The bed had a new king-sized duvet and they were underneath a dazzling cover, a silky bright purple one Evie had bought in Foix. A tray was precariously balanced on her knee with little coffee cups half-filled and plates covered in crumbs and smears of butter and jam. There was a Sunday newspaper and books, the Zola he had given her in English and the Brontë she had bought for him in French. He was teaching her to speak French; she was copying his voice, imitating his expressions and the movements of his lips.
‘Try it again.’
‘Why are you laughing at me, Jean-Luc?’
‘Say it again. Maybe. Peut-être.’
She made her mouth into a little tunnel as she had seen him do. ‘Pute être.’
He laughed again; there were tears in his eyes.
‘What’ve I said?’
He couldn’t speak. She sat up straight. ‘Pute être. Pute être. That is what you said.’
He wrapped an arm around her. ‘Peut-être is maybe. You say pute. Pute is … it is …’
‘What is it I’ve said?’
‘Pute … It is a – a – a woman who – a woman of the night.’ He was still laughing and she grabbed his shoulder.
‘Oh hell, I wouldn’t want to get that one wrong when I was asked what I want for dinner.’ She refilled her coffee and offered to fill his cup. ‘Plus de café? Oui, pute être.’
He was laughing again.
‘Jean-Luc, I have never seen you laugh so much.’
He took his coffee. ‘It has been a great week together, Evie. I hope for many more. We made a good decision, not to wait, but to be together now. Do you think we are crazy?’
She snuggled down into the crook of his arm. ‘Not at all. It’s been grand. What’s been the best bit of it, for you, this last week?’
He thought for a moment. ‘My life has a meaning now.’
‘Shite!’ she retorted. ‘All life has meaning, whether you’re on your own or not.’
‘You are right,’ he said. ‘But every day this week, I don’t lie in bed or sit playing my guitar or wondering what I should do next; I get up and work on the tractor with the vines, and I know you have good food for dinner and you are here waiting for me …’
‘So I’m the cook and bottle washer who has got your arse out of the armchair and back to work, is that it?’
He kissed the top of her head. ‘Evie, it is good to have you here. You have so much life. This is what you do – you breathe life into an old man in his seventy-seventh year, and his tired empty home.’
‘There’s been plenty of life in you this week, I’m sure.’
He looked suddenly sad. She picked up a book from the covers. ‘So, tell me, what is so good about Germinal and this Émile Zola?’
‘It is about the working classes of France and how hard life was for them. It was the late 1800s and they were in the mines and conditions were bad, so they had to make a strike. André Gide said it was one of the best French novels written. I find it very sad.’
The cover showed sepia people bent over, carrying burdens. ‘I will enjoy this. It’s interesting, how the lives of the poor people were then. It will give me something to think about. Have you started your book yet?’
‘I have read much of it already, your Emile Brontë.’ He raised a mischievous eyebrow and she caught his expression and smiled at the joke. ‘It is good. But what does it mean, the wuthering?’
‘It’s the name of the house.’
‘But what does it mean, the English, wuthering?’
Evie thought. ‘Well the house is up high, isn’t it, next to the moors, and so I expect wuthering is to do with the bad weather. Like weathering. You know, windy and all that. Like the characters, totally blown about by passion.’
He smiled. ‘She is like you, this Cathy. She has desire and she is têtue …’ He thought for the word. ‘Headstrong – wilful, and full of passion.’
She grinned. He was her Heathcliff, brooding, dark, a mysterious man of yearning and sorrow. She could sense it about him, and she wondered if all his past had been miserable.
‘You are thinking again, Evie.’ He pulled her close and her head rested on his chest. ‘Share with me your thoughts.’
She wondered how to phrase it. ‘I was thinking about your photos, Jean-Luc. You have had a lot of women. And is that little girl your child? Where is she now?’
He made the expansive shrug she was now used to seeing. It hid deeper feelings.
‘The child was born in California. She must be forty-eight years old now, maybe more. Her mother Cindy and I called her Soleil, after the sun. I was twenty-six, maybe twenty-seven, and Soleil was – how can I say – not planned. One day, when Soleil was five years old, I came home from work on construction and Cindy was there with another man. I packed my things and I left. That was it.’
‘You’ve had no contact with her since, your own child?’
‘No. I think of her often but – well, I never met my father and I think maybe she will not miss me.’
‘You have no other children?’
The shrug again. ‘Maybe, maybe not. Who knows?’
‘So, what came next then? Who is the dark-haired woman?’
‘Sylvie. The Parisienne. She and I spent ten years together. She knew everything of my body but nothing of my mind. After a while there was little left between us and I moved away.’
‘So, she was the best one then? The lady in the photo on the end?’
‘Hélène. We bought this place together. She was the reason I stayed in one place. She made the money so that I have enough now. She was organised, very practical.’
Evie thought she would have needed to be. ‘How long were you together?’
‘Thirty years, more. The wine-making was her idea. She was a good woman. I just drove the tractor and filtered the wine and—’
‘Played guitar?’
Jean-Luc gave a half-grin. ‘I am a man who is all good for nothing. You see what you have found for yourself?’
‘I think she was a lucky woman, your Hélène. You must miss her very much.’
‘At first, there is pain and the heart dies a little. But you have made it beat again, Evie.’ He kissed her forehead.
‘You must meet my son, Brendan. He is a lovely young fella.’
‘I would like that. You have grandchildren?’
Evie gave a small laugh. ‘His wife likes her house spick and span. I’m sure she’d have no place for any little ones.’
‘Maybe one day?’
Evie pulled a face. ‘You’d get on well with him, Jean-Luc. I must text him; invite him over before the end of the year. What about Christmas? Would that be all right?’
