Maybe the Jackson I fell in love with still exists. But would I still want him if he does? Is there any chance he might be asking himself the same questions about me?
There’s really no decision to be made. My heart is already in France.
2
The last time I cameto the Ardèche, it was winter, six months ago, and all the trees on the hills had shed their leaves, revealing ancient stone walls and the ruins of old cottages that I’d never even known existed.
But now, in late May, a seemingly infinite landscape unfolds into the distance, undulating layers of tree-covered mountains fading in hue from dark green to hazy white until I’m not sure if what I’m seeing is land or sky.
I only arrived this afternoon and I haven’t done much more than unpack and get ready for dinner with Jackson and Albert. I’ve been full of elation, but as my eyes drift to the foreground where the slate tiles of Château Angèle glint in the early-evening sunshine, I can feel my nerves building. From its base, the house stands at an imposing fourteen meters tall, but Mellie’s land slopes away so steeply that all you can see from this perspective is its distinctly French-looking mansard roofline.
“Ready?” Mellie calls, and I start, turning in time to see her coming down her stone patio steps. “Oh my goodness, that dressis beautiful!” she exclaims, her eyes wide at the sight of my ocean-blue, grass-green, and sunny-yellow thigh-length number.
“Thank you. You look lovely too.”
She’s wearing cream linen trousers with a pink blouse, and her long dove-gray hair is fashioned into a braid.
“And your lipstick!” she exclaims, holding me at arm’s length so she can take in my appearance.
“Yep. I’ve been on a shopping spree. I never would have thought I could pull off 1950s red, but the sales assistant was persuasive.”
She lets me go. “With your new cut and color, Jackson won’t recognize you.”
Good. I want to feel less familiar to him. Since I decided to take up his offer seven weeks ago, I’ve been on a mission. As well as revamping my wardrobe, I’ve had my long dark blond hair highlighted and lopped off to a couple of inches below my chin.
“Going to show him what he’s been missing out on, eh?” Mellie asks with a shrewd look.
I laugh, not even bothering to deny it as we set off along the dusty track through the lower part of her property.
I was expecting her to be a little sheepish about withholding the news of Jackson and Chloe’s breakup, but she was defiant.
“Took him long enough to spill the beans,” she said.
“Why didn’t you tell me yourself?” I demanded to know.
“I didn’t want you to be straight on the phone to him. I thought best for him to come running to you for a change. And he did, didn’t he?”
I couldn’t argue with her.
But I still have no idea what I want to come of this. I’m hoping three-and-a-bit months will give me enough time to figure it out. Thankfully my visa came through on time.
Mellie links her arm through mine as we emerge from under the shade of the oak trees onto the dusty verge of the mountain road. Carefully navigating the steep hairpin bend, we soon arrive at the tall wrought-iron gates of Château Angèle. My grandmother punches in the code and the gates slowly swing open, revealing an elegant three-story château at the end of the drive. It’s built of creamy-white limestone with a slate-gray roof, and nine large rectangular windows face out from this facade alone, all with faded cornflower-blue wooden shutters. The top-floor windows are dormers set into the hipped roof, and hugging the corner at this side of the house is a cylindrical turret that starts at the first floor and ends at roof height. It’s breathtakingly beautiful.
As Mellie and I clear the hedge flanking the drive, the lush garden with its fountain and palm trees comes into view.
And there is Jackson, broad and tanned in a white short-sleeved shirt and navy shorts, standing by the swimming pool with his back to us.
He played tennis when we were younger, and, with his lean, muscular build and lofty six-foot-four frame, I used to think that he had the physique of a pro. He hasn’t let himself go. The butterflies in my stomach have gone wild.
“I’ll see you inside,” Mellie says as his deep voice carries across the water in our direction—he’s on the phone.
Patting my hand, she extricates herself from what I now realize was my viselike grip. I nod, grateful that she’s giving us a minute.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see her climb the wide stone steps to the main door, which must be open as her “Yoohoo!” bounces off the walls of the large entrance hall, alerting not only Albert to her presence, but also Jackson, who whips around.
He glances from the front door to me, standing there at theedge of the lawn, and his eyes widen with delight, his mouth breaking into a grin.
“Gotta go. I’ll call you back,” I hear him say abruptly before he shoves his phone into his pocket.
