A light chuckle shakes his shoulders as I stare in awe at the plush surroundings of the mid-sized private plane. It has walnut walls and gray leather recliner chairs, and there’s even a dining area and couch with a TV. Dumping my bag on a seat, I explore the three rooms at the back. One is an opulent bathroom with a toilet and sink. The second is a full bathroom with a rainforest shower, and the third room is a bedroom with a large bed and wall-mounted TV.
“Does it pass inspection?” Beck teases, extending his head through the bedroom door, as I pinch myself.
“This is unreal.” I lift my eyes to his. “This cannot be my life.”
He saunters into the room with a smile. “Were you not expecting this?”
I shake my head, and waves of red hair spill over my shoulders. “I just assumed we’d be flying commercial. When Garrick and I flew to Cyprus, he booked us first class seats, which was a huge treat, but this is something else entirely.”
Beck places his hands gently on my shoulders. “You are a breath of fresh air in a world consumed with materialism.” He kisses the top of my head. “Never change, Stevie.”
Warmth floods my face, and it’s a mix of pride at his compliment and embarrassment at not realizing the obvious. Beck’s family business is aerospace. Facepalm. Of course, we’d be flying in a Colbert airplane. I’m guessing Beck’s family always flies in a private jet.
The flight is almost twelve hours long with a stopover in Iceland to refuel. Beck does a little writing while I critique the first half of the book he’s already written. I get an enormous thrill getting to read his early drafts. I love seeing how the book takes shape through each revision, and I’ve given him some ideas he’s incorporated in the story too. After, we enjoy a gourmet dinner and sip champagne cocktails while watching a movie, side by side, on the couch.
A girl could really get used to this lifestyle.
Beck suggests we get some sleep as it will help us acclimate to the time difference, which is a whopping nine hours. We are due to land at ten a.m. local time, so if we don’t sleep now, it will be virtually impossible to stay awake when we get to the farm. After a brief argument over who will take the bedroom, we sleep in there together on top of the bed, in our clothes, and covered by a light sheet.
A car is waiting when we land to ferry us the short journey to Canet-en-Roussillon. Poking my head out the window, I admire the stunning scenery as glorious sunshine beats down on my face. Despite minimal sleep, I’m wide-awake and as excited as a kid on Christmas morning. Beck asks the driver to take a longer route so we can check out the beach and the harbor before heading out of the town to the farm.
Anxiety makes an unwelcome appearance when we drive through rustic wooden gates and enter his grandparents’ farm. Beck told them all about me, and they’re expecting us, but I’m nervous to meet them.
The air seems still here, almost magical. It feels like we’re miles away from civilization and the thriving town we just drove through. Invisible arms envelop me in a welcoming hug as we bump along dusty roads, surrounded by fields and acres and acres of prime farmland.
“Look on this side,” Beck says, taking my arm and hauling me toward him on the back seat.
A gasp leaves my lips as we pass by fields filled with different fruit trees. “It’s so pretty! Is this a dairy farm too? I saw a field of cows back there.”
Beck ruffles my hair and smiles. “It is and that was livestock you saw. It’s a combined dairy and fruit farm, and they have some vineyards too. Most modern farmers have to diversify to survive, but my grandparents are lucky because they were able to buy the farm outright when they sold the family textile business, so at least they don’t have a big mortgage hanging over their heads.”
“What kinds of fruit do they grow?” I inquire, almost sitting in Beck’s lap as I lean forward to stick my head out his open window. “Besides peaches,” I add, remembering his story about the chocolate shop. A delicious sweet lingering smell swirls in the air, and my tummy rumbles, suggesting it wasn’t a good idea to skip breakfast on the plane. Excitement had my stomach in knots, and I didn’t think it was wise to eat.
“They grow nectarines and apricots too.” His arm slides around my waist, holding me in place as I continue to stare at the never-ending row of trees as we drive by. “Wait until you taste them. They are out of this world and like nothing you’ve eaten before.”
“I can’t wait,” I admit as we round a bend, bypassing a succession of warehouses and barns. Up ahead, the road veers to the left, but we stop in front of a set of closed high wooden gates, shielding whatever lies beyond.
Beck turns me around by my waist, positioning me on the seat right beside him as he points to the left. “That road leads to a petting farm open to the public. It’s super popular with tourists, and there is also a shop where they can buy fruit, milk, yogurt, cheese, cream, and freshly baked breads and pastries. The farm is famous for its jams, and there’s a wide variety to choose from.”
“Oh my god, I’m already starving, and you’re only making it worse!”
Beck laughs. “Trust me,grand-mérewill have a heavenly breakfast prepared for us. The French seem to have mastered the art of abundant eating and drinking that isn’t to excess. You will go home with a greater appreciation of food.”
“Have I thanked you for taking me here?” I grin as strands of my hair float around my face.
“Only about a hundred times.” His entire face lights up as he smiles, and I’m momentarily dazzled. I love seeing him like this. Dressed casually in shorts and a T-shirt, wearing a ball-cap and shades, and just seeming so much freer. It’s like this giant ball of stress lifted from his whole persona the second we set foot on French soil.
“You love it here,” I surmise as the wooden gates open electronically to grant us entry.
“I truly do.” A nostalgic expression appears on his face. “Some of the best times of my life were summers spent here.” A veil of sadness flows over his features.
“Is it hard here sometimes because of your mom?” I quietly ask, reaching out to take his hand.
“Yes and no. I feel closest to her here. Sometimes it’s a comfort. Other times it’s the opposite.”
“Will you tell me if you feel down when we’re here? I want to help.”
“Of course.” He squeezes my hand as we drive toward a large farmhouse up ahead. It’s two stories comprised of wood and stone with copious small windows all over the structure.