‘This is your home, Evie. You invite who you want.’
She beamed at him. ‘He’s very like his da. Same colouring, same hair. You can’t get a word out of him sometimes. Just like his father was. Two peas in a pod.’
Jean-Luc frowned. ‘And you miss him, your husband, James?’
‘He was Jim, well, his proper name was Seamus. I called him Jim.’
‘You had a good marriage together?’
‘Oh, I thought so at the time, Jean-Luc. He was a very nice man. Very kind, very steady. But, you know, we never did anything like this. Stay in bed on a Sunday, read books, talk about our feelings and things. And I feel a bit sad saying this but, well, I don’t really miss him much any more, not now. At first it was an empty house and it was the little practical things, you know: how do I empty the bins by myself, how do I pay for all the bills? And then I got confused by the loneliness. I ran away for a little time, I sort of gave up on life a bit, went into hiding. But then, I thought to myself, I was just stuck in one place. Stuck in the mud. And I took off. I mean, I didn’t know where I was going or what I’d do, but I just took off. I had to. You know, Jean-Luc, you can’t love someone else if you don’t know who you are and what you want out of life.’
‘And do you know it now, Evie, the thing you want from life? Now you have travelled across France in your little car?’
‘Yes, I think I do.’ She looked at the worried eyes, the lines around his mouth. ‘This is what I want.’
He kissed her and she was caught in his hug.
‘So, what shall we do with today, Jean-Luc?’
‘What do you want to do?’
‘Well it’s Sunday, so maybe a picnic, a little trip out somewhere? You could bring your guitar and we could sit in the countryside and you could serenade me in the sunshine.’
His hand touched her cheek. ‘Maybe. Or maybe we could just stay here all day in bed, and talk.’
Evie hugged him, her arms pulling at the back of his neck. ‘Pute être.’
She stood at their wine stall in the market, the buzz of voices in her ears. This was her new venture, running the stall with Benji while Jean-Luc drove the tractor between the vines at Cave Bonheur to check the progress of the grapes and prevent the presence of weeds. Business was increasing, what with Benji’s expert knowledge of wine-making to impress the customers, and her patter persuading them to buy more than they needed. Next to her, Benji leapt up and down, talking about the grape harvest and how they would be making the wine in the big vats, how hot the temperature would need to be, and watching the bubbles form and then the deep Claret would pulse in the tubes.
She thought about being in Jean-Luc’s arms, that huge hug which enveloped her completely, her face against the rough hairs of his chest, hearing the steady thump-thump of another human heart. She was thinking about the outside warmth of another body, her own feeling of warmth inside, of not being alone. She was strong; she could do whatever she liked now. She could help harvest the grapes, ferment the wine and put it into bottles. She might make cheese; she would have a pantry full of jams and chutneys in the autumn and next spring plant some vegetables, maybe make a coop and keep chickens. The spare rooms needed decorating, their bedroom too. They could even open a bed and breakfast for holidaymakers next summer. She thought about his face, the weathered leather of his skin, the roughness of his hair which crinkled against her fingers, the sinking flesh below his cheekbones. She heard Benji chattering as someone was buying wine and she thought about Jean-Luc back at their place, Cave Bonheur, driving on his tractor around the little vines which were bursting with grapes. Her mouth was smiling.
‘Well, you surprised us all, Evie. I think “dark horse” is the phrase that comes to mind.’
Evie looked up to see Caroline, her hands on her hips, a frown on her tanned face, her sudden smile. She was being teased and grinned back. ‘Caroline. Good to see you.’
‘Who would have thought it, Evie? You and Jean-Luc!’
She was amazed that she had nothing to say. It wasn’t long since she had called him Mr Grumpy.
Caroline persisted. ‘Well. Spill the beans, Evie. It’s been three weeks, hasn’t it? Everyone is talking about it. You’ve saved that man’s business; you’ve probably saved his life.’
She accepted the mug of tea Caroline held out for her, a flask in her other hand. She took a gulp and handed it to Benji, who was eyeing the drink, his mouth open.
‘He is a lovely man,’ Evie said. ‘You will have to get to know him better. Come round and have dinner with us next week?’
Caroline beamed. ‘We’d love to. Now, how about you and I take a break? I’m sure Benji can mind the stall while we grab some lunch? I want to hear all about it. Oh, you’re such a wicked person, not telling me all the gossip! Jean-Luc—’
Evie breathed out. ‘Give me ten minutes, Caroline. I’ll just finish up here and leave Benji to it. I need to run a quick errand then I’ll join you at your stall; I just have a couple of things I need to do. You’ll be all right for half an hour, won’t you, Benji?’
‘Of course.’ Benji grinned broadly, drained the tea and handed the mug back to Caroline, who called, ‘I can’t wait,’ as she walked off, swinging the flask. Evie would follow momentarily; she would call on the woodturner first, who should be at his stall, and ask how the new Cave Bonheur sign was coming along. She thought warmly how Jean-Luc’s face would brighten at the new sign.
Evie took out her phone. A customer was at the stall and Benji was offering a bottle of red wine, speaking excitedly in words she couldn’t understand, except for ‘vin’ and ‘plaisir’. She found a message; it was Jean-Luc’s number and he had texted in French. Tu me manques, mon ange Irlandais, and she smiled at the words, although she only understood the last part. It was nice being his Irish angel. Then she found Brendan’s number and began to slowly write a message. She needed to make sure the words were just right.
brendan, hope all is well & you & maura are enjoying the summer. She paused, remembering Maura, whom she had completely forgotten about, then typed again: im staying here in foix i am now living
She stopped to think. She moved her thumb over the letters.