I ended up with the amazing home you saw this morning, in the town where my family lived for generations. It is my special retreat from the world. I never bring anyone with me when I come here except, occasionally, if I am going to be here for a while, I bring my housekeeper. She's a local girl, too. Chantal was the housekeeper for the woman from whom I bought the villa. When Helene died, I hired Chantal. She is now my housekeeper and sort of, um, my personal babysitter.
"I love it here. I try to visit several times a year, even if only for a week or so. The beauty of the place feeds my spirit. I feel close to my parents here. I have made friends with the locals, many of whom are distant relatives. Right now I'm paying for college educations for several kids from the town."
I grinned at him and said, "Mr. Payne, your secret is safe with me, but I have to tell you that you give every appearance of being a really nice man."
He put his finger in front of his lips and said, "Shh."
We resumed our tour around the perimeter of the fortress. When we got back to where we started, he said, "Well, I don't know about you, but I could go for a swim and a beer. It's hot up here." He motioned toward the car.
I hated the thought of leaving that lovely spot. I asked how far it was back to the inn. He made a face and asked, "Are you one of those cussed individuals who insists upon exploring every inch of new places on foot?"
I shrugged and raised my arms, palms out, "I don't know. This is the first time I've ever been on a real vacation or explored any new places. Based on my response to Paris, which derned near wore out my best walking shoes, I think I may be."
He took my arm and led me to the opposite side of the hilltop fortress. A well-traveled path led down toward the village. He pointed down the hill and said, "That path should be easy to follow. It leads from here to the village, meandering just a bit around the edges. The inn is beyond Gordes. It's probably a four mile walk. You sure you're up for it after your trek this morning?"
I laughed, "It appears to me that practically that entire four miles is down hill."
He nodded, "Except for a few little bumps here and there."
I looked around at the impossibly blue sky, the whitish pink of the stone buildings and the gray-blue of the rocks in the fields. Wildflowers and fields of lavender splashed color here and there. I felt like Mary Poppins standing inside one of those sidewalk paintings. For a minute I truly forgot Luke was even there, but when I sort of came to I gushed, "Oh, yeah, I'm up for it. I don't think I ever want to go inside again."
He said, "Okay, then. Behave like a goofy tourist if you must. As for me, I am driving home, where I will lounge by the pool, reading scripts and drinking beer. The path goes by my place before it gets to the inn. Stop by to cool off before you go back to the hotel to get ready for dinner.
"Oh, and, speaking of dinner, since the weather is so fabulous and you and I are the only patrons today, I propose to request Marie-Claire to serve us dinner on the veranda of the inn. How does that sound?"
I was eager to be off, so I simply murmured, "That sounds lovely," and I headed down the path. I don't think I even said good-bye to him. My eagerness go was partly due to my desire to soak up every possible experience of the land and the town. In all honesty, it was also partly due to the fact that I had noticed how I reacted to Luke's touch. He took my hand when he pulled me down on the bench, and he took my arm when he showed me to the trail head. It was, for him, a natural gesture, I'm sure. It had been years since a man had touched me, and I reacted in ways that made me very uncomfortable. I needed to step back and catch my breath.
The village was a little more than half way between the fortress and the inn. By the time I got there, I was hot and thirsty, so I detoured from the path and stopped by the caf? for a bottle of water and a snack. I chatted with the owner and the waiter while I ate. When I asked for the check, the owner waved his fingers in the air and made that French poofing noise that can mean a lot of things, but usually includes a negative response to whatever question was asked. I was puzzled by that, but I thanked him kindly and moved on.
I stopped frequently to take pictures and to drink in the clean air and silence of the place, so it was late in the afternoon by the time I reached Luke's house.
When I reached his gate, I hesitated. He was sitting in the shade, engrossed in his reading. At first glance, he appeared to be the picture of relaxation, but, looking more closely, I could tell that he was concentrating like a student studying for a final exam. He was totally focused on the story he was reading, and his whole body was reacting. I almost laughed. I read books like that. Story lovers don't read stories, they inhabit them. I started to back away and go directly to the inn so as not to disturb him.
