Clarissa and the Cowboy: An opposites-attract romance

by Alix Nichols

  It had been a mistake to stay the night at Nathan’s cottage. It had been an even bigger mistake to take him to my place in Auxerre. If I count the night in the Grotto, that’s three nights we’ve spent together.

  Only three nights, for heaven’s sake.

  So why do I miss him so much—in my flesh, in my bones, in my soul? Why can’t I move on?

  “It was nice seeing you again,” Nina says, breaking me out of my bleak thoughts. “And thank you for those exquisite chocolates!”

  “Oh, it was nothing.”

  “You kidding? They were delish! Did you see how fast they disappeared? I’ve noted the name of the shop to be sure I buy some next time I’m in Paris.”

  “Glad you liked them.”

  “Will you come down to the Grotto again, or do you have everything you need for your research?” Nina asks.

  “I think I’m good, at least for a while.”

  She nods, her eyes on the road.

  “Thanks again for driving me to the train station,” I say. “You really didn’t have to—I could’ve called a cab.”

  She waves dismissively.

  “How do you like your new boss?” I ask.

  “He’s OK… bit boring though. We had more fun when you were around.”

  I smile. “What about the guy you were dating?”

  “Still dating.” Her lips twitch at some private thought—no doubt a good one, judging by her smug expression. “It’s getting serious.”

  “Hey, I’m so happy for you!” I pat her shoulder before blurting, “Have you seen Nathan Girault since I left? The farmer I got trapped in the Grotto with…”

  Please, keep your eyes on the road, Nina!

  I’m blushing so furiously that if she looks at me now, she’ll imagine all kinds of crazy things he and I might have done while we were trapped.

  And she’d be right.

  “I haven’t seen him,” Nina says. “But Anne-Chantal talks about him sometimes.”

  Do I have the guts to ask her what exactly Anne-Chantal has said?

  Nina glances at me, sympathy in her eyes. “He’s been working really hard. And not dating anyone.”

  I turn away and stare out the window.

  Three minutes later, she pulls up at the Gare d’Auxerre-Saint-Gervais and I get out. We hug. Nina drives off. I enter the station and find my platform on the flap display. The clock on the wall tells me it’s time to go. With a determined nod to no one in particular, I rush to my platform.

  “The TGV to Paris leaves in three minutes,” a woman announces over the loudspeaker.

  I adjust the straps of my backpack, drop my head to my chest in defeat, and march back into the lobby.

  This train will leave without me—I’ll take the next one in two hours.

  My hands are shaking when I pull out my phone and call Nathan, telling myself he might be somewhere with no reception. Or he might not pick up, too busy harvesting or taking care of his cows.

  Even if he does answer the phone, there’s no reason to expect him to drop everything and drive thirty minutes here and thirty minutes back to his farm just so he can say hi to me. No reason whatsoever. What’s going to happen is that I’ll eat a solo dinner at the station bistro, check my emails, and take the next train to Paris at eight o’clock.

  Forty minutes later, Nathan sits down next to me at a small table on the bistro’s terrace.

  Clad in worn jeans and a white tee, he looks even brawnier than I remembered. My gaze caresses his body and lingers on his suntanned face.

  God, how I’ve missed him!

  We don’t say much for the first five minutes.

  To calm down, I try to focus on the sounds and smells of the bustling station.

  Freshly brewed coffee. Gas. Waiters zooming back and forth, balancing trays.

  One of them brings us coffee and iced Perrier.

  A chime sounds, followed by the woman on the loudspeaker who delivers the usual security announcement. Travelers rush into the building, gazing up at the displays. Others drag their luggage out and wave to the nearest cabbie.

  I have a hard time breathing.

  Nathan’s left arm and leg are almost touching mine, and his masculine scent makes my head spin, reminding me of our first night in the Grotto. My heartbeat is so wild, I’m not even sure I’m capable of speech right now.

  “How’s the new job?” Nathan asks.

