by Alix Nichols
Mercifully, Yves Fournier, the mayor of Verlezy, remembers he wanted to discuss something with me. He sits down on my left, his wife Josephine takes the spot on my right, and the three of us spend the rest of the evening plotting how to dovetail the Grotto’s outreach with Verlezy Primary’s extracurricular activities.
When I finally go to bed, it’s one o’clock in the morning.
The emotional shock inflicted by Sebastian and the never-ending discussion with Yves and Josephine have left me drained, which explains why I drop off the moment I shut my eyes. But it doesn’t explain the dreams. One of the dreams, to be more exact—the one I’ve been having nearly every night for a couple of months now.
In it, I’m alone in the smallest cave of the Grotto and feeling uncommonly and inexplicably aroused. The warm flickering glow of several candles lights the room, and there’s a musky smell in the air. I lean against the wall and touch myself as I picture him. Right on cue, he materializes by my side, leans into me, and covers my busy fingers with his large hand. His mouth descends onto mine as he rubs my bud, and I feel a long finger slip inside me.
Oh, oui! Right there. More, please!
He adds another finger and pumps deeper, faster—
I can never remember if he makes me come, but I always—always—wake up wet.
Shocking, I know.
What’s even more scandalous is that the man in those dreams is not Count Sebastian d’Arcy. Nor is he one of my five ex-boyfriends. He isn’t a faceless stranger conjured up by my imagination, either.
He’s Cowboy.
Aka the dairy farmer who’s taken the tour of the Grotto half a dozen times since January, and whom I often spot at various local events.
I don’t know his name.
Since I’d never date him, I’m not even interested in learning it. If ever he tried to hit on me or if a common acquaintance formally introduced us, I’m sure we’d have nothing to say to each other.
For one, he has no interest in archeology. Whenever I sneak a peek at him during the tour, he’s staring at me, not at the paintings on the walls.
And, I don’t care for farming.
So, when I find myself in the same room as him, I pretend I don’t know who he is. To make my point even clearer, I avoid acknowledging him with a hello or a nod.
He’s never on my mind in daytime.
I don’t look forward to his next visit or to a chance encounter in the village.
So why those dreams?
3
Nathan
My new Workaway volunteer, Lorenzo, points to the trimmed part of the hedge. “How am I doing?”
“Not bad at all!” I nod in appreciation. “You’re a natural.”
“It’s because I’ve done this before.”
I try not to smile as he intones his remark with a singsong Italian accent, adding an “eh” at the end of each word.
“May I?” I take the shears from his hands and clip the little branches that stick out.
Two years ago, Ma planted this hedge around the nicest cottage on the farm after we decided to turn it into a guesthouse for tourists. In spring and summer, they come for fishing and hiking in the area, or just to get away from the city and enjoy some peace and quiet.
I hand the shears back to Lorenzo. “All yours.”
The young software engineer from Florence and his girlfriend arrived two days ago, and will stay through May, working four hours a day in exchange for accommodation and food.
When they’re gone, I’ll take in two new people. The farm has three single-story cottages on its grounds, built by my grandfather and updated with modern amenities by Pop.
I occupy one of them so that Ma and I don’t crowd each other’s space. The second cottage is for paying guests. The third one—only big enough to serve as temporary lodgings for a single person or a couple—stood empty for years because Ma preferred to put up visiting family and friends in the main house.
So, it made an awful lot of sense to host Workaway helpers in addition to the farmhands we hire when there’s too much work.
I should’ve thought of it myself, but I didn’t.
It was Celine’s idea. She learned about the program three years ago from a friend, and posted an ad for her organic produce farm the same day. Her first helper was a giggly middle-aged school teacher from Germany. The woman went above and beyond with every task she was given.
Since then, Celine has been hosting a nonstop influx of Frauen, with an occasional Dutch or Austrian woman thrown in. All of the ladies fall in love with Burgundy and with Celine’s farm. They delight in the food and wine she serves them. Most come back the following year. And some of them fall in love with Celine.
