by Sammie Joyce
“Merci,” she mumbled, turning her reddening cheeks. It was impossible to imagine that this mature woman was still so easily embarrassed by a true compliment. It spoke volumes to her history.
I hurried back around to reclaim the driver’s seat and in seconds, we were both buckled in and on our way toward the main road leading out of town.
“The weather will hold tonight,” I promised. “All the way and all night.”
“That’s good,” she agreed, looking nervously at her hands. “We wouldn’t want to be caught in a snowstorm.”
“Bien sûr,” I agreed. She whipped her head around and looked at me in shock.
“Parlez-vous français?” she demanded. A small smile touched the edges of my mouth and I nodded.
“French and Latin,” I replied.
“Latin?!” Her dubiousness was justified. Who spoke Latin anymore? It was barely even taught.
“We march to a little bit of a different beat on the compound,” I explained.
“I guess so,” she chuckled. Her shoulders sank back slightly and I found myself watching her out of the corner of my eye. She was breathtakingly lovely. The little expressions on her face, the ones she probably didn’t even realize she was doing, the scrunch of her nose, the way her eyes widened and fell when we passed something on the road that impressed her—I was probably paying more attention to her than I was my driving.
“I have reservations at Orso,” I told her and she jerked her head around to gawk at me.
“Are you teasing me?” she asked, a glint of amusement in her eyes. I shook my head, unsure of why she would think that. Then it hit me.
Orso. Bear.
“Ah…” I groaned. “I didn’t really think that through. It’s a really nice place. Seafood. Wait—do you like seafood?”
“Doesn’t everyone who lives in Alaska like seafood? Isn’t that a prerequisite before you move here?”
I admitted she had a point and I relaxed when I saw she wasn’t troubled by my restaurant choice.
When we arrived at the elegant stop, I hurried out again to open Margot-Celine’s door and watched her face as she took in the exterior in awe.
It was a sight to behold for a first-timer, the bold, red lettering and the grizzly baring his teeth in the front. But that was nothing compared to the glamor inside and when we entered, I heard her gasp slightly as she took in the staircase leading up to the second floor.
“Mon Dieu. Que belle!” she breathed.
It was charming, pretty… and so was she. I was far more intrigued with her reactions than I was the surroundings. After all, I’d been there before. I knew the two floors and the private dining rooms.
Our coats were taken by a hostess and we were led upstairs to a quaint table for two, illuminated by candlelight, and my breath was again stolen as I watched her svelte frame underneath the burgundy dress. It seemed to accent curves I hadn’t realized she’d had and the understanding made me pause. I hadn’t noticed how attractive she was under her heavy coats and frumpy clothes. Yes, I’d been drawn in by her face, but the connection I felt toward Margot-Celine had nothing to do with the way she looked. There was something else there, something more primal, more basic.
The thought scared me a little bit.
“This is lovely, Flint,” she sighed, her eyes trailing around to take in the décor. “I don’t think I’ve ever been in such a nice restaurant.”
I frowned slightly.
“That’s a tragedy. A beautiful woman should know good food. It’s practically scripture, isn’t it?”
I grinned to show her I was joking but she didn’t return my smile, a shadow falling over her eyes as if she was plagued by a bad memory.
Quickly, I changed the subject.
“There are vegetarian and vegan options if you want,” I added hastily as I opened the menu, forgetting that I hadn’t asked her if she had any dietary concerns.
“No, thank you,” she laughed. “I’m French-Canadienne. We would die if we didn’t eat meat.”
I chuckled at her jest, relieved that she seemed to have gotten her spark back.
“I highly recommend the calamari, in that case,” I offered.
“I love calamari,” she moaned, the sound causing a slight heat to creep up my neck.
“Me too.”
Our gazes met and she gave me a warm, comfortable smile, one that gave me hope that I was winning her over. Whatever I did, I needed to give her space and let her see that I wasn’t her enemy, that I wouldn’t ever harm her.
The server came around and took our wine order. To my surprise, Margot-Celine insisted on ordering a bottle.
“When I was young,” she confided after the server left to retrieve the pinot noir she’d requested, “I considered myself somewhat of a sommelier. I would go on wine tours throughout Canada, in Ontario and Quebec. Once I went out to California. I had huge aspirations to go to Italy and France too, but…”
She clamped her mouth closed abruptly, her brow furrowing. It was on the tip of my tongue to ask her what happened but I had a feeling that I would be entering uncharted waters. I wanted to ensure that this night was remembered as nothing but pleasant.
“Well, I’m glad to have such an expert,” I said instead. “I couldn’t tell you the first thing about years or vintages.”
Our first courses arrived and our conversation flowed easily, but the more we talked, the more I got the sense that Margot-Celine was learning more about me than I was her.
Whenever I asked her about her life before she came to Alaska, she somehow managed to avoid the question and shut down for a minute or two until I learned to just stop asking.
She ate with gusto and I found myself appreciating her appetite. If I hadn’t known any better, I would have thought she had shifter blood in her too.
By the end of dinner, we were both full and very content.
“I almost don’t want to move,” she complained, settling back in her chair.
