Her Mediterranean Makeover

She’d looked up at the wall above the arched doorway but had seen no sign, only a brightly planted window box at a green-shuttered upstairs window. Still, the scent of strong coffee along with the sight of tiny round tables crammed into the small space had called to her like the Pied Piper’s flute, and she’d followed it obediently. Inside she’d found a little café, and a welcome that had revived her as much as the coffee.

Jean-Claude, the elderly man who’d served her, had been friendly, chatty and interested in her. That alone would have been sufficient to bring her back, but she’d also enjoyed the ambience of jazz music playing softly from unconcealed speakers on whitewashed walls alongside art that to her uneducated eyes, looked ancient.

All the French newspapers were provided for customers to read, and she’d enjoyed a lazy browse, lingering over the few stories that she could almost understand. If she was going to stay, she thought now, it would be a good idea to set herself the goal of figuring out more written French each day.

Within minutes, she was out of the apartment and heading for the café. She could go and buy the papers for herself, but this was much nicer. It allowed her the illusion that she was settling in.

Besides, it gave her something to do and she needed that. During all those years of caring for others, of being constantly busy, she’d dreamed of taking a holiday alone, of having the time to do nothing at all. But now that she had her wish, she really wasn’t sure that she liked it. Maybe she’d just grown used to being needed, and here no one needed her at all. It was an odd sensation.

The café was busy and Jean-Claude didn’t have time for chit-chat, and when she reached the newspaper rack only the most difficult one was left. Well, difficult for her, she admitted as she tucked it under her arm and carried her coffee to a table at the back of the room. Understanding one word in twenty did not make for an entertaining read.

Having spread the newspaper on the table, she took a sip of coffee and scanned the room, wondering if this was the norm and she’d just happened to turn up last week on the one day when the café was light on customers. As her gaze drifted from table to table she did a double take. A good-looking man was smiling at her. She glanced behind her, but no, there was no one standing there. Gosh, he really was smiling at her.

She smiled back. She’d seen him before. The first day she’d entered the café he’d been seated at the counter on one of the high stools. She couldn’t help noticing him. Well, he did stand out in his pristine white shirt and dark trousers when most of the other patrons wore smart-casual clothes; her guess was that he worked nearby. But it was more than that—there was something about him that made him stand out…a presence. Charisma, was that it?

Whatever it was, he was still watching her. Maybe he thought he knew her from somewhere. If so, he was mistaken. With a mental shrug, she put down her coffee, reached into her handbag for her reading glasses and tried to concentrate on the words in front of her.

She was reasonably successful, despite being forced to glance up every few seconds to see whether he was still there. After a while, Leonie gave herself strict instructions not to look up for any reason at all until she’d read to the end of one full story. The shortest one would do.

Halfway through, though, she was interrupted by a male voice. When she looked over the top of her glasses, the man standing in front of her came into focus. The man who’d been smiling at her earlier. The same man she’d been unable to take her eyes off. And he was even better-looking close up.

Older than he’d appeared at first, he had just enough silver sprinkled through his