Anyhow, Ma and I decided to give the Workaway thingy a shot, despite our initial skepticism. When milk prices are low and labor costs high, you need to get creative to keep a big dairy farm profitable. Besides, only an idiot would pass up on a highly motivated workforce that’s happy with payment in kind and with beautiful landscapes for a bonus.
We welcomed our first volunteers two years ago, and never looked back.
Celine was right to insist.
“Hey, neighbor!” a familiar voice calls.
Speak of the devil.
Celine waves hello as she walks through the gate and gives Lorenzo a bright smile. “Hey, new guy!”
“I’m Lorenzo,” he says.
She fist-bumps me and cheek kisses Lorenzo. “My name is Celine. You alone here or with a partner?”
“My girlfriend Paola is inside.” He points to the cottage.
Celine turns to me. “Did you talk to her?”
“Paola?”
“No, silly! The cave woman.”
“Can we discuss that later?” I give Celine a pointed look.
She glances at Lorenzo. “Oh. Sure.”
Since we were teenagers, Celine and I have always kept each other updated on our progress—or lack thereof—with the objects of our fixations.
Celine’s is rarely a specific person. It’s a type. She digs men that are nerdy, skinny, sensitive and preferably bespectacled.
I blame it on Harry Potter and that actor, Romain Duris, both of whom she was hung up on as a teenager. Her more recent crushes—Tim from The Office UK, Jim from The Office US and Chandler from Friends—haven’t exactly helped either. I’ve tried to get her to appreciate guys like Terminator and Rambo by making her watch my favorite 90s action movies, but that was a total waste of time and effort.
Celine may be one tough cookie, but she’s hopelessly attracted to men who have less muscle than she does.
I’m not saying there’s something wrong with guys like that. Problem is they don’t go into farming. While there’s no shortage of musclemen among my brothers in plows, you’d be hard pressed to find a skinny nerd.
Come to think of it, you’d be just as hard-pressed to find stylish, eloquent and graceful female archeologists around here. I’m pretty sure there’s just one, and she’s afflicted with a strange condition that makes me invisible to her.
It would’ve been so much easier if Celine and I were attracted to each other!
We’d become lovers and I’d marry my spunky, dependable neighbor who hides a nice body under her checkered shirts and baggy jeans, and comes from a long line of farmers. To top it off, Ma loves Celine with all her heart. We could be very happy together…
But no, the naked guy Eros, God of Horniness, has a sick sense of humor.
My phone lights up with an alert sent to it by the calving sensor in the barn.
“Got to go,” I say, standing up. “Gabrielle is in labor.”
Celine draws her eyebrows. “You have an alert for that?”
“It’s a pretty nifty app,” I say with pride, heading to the barn. “Had it installed two weeks ago.”
Celine marches next to me. “Could be a false alarm.”
“I guess I’ll find out.”
I pick up the sanitizer, gloves, and wipes from the tool shed and
race to the barn.
Celine follows, hot on my heels.
Turns out it isn’t a false alarm—Gabrielle is in labor. And, by the looks of her, it won’t be an easy one.
I had a feeling this “petite” heifer would have a tough time calving, and unfortunately, I was right. She’s fully dilated, her water sac has broken, and the calf has presented as it should—front feet first. But it’s too big. And that must be the reason it’s stuck in the birth canal.
Looks like a C-section situation to me.
“Time to call the vet,” I say to Celine.
“You’re sure we can’t handle it?” She crouches down and stares, trying to assess the odds. “You and Brigitte managed just fine last time.”
Yeah, I wish Ma was here now, but she’s on a long-overdue vacation in Provence.
Celine pulls out her phone. “I can snap a pic and send it to her—to get her opinion.”
My gaze shifts from Celine to the heifer.
I really don’t want to mess this up. Gabrielle and the calf are too valuable to take unnecessary risks.
