by J. D. Fox
“There are apartment buildings here that are older than the country I come from,” Genevieve told Mathilde, whose eyes went wide as she tried to comprehend that.
“It is strange to think,” Olivier said. “But America is only—less than three hundred years old?”
Genevieve nodded. “More than fifty years until the tricentennial,” she agreed.
“There are buildings here, Mathilde, which go back five hundred years,” Olivier said. “And of course, the churches are even older—some a thousand years or more.” Mathilde’s eyes widened further, becoming dark saucers.
“Mais comment?” Mathilde shook her head. But how indeed, Genevieve thought with amusement.
“They builded—built?” Olivier glanced at Genevieve for confirmation, and she nodded. “They built the churches mostly from stone, which lasts a very, very long time, and they carefully maintain them.”
“It takes a lot of work,” Genevieve added. “And in some of the churches, once certain things become damaged they cannot be replaced because we don’t know how they did it originally.” Mathilde shook her head in wonder at that idea.
“There are very strong rules here, about how they can build more modern boutiques,” Olivier told her. “Especially in the historical sections, any company that wishes to come has to get approval, and they cannot do damage to historical facades.”
“That makes sense,” Genevieve said, nodding.
Before she knew it, as they talked about the history of the little town, they’d arrived on the small side-street that led to the gates of the mansion; Olivier used his phone to unlock them and let the three of them onto the property. She carried the groceries inside, remembering to kick off her shoes just inside the door, and thought yet again how far away her current life was from the one she’d left behind. It was less that she missed the high-stress, high-power life of being a financier, and more that she was fairly certain that everyone she used to know would think that she should. If she’d even suggested what she’d ended up doing, Genevieve was reasonably certain that most of her friends would have had her involuntarily committed.
She went into the kitchen as Olivier brought Mathilde into the living room, setting up the TV to stream some children’s programming from Netflix to occupy the girl while Genevieve went to work. Gen didn’t expect for Olivier to join her, but when she looked up from putting together the aperitifs on one of the trays he had handy, he was in the kitchen.
“Can I assist?” Genevieve looked up from the ingredients in front of her, laid out so that she could contemplate what to do in which order.
“I can do it myself,” she said with a slight smile. “Besides, I am the help, aren’t I?” Olivier chuckled.
“Yes but you are not a chef de cuisine,” he pointed out. “And I have not always been riche—wealthy. I like to help where I can.”
“Are you telling me that you’re a wealthy man who can cook?” Gen raised an eyebrow and felt that strange tingle of something rush through her again.
“Oui, is that very strange?” Gen snorted and turned away so he wouldn’t catch the sight of her cheeks beginning to turn pink.
“It is unusual in America, at least,” she said, not quite glancing at him over her shoulder. “Usually men in America don’t think at all about cooking, and wealthy men think about it even less.”
“In France, a man who cannot cook at all is...well, he is a waste,” Olivier told her. Gen heard him helping himself to a bit of the aperitifs on the tray. “One must cook to fully appreciate what one eats.”
“That’s a good philosophy,” Gen said, fervently believing in the truth of her statement.
“So; can I assist in some way?” Gen considered the question. Part of her wanted to tell him to go be with his daughter, that she had a perfectly good handle on the meal she was preparing. But another part of her didn’t want Olivier to leave, even if that made no sense.
“I would enjoy company if you are bored,” Gen told him.
“I will pour us some wine,” Olivier suggested.
“I’m guessing I’m sort of off the clock right now?” Olivier chuckled.
“We do not believe that a person cannot work if they’ve had a glass of wine,” Olivier told her. “But yes—since I am home, and can also watch Mathilde, there is no worry. If you wish, you can even become drunk.” Gen laughed out loud at that.
“I have no interest in getting drunk right now,” she told him. “But I would love a glass of wine.”
She started working on the sauce for her pasta to come, putting a high-sided pan on the stove and heating oil in it as she ran through the recipe she knew by heart through her mind once more. There was something so simple, so… homey about making dinner, with Mathilde watching cartoons and Olivier choosing a bottle of wine from the pantry. It was the kind of thing that Gen associated with being in a couple, something her parents might have done—except that even they had usually employed a home chef. But there had been evenings, here and there, when the chef had the night off, and there was dinner to be made. It was always something simple, usually pasta, and Gen could remember hearing her parents in the kitchen, chatting and laughing together. Even if they’d committed crimes, it was hard for her to think of them as bad people, strictly speaking. It was difficult for her to reconcile the fact that the two of them were, at that very moment, languishing in separate prisons. That, really, they deserved that fate—at least in the eyes of the law. But they had loved each other so well; and as far as Gen knew, they still did.
Chapter Six
Olivier watched as Genevieve moved about the kitchen, moving with a kind of grace and ease that reminded him of his former wife; another week had passed, and now that Genevieve was well and truly settled in and had established a routine with his daughter, it felt, strangely, as though she had always been here.