  Inhale. “Fine.” Exhale. “You?”

  “Busy, as usual.”

  I nod.

  We sip our drinks without looking at each other.

  Is he over me?

  Was he ever into me, to start with?

  I sneak a peek at his broad chest. It’s heaving. He’s nervous! Unless, of course, it’s normal for a big guy with so much muscle and a strong heart to breathe like that.

  My train leaves in less than an hour.

  Speak now, Clarissa, or forever hold your peace.

  Except, what I intend to say will make me look pathetic—more pathetic than I’ve ever felt in my life.

  I can’t say it.

  I won’t say it.

  I am saying it, because it’s my voice that murmurs, “Will you come visit me one of these days?”

  He turns toward me and stares.

  I hold his gaze.

  “Rissa…” He sighs before shaking his head.

  I don’t like his sighing or his frowning or his shaking his head. I don’t like it at all.

  “It’s been hard forgetting you,” he says. “Really, really hard. But I’m working on it.”

  “I’ve given up.”

  He takes my hand and presses it to his lips.

  “Please, Nathan, can we give the long-distance thing a shot?”

  “The long-distance thing is for college kids.” He smirks. “Not that I would know.”

  “It isn’t just for kids!”

  “Anyway, I can’t. Not with you.”

  I search his face. “Why not?”

  He lets go of my hand and turns away.

  “Why not?” I ask again.

  “Because…” He turns back to me—his eyes filled with anger and desire and regret. “Because of who I am. Because I’m tied… I’m married to the family farm. I’m bound to my land and to the herd.”

  I chew on my lips as desperation sets in.

  “If I start a long-distance relationship with you…” His frown deepens. “Fuck that, if I as much as spend one more night with you, I’ll ditch everything and move to Paris.”

  I swallow. Yes, please!

  “Do you know how many times I’ve envisioned that since you left?” His expression is unbearably hard. “And here’s what I think would happen. I’d move in with you and become a kept man. I would idle my days away in a city where I don’t belong and where my skills are useless. You’d begin to resent me.”

  “Sounds very… apocalyptic.”

  He doesn’t respond.

  I squeeze my eyes shut before opening them. “Fine. Stay here. I’ll do the moving.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll quit my job and move in with you. I’ll do my best to adjust, to help you with the farm, learn your way of life—”

  “That’s nuts. You can’t just—”

  “I’m in love with you.”

  He shuts his mouth.

  “I’m in love with you,” I say again, my voice cracking.

  “You want me.” He furrows his brow. “It’s called lust.”

  “Oh, I want you all right, but what I feel is so much more!”

  “I don’t get it.” His gaze bores into mine. “I mean, I totally get why you’d want me, but not— You called me Cowboy, remember? What would a smart, cultured woman like you find in an uneducated hillbilly?”

  I cup his face, shocked by how little he thinks of himself, by how blind he is to his own wondrousness. Should I mention his loyalty first? Or his drive? What about his decency, his kindness, his humor—

  Nathan puts his hand over mine and squeezes
gently. His eyes are so sad it breaks my heart.

  “I’ll… draw up… a list,” I say through tears.

  Pulling me to his chest, he wipes away my tears with the pad of his thumb. “I love you, babe.”

  I eye his mouth, my heart swelling with hope.

  Kiss me.

  He kisses my forehead. “You’re the most amazing woman I ever met, Rissa, and I sure as hell won’t let that woman ruin her life.”

  12

  Nathan

  Summer is here, and our cows now spend their days outside, roaming freely and grazing to their hearts’ content.

  Earlier this week we moved the last calves born in April out of their hutches. In a couple of months, the males will be sold to feedlots, and the females will be raised to become milking cows like their mothers.

  Life goes on.

  “You’re unhappy,” Ma says as we clean the barn.

  “I’m perfectly satisfied with my existence.”

  “Oh really?” She tilts her head to the side. “Is that why you never smile anymore?”