“We don’t need my mother’s opinion,” I say, all doubt gone from my voice. “We need a vet.”
An hour later, it’s over.
I have to go fill out a dozen or so forms required by the EU red tape every time a calf is born, but the important thing here is that he was born. And he’s healthy as is his mother.
“So, how did the Grotto tour go?” Celine asks me when the vet is gone and we’ve tucked in Gabrielle and the calf.
“Same as last time. Clarissa ignored me so profoundly I lost my nerve.”
“You didn’t go up to her after the tour?”
I shake my head.
“Did you at least ask your question during the tour?”
“Nope. Didn’t have the guts. I’m giving up.”
“You’re pathetic, Nathan Girault.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Says the grown woman with Harry Potter posters everywhere in her house.”
“Yeah, well, at least I take action. On those rare occasions when I meet a man who fits the bill, I make sure to talk to him, to give him a chance to size me up, and to…” She lets out a heavy sigh.
“What?”
“Let me know he isn’t interested.”
“So, what’s the point?”
“The point is in not giving up. Because you never know.”
I shake my head.
“Promise me you’ll go back there next week and initiate a verbal exchange,” Celine says.
“What for? It’s hopeless. I bet that even if I do, she’ll just wave me off. I’m too rustic for her.”
“Then you’ll get closure.”
Good point. Besides, what do I have to lose?
“One last time, next week,” I say. “I promise.”
“That’s my boy!” Celine gives me a pat on the shoulder and goes home to cook dinner for her Frau.
4
Clarissa
Jean-Philippe has been the curator of the Museum of Archeology in Paris for at least a decade.
He’s been a good friend of my parents for at least twice as long, which is one of the reasons I’d refused his offer to take over as the Paleolithic art curator when the current one retires in a few weeks. All the scandalmongers whispering about nepotism behind my back, staffers citing my family name in hallways, unlucky contenders rolling their eyes as if to say, the old boys are looking after their own… Grrr!
If only I could impress upon every single museum curator and archeologist in France that my parents never intervene on my behalf!
But I can’t, nor do I believe it would help. Even if I wore a sign across my chest that said exactly that, chances are nobody would believe me.
Except, it’s the truth.
Mother and Father hate owing favors to other people—even to good friends. And they love knowing that my achievements are my own.
As it happens, I love knowing that, too.
Then why am I dialing Jean-Philippe’s number at this juncture?
Sebastian d’Arcy, that’s why.
True, the count had never overtly flirted with me, but I’d convinced myself flirting just wasn’t in his character. I had deluded myself that his interest in the Grotto and his frequent invitations to gatherings at the chateau had meant more than neighborly solicitude and a genuine interest in the rock paintings discovered on his estate.
I was such a fool!
“My dear Penelope, it’s so good to hear your voice!” Jean-Philippe says on the other end of the line. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
I hesitate for a moment and confront the issue head on. “That job you mentioned two weeks ago—is it still up for grabs?”
“I’ve done a bunch of interviews, but I’m not entirely happy with any of the candidates.” There’s a brief silence. “Why? Have you had enough of sweet Burgundy and want to move back to Paris?”
“I’ve changed my mind about the job. It’s too good to pass up.”
“When I made the offer, you told me you preferred to be a big fish in a small pond rather than a small fish in a big one. I’m just curious—what gives?”
“It’s like you said,” I lie. “My small pond is beginning to feel like a tiny fish bowl.”
“I knew it!” He chuckles, pleased with his perspicacity.
If only he knew how far he is from the truth!
“You were born for the ocean, mon enfant,” Jean-Philippe says when he’s done chuckling. “Your parents have no doubt about it.”
My stomach clenches at the brutal accuracy of the latter observation. Jean-Philippe is right. What with being dyed-in-the-wool atheists and certified pessimists, Mother and Father believe in me more than they have ever believed in anything.
