The love I feel for Jackson right now is so strong. I realize that I love him like he’s my blood. Like he’s family.
Suddenly I can picture a future where all of this is behind us. We’re back to being good friends and he and Étienne are as close as brothers, and we’re all at Château Angèle, spending time together.
A shiver runs down my spine. I want so badly for that vision to come true.
39
That evening, Étienne and Isit out on the newly restored terrace among the strawberry bushes, watching the river roll by. Dinner is bubbling away on the stove in the kitchen. He found his mother’s old recipe book a couple of days ago and even though it’s a bit hot for stew, we decided we needed comfort food. We’re making Coq au vin de Coralie—Coralie was his grandmother, the person who the landwouldhave passed to if her sister’s husband hadn’t gambled it all away.
“What a day,” I murmur.
He reaches across to tenderly trace his fingertips down the back of my neck, but when I glance at him, he looks troubled.
“How are you holding up?” I ask as he returns his hand to the table.
“I’m okay,” he replies in a low voice. “I just can’t stop thinking about Jackson. I wasn’t expecting him to be like that.”
“Neither was I, to be honest. He and his mum are close. But he knows the difference between right and wrong.”
He sighs heavily. “Unlike me. I feel like such a—” He mutters something derogatory-sounding in French.
I cover his hand with mine. “No one could blame you for wanting to hit back at the people who’d hurt you and your mum.”
“He didn’t have anything to do with it though. It was just Sandrine.”
“Hey, this whole thing with Jackson—you didn’t act alone,” I remind him. “I was playing games too. I wanted him to feel some of the pain that I’ve felt over the years. We’ve all made decisions that have hurt people, but we’re only human. And we’re accountable for our mistakes. We’ll get past this: I promise you we will.”
He nods, releasing a long breath.
I hesitate. “One thing I still don’t understand is why you gave us permission to use your mum’s artwork. If you’d wanted to screw Jackson over, you could have pulled out at the last minute.”
“Iwanther to be a part of the story,” he explains. “The story of this town. She deserves it. Her art deserves it. Her ancestors deserve it. Eau de Sainte Églantine is her legacy too.”
“You’re right. And I’m glad you feel that way.”
He sighs again. “After dinner, I want to wash this day off.”
“Swim in the river?”
“Will you join me?” he asks.
“Do you promise to rescue me if I get in too deep?”
“You can always count on me to do that.”
I return his smile, tears pricking my eyes. “Likewise.”
We’re in the kitchen, grabbing what we need to set the table, when we hear a car pull up. We stare at each other for a beat and then both go to look out the window.
I gasp at the sight of the little red Peugeot. “That’s Albert’s car. Please,” I implore at Étienne’s panicked expression. “Albert’s not like Sandrine. Give him a chance.”
“Fuck,” he mumbles, dragging his hand through his hair and looking torn.
I flatten my palm to his back, pausing a moment to see if he’ll give me instructions, but he seems to be lost for words. He waits behind while I go and answer the door.
Albert is just getting out of the car—he’s alone. He glances toward the house, his white hair blowing in the breeze, and does a double take when he sees me.
“Oh, Albert,” I say with dismay, stepping outside.
