“That’s why you didn’t tellmeabouthimback then,” he says meaningfully. “But I want to know why you didn’t tellhimaboutme.”
He doesn’t miss a trick, does he?
“You could have used me to make him jealous,” he points out.
I throw him a disconcerted look. We’re still standing side by side. “I didn’t want to do that.”
“Why not? It would have worked. Your man is competitive,” he states bluntly. “The more he thinks he can’t have you, the more he’ll want you.”
“You’re right, Jacksoniscompetitive.” I notice that we’re now talking about him in the present tense. “You should see him playing tennis. Or Monopoly—Christ. But how doyouknow that?”
I turn to face him and go still. There’s something dangerous reflected back at me, something reckless.
“Because I’m competitive too,” he replies, eyes flashing.
10
I feel a flicker ofuncertainty as Étienne stares back at me in the darkness, and then, suddenly, he prompts, “It’s this way, Grace.”
“You know, everyone actually calls me Gracie,” I say, hurrying after him as he stalks up the cobbled driveway.
“Grace suits you better.”
“And they say the French are arrogant,” I mutter.
“And I know you like it because it’s how you introduced yourself when we met,” he reminds me over his shoulder as we approach the main road.
I don’t really know why I did that. I think it might have been a small rebellion, a way to cut myself loose from the power Jackson had over me. I was so sick of being little Gracie, while he got it on with a cooler, much more worldly girl.
But the rush I felt when Étienne first called me Grace took me by surprise.
I could barely walk after falling in the river and there was no phone reception so I couldn’t call Mellie to ask for a lift home. When Étienne dragged a canary-yellow two-seater kayak out frombehind the house, he assumed that he’d come up with the perfect solution to get me back to town.
“But there are rapids,” I squeaked.
He snickered. “Rapids?”
“White water! Look, right there,” I said with alarm.
The stepping stones marked the beginning of rough waters that continued downriver for about twenty meters.
“They arenotrapids, Grace,” he stated adamantly, holding out his hand to me.
Grace seemed more grown-up than Gracie; stronger somehow. I liked how it sounded coming out of his mouth. And I liked the feeling of my hand in his even more.
When we reach the painting of the lady on the side of the garage, I catch the sleeve of Étienne’s T-shirt and pull him to a stop.
“Hey, do you know who painted this?”
He glances at me. “My mother.”
“No way,” I murmur. “Was she a professional artist?”
“It was just a hobby. She worked at the factory before she fell ill.”
“Eau de Sainte Églantine?” I ask with surprise.
He nods.