And that is the root of the problem.
“With the TGV train, Auxerre is less than two hours away from Paris, right?” Jean-Philippe asks.
“That’s right.”
“So, you can easily zoom to the Grotto, if you need to check something for your research, and be back within the day. Isn’t that convenient?”
“It is, indeed.”
“Send in your application straightaway,” he says. “And expect to be called for an interview very soon.”
“Thank you.”
“The job is as good as yours, but we’ll need to do it by the book.”
“You’ll be accused of favoritism no matter how we do it,” I say.
He chuckles again, unfazed. “Let me worry about that, mon enfant.”
After I hang up, I email him the application form I’d already filled out, my CV, and a letter of motivation.
That was easy.
If everything goes to plan, I’ll hand in my notice in April and move back to Paris. Another archeologist will take over as the curator of the Grotto. As for this archeologist, she’ll have no reason to cross paths with Sebastian d’Arcy ever again.
My phone beeps, reminding me it’s time.
I shut down my computer, grab my jacket, and head over to the cave for the daily tour.
The first thing I notice in the crowd waiting in front of the entrance is the strapping, sun-kissed man who towers above everyone.
Cowboy.
Immediately, I avert my gaze, refusing to acknowledge him and denying him the chance to acknowledge me. It’s rude, and God knows I feel guilty doing it, but so far, my selective blindness has worked at keeping him from approaching me.
He hasn’t even dared to ask a question!
And that is great on more than just the obvious level of sparing both of us some awkwardness. The second, less obvious and more twisted, level is that I expect him to say something dumb if he opens his mouth. Call me a prejudiced snob, but I just can’t picture this country hick asking an intelligent question about the paintings. Or even about stalactites.
Beats me why, but I don’t want to hear him say something embarrassingly inane. It would pain me to watch the others in the group—most of them tourists from big citie
s—choke down giggles while stealing glances at the thickheaded hayseed.
After all, I’ve had sex with that hayseed repeatedly in my dreams!
Nina hands me my flashlight and we start the one-hour tour, which continues without any incidents. Cowboy keeps silent. Others ask lots of good questions about the techniques our ancestors used to paint the animals on the walls. In the Mammoth Hall, everybody gapes in awe at the beauty of the creatures on the ceiling.
I realize just how much I love this place, and that I’ll miss serving as a tour guide. It won’t be part of my new job in the Paris museum, which has dedicated personnel for that.
When we’re done, Nina accompanies the group to the exit. I stay behind for a moment, intrigued by a detail on one of the horses in the Dance Hall that I hadn’t noticed before. Or, to be more exact, I had noticed it, but hadn’t realized its significance.
I pull my phone out and begin to dictate my observations.
When the Grotto grows quiet, Nina returns by my side. “Ready to leave?”
“Not yet,” I say. “You go ahead—I’ll lock up.”
She nods. “See you at the office later this afternoon?”
I glance at my watch, at the painting, and at the five other horses in the cave that I’d like to study more. “This might take a while, so I can’t promise I’ll be there before closing time.”
“OK.” She waves goodbye.
I wave back.
Half an hour later, I’m done. It’s only five, so I will catch Nina at the office. She’ll be the first to hear my new theory. I smile, brimming with enthusiasm and pride as I stride to the gate. Once I’ve aired it with Nina, I’ll have her transcribe my dictated notes while I call Father.
And after that, I’ll go home and begin researching and building arguments to support my hypothesis.
Grinning like an idiot, I pull the door toward me. It resists. I push the handle down and pull harder. The door still resists. I stick the key into the keyhole and try to turn it at the same time as I push the handle down. No luck. I jerk it up. No effect whatsoever.
Oh great.
I whip out my phone but, just as I feared, there’s no service. Why, why didn’t I listen to Nina and switch to her cell phone carrier? She can usually use her phone close to the gate, while I must leave the Grotto and get away from the limestone to get one or two bars.
