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“Quiet as ever,” Rene responded. He was a bit of a bookworm and always had some book in his hand. Yet he could handle requests with efficiency and expediency. Probably to keep time away from reading to a minimum.
“We’re going out for an early dinner,” she said.
He nodded, returning to his book.
By the time Alexandre had had a quick rinse and was into fresh clothes and she’d showered, it was after six. Most people in town didn’t eat this early, but she liked him in bed by eight, so an early dinner was their norm. Walking down the sidewalk to the heart of the village, the sea to their right, she relished the lingering warmth of the afternoon. It was only early May, but warm enough to swim or lie in the sun as the tourists did. Their little town would fill up before the end of the month. Then for the rest of the summer the town would be transformed from the sleepy fishing village to a fast and furious tourist spot as it expanded to its limit with visitors from all over.
When they reached Le Chat Noir, Jeanne-Marie reached for the door handle just as Alex yelled, “There’s one of our guests!”
Glancing up, she saw Matthieu Sommer almost upon them. She caught her breath again at the sight of him. He was definitely walking their way. Tentatively she smiled as she pulled on the door. He’d obviously taken Alexandre’s recommendation.
He reached around her, put out his hand to catch the door and gestured for them to enter ahead of him.
“I’m taking your advice and trying this place for dinner,” he said as they stepped into the restaurant.
After the sunshine, it took a minute for her eyes to become used to the dimmer illumination. She nodded while holding on to Alexandre’s hand. “I think you’ll enjoy it.”
“Are you going to eat with us?” her son piped up.
“No,” she said quickly. Then realizing how rude it sounded, she gave Monsieur Sommer a shaky smile. “I’m sure Monsieur Sommer would not be interested in sharing a table with a five-year-old.”
He inclined his head slightly. “I’m not the best company,” he said.
Jeanne-Marie nodded and turned to the maître d’ as he greeted her.
“Just you and Alexandre?” he asked.
“Oui.” She glanced at her guest. “Enjoy your dinner.” She was not disappointed he chose not to eat with her. She and her guests rarely mixed. And a businessman here to climb would not be interested in the chatter of a little boy. Still, she wished he’d overridden her comment and said he’d like to eat with her, with them. Though, she’d have been a nervous wreck before the first course.
She and Alexandre were seated at one of the best tables on the patio, the place almost empty. Only two other tables were occupied and far enough away that Jeanne-Marie couldn’t hear the occupants, who were talking quietly.
Opening the menu, she took a moment to study the items, already knowing what she and Alexandre always ordered, but looking anyway.
A moment later Matthieu Sommer was seated at a table nearby. Suddenly aware of his presence she tried to keep her eyes on the menu. Fortunately he’d been seated with his back toward her, so she wouldn’t have to look up and find him watching her. But she couldn’t help taking a glance his way now and then. What was it about him that intrigued her so much? He wasn’t particularly friendly. Keep your distance was more like the vibe he sent out. Granted, he was a handsome man, but arrogant. She didn’t know if she liked him or not, but he certainly had captured her interest.
“I want the chicken,” Alex said, kicking his feet against his chair.
“As always. And I’ll have the quiche.”
“As always,” he mimicked, grinning up at his mother.
Jeanne-Marie closed the menu and put it on the table. She glanced at Matthieu Sommer studying his menu. Wistfully she wished she’d asked him to join them. Not that he’d want to spend his meal with strangers. But during the meal she might have discovered more about him. And even realized they had nothing in common so this aberration of interest would fade.
Had he joined them she would probably have ended up as tongue-tied as a teenager facing a major crush. Yet, it must be lonely to eat alone. She debated asking him to join them now, but in the end decided to leave things as they were.
When their order had been taken, Alexandre brought out his small cars and began playing with them on the table. Jeanne-Marie was glad of the distraction. She had to stop staring at her newest guest. Once his order had been taken, he began to look at brochures he’d brought with him. She suspected they were the ones offered at the inn. One touted the shopping in the little fishing village, tourist places all. Another gave an overview of Les Calanques. And a third was one from a local sport shop that catered to climbers.
Alexandre looked up. “Will I be able to take my cars when I go to school in September?” he asked.
“Probably not. You’ll need to pay attention in class so you learn all you can.”
And she needed to pay attention to her son, and ignore the man sitting so enticingly close.
When their meal arrived, Jeanne-Marie devoted her attention to helping Alexandre with his food and eating her own. She couldn’t help notice when Matt’s dinner was served. And that he finished at the same time they did. The place was still scarcely occupied.