  I frown. “Yes, I do.”

  “Nope. You haven’t smiled once since your Clarissa left for Paris.”

  “She was never mine,” I say. “And she has nothing to do with this.”

  We finish in silence and head for the house to have lunch with our volunteers. But before we go in, she stops in her tracks and turns to me.

  “What is it, Ma?”

  “I want to tell you a story.”

  “Now? Here?”

  She nods. “I’ve never told you this and it’s been gnawing at me.”

  “OK.”

  “In your last months of middle school when you told your teachers you were going to continue at an agricultural lycée, your father and I received a visit.”

  “Who?”

  “Your principal. She said it would be a waste of talent to send you to a vocational school, that you should be encouraged to go to college and study economics, law, medicine, engineering—anything you wanted—because you had the capacity for it.”

  “What?”

  “She said you had a good head for math. She showed us your grades.”

  “They were nothing special.”

  Ma lets out a sigh. “That’s what you think because that’s what your dad put in your head.”

  “What are you saying, Ma?” I narrow my eyes. “I know what my grades were. I saw them, remember?”

  “Yeah, but you misinterpreted them. Your dad managed to convince you that only straight-A students should go to college. But your grades were solid.”

  I fold my arms over my chest and stare at her.

  “Your principal said, ‘Consider this—Nathan gets those grades without even trying. I know he helps you with the farm when he should be doing homework.’ ”

  “What did you say?”

  “I wanted to ask her more questions, but your father exploded. He started yelling at the woman.”

  Ma tries to imitate his voice. “What’s wrong that? What’s wrong with agriculture and running a dairy farm? How do you think your favorite milk, yogurt, and cheese land on your table? Why the hell is it a waste of talent if Nathan chooses the life of a farmer?”

  I find it hard to picture Pop yelling at my school principal like that, and yet I don’t doubt for a second that Ma is telling the truth.

  She shifts uncomfortably. “Your principal asked if the life of a farmer was what you wanted, what you’d chosen. Your dad said yes.”

  “We’d discussed it at some point,” I say, jumping to his defense.

  “I was there when you did,” Ma says. “It wasn’t a discussion. It was a monologue—his.”

  “Why are you telling me this now?”

  “To come clean.” She gives me a weak smile. “I’m just as much to blame as your dad for robbing you of choices.”

  I smirk. “So, I should hate both of you now.”

  “I hope not,” she says. “I adore you. So did your dad. He was a good man.”

  “I know that.”

  She nods. “I loved him deeply, and he was sick, and I… I refused to see what he was doing to you, how he was undermining your self-confidence.”

  “Ma—”

  “At that age,” she interrupts me, “kids aren’t supposed to think they have no choice but to honor the decisions that were made for them. They’re supposed to think the sky is the limit.”

  “How do you know I wouldn’t have chosen this life anyway even if I was encouraged to look elsewhere?”

  “I don’t know that,” she says. “But what I do know is that keeping the farm in the family was more important to your dad than anything. It was the destiny he’d chosen for himself and for you, and I was too weak to argue.”

  “Is this about…?” I pause, looking for the right words. “Ma, are you trying to set me free to be with Ri— Clarissa?”

  “It’s more about... making amends to you, my boy. And, yes, I’m also trying to set you free to live the life you choose.”

  I clasp my hands over my head and stare at her for a long moment. “Whatever choice I make, we’re not selling the farm.”

  She raises her eyebrows.

  “Because if we do,” I say, “Pop’s sacrifice would’ve been for nothing.”

  Epilogue

  Clarissa

  I’m in London for the decade’s biggest conference on cave art, organized by the Royal Archaeological Society.

  If I don’t get up, I’ll risk being late for my own presentation. Yep, Dr. Penelope Muller Girault is slated to open the conference with a talk on the educational function of upper Paleolithic cave paintings.

  Luckily, I don’t need to take the Tube to get to the conference held at the British Museum. All I need to do is cross Russell Square.

  Problem is, it feels too good to be in bed—and in Nathan’s arms.

  Around this time three years ago, we walked out of the Darcy Grotto into the sunlight and said goodbye to each other.

  I thought that was it.

  Boy, was I off the mark.

  A lot happened in the months that followed the “cave incident.” I moved to Paris and started a new job at the Museum of Archeology. Celine, who’s my BFF now, fell madly in love with Nathan’s cousin Thomas. I knew he’d felt the same way about her when a week before her first visit, he bought hundreds of books and ditched the home cinema in his Paris apartment to install a wall-to-wall library.

  They married five months later.

  In July that year, after a cathartic conversation with his mom, Nathan had an epiphany. He realized life didn’t have to be black or white. And, as far as his farm was concerned, it didn’t have to be all or nothing.

  He and Brigitte sold half of their land, which fetched them a small fortune. To increase their profit margin from what was left, they converted his cottage into a second guesthouse and transitioned to organic farming. It was a relatively easy switch, what with the herd being a grazing one to start with.

  Nathan hired a manager to help Brigitte operate the farm. He partnered with Thomas, and together they opened a fancy store in Auxerre. The store sells mouthwatering yogurts, cheese, ice cream, and other premium dairy products in funky packaging.

  When he called me in September to ask if I was still interested in him, my “Yes, I am!” tumbled out in a rush of mad joy before he’d finished his question. The truth was, I’d been borderline suicidal all summer, and I was seriously considering an unsolicited relocation to the village of Verlezy. And, possibly, a hunger strike.

  Good thing he’d announced he was moving to Paris before I had a chance to say that.

  Nathan and Thomas are now proud owners of three Girault’s Finest stores in Paris and five in Burgundy. The plan is to expand into Belgium next.

  With an effort, I roll off my husband’s chest and head to the bathroom. “Call Brigitte!”

  “Why, do you doubt my mother’s capacity to look after a garden gnome?”

  “May I remind you the garden g
nome in question is now superfast and primed for mischief?”

  “I’ll call her,” he says.

  In fact, I don’t doubt Brigitte’s skills as a grandmother for a second, but I know how much she enjoys early morning briefings with her son. He enjoys them, too, but he gets sloppy when traveling abroad.

  I can’t believe it’s been three years!

  Three years, one kid, seven articles, one monograph, two hundred new cows, eight Girault’s Finest stores. And counting.

  “What about the Tokyo job offer?” Nathan asks when I come out of the shower.

  I glance at my watch, which says I need to be out the door within the next five minutes. “I wrote them yesterday with a ‘very honored but can’t.’ ”

  “Rissa, you said it was a fantastic opportunity when they’d reached out to you. I don’t want you to sacrifice your career—”

  “Nobody’s sacrificing anything,” I declare. “I have an excellent job in Paris. Tokyo will wait.”

  He draws his eyebrows together in confusion. “Until when?”

  “Until you’re ready to open stores in Asia.”

  “You think Thomas and I can pull that off—stores in Asia?” he asks, grinning.

  I bend down and kiss the top of his head. “I think the sky is your limit, Cowboy.”

  << <> >>

  Author’s Note

  The “twisted feet” that Clarissa discovers on a horse in the Darcy Grotto are a real feature of horses in the Lascaux cave (France). I took a bit of artistic license ascribing this well-known fact and its explanation to my protagonist.

  The Darcy Grotto in this book is fictional, but it is inspired by three amazing rock-art caves in France.

  My main inspiration is the cave complex near the village of Arcy-sur-Cure in Burgundy. Just like the Darcy Grotto, the real Grotte d’Arcy is located on private land, which is currently owned by Gabriel de la Varende. The paintings and engravings in the Grotte d’Arcy are “only” 28,000 years old.

  My second inspiration is the world-famous Lascaux complex in Dordogne. The age of its spectacular paintings is a measly 18,000 years.