Why the hell had I booked a bus tour when I could have spent two weeks on the beach in the Canary Islands?
“Ugghhh.” I threw my arm over my eyes to block out the weak morning light. “What time is it?”
“You don’t want to know, but we should get to the showers.”
“I hate you.”
“I love you too, now get your little butt out of bed.”
I did as I was told, and we made the coach two minutes before the 7:00am departure. I held two pieces of cold toast wrapped in a thin paper napkin and longed for a cup of tea I wouldn’t get.
Lou and I handed our cases over to Tom with an apology for being so late. He took them with a smile and squashed them into the hold under the coach. I had a sudden memory of Sarah telling me that she, the driver and the cook slept under there when they were on a camping tour—more comfortable than tents apparently, but the thought made me shiver. I’m claustrophobic.
When I climbed onto the coach, Craig was sitting in the seat next to Lou—my seat. I looked about for Dani and Jaelee. Jae was on her own and gave me a wave. I plopped down next to her, gratefully. I wasn’t in the mood to make new friends.
“Hi,” I said through a mouthful of toast, my hand over my mouth.
“Hi. You look terrible.”
I threw her a look and swallowed. “So, are you still ticked off with me?”
“About last night?” I nodded. She shrugged.
I changed tacks. “Where’s Dani?”
“She’s back there.”
I turned in my seat and saw Dani—sweet, adorable Dani—seated in the middle of the back seat surrounded by Kiwi guys. My brows nearly met my hairline. I swivelled back to Jaelee waiting for the explanation.
“I really don’t know how or when, but she and the tall one—Jason—have a thing.”
“A thing?”
“He thinks she’s cute.”
“He’s right.” I turned back around right as Dani threw her head back and laughed. “Hmm. Good for her.” Jaelee sulked beside me. “Hey. What’s up?”
“Everyone’s pairing up.”
“Uh, no.”
“You are.” I rolled my eyes—it was involuntary, but I was not in the mood for a sulky seatmate either. I ate my toast as the coach pulled out of the campsite and Georgina stood up and turned on the microphone.
“Bonjour everyone,” she said with an appalling French accent. I knew mine wasn’t particularly good either, but I think my lack of sleep had got the better of my goodwill towards (wo)men.
She told us the ride to the château would take nearly five hours, including a stop for morning tea. Tea! I latched onto the word as the life-preserver it was. I finished the cold toast and did my best to wipe the melted butter—actually, it was probably margarine—from my fingers with the near-useless napkin. I rested my head on the seat and closed my eyes.
“So, how was last night?” Jaelee was not going to let me snooze.
“It was …” The thought fizzled, because I didn’t know. I hadn’t had time to process everything we’d said, and all the feelings Jean-Luc had aroused in me. Aroused. I wondered how Jaelee would react if I told her it was arousing. A small bark of a laugh escaped me. Oh, God, I needed sleep.
Jae looked at me expectantly. “It was lovely.” An insipid response, but it was all I had.
“And?” Geez, Jaelee.
“And … well, it was completely out of the blue. I mean, when you stopped him in the street, I thought he looked familiar, but I couldn’t place him. And I mean, he’s just so …” My hands left my lap to gesture exactly how gorgeous Jean-Luc was.
“He is. He’s definitely ‘just so’…” My annoyance dissolved and we shared a smile. “Yes, and then when we were at the pub and I realised who he was … I mean, it was the most surreal moment of my life. And the whole night I kept looking at him trying to see the fifteen-year-old, you know? There were glimpses, but they were eclipsed by him—the man. He’s so, well … manly.”
“Mmm.”
I was on a roll, my tiredness forgotten. “We were close, though, when we were teenagers—closer than I was with any of my girlfriends—nearly as close as I was with Sarah—she’s my sister. It was kind of like having this super cool French guy as my brother. In the year he was in Sydney, he spent more time at our house than with his host family. It sucked royally when he went home.”
“Did you keep in touch?”
“We did, yes, absolutely. He was a great letter writer—me too. I mean this was, what, ninety-eight? No, ninety-nine, so email was a thing, but back then, we didn’t have the internet at home. And even when we got it, Jean-Luc and I kept writing letters. Some weeks I’d write a little every day, almost like a journal. Then I’d mail it before it got too big to fold.”
“Huh. So, what are we talking, every month?”
“Every week.”
“Seriously? For how long?”
I thought about Scott’s horrible ultimatum and felt the familiar sting of guilt. “Around four years. We stopped writing when we were nineteen.” I omitted the part about me being a giant cow.
“I don’t think I’ve ever written to anyone like that, letters or emails. It would be cool to read back over your letters to him, don’t you think?”
“I guess.”
“But, hang on. You must have tried to find him on Facebook or Insta or something?”
“Of course, but do you know how many Jean-Luc Carons there are online? And I could only guess what he looked like as a man—and I obviously had no clue anyway, or I would have recognised him right away.”
“True. So, did anything happen?” She loaded “happen” with all the meaning it could possibly hold.
“Last night?” She nodded, a conspiratorial smile on her face. “No.” The smile dissolved. “We talked, caught each other up. He’s been married.” I wasn’t sure why I added the last part.
“Oh. But divorced now?”
“Yes. They’re still friends, apparently. Vanessa.” I really wasn’t sure why I’d shared that.
“Mmm. That ‘still friends with the ex-wife’ thing.”
“Right?” So that’s why I’d brought it up—to validate my feelings about Vanessa, even though I had no claim on Jean-Luc, or any reason to be jealous that his ex-wife was still on the scene.
“So, no kiss goodnight?”
“Do you count kisses on both cheeks?”
“Uh, in France? No.”
Then I remembered the forehead kiss. “What about him touching his forehead to mine and then kissing it?”
Her eyes widened. “He did that?”
“He did that.”
“Like a quick smack?” her eyes narrowed, questioningly.
“No, like softly pressing his lips to my forehead.”
She fanned herself with her hand. “Well, darlin’” she said with a pretty good Southern accent, “that is something.”
“Hmm. I thought so. Oh! I almost forgot! He’s coming to Rome. I’m seeing him on Thursday night for dinner.”
“Way to bury the lead, Cat.”