, truly, it was just so absurd and . . .’
‘It’s okay. I would be laughing too if I wasn’t so embarrassed.’ She’d lost her moment to make a perfect first impression on Lincoln in Provence.
He smiled, the left-hand corner of his lips—lips! He had lips under all that hair!—rising. ‘Come on, how about we get you inside and cleaned up and then I can catch you up on why I’m here.’ He held out his hand for hers.
She took it, feeling a current travel right down to her toes, and walked silently beside him, peeking across at him from time to time, not quite believing he was really here. Across the driveway, up the two stone steps and through the tall double do
ors into the ground-floor foyer, down the hall, and she fumbled in the pocket of her now-ruined pants for the key. Then she unlocked the door and they stepped inside.
‘Nice room,’ he said, taking in the heavy curtains drawn back on either side of the open shuttered doors, the rich toile wallpaper, oval gold-framed mirrors, thick textured bed linen and the chandelier hanging from the ceiling.
She was still speechless from shock.
‘How about you have a shower and then I’ll help you with that scratch, if you like,’ Lincoln said, pointing at her leg. She didn’t move. He looked quickly behind him, then back at her. ‘Why are you staring at me?’
‘Your face.’
He reached up a hand and ran his fingers down his smooth olive-skinned cheek, then grinned. ‘You like?’
‘Oh, yeah. Obviously. I mean, not that I didn’t before . . . You just look so . . .’ Several words came to mind. Smouldering. Sexy. Masculine. Dark and brooding, even—not in a scary way, but in a you’re-a-deep-lake-I-want-to-dive-into way. She settled on ‘. . . different.’
She’d been attracted to him from the first moment she’d met him on the footpath outside The Apothecary, no question. But there had always been a touch of woodsy Folk of the Faraway Tree about him too. Now, suddenly, his lips had definition. They were full, and the top one was a true bow shape with a dark shadow of regrowth over it. He’d left small strips of sideburns that drew attention to his cheekbones. And his hair was now short, though still with some height at the front and even a bit of attitude.
He smothered a grin, betraying a hint of self-consciousness. ‘Take your time in the shower,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry about me; I’ll just make myself at home.’
The Chocolate Promise Page 25