Matt couldn’t finish dinner fast enough. The food was excellent, he had to give it that. But he could hear the chatter behind him between the innkeeper and her child. Their laughter sparked memories of happier times—when he and his small family had shared meals together. Etienne would have been seven now. The pain that gripped his heart squeezed again. His adored son, now buried beside his mother in the family plot. He gazed ahead for a moment, trying to blank the memories. Marabelle had scolded their son if he played around too much when out in public. Now he wished they’d let the child do whatever he wanted. He’d lived too short a time.
Madame Rousseau’s son was just the age his had been when the drunk driver of the huge truck had plowed into their family sedan and instantly killed them both. He couldn’t help thinking his reflexes might have been faster than hers, to escape the crash. Or if he’d been in the car, he would have died with them, and not been left behind with all the pain.
He wanted to tell the innkeeper to cherish her son. But of course he never would. He kept the pain bottled up inside and to the outside world presented a facade belying the constant anguish he lived with. Time heals all wounds, he’d been told over and over. Everyone lied. This wound didn’t heal.
Only the challenges of climbing temporarily swept the memories away. Intense concentration was necessary to pit his strength against the walls of rock. And the energy expended ensured he slept most nights without nightmares.
He hoped he hadn’t made a mistake in staying at the inn. He hadn’t expected a young and pretty innkeeper— or a child.
As he ate he wondered about the widow behind him. Her husband had died from a climbing fall. Yet she ran a successful inn in the shadows of some spectacular day climbs. He was curious about her. His cousins would be delighted to learn that he could wonder about something and not be locked into the past. His uncle would see it as moving on. His aunt might even hold out stronger hopes.
Not that he foresaw much interaction between Madame Rousseau and him except as it concerned his stay.
Climbing was dangerous. He knew as well as the next man, a cliff, a mountain could turn rogue and the one scaling its face could end up injured or dead. Yet the challenge wouldn’t let go. To climb a sheer cliff, to scale a mountain too steep and rugged for the average trekker was a challenge not to be missed. The exaltation when conquering each one was a high he had once relished. Man against nature. Sometimes nature won. So far in his pursuits, he’d triumphed. Not that he took joy now; it was just something to do to take his mind off his loss.
He didn’t envy the pretty innkeeper. She’d have her hands full raising a son without a father. He knew Marabelle would have had lots of family to rally around if he had been the one to die. His family tried to help out, but he didn’t need them. It was easier dealing with everything on his own. It was his own private hell, and he wouldn’t be leaving it anytime soon.
Matt heard the commotion behind him as the bill was paid. A moment later the small boy startled him, coming to stand at his side. “Did you like dinner? Isn’t this a good place to eat?” he asked, smiling up at Matt. The boy’s sunny disposition penetrated his own dark thoughts.
He took in the earnest expression on the child’s face and nodded. “It is a very good place to eat.”
His reward was another sunny smile the child bestowed. “I like it lots,” he said.
“Come along, Alexandre,” his mother summoned him.
When Matt followed a few moments later, he spotted the mother and son on the beach. They had removed their shoes and obviously were going to walk back to the inn along the shore.
He hadn’t walked along any beach in a long time. He watched them until others exited the restaurant, laughing, reminding him he was standing in the middle of the sidewalk. Giving into impulse, he stepped onto the beach and headed to the packed sand near the water.
The little boy danced at the edge of the sea, running almost to the water, then dancing back when the small wavelets splashed on his feet. His laughter was carefree. How long had it been since he had felt that carefree? Matt wondered. Would he ever again?
CHAPTER TWO
THE NEXT MORNING Jeanne-Marie placed the coffee press in front of the older couple from Nantes. They were both engrossed in their daily newspaper and didn’t even glance up. Surveying the small dining area, she was pleased to see her guests enjoying the breakfast she provided. Three couples had requested the box lunch she also supplied to guests. Many liked to enjoy the water sports and didn’t want to have to change to eat lunch at one of the establishments in town.
Breakfast, however, was the only hot meal she provided.
Mentally checking off her list, she realized Matthieu Sommer had not yet come down. Or had he left before everyone else while she was in the kitchen preparing the meal? Glancing at her watch, she noted it was almost nine. Surely he would be up and about before now.
Checking to make sure no one needed anything, she slipped back into the kitchen to begin cleaning up. Alexandre sat at the small table at the nook she reserved for their meals. He was playing with his ever-present cars and totally engrossed in his own world. Jeanne-Marie sometimes wished she could go back to being the little girl who had had no thoughts of the future, but had been happy and content in her own safe family life. Her parents were professors at the university in Berkeley, California. She missed the activities of the college town.
She missed her family more and more, but never let them know that when they called. E-mails were easier; she could get the words just right before sending. Truly she was content in St. Bart for the most part. One day she and Alexandre would go to California for a long vacation, but so far it had seemed easier for her parents to come to France than for her to take a small child so far.
