Rachel sat motionless, fingers tapping the wheel, the slow tick of the cooling engine and the lonely coo of the mourning doves the only sounds in the otherwise quiet forecourt.
Black and ominous, leaning on its side-stand next to Eugene’s vehicle, she made out the low, feline-like shape of a powerful motorcycle. For a second her heart raced, wild with excitement. Then, recalling Alain’s aversion for motorcycles, she slumped back in her seat, disappointed.
No, it wouldn’t be Alain’s — in the last six weeks, she’d not rested her eyes on his beautiful face once. Ever since their lunch in Cassis, he had made every effort to avoid physical contact with Rachel, and she had not seen Alain or spoken to him. It was as if he’d moved to a different continent. All communication regarding the project was conducted via email.
“Well, he was on a different continent,” she mumbled. Alain had flown to San Francisco on business last week, and she had no idea when he would be back.
Move on, Rachel, like he’s done, she tried to encourage herself, but deep inside Rachel knew it wouldn’t be that simple.
She reached for the drawings from the back seat, locked the car, and with a last, quizzical glance at the motorcycle, climbed the worn marble stairs to the front door.
At the creak of the heavy door opening, Eugene straightened from where he was leaning over the drawings laid out on the temporary desk.
“Ah ha, my favorite moment of the day.” He pushed a bony hand through his thin, rumpled hair.
Rachel crossed the foyer, the hollow echoes of her shoes on the wooden floorboards bouncing from the high ceilings in the empty room.
“Glad you’re here, Rachel.” Eugene nodded toward the stone tile sample on the table next to the drawing. “I’ve been studying the selection you’ve put together, but Marque’s been very distracting. Let me introduce you — ”
Marque looked up from the plans he was studying, a surprised look on his face. Then he smiled warmly at Rachel. “Oh, but we’ve met before. Hi, Rachel.”
“Yes,” Rachel confirmed. “Nice to see you again, Marque.” At the puzzled look on Eugene’s face, Marque explained, “Last May in Monaco — Alain’s yacht.”
Eugene nodded and continued with his struggle to roll the plans together. He puffed his cheeks frustrated at his fruitless efforts and Marque gently took the plans from his hands. After rolling them neatly, he slid the drawings into the plastic storage tube and handed them to Eugene. “There you go.” Marque winked at Rachel and continued in jest, “As a friend of Alain’s, I unfortunately have to deal with this grumpy old man ever so often.”
“I don’t see enough of you — you’re too much in love with that boat of yours,” Eugene fired back.
“It’s a yacht, not a boat.”
Eugene chuckled and shouldered the tube. “Rachel, I have a meeting at the mayor’s office in an hour. Why don’t you meet me for lunch at Chez Du Pont’s?”
“Thanks. See you there, Eugene.”
As Eugene left, Rachel turned back to Marque. “So you’re not just a sailor, but also interested in architecture?”
Marque smiled, shook his head and crossed his arms lightly over his chest. She noticed the telltale signs of the ocean-loving sailor in the fine wrinkles around his eyes, the hard calluses on his hands, the strong back and sinewy arms from winching lines in strong winds. They shared the same love for the ocean, and she missed that sensation — the sensation of being one with the elements out in the open sea.
“So, what is she, this Pure Joy of yours?” Rachel asked invitingly, eager to learn more about Marque and his true love.
“She’s a Swan 45. Do you know anything about sailing?” Marque responded keenly, quick to sense a kindred spirit.
“A little,” Rachel admitted, and dropped her head to guard her smile.
“Would you like to sail with us?” Marque asked.
“Sure,” Rachel responded, knowing this was going somewhere.
Marque smiled, and, leaning forward, rested his elbows lightly on the dusty table. He tented his huge hands in front of his face, and then, making his decision, lifted his eyes to look at Rachel.
“I bought her three years ago and re-fitted her completely. Alain and I sailed her in the Rolex Swan Cup in Italy last year — came in fourth in our class,” he announced, watching Rachel’s face for her reaction.
Rachel knew Marque wasn’t boasting — he was merely establishing the level of sailing he competed in. He was also determining her competency and skill level.
“When’s your next race?” Rachel asked, meeting his challenge with confidence.
“Saturday — we’re competing in the St. Tropez Cup.” He smiled, little devils of joy dancing in his steel grey eyes. “And I’m short a deck hand.”
“Then I’m your man — or rather girl,” she announced, excited about the prospect of sailing competitively again.
With a loud thud of his hand on the table, he exclaimed, “Magnificent — you are my best-looking deckhand ever. Do you need any gear?”
