Page 6 of Into the Dark
When Delmar notices me, I realize I’m staring at the stranger a little too hard, so I turn my eyes away and move to place my basket up on the counter.
“Alex, this is Laurent. Laurent owns La Maison Jaune,” Delmar tells me in thickly accented English. He and I made a deal long ago to converse in English when I come in because he finds the English accent “charming” when “spoken properly”—which, apparently, I do.
I nod in surprise, turning my eyes back to the man who is apparently our neighbor. He regards me with a smile that seems to come from only his cornflower-blue eyes. They stand out brightly against his tan and the sprinkling of freckles peppered over his cheeks and nose. When he smiles fully at me, revealing a row of perfect white teeth (notably no sharp ones on either side), I feel heat creep up my cheeks.
“Bonjour, mademoiselle.” His voice is low and soft as he inclines his head slightly.
“Nice to meet you, Laurent. I’m Alex,” I say in English. “So, La Maison Jaune? That means you’re our neighbor. We live in the house just down the hill from you.”
“Ahh, it is yours? The house is beautiful. I was admiring it only this morning.” He smiles. His English is good. Clear and confident.
“Well, I’ll tell my parents you said so. It’s really their house.”
As Delmar starts to ring up my shopping, I let my eyes wander back to Laurent. He leans casually on the glass countertop with one hand stuffed deep in his pocket and the other scrolling through his phone. Then, as though he can feel me studying him, he lifts his head from his phone and smiles at me. I smile dumbly back and watch as Delmar packs my items into my shopping bag.
I take the bag from him, telling him we’ll be in to settle our account before we leave on Friday, to which he waves his hand in dismissal. We forgot to come in and pay him once, and Mum had almost had a panic attack at the airport. As soon as she got home she sent a check and an apology card with the promise it would never happen again. That was six years ago, and she’s still mortified about it anytime we bring it up.
I say my goodbyes to both men and leave them to the farming conversation I barged in on.
I’m fiddling with the bagged items, trying to fit them securely into the bike basket, when the shop door dings and Laurent comes striding out sliding a pair of dark Ray-Bans over his eyes. I’m momentarily distracted by the sight of him, and it causes me to miss the basket. The bag tips over and Mum’s lemons and zucchini come tumbling onto the ground toward him.
“Crap,” I mutter.
Laurent bends down and picks up the lemons and zucchini, holding them out to me in quite possibly the most ridiculous way imaginable. “I think these belong to you.” He grins. He holds the zucchini flat in the palm of his hand with the two lemons on either side of it. It’s pornographic. He manages to look at me seriously for a moment, but then he breaks into a soft laugh and shakes his head. “I’m so sorry. That was very crude of me. I couldn’t resist.”
“It was a gift. I’d have thought less of you if you’d refused it.”
Laurent’s eyes go to my bike and then come back to me. “Curious form of transport.”
“It’s called a bike,” I say in English. Then, for good measure, in slow French.
He raises an eyebrow and then laughs.
“Actually, the roads are really safe here, and wide too,” I explain, though why I’m explaining this to him I have no idea. I’m certain he knows what the roads are like.
He nods, unfazed by my commentary on France’s road network. “Yes, I am sure you’re perfectly safe. But I would feel better if you would let me drive you back. We are going in the same direction after all.” He smiles that smile again—the one that makes my cheeks heat. The one that makes me feel like I’m doing something wrong just standing here with him. But he makes a fair point, and, honestly, I wouldn’t mind spending ten minutes in an air-conditioned car. It feels hotter now than it did when I went in.
“That would be very kind, Laurent. Thank you. You have room for the bike?”
“Oui. I think so.” He turns his head to look across the street to where a huge black Range Rover is parked half on the curb with its hazard lights flashing, then he takes the bike and guides it across the road where, with very little effort, he lifts it up and places it in the large trunk.
I climb up into the passenger seat and settle the shopping bag on my lap, holding the straps tight together to ensure nothing else falls out. When Laurent gets in and starts the engine the air-con starts immediately, and I almost groan in pleasure. It settles comfortably over my hot skin.
Then it occurs to me. I know literally nothing about this man. He could be an axe murderer for all I know. A French axe murderer. But then Delmar knows him and where he lives. Calm down, Alex. He isn’t hiding a massive, potentially life-changing secret from you. They don’t all do that.
“So, where to, mademoiselle?” he says, turning to face me.
“The house just past yours with the English rosebushes out front and Union Jack flag on the roof, please, monsieur—you know it?”
“Ah! Yes! I know the very one.” He chuckles as he pulls out onto the very wide French road.
Neither of us speak for a few seconds, but then, as is always the case, we both turn our heads to go to speak together. I gesture for him to go on because I’m still being polite.
“I saw you riding,” he says, surprising me. “On the way here. I thought I imagined you.”
I smile. “You did?”
“Oui. It was an unexpected sight. Horses, yes. Chickens, yes. Grapes, yes. Pale women in yellow dresses on green bikes? Non.” He shakes his head and turns to smile at me again. A smile that is overtly flirtatious now. I can’t decide how I feel about it.