She loved France. As she had loved Phillipe. This inn had come to him when his grandfather died. It was a connection she didn’t want to sever. Sometimes she dreamed of what their life could have been had he not been killed. That was not to be, and those dreams had come less frequently.
Meantime, once her guests finished eating, she had dishes to clean and preparations for tomorrow’s breakfast to start. She baked her own rolls and breads. She liked to prepare a quiche every couple of days, and some of the more English-styled breakfasts for those who wanted them, experimenting with different soufflés and egg dishes.
As she washed the plates and cups sometime later, Jeanne-Marie’s thoughts centered on Matthieu Sommer again! She wondered what he’d done upon his return to the inn last night. He’d gone directly to his room. She did not have televisions or radios. She had a small bookcase of mysteries and romance novels, but couldn’t see Matthieu Sommer sitting still to read a book. There was a restless energy about him that demanded physical outlets, not quiet reading pursuits.
Had he left early for a climb? Or had something happened and he had become sick and was still in bed? Maybe she’d run up to check room six. Just in case.
She knew she was being foolish, but it wouldn’t hurt. If he had already left, he’d never know she had checked.
At ten o’clock, Jeanne-Marie went to the front desk to work on some of the accounts. Alexandre was content to play with his toys on the veranda, clearly visible through the open French doors. The day was beautiful, balmy breezes came from the sea, the sun had not yet reached its zenith, so the temperatures were still pleasant. She spotted the envelope immediately, and recognized the bold handwriting with her name clearly written across it. Had she seen it earlier, it would have stopped her concern. And the trip to peep into room six.
She took out the sheet of paper, suddenly feeling more alive and alert than before. She quickly read the brief missive. “Wanted a full day of climbing. In case I’m not back by dark, I’m starting on Le Casse-cou climb.”
She shook her head and refolded the paper. Just like him to start with the Daredevil climb. No easy warmups for him. At least he was smart enough to let someone know where to start looking for him if he didn’t return. She shivered, thrusting away all images of what could happen to a solo climber on the face of the cliffs. There would be others around. He might find a group of two or three to join with, each climbing at his or her own rate, yet within yelling distance in case anyone got into trouble.
She tried to imagine putting her life at risk for something as nonessential as climbing. Granted, she could understand challenging oneself, but her most daring adventures were diving in the shallows of the Mediterranean. Phillipe had loved scaling all different terrains, however. Never tiring, even on climbs he’d done before. So there had to be something to recommend it. That gene had eluded her.
As her guests came and went through the day, she couldn’t help growing on edge as the afternoon waned and dusk approached. Matthieu Sommer still had not returned. She prepared dinner for herself and her son. Telling Rene to let her know when Monsieur Sommer returned, Jeanne-Marie didn’t fully enjoy her dinner as worry began to rise. The minutes seemed to race by. Shouldn’t he have been back by now? What if he’d fallen? What would she do if the police showed up to inform her of his death and collect his things from his room? She almost groaned in remembered agony of when she’d been so notified.
She had climbers all the time staying in the inn. She’d not worried about any of them beyond the normal concern. This was getting ridiculous. He was fine! And it was nothing to her if he weren’t.
“The kid at the front desk said you wanted to see me when I returned,” Matt said from the doorway to the kitchen.
Jeanne-Marie looked up and caught her breath. He looked hot, tired and a wee bit sunburned. The climbing clothes he wore were dirty and scuffed. He had a small cut on one cheek that had bled and scabbed over. His hair was gray with dust. His dark eyes held her gaze, intense and focused.
She felt her heart skip a beat, then race. Her worry had been for naught.
“I, uh, just wanted to make sure I knew when you returned. So I didn’t call Search and Rescue,” she said lamely.
“Hi,” Alexandre said with his sunny smile. “You need a bath. Then do you want to walk on the beach with me?” His hopeful tone almost broke Jeanne-Marie’s heart. It wasn’t often he asked anything of their guests. She wished she had found a male friend who would provide a strong role model for her son. He saw his grandfather too infrequently.
“No, honey, Monsieur Sommer’s tired and probably needs to eat supper.”
“I am hungry,” he confirmed.
She nodded. “Did you have anything to eat today?” Climbing took a lot out of a body; surely he knew enough to eat for fuel.
“Got breakfast at the bakery and they made up some sandwiches, which I ate perched on a small ledge with a view that encompassed half the Med. I’m thirsty more than hungry.”
She jumped up and went to get him a glass of water, relieved he was safe, annoyed she had even noticed.
