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“I come from humble means, Mr. Dubois.”
“Many of us do,” I say, suddenly conscious of my multi-thousand-euro gold watch.
“It’s not the humble means that’s an issue,” she continues as I pull my sleeve over the watch. “It's the fact that there were no opportunities back home. No way to better myself. No way to be who I wanted to be.” She swallows hard. “Why do you think I had to get out of there?”
“That was my question. Natalie. The American girls I meet in Paris are either students, women of leisure, or high-powered career types. Why are you here, in Paris?”
“Yeah, well, that’s not me.”
She’s managed at once to answer a question I didn’t ask, and entirely avoid the one I did. A tough exterior appears around her like a drawbridge protecting the castle. Her jaw clenches as she clasps her hands in front of her, closing herself off to me. I haven’t seen this side of Natalie before. It's different from the toughness she shows at work, where she is full of vibrancy, ready for any challenge.
There is fragility in her. I’m at once relieved and unsure how to handle it. Marcial steps in front of us, tapping his watch.
“Looks like we have to get going,” I say to Natalie.
“We still have a long trip, don't we?”
“Indeed. And if we stop at every beautiful village along the way, this voyage might take a year.”
“There are worse things,” she says with that sunshine smile, no sign of the pensive and somber woman from a few minutes ago.
But I saw that side of her, and I won't forget it. This woman is more complex than people see. I have only had a small taste of the woman she truly is.
And I am hungry for more.
“Your chariot awaits.” I open the back door for her, and she bounds in.
“The adventure continues.” She taps the seat with her palm, and I chuckle as I slip in beside her.
CHAPTER 14
Natalie
The Mercedes-Benz pulls off the highway and onto a country road. Ahead I can make out stone houses and a church overlooking it all. It is as picturesque as a painting. The driver brings the car to a stop in a small parking lot below a very large hill. “Are we here?”
“Not at all,” Olivier opens the door. “But Marcial drives like a madman if I don’t let him have a cigarette break, and this perched village has the best mille-feuilles this side of Paris.”
“What’s mille-feuilles?”
“Ah,” Olivier’s eyes brighten. “This shall be your first mille-feuilles experience. I am honored.” He reaches to help me out from the backseat. His hand is warm and soft. “This way.” He lets go of my hand and points to a stone fort.
“All the way up there?” I am not wearing my walking shoes, and that place is a hike…
“They don’t call it a perched village for nothing!” Olivier bounds up the narrow cobblestones, looking more like a giddy boy than a rich boss man.
“Coming…”
I arrive a good few minutes after Olivier, out of breath and sweating more than is decent. A quick sniff tells me my deodorant is barely holding up. This mille-feuilles better be worth it. When we reach the town square, a boy who must be around two years old nearly ploughs into Olivier’s knee with his pushbike. Before I can warn him, Olivier sees the incoming two-wheeler and grabs the boy under the arms in time to save his shins.
“Ooh la la!” He swings the boy up in the air “Attention où tu conduis!”
The boy giggles and giggles as Olivier flies him through the air like a plane and then sets him down by his pushbike again.
And I’m seeing a whole other side of Mr. Love-Me-Forever-but-After-Coffee.
“This way.” Olivier is back to himself, leading me toward the town’s single bakery.
“Olivier!” declares the baker lady who just might take the prize for oldest woman on earth. “Tu m’as pas dit que tu as une compagne!”
