Chapter Thirty-one
My first view of Château de Maloret will forever be etched upon my mind, like the coat of arms etched into the stone posts on either side of the wrought-iron gates preventing curious tourists from trespassing. My first view of my new home was, in fact, through those magnificent gates, ornate panels with curling vines, blooming roses, and sparrows caught in flight. While Xavier opened the gates to allow us to pass, I gazed through the rain-splattered windshield at a castle out of a storybook tale, with a drawbridge over a moat, towers, chapel, and partially ruined dovecote. Several of the windows are glowing, warm and golden, against the gloomy day.
Unlike the driveway in my dream, the real drive to Château de Maloret does not feature serpentine twists and turns. It is a straight line from gates to front door, with clipped yew bushes creating an impenetrable hedge running alongside. Xavier follows the drive until it branches off in two directions. He turns left and we continue driving until we arrive at a low stone building with a steeply pitched mansard roof and a series of arched wooden doors.
“Here we are,” he says, rolling to a stop. “These were once the stables, but my great-grandfather modified the building when he replaced his horse and carriage with a 1938 Daimler Roadster. Today, the bottom story is used as a workshop and garage. The top story has been transformed into guest apartments.”
“This is where Amice has her apartment?”
“That’s right. It’s also where your sisters will stay when they come for visits.”
He begs my pardon and leans over to open the glovebox, his arm resting on my leg. He removes a garage door remote from the compartment and pushes the button. Two wooden doors swing open. Xavier pulls into the garage and kills the engine. He climbs out of the driver’s seat, stretching his arms over his head and groaning, before walking around the front of the car to open my door. The scent of wood shavings and car wax is heavy in the still air.
“You said this was a garage and a workshop. What kind of workshop?”
He answers me by taking my hand and leading me deeper into the darkened garage. He flips a switch and dozens of overhead lights flicker on to reveal a massive space filled with gleaming automobiles. He leads me to the first, a futuristic-looking silver sports car with a contoured nose, low, narrow doors, and a panoramic glass roof. He opens the driver’s-side door—which swings up instead of out, like a butterfly’s wing—and gestures for me to get in. I slide into the narrow seat and run my hand over the red leather dashboard, admiring the cockpit’s many gauges and dials.
“The McLaren 570GT,” he says, squatting beside me. “It’s framed in carbon fiber, so it is strong, but lightweight. The top speed is only 328 kilometers per hour, but it’s so low-slung you feel like you are flying over the ground.”
“Two hundred and four miles per hour? You’re a race-car driver?”
“Non.” He laughs, helping me out of the car and closing the door. “I have a friend who works for McLaren. He invited me to their technology and production center in Surrey and let me take one of the first 570GTs for a test on their track at Dunsfold. I put my name on the waiting list that day.”
He shows me the other cars in his collection until we arrive at the last one in the row, an antique convertible roadster with a deep burgundy paint job and running boards.
“Is this your great-grandfather’s roadster?”
He grins. “Oui.”
“It looks like the car Laurence Olivier drove in Rebecca,” I say, resisting the urge to run my hand over the fawn leather seat. “It’s beautiful.”
“It is rather special.”
“So, you’re a collector of fine cars?”
“Non,” he says, shaking his head. “I am an enthusiast.”
“Is there a difference?”
“Oui.” He crosses his arms and leans against one of the old rough wooden posts supporting the ceiling. “An automobile collector is interested in acquiring and displaying. An enthusiast appreciates the function as well as the beauty of the vehicle. An enthusiast wants to drive, to feel the freedom that comes when it is just you and the car. It’s the same freedom and sense of escape I get when I am sailing.”
“You drive all of these cars?”
“Oui.”
“Is there a car you don’t own that you wish you did?”
“That is a good question.” He smiles. “The Petersen Automotive Museum in Los Angeles has Steve McQueen’s 1956 Jaguar XKSS in their collection. I would love to own that car.”
“Why? Because you like Steve McQueen’s films?”
“I do like his films, but that’s not why. McQueen was a skilled race-car driver and a tremendous enthusiast. The XKSS was his favorite. There are stories about him racing it through the canyons and hills around Hollywood, the whine of the engine waking residents, and police chasing him down Sunset Strip, once with Natalie Wood in the passenger seat.”
“What a wonderful story.”
“Have you ever raced through the Hollywood Hills in a vintage convertible?”
“I can’t say I have.”
“Add it to the list.”
“What list?”
“The list of things we will do together. Put it right after sipping spiced wine at a Christmas market in Lake Geneva, but before having children.”
My heart skips a beat. “Children?”
He pushes himself off the post and sweeps me up in his arms, carrying me to the roadster. “Many, many children,” he says, dragging his lips over mine.
He climbs onto the running board and steps over the passenger door into the car. He sits on the leather bench and we kiss until we are tripping over ourselves, frantically fumbling with buttons, snaps, zippers, tearing at our clothes, aching, shaking with a feverish need to taste and touch each other.
“Xavier,” I gasp. “Stop. We can’t.”
“Who says we can’t?” he asks, raising one brow. “I am master of Château de Maloret and if I want to make violent love to my wife in the stables, nobody is going to stop me. Now, take off those damnable lacy panties.”
* * *
Before leaving the stables I learn why the scent of shaved wood permeates the air in the garage. When Xavier said he descended from a long line of boat builders, he meant actual boat building, planing wood, gluing joints, brushing turpentine.
“Boat building is a skill that has been passed down in my family, from father to son, for hundreds of years. My father taught me how to build a boat with my own hands and I will teach my son.”