The river is a dark olive green, but it’s so clear that you can see to the bottom. It would probably only reach up to my waist if I were to fall in, which helps to ease my anxiety.
Greenery clings to the limestone cliffs that undulate in peaksand troughs on either side of us, and the sky is a cloudless blue. We don’t talk much and it’s peaceful; the only sounds are our paddles dipping into the water, the occasional car humming by on the road that hugs the river, and the chirp of birds.
I like that Étienne doesn’t appear to be in any hurry. When my arms begin to ache, he takes over, sometimes letting the current carry us and just steering occasionally.
“You’re notthatcompetitive,” I joke as other, more determined kayakers pass us, their boats slicing through the river.
His deep chuckle carries over my shoulder.
Over the next hour or so, we paddle through more rapids and my confidence grows with every minute that my sunglasses stay on my face. The last set we go through before we reach Pont d’Arc is the scariest, but I trust that Étienne will keep me safe and he does.
When we round a corner and Pont d’Arc comes into view, I’m overawed. It’s enormous: a natural limestone arch that soars up and over the river, sixty meters wide and almost as high. Étienne tells me that it was formed around five hundred thousand years ago when the river carved its way through the rock. As we drift beneath it, I look up to see thousands of birds flying in and out of nests.
“Let’s stop here for breakfast,” he suggests, steering us onto a small beach.
It’s not that busy yet, but I remember how it was when I came here for a picnic as a youngster—there were families and brightly colored kayaks all over the place. It’s nice to be able to enjoy it without too many people around.
As well as coffee, Étienne’s brought fresh croissants and a blanket, plus more food for the rest of the day.
“Thank you so much for organizing all this,” I say with appreciation as I dig in, ravenous.
“It’s a pleasure.”
“How’s the black GTi coming along?”
“It’ll be ready in time for this weekend.”
“So you’re having another party?”
“Yep. Saturday. Open house,” he reminds me.
“I’ll be there,” I say with a smile.
He’s wearing sunglasses, but with the way the light is hitting the lenses I can just make out his eyes. I notice his attention drifting to my legs.
“What time is Raphaël picking us up?” I ask edgily, feeling the heat of his gaze. “Have we got time for a swim?”
“Around seven, once he’s done with tourists. We’ve got plenty of time.”
I stand up and kick off my shoes, removing my T-shirt and unwrapping my short skirt. I’m glad that I thought to wear my orange bikini underneath my clothes—I was right, it does look better with a tan—but I feel kind of exposed as I walk to the water. I was more at ease around Jackson.
“Are you coming in?” I ask, pulling a hair tie off my wrist and using it to secure my hair in a high ponytail. I glance over my shoulder to see Étienne rising to his feet and simultaneously stripping off his T-shirt, and I almost trip and stumble at the sight of his broad, tanned, leanly muscled chest. He’s not as well-built as Jackson, but he has a natural athleticism about him that is hard to look away from.
He catches me staring and I quickly face forward, wading straight into the water.
Even after all the times I’ve been to the Ardèche, it amazes mehow warm the river is compared to the ones back home. I slip straight beneath the green surface and push off from the sandy shore, quickly finding that I can no longer touch the bottom. It’s deeper here than it was upstream.
“If your mum liked cars, could she have taken over the garage?” it occurs to me to ask as I swim backward, watching Étienne’s entry.
The gray shorts he was wearing earlier are actually swimming trunks, I realize, and they sit low on his hips, revealing a line of dark hair that disappears into the waistband.
“Her parents left her the house,” he replies as I drag my eyes up to his face. What were we talking about? “Olivier inherited the garage,” he adds.
“That’s right, I remember your mum telling me that she’d lived at the house all her life.”
That was the day Estelle had loaned me her bikini. Initially I’d been a bit scared to go in the river, but Estelle had assured me that it was safe if you walked along the bank a short way; she’d swum in that spot since she was a little girl.
“Jackson’s mum, Sandrine, arrived yesterday,” I reveal, and maybe I should be keeping it to myself, but I add, “She thinks that I’m working as a mole, trying to get you to sell her the garage.”