"He didn't look up but said, 'Are you going to stand out there in the sun and get heat-stroke or are you going to come up here in the shade and have some iced tea?"
That got my attention. "You have iced tea?!"
He laughed and said with a nearly perfect Low Country drawl, "Well, ma'am, I have spent a little time in the South occasionally shooting movies. I wouldn't call myself an expert on Southern ways, but I pretty much know that Southerners don't go too long between doses of that disgustingly sweet iced tea. You know enough about French culture to know not to ask for it in restaurants. I don't know if we did it right, but Marie-Claire and I collaborated on something we hope will be a reasonable facsimile. You can give us pointers after you've tasted it."
I walked up on the porch and it was all I could do not to either cry or give him a hug, both of which are, of course, my natural inclination when someone does something nice for me. I somehow knew that neither of those reactions would have been appropriate at that particular moment. Instead, I poured myself a glass from the pitcher that sat at an umbrella table by the pool. The tea was a tad too sweet for me, and I would have liked lemon or mint in it, but I was thirsty and so grateful for the kindness I didn't complain.
He asked me if I wanted to take a swim, and I told him I didn't have a bathing suit. He raised his eyebrows and said, "You came to the south of France and didn't bring your bathing suit?"
"That isn't what I said. I said I don't have a bathing suit. As in: I don't own one."
He grinned and made what was supposed to be a leering face but looked more like a little boy trying unsuccessfully to be bad and said softly, 'This is France, sweetheart. Bathing suits are totally optional."
I leaned back on the chaise and laughed until I cried. He feigned irritation and said, "That wasn't supposed to be funny."
"I know. That's why it is so funny. If you knew me...." I collapsed into another peal of laughter.
"Why don't you own a bathing suit? Last I heard Charleston is very near some pretty fabulous beaches."
I nodded. "Yes, it is, and I go to the beach as often as I can. I don't know how to swim, so I never go near the water. I walk for miles on the beach, but I don't need a bathing suit to do that."
He shrugged and said, "If you change your mind, in the pool-house there's a bureau with a whole lot of bathing suits of all sizes."
I laughed, "Women come here and leave their bathing suits behind?"
He said, a tad too quickly, "No, that happens at my house in Malibu. Women leave all kinds of things behind there, presumably on the hope that I will call them and invite them to come back and collect their belongings. Actually, I keep an assortment of suits here because about the only guests who ever come here are usually impromptu visits from other movie people who are passing through. Most of the time they don't come prepared."
I chuckled and said, "I don't follow celebrity gossip but I'd think that a lot of the movie people would go native... you know, clothing optional."
He nodded and pushed his glasses up on his forehead. "A lot of them do. Mostly the actors and virtually all actresses. They say they don't want tan lines." He made a face, "I'm sure that is part of the reason." He grinned and winked at me, "I pretend to believe it, anyway. Actually, the ones who usually take advanta
ge of the bathing suits here are the movie executives and their wives." He looked at me and somehow I knew that he understood more about me than I had guessed. "There are a few French bikinis and whatnot, but most of the suits are fairly conservative one-piece maillots."
I nodded but didn't move from the chaise. I sipped the tea.
He said, "I told Marie-Clarie it's too sweet."
"Just a tad, but once the ice melts a little it will be fine."
"How about a beer instead?"
I stretched out on the chaise and started to say no, but I hesitated. It had been years since I had tasted beer. Kris and I had often sat on the porch late in the evening and sipped draft beer he brought home from the bar in a milk jug. I was on vacation, so what the heck!? I grinned and said, "Yeah. That sounds really good."
He went inside and came back with two very cold bottles of some German beer I had never heard of. It was a little bitter and strong for my taste, but it grew on me very quickly. Best of all, it was ice cold. Actually, it was divine. I leaned back in the chair and felt the sun on my face and the first sign of the sore butt muscles I was going to have after a four mile downhill walk. I said, "Please don't let me interrupt your work."
"I'm ready for a break. How was your walk?"
"It was fabulous! I am falling more in love with this place every minute. Oh, I want