“I know how you feel,” I agreed. “But we need to get going. We took a lot longer than I expected and the curtain call is in less than half an hour.”
She gasped and looked at the delicate bracelet watch on her wrist. Not once had she looked at a cell phone and I wondered if she even had one. She reminded me of someone from a different era somehow.
“You’re right,” she choked. “Is the opera house far away?”
I shook my head.
“We’ll make it,” I assured her, picking up my copy of the bill and rising from my seat. I thought about extending my hand to her but I recalled all the other times we’d touched and how she’d reacted.
“Shall we?” I said instead and she nodded, tilting her head back to look at me with luminous eyes.
“Yes,” she murmured. “We shall.”
13
Margot-Celine
I had forgotten how many emotions the opera could stir up in me and simultaneously, no less. I was high and low, swooping and swinging in and out of acts as I fell into the orchestra and lost myself in Butterfly’s arias.
I had been so lost in the show that I had almost forgotten I was there with someone for the first act. But as Pinkerton left his new bride and the idealistic fool waited for him to return, I caught myself looking at Flint out of the corner of my eye. To my utter disbelief, I thought I saw the shine of tears in his steely irises.
He really does love this! I realized although I didn’t know why it shocked me so much. No man in his right mind would go to the opera if he didn’t enjoy the art. Not even to impress a woman.
Not that I thought he was trying to impress me. On the contrary, in fact. The more time we spent together, the more I realized that he hadn’t tried to touch me once, not to hold my hand or graze my upper arm. He kept his hands folded neatly in his lap and when he did catch my eye, he smiled a beam to warm my soul.
He had been the perfect gentleman all night, from beginning to end, holding doors, paying for dinner, and keeping his hands to himself. I was char
med, appreciative… and frustrated.
I knew it was irrational, both wanting him to touch me and being grateful that he didn’t try. Maybe the memory of how we’d met still lingered too strongly in my mind. If we’d met under different circumstances, would I be more eager to have his hand in mine?
Who are you kidding? that terrible, mocking voice asked me. Where would you ever have met a man like Flint Locklear if not the way you did?
At intermission, Flint and I rose to stretch our legs and he brought me a glass of champagne. He didn’t have one for himself and I was nervous accepting it. Myriad paranoid thoughts jolted through my mind, but again, it was as if he could read them.
He gently took the goblet from my hands and pressed it to his lips.
“I would have liked to have had a glass of prosecco too, but I’m driving and I hate to admit, that pinot noir hit me slightly harder than I expected. I’m drinking water now.”
He handed me the glass back and held up his other hand with the plastic water bottle.
More confident now, I thanked him for the drink and allowed him to lead me back inside the theater for the completion of the production.
“You know,” he whispered as the lights dimmed again to indicate the end of intermission, “this was initially a two-act play. Puccini wrote five versions of Madame Butterfly.”
He winked at me and I swallowed a smile. I had known that but I was impressed that he shared my love for opera.
For the rest of the show, I found my attention divided between Flint and the stage.
It was impossible to tell which one was keeping my interest better.
We gave the singers a well-deserved standing ovation at the end and when we returned to Flint’s car, I was still slightly high off the buzz of the theater.
Or maybe it was the heady feeling I was getting near this man, this beast who had given me every reason to be on guard and yet, I could find no sign of that protectiveness that I’d enshrouded myself in for so many years.
It was almost like I’d unburdened the need to protect myself on him.
He paused outside his car and looked at me for a long moment, like he was trying to build up the courage to ask me something.
“Quoi?” I asked. “Y-a-t-il un problème?”
“Non,” he replied without skipping a beat. “I was just wondering if you were in a rush to get home or if I could show you something.”
I waited for the flare of apprehension, for the warning in my gut that said I shouldn’t go anywhere else with him. But it didn’t come.
“What is it?”
“It’s just a place I like to go sometimes,” he explained. “I clear my head when I’m there. It’s not far from home but if you need to get back, I understand.”
I thought of Pascal and the dog walker I’d found for that day only. He’d been out at least once after school. He could wait a few more minutes, couldn’t he?
“You don’t have to decide right now—” Flint started to say but I shook my head.
“I’d love to,” I replied, climbing into the passenger seat as he held the door open. I didn’t need to look at his face to know he was beaming. I was beaming inside too.
14
Flint
Again, I surprised myself by asking Margot-Celine to join me at the most treasured spot I knew in our area. As I’d told her, it was a place I’d reserved for myself, even the members of the community steering clear from it because they were aware of how important it was to me.
Still, I had no reservations about bringing her there and I guided my Camry over the uneven and unmanned roads to a clearing that I knew better than the back of my own hand.
The sky was brilliantly clear, the stars twinkling overhead, not overshadowed by the half-moon that gave enough light on the cliff’s edge, and when I parked, I cast my date a sidelong look.
I could gauge no nervousness from her and that gave me the confidence I needed to nod and explain that we’d arrived.
