wall, smoking a cigarette and waiting for us. He drives us back to Saumur in good spirits. The men talk in their own way with hand gestures and half-understood French, and I hang my head out of the car and breathe in the scent of France.
Who knows if I will ever come back here again?
Fourteen
SNOW
W e agree to meet in the great Salon at seven. I have an hour to soak in the bath and dress. I get into a two-piece dark grey cocktail dress. It has a high scoop neckline with cut-in shoulders. The crop top is encrusted with floral beading with a keyhole opening at the back and a scalloped trim along the midriff. The short flaring skirt is layered with organza fabric and stops just below the knee. I slip into beaded high heels and pull my hair into a knot at the nape of my neck. I line my eyes, brush the mascara wand a couple of times over my eyelashes and color my lips a deep red.
The effect is sophisticated and sleek.
Feeling nervous and excited I go down to the salon. Shane is already there. He must have heard my footsteps on the marble floors because he is standing by the window, a glass of some amber liquid in his hand, looking at the entrance. I stand at the doorway for a second. Both of us drink in the sight of the other. This is the first time I have seen him dress up and he is, well, there is no other way to describe it, breathtakingly, extraordinarily handsome.
‘Will you walk into my parlor, said the Spider to the Fly,’ he says.
‘Oh no, no, said the little Fly, ‘for I’ve often heard it said, they never, never wake again, who sleep upon your bed!’
He walks up to me. ‘I promise I’ll eat you and you’ll live to see the day,’ he murmurs, his breath whispering into me.
I find myself blushing. He touches my cheek and my throat feels suddenly parched.
‘What will you have to drink, pretty little fly? Vodka and Orange?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘I’ll have a glass of wine.’
‘We’re having a Beaujolais with our starter. Want a glass of that? Or would you prefer champagne?’
‘The Beaujolais sounds lovely.’
‘Make yourself comfortable,’ he says and disappears out of the room. I walk to the window he had been standing at and look out. It faces the side I have not explored. An open meadow borders a forest. I wonder if that is where the wild boars live.
I hear him come up to me and I turn around to face him. He holds out my drink.
‘Thank you,’ I say softly.
He lifts his glass. ‘Here’s to the fireflies.’
I lift mine. ‘The fireflies,’ I repeat, looking into his eyes and knowing that we are not drinking to the fireflies.
First course is Madam’s famous Soupe à l’Oignon Gratinée made to a century’s old recipe. As the dish with a thick golden crust is put in front of me, Shane explains the laborious technique that Madam used to make it.
‘Baguette toasts, half an inch thick, are spread with butter and layered with grated Emmental cheese, sautéed yellow onions, and tomato purée. Over this construct she gently pours salted water. The dish is then simmered for thirty minutes and baked uncovered for an hour at 350 degrees.’
‘No wonder it looks almost like a cake,’ I say.
‘Bon appétit,’ he says.
‘Bon appétit,’ I reply and dip my spoon into it. The inside is so thick and thoroughly amalgamated it is impossible to discern the cheese from the onion or the bread. I put it into my mouth and catch Shane looking at me.
He raises his eyebrows and waits for my verdict.
I exhale and widen my eyes. ‘It’s to die for.’
He grins, happy, wholesome, irresistible. ‘That’s exactly what I think.’
When the soup bowls are cleared away, Madam serves pineapple tartare, finely diced raw pineapple mixed with salt and a hint of chili. It is the perfect palate cleanser after the richness of the starter.
Outside it gets dark and Madam lights candles. I notice that no lights have been turned on anywhere in the house.
‘Is there no electricity this evening?’ I
Who knows if I will ever come back here again?
Fourteen
SNOW
W e agree to meet in the great Salon at seven. I have an hour to soak in the bath and dress. I get into a two-piece dark grey cocktail dress. It has a high scoop neckline with cut-in shoulders. The crop top is encrusted with floral beading with a keyhole opening at the back and a scalloped trim along the midriff. The short flaring skirt is layered with organza fabric and stops just below the knee. I slip into beaded high heels and pull my hair into a knot at the nape of my neck. I line my eyes, brush the mascara wand a couple of times over my eyelashes and color my lips a deep red.
The effect is sophisticated and sleek.
Feeling nervous and excited I go down to the salon. Shane is already there. He must have heard my footsteps on the marble floors because he is standing by the window, a glass of some amber liquid in his hand, looking at the entrance. I stand at the doorway for a second. Both of us drink in the sight of the other. This is the first time I have seen him dress up and he is, well, there is no other way to describe it, breathtakingly, extraordinarily handsome.
‘Will you walk into my parlor, said the Spider to the Fly,’ he says.
‘Oh no, no, said the little Fly, ‘for I’ve often heard it said, they never, never wake again, who sleep upon your bed!’
He walks up to me. ‘I promise I’ll eat you and you’ll live to see the day,’ he murmurs, his breath whispering into me.
I find myself blushing. He touches my cheek and my throat feels suddenly parched.
‘What will you have to drink, pretty little fly? Vodka and Orange?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘I’ll have a glass of wine.’
‘We’re having a Beaujolais with our starter. Want a glass of that? Or would you prefer champagne?’
‘The Beaujolais sounds lovely.’
‘Make yourself comfortable,’ he says and disappears out of the room. I walk to the window he had been standing at and look out. It faces the side I have not explored. An open meadow borders a forest. I wonder if that is where the wild boars live.
I hear him come up to me and I turn around to face him. He holds out my drink.
‘Thank you,’ I say softly.
He lifts his glass. ‘Here’s to the fireflies.’
I lift mine. ‘The fireflies,’ I repeat, looking into his eyes and knowing that we are not drinking to the fireflies.
First course is Madam’s famous Soupe à l’Oignon Gratinée made to a century’s old recipe. As the dish with a thick golden crust is put in front of me, Shane explains the laborious technique that Madam used to make it.
‘Baguette toasts, half an inch thick, are spread with butter and layered with grated Emmental cheese, sautéed yellow onions, and tomato purée. Over this construct she gently pours salted water. The dish is then simmered for thirty minutes and baked uncovered for an hour at 350 degrees.’
‘No wonder it looks almost like a cake,’ I say.
‘Bon appétit,’ he says.
‘Bon appétit,’ I reply and dip my spoon into it. The inside is so thick and thoroughly amalgamated it is impossible to discern the cheese from the onion or the bread. I put it into my mouth and catch Shane looking at me.
He raises his eyebrows and waits for my verdict.
I exhale and widen my eyes. ‘It’s to die for.’
He grins, happy, wholesome, irresistible. ‘That’s exactly what I think.’
When the soup bowls are cleared away, Madam serves pineapple tartare, finely diced raw pineapple mixed with salt and a hint of chili. It is the perfect palate cleanser after the richness of the starter.
Outside it gets dark and Madam lights candles. I notice that no lights have been turned on anywhere in the house.
‘Is there no electricity this evening?’ I
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