She handed him the glass and his fingers brushed against hers, sending a jolt of awareness to her very core. She backed off, wanting him out of her kitchen, out of her inn. He awoke feelings and interests best left dormant. She normally didn’t mingle much with her guests. He had already trespassed by coming into the kitchen. Rene could have let her know.
“You can eat dinner here. Mama’s a good cook,” the five-year-old said.
Matt raised an eyebrow in Jeanne-Marie’s direction, a silent question.
She wanted to tell him her inn provided two meals a day, and no one ate in the privacy of her own quarters. But looking at the angelic expression on her little boy weakened her resolve. He asked for so little, was content with life as they knew it. How could she refuse?
“Never mind, I’ll get something in town,” Matt said, placing the glass on the counter.
“If you want to freshen up first, I’ll warm up what we’re having. It’s a stew that’s been simmering all day. I can have a plate for you in twenty minutes.” There was plenty—she had planned on it serving her and Alexandre for two days. A plan easily changed for her son’s sake.
“Deal. I’ll be back in twenty minutes.” He left without another word.
Jeanne-Marie let out her held breath with a whoosh. Turning, she went to the stove. The heat had been turned off the stew, so she quickly began warming it. She had fresh bread she’d made that morning. A salad and apple crumble would be a nutritious meal for a man who had expended untold energy pushing his body to the limit scaling a sheer cliff.
And while he ate, she’d let him know it was a onetime meal. She didn’t provide dinner. She didn’t want him in her space. He’d be gone in a few days, nothing permanent about guests who came and went.
Mostly she felt flustered. Personal customer service was important in running an inn, especially if she wanted repeat customers, but that did not include sharing meals in her private domain. And especially with someone who without effort seemed to turn her upside down.
She and Alexandre had finished their meal by the time Matt returned. His hair was still damp; the cut on his cheek had been taped with a butterfly bandage. Obviously he was used to minor scrapes and had come prepared. His cheeks were slightly sunburned. But the rest of him looked amazingly robust and healthy. Jeanne-Marie was not one to have fantasies about strangers who came to the inn. This aberration had to end!
“I can serve you on the veranda overlooking the sea,” she suggested, jumping up and trying to get him out of her private space.
He glanced at their empty plates on the small table. “Since you’re finished, that’ll be fine with me.”
“I can sit with you to keep you company,” Alexandre volunteered, clutching two cars against his chest.
Carrying out the plate and utensils, she hoped other guests wouldn’t ask for similar service. She worked hard enough without adding an extra meal for all guests into the mix.
She placed his dish on one of the glass tables that dotted the veranda. The sunscreens had been lowered earlier to keep the heat from the lounge. She pressed the switch to raise one to offer a better view, but kept the one directly in front of his table down to shelter it from the last rays of the sun.
“I’ll get you something to drink,” she said, hurrying back to the kitchen. Normally she kept Alexandre away from the guests when they were eating, but the few moments it took her to get the water wouldn’t hurt.
She brought out a pitcher of water and a tall glass. She remembered how Phillipe gulped water as if he were dying of thirst when he returned from climbing.
“Do you need anything else?” she asked.
“No, this looks perfect,” he said when she set the pitcher on the table. “I appreciate the water.”
“I remember.” She sat gingerly on a nearby chair, looking at the sea glowing golden as the sun descended. It would be dusk and then dark before long. Alexandre would go to bed and she’d be alone with her thoughts.
She debated returning to the kitchen. Maybe in a moment. Would it be rude to leave? Did he want privacy or should she act as a hostess?
“You spent a long day on the cliffs,” she said.
“I got an early start, then prowled around a bit on the top. The view is stupendous. No wonder it’s highly recommended.” The words fit, but his tone lacked the enthusiasm she usually heard from climbers.
When he did not elaborate, she said, “The cliffs are so popular the government’s concerned about pollution and eco damage. There’s talk about closing them down, or limiting the number of people who have access.” She glanced at him as he ate. He seemed to enjoy the food. Good. She was an excellent cook. But since her husband’s death, she rarely entertained. At first she couldn’t face having anyone over. She’d wanted to grieve in private. The first few months after his death, she’d kept busy by closing their flat in Marseilles and moving here and learning the guest services trade.
“I saw some trash and debris while I was climbing. And there was a pile of trash at the top,” he said. “People can be thoughtless and careless. Those are the ones to keep out.”
She nodded. “Yet how to do that? Ask if someone is thoughtless before permitting them to climb? Who would admit to it?”
He shrugged. “It’d be a shame to close access because of the acts of a few.”
“If you eat all your dinner, there’s apple crumble for dessert, with ice cream,” Alexandre said, leaning against the table and watching as Matt ate. He’d scarcely taken his gaze off the man.