“Are you certain that you do not need help?” Olivier breathed in the scent of spices browning with meat in a pot, not at all like the Arabic or African cuisines that were more common in France, or even Spanish or Portuguese that could sometimes be found here. Instead, Genevieve had said that she missed American-style Mexican food, and had tracked down everything she needed to make tacos. As the meat stewed and browned, Genevieve had gone to work on the guacamole, halving a pair of avocados with a practiced hand, chopping onion, crushing garlic, seeding and chopping a green chili--and now she stood over a bowl of the mixture, mashing and mixing and occasionally adding dashes of one thing or another in between quick tastes.
“Yes, I am sure,” Genevieve said absently, as she finished the guacamole and covered it with plastic wrap. She glanced up at him and gave him a quick smile. “Besides, I know this cuisine, and you do not.”
“But you could tell me what to do,” Olivier pointed out. “Would it not be a nice change to—how should I say--boss your boss?” Genevieve chuckled and moved to the sink to wash her hands before starting on the next part of the meal. Elle ressemble pas de tout une ‘Geneviève,' Olivier thought wryly; but then, he reminded himself, all of the old women who currently bore that name were once young, and surely at least a few of them had been beautiful in their day. Still, it was difficult to reconcile the intriguing woman in front of him with the old-woman name she bore.
“I just enjoy having company while I cook. If you tried to help, I think you would just get in the way,” Genevieve said. She started to work on the tomatoes and peppers and onions for fresh salsa, and Olivier seated himself at the kitchen table. Mathilde was with her grandparents for the afternoon, so Olivier hoped to pick his new au pair’s mind a bit on the topic of some of the paperwork he’d received. None of it—he was reasonably sure—would give her much of an idea of what he was doing, but he needed to be sure of his understanding of things, and it was a risk he would have to take.
“Would you mind looking over some documents in English I have received?” Olivier was almost hypnotize
d by the steady rhythm of Genevieve’s hands and the knife she wielded; it was as though she’d done what she was doing a thousand times over, which seemed unusual for a woman of her privileged background. Genevieve glanced up from what she was doing and half-shrugged.
“I would be happy to,” she said, putting the knife down and picking up a spoon to stir the salsa she’d made. “What’s troubling you about them?” Olivier shrugged, carefully making himself appear more relaxed than he felt.
“There are terms and words I am not sure I understand,” he explained. “I believe I mostly know the meanings, but I want to be sure.”
“That is definitely a sound idea,” Genevieve agreed, putting the salsa away for later and turning back to the stove. “I’m almost at a stopping point if you want to get them for me to look at,” she suggested. Olivier smiled and rose to his feet.
“And I’ll open a bottle of wine when I come back,” he suggested. “It is, after all, after four.” Genevieve chuckled at that and stirred the meat in the pan, her back to him. For just a moment—less than a hundred heartbeats—Olivier took in the sight of her curves, the neat waist and the flare of her hips. How many times had he walked up to his late wife from behind when she’d stood like that in their kitchen? How many times had he gently surprised her by wrapping his arms around her waist, pulling her back against him slightly, kissing the nape of her neck? Olivier forced himself to turn away and leave the room before the thoughts went any further than that brief reminiscence. It would do no good to think of his wife in the presence of his employee.
He went into his office and retrieved the printouts he’d made of the documents his soon-to-be business partner had sent him a week before. Olivier had only printed out those words and phrases that he was uncertain of, the ones that even the free translator had not made clear. There was, he thought, nothing that Genevieve would be able to get from them other than, perhaps, that the words and phrases came from financial documents. Olivier checked over them again, feeling the little spurt of adrenaline in his system that came with knowing that even though he had covered his bases, there was still some risk involved. It was a feeling that he used to love—and, if he was being honest, one that he loved still; at least a part of him. But with Mathilde to think of, the pure excitement that came with an opportunity like this had taken on a counter-current of fear.
Olivier went back into the kitchen to find Genevieve seated at the table, her hair a little more neatly arranged than it had been moments before and her hands carefully cleaned. He smiled and handed her the papers before moving to the wine cabinet set into the wall to select something to drink.
“I think it is a good night for vin rose,” he said. “I should have a bottle chilled.” During the warm months, he always made a point of keeping at least one bottle of white wine and rose each in the refrigerator, in case he had guests over, or just to enjoy with a meal. Although the dinner they were about to have featured beef, the spices and heaviness of it would—he thought—go better with a blush wine.
“That sounds like a good idea,” Geneviève agreed absently, and Olivier looked over his shoulder to see her reading over the list of terms and phrases he’d selected.
“Have you tried Cabernet d’Anjou?” He couldn’t remember the different wines that he had so far introduced his new employee to; she had undoubtedly been receptive, and it seemed to be good sense to buy a bottle when one went to a restaurant, or have a glass or two with dinner.
“I don’t think I have,” Genevieve replied, looking up from the papers with a smile. “You know, back in America this kind of drinking would never fly between a boss and an employee.”
“In France, we consider that it is good to have a few moments out of the day for…how do you say… repose?” He frowned as he opened the fridge and took out the bottle, setting it down on the table. “A time when you are not working, or parenting, or cleaning the house, where you just enjoy a glass of something to drink and maybe some conversation.”