Rachel pinched her lower lip, briefly considering her options. Appropriate clothing would be essential, but all her sailing gear was stowed on her father’s yacht in Plymouth. If she acted fast, he could have it shipped overnight.
“No, I’ll bring my own gear, thanks,” she made up her mind.
“Done. Make sure you go to bed early on Friday — I want everyone on board by eight. You can get a ride with Alain — ”
“N-no, I can drive myself,” Rachel injected hastily, anxious to avoid spending an hour alone with Alain on the drive down to St. Tropez. She couldn’t trust herself to hide her emotions. And she certainly didn’t want Alain to think she was seeking out his company.
Marque snorted, amused, and waved a dismissive hand in the air. “Rachel, you won’t find parking anywhere near St. Tropez on Saturday, and I don’t want to risk having to set sail without you.” His steel gray eyes held her gaze. “Alain has reserved parking at the marina, and you’re practically on his way — just outside Cassis, right? It’s settled — see you bright and early,” he said decisively, and with that, Marque ended the discussion, grabbed his helmet, and headed for the door, whistling a happy tune as he fished his mobile from his top pocket.
• • •
“Good, you’re back from Frisco,” Marque’s brusque greeting came when Alain answered his phone. “I’ve got good news — found a replacement for our injured Suzy. Rachel is going to stand in,” he finished before Alain could interject. “Told her you’ll pick her up around six,” he continued, taking advantage of Alain’s stunned silence to unload the whole lot in one go.
“What are you trying to do, Marque?” Alain seethed, his voice menacing.
“You should thank me, big guy — you’ve been dreaming about this girl for long enough now,” Marque countered.
With deliberate control, Alain inhaled, and then continued in a measured voice, “You don’t understand, Marque. She’s married, and I’ve made a decision — our relationship’s been purely professional now and — ”
“Yes,” Marque interjected. “Professional for the last six weeks it was, and you’ve been a miserable sob ever since. So what if she’s married? You can’t seriously believe this guy — this husband — still means anything to her?”
Encouraged by Alain’s silence, Marque pushed on, “Have you seen him at all? Has your father met him — has anyone seen him in all the time she’s been here in Provence? Tell you what — why don’t you ask her about this so-called husband of hers? Find out how much he really means to her if that bothers you so much.” At Alain’s silence, Marque continued, “That’s got you thinking, hasn’t it?”
“Fine, I’ll pick her up at six,” he agreed reluctantly, imagining the smirk on his friend’s face. Marque had manipulated the situation so that it would be rude of him to refuse. Without a further word, Alain rang off.
He puffed his cheeks, exhaled, and ran a hand roughly through his dark hair. His eyes were scratchy, and the tablet he swallowed minutes ago had done nothing to relieve his thumping headache. The long flight back from San Francisco was murder. Irritation niggled at him as he reflected on Marque’s comments. To his credit, Marque might have a point. Rachel had not mentioned her husband once. Further, reflecting on their evening in Monaco, adultery didn’t seem to fit her personality.
A soft cough interrupted his thoughts and Eugene stepped into his office. With a heavy sigh, his father sat down in the luxury of the deep leather chair across from his desk.
“Good trip?”
Alain was aware of his father’s deep blue eyes searching his face. “Yes, thanks. All went as planned,” Alain replied, running a hand slowly over his brow and down his face. He waited, sensing his father’s motive for this conversation wasn’t to discuss the results of his latest business trip.
“Everything under control then?”
Alain noticed the invitation in Eugene’s remark. “What’s on your mind, Father?” He pushed back to recline his lengthy frame in the chair, crossing his legs at the ankles. This could take a while.
“Rachel — you’ve met her before,” Eugene inquired.
Alain sighed heavily and dropped his gaze, studying his hands intently as he gathered his thoughts. Then he raised his eyes to Eugene and simply said, “Monaco.” The word brought back uncomfortable memories. “She’s married,” Alain replied in answer to Eugene’s silent question.
Understanding flashed in Eugene’s eyes.
“Hmm … ” Eugene replied, but his eyes never wavered. “And she’s happy in this marriage? She’s loved and cherished by this husband of hers? She feels safe and secure with him? And he treasures her? You know all these things?”
Alain narrowed his eyes at his father’s words. The mere thought of Rachel in someone else’s arms pained him. But the thought of Rachel not being treated as the special person she was — or being mistreated — those thoughts gave rise to a deep anger in Alain.
He exhaled slowly and studied his father’s face.
Eugene returned his gaze and added, “You know I’ll never condone unfaithfulness. It pains me to say this, Alain, but Rachel is nothing like Celine. She would never leave her children. You should talk to her.” And with that Eugene stood and walked from the room.