He glances at me. “I’m sure you have better things to do.”
I shake my head. “I like it here.”
“What do you like about it?” He seems genuinely curious.
“I’ve always loved it. I remember the first time I saw this place, how magical it was.” My gaze sweeps along the sparkling green water rushing by us only a few feet away. “The river and thestepping stones…” I look at the rocks that still form a straight line from one side of the river to the other. “It’s so quiet and peaceful.” I turn to look at the house and the tree-covered foothills rising up behind it. “I love the way the walls seem to glow apricot under the sunlight—it looks better on a sunny day like today,” I muse. “I wish I lived here.” I meet his eyes again. “Sentimental enough for you?”
He smiles. “You’re becoming more French by the minute.”
“Still can’t speak the language very well though,” I say wryly. “By the way, I have something to show you,” I remember, getting out my phone. “Louis has sent over a mock-up.”
I did get Jackson to translate the email in the end—mostly it detailed how Louis had arrived at his design. I was blown away when I saw his black-and-white pencil drawing—he’s copied Estelle’s pavilion art closely, except that he’s made Sainte Églantine’s crown of flowers a little bigger and into more of an arch. And hugging this arch, right above it, is a prominent uppercaseSAINTE.
Higher still, in much smaller cursive style and weaving in between vines and birds, bees and flowers, are the wordsEau de.
And thenÉglantinehugs the curve of the dress’s hem at the bottom, turning the general shape of the label into an oval. And as the wordÉglantineis significantly smaller in size and moved farther away fromSAINTE, it looks subservient.
“Sainte,” Étienne says, glancing at me with interest.
He’s leaning inveryclose. I fight against my instinct to move away.
“I don’t know why no one has thought of it before,” I reply, trying to maintain my composure.
One word: similar to the likes of Evian, Perrier, Badoit, Vittel, and Vals.
“At first, I was worried thatSaintemight be too close toholywater, but holy water translates toeau bénite. The official name of our water will still be Eau de Sainte Églantine, but if we make more of the wordSaintein our marketing, that’s how people will remember it. It’smucheasier to spell—Eau de Sainte Églantine is kind of a mouthful.”
“It’s beautiful,” he murmurs.
“I’m so glad you think so. I wanted to show you before I gave him the nod to go ahead tomorrow.”
Our arms brush together as he hands back my phone and the edginess in my stomach ramps up. He’s right: hedoesmake me nervous. If he were to press two fingers to my pulse right now, he’d feel it racing.
He told me he wanted to know what I taste like…
He meets my eyes and suddenly I’m short of oxygen. We stare at each other for a moment and then he looks away and scratches his temple.
“Dusting next?” I ask weakly.
“What?” he replies in a daze. His voice sounds rough as he returns my gaze.
“Cobwebs or kitchen worktops? Maybeyoushould do cobwebs,” I decide as I get to my feet. “You’re taller. I’ll get on with the work surfaces.”
“Okay.” His voice breaks on the word so he clears his throat and adds at a more normal volume as he stands up, “I think there’s a feather duster in the cupboard.”
It’s comforting to think that I might make him a little nervous too.
24
Tuesday is Bastille Day—France’s nationalday—and that evening Mellie, Jackson, Albert, and I walk into town to watch the parade before returning to Château Angèle to enjoy the fireworks display from the balcony. It’s quite possibly the last time this summer that I’ll feel fully at ease at the château: Sandrine is due to arrive from New York tomorrow so I need to take a big, deep breath because I’m not sure when it’ll be safe to exhale.
But Sandrine is in great spirits the next day, waltzing into the office in the afternoon and engulfing Jackson in a hug.
Really, he’s the one who engulfs her. She’s tiny—shorter than me by three inches unless she’s in heels, which she almost always is, but her son still towers over her by almost a whole head height.
I wait patiently for her to greet me. This could take a while.
She and Jackson are notoriously touchy-feely. I’ve even seen Jackson sweep his mum up and spin her around, making her squeal like a little girl on a fairground ride.