“I’ve definitely noticed that the French enjoy their leisure,” Genevieve remarked with another quick smile. Olivier found a corkscrew and got to work opening the bottle. He took two glasses down from the cabinet and poured them each a generous helping of wine.
“This is sort of…a common wine, you might say,” he explained, setting the bottle down and seating himself. “It is very popular, and served all summer at brasseries and restaurants.” He raised his glass and took the traditional first sip at the same time that Genevieve took hers, rolling the liquid around in his mouth for a moment. It was dominated by the bright, fresh flavors of red fruits, with an undercurrent of white pepper sharpness. It would be perfect with their meal, Olivier decided.
“It’s delicious!” Genevieve’s eyes widened slightly in surprise at her own delight. “This is dangerous; I could get really drunk on this without even noticing.”
“That is part of why it is so popular,” Olivier commented with a grin. “It is so easy to drink since it isn’t too sweet or too dry.”
“Please make sure I don’t have more than two glasses of this, as lovely as it is,” Genevieve said. “I want to be able to understand what I’m reading here.”
Olivier chuckled. “I will keep us to one bottle,” he agreed. He watched as Genevieve put the papers aside for a moment to check on the meat and the beans she was cooking before returning to the table.
“All right,” she said, picking up the papers again. “Most of these would actually be difficult for even native English speakers to handle, so don’t feel bad that they aren’t clear for you.”
“I had thought this might be the case,” Olivier said. “Or I had hoped.” He sipped his wine and settled in for the impromptu lesson.
“Most of them are finance terms and phrases, while some of them are legal,” Genevieve continued. “We’ll start from the top, I guess—and hopefully I can explain them in plain enough English that we don’t have to get a French-English dictionary out.”
Chapter Seven
Gen stepped through the door of the brasserie-tabac, breathing in the smell of coffee and the ghosts of cigarettes past as she glanced around. She had started coming to the brasserie—Le Metropole—about a week before, when she’d left the house early to pick Mathilde up and walk home with her. She’d been done with her portion of the household chores and had wanted to get out for a bit on her own, and had found the little brasserie while wandering around in the area of the school.
“Bonjour,” Genevieve called out lightly as she entered the slightly cramped space more fully. The warm weather meant that the doors were open since the old area didn’t have air conditioning to cool it. A few people sat outside, nursing beers and glasses of wine while smoking cigarettes or puffing away on their e-cigs.
“Ah! C’est toi,” Sadie, the owner-manager, said from behind the bar. “Good afternoon, my American friend.” Sadie was tall, maybe 5’8” by Gen’s estimate, with wild, medium-brown, curling hair that she kept in a messy, slapdash updo, gathered at the crown of her head with a spare pen. She was in her mid-forties and slim with long legs that ended at a pair of low heels, as they had every time Gen had seen her so far. The older woman walked in the heels with the confidence and ease of someone who had been wearing them since she’d been a teenager and saw no reason to stop. As Gen approached the bar, she saw that Sadie was in a knee-length pencil skirt and a loose, low-necked blouse, her apron thrown over and around her slim body carelessly, a smudge of something—Gen thought it was chocolate—on one corner near the top.
“Good afternoon,” Gen said, smiling at Sadie. The barkeep and owner of the Metropole had made it clear to her the first time she’d stopped in that she very much wanted Gen to be a regular customer. As soon as Sadie had learned that Gen was American, she had been full of questions—and had broken out her best English to ask them.
“Que voulez-vous, madame?” Sadie brushed her hands off on her apron and
gave Gen her full attention.
“Un grand cafe au lait, s’il vous plaît,” Gen replied.
“Of course,” Sadie said, grinning again, in her slightly lilting, accented English. “I’ll bring it to you.” Gen nodded and looked around again, deciding which table to take. A few people had opted for inside tables, but most of Sadie’s patrons were outside, enjoying the weather. It was too early for the brasserie to be busy, for which Gen was glad.
She took a seat at one of the tables, and Sadie got to work brewing the espresso and steaming the milk for her coffee. Gen looked around as she shifted a bit in her chair to get comfortable, settling in for the spare hour she had before she needed to go collect Mathilde from the school. The other patrons inside were a couple of elderly ladies, a pair of middle-aged men, and three women of about her same age, all at different tables.
“And so, my American friend,” Sadie said, sitting down across from her as she settled the cup, saucer, and pitcher of steamed milk on the table in front of Gen. “I hope you have the time to tell me more about yourself today.”
“There isn’t much to tell, really,” Gen said, ripping open a sugar packet and emptying it into her cup. Sadie intercepted the pitcher of milk and poured it into the coffee while Gen stirred.
“Je n'y crois pas,” Sadie told her with mild reproof, raising one extremely well-groomed eyebrow and tilting her head slightly. That was something that Gen had noticed about the women of France, at least those that she had seen so far. Her life in Manhattan had shown her some amazing street style, and the upper echelons of the finance world had given her a feel for designer fashions and professional hair and makeup, but French women all seemed to have personal grooming under control to such an extent that it seemed effortless. Even young French girls seemed to have perfected their individual styles; their skin was immaculate, their eyebrows perfectly shaped, their hair carelessly flawless.