“It’s not too cold,” I offered, sensing her slight pause as she looked around at the landing. She cocked her head curiously but I showed her what I meant as I climbed out of the driver’s seat and opened the trunk. In the back, I’d stored a gingham checked picnic blanket, a few throw pillows, and a bottle of wine for the occasion. I picked up the small basket and linked it over my arm before shutting the trunk. Honestly, they had been last-minute items I’d tossed in the back, not really knowing how the night would go. Yet in my gut, I’d had a feeling that I would manage to win her over, even if, in hindsight, I didn’t know what had inspired such romance in me. I hadn’t felt this way about anyone since Davis’ mother and it was alarming… and inspiring.
I again held open her door and she tentatively climbed out, her eyes darting over the darkness, taking in the beauty of the spot as I set up the blanket and pillows, nodding for her to sit.
Her eyes widened in typical Margot-Celine fashion when she took in the view below, a small sigh falling from her lips.
“Oh,” she murmured. “I heard the water but I didn’t realize it was so close.”
Indeed, below us, one of the many rivers rushed through the night, the ambient sound filling my ears and giving me the sense of peace that being near my element always did.
Slowly, she sank beside me on the blanket and I reached for the wine, grabbing the corkscrew and two glasses out of the basket. Her eyes grew large as she watched me, her back stiff as she perched near the edge of the blanket.
“Th-this is really lovely, Flint,” she breathed and I heard the sincerity in her tone.
“It’s calming to be here,” I agreed, handing her a glass of rosé which she accepted without protest. I settled back onto the throws after pouring myself half a glass. I didn’t want to add too much to my system, even though I wasn’t feeling the effects of the dinner wine anymore. More than anything, I wanted to take in Margot-Celine with a clear head.
“So,” she said after a moment of silence. “You speak French and Latin.”
I chuckled and nodded.
“Oui, c’est vrai,” I conceded. “Mais je ne parle pas souvent. Il n’ya pas beaucoup de personnes qui parler dans la communauté.”
She peered at me.
“I imagine more of your community speaks French than Latin,” she teased and I laughed again.
“Also true,” I agreed. “But I wish I had more of an opportunity to practice both.”
“You can practice with me anytime.”
I suspected she said the words before she could think about them and even though the only light was that of the moon, I was sure she was blushing. I found myself touched by her offer.
“Merci. J’ai besoin de pratique.”
“Pourquoi?” she asked curiously. “Why practice when nobody speaks it?”
“Parce que j’ai une amie qui parler maintenant et je veux parler avec elle.”
She turned her head fully to look at me, her bright eyes shining as she stared at my face like she was searching for answers.
“Am I your friend?”
I bobbed my head, sitting up.
“I hope so,” I told her softly. “What do you think?”
She shivered and I wondered if it was because of the cold or if she was uncomfortable. I extended an arm toward her, warily and from a distance.
“I didn’t bring another blanket,” I told her, regretting that I hadn’t thought about it. “But if you lie with me, it will be warmer and I can show you the constellations.”
I fully expected her to refuse, but to my utter amazement, she slid closer, cautiously sinking against my side, and laid her head against my chest. I could feel the race of her pulse against me as I sank back against the pillows and exhaled.
My hand fell softly around her waist, my fingers splaying on the outside of her coat, and almost instantly, she relaxed against me.
“Tell me about the stars,” she murmured and I smiled to myself. I could talk about the planets and astrology for hours if she wanted.
/> I pointed up into the sky, my finger tracing the line of a cluster, and I began to tell her what I knew. In some ways, I was reminded of being with Davis when he was boy, Margot-Celine’s eagerness to learn reminiscent of an innocence I hadn’t seen in years. It filled my heart with melancholy but there was something else too—the sense of a new beginning.
As I spoke, Margot-Celine’s breaths grew slower, her heart rate slowing, and before I knew it, two hours had passed with just me talking, filling her with legends of our ancestors. For a minute, I thought she’d fallen asleep on me.
“Margot-Celine?” I called gently.
“Oui?”
She was still awake. Reluctantly, I said what I’d been dreading to say for over half an hour.
“We should probably head home.”
She untangled herself from me, raising her head to eye me with sleepy irises, and I grinned at her.
“We wouldn’t want to fall asleep out here,” I explained. “We’ll freeze to death.”
She nodded in agreement.
“Mon chien will be furious if I die on him,” she joked and I sat up also.
“You have a dog?”
“Oui. His name is Pascal and he’s a bull mastiff.”
It was good to know she was no stranger to big animals.
“Then let’s get you home to Pascal,” I replied. She helped me gather the remnants of the wine, stuffing the blanket and picnic basket into the trunk of my car. By the time we were situated back in the vehicle, she’d started to shiver again.
“It is cold,” she mumbled through chattering teeth. “I didn’t even notice.”
I took that to be a good sign. I was well accustomed to the Alaskan winters by now and we were only at the beginning of it.
Our conversation was minimal as I made my way to Margot-Celine’s house with her directions. I was surprised to realize how close she lived to the mountain but I made no comment.
At her small cabin, I undid my seatbelt to walk her to her door and she gaped at me like I hadn’t done it every time we’d gotten in or out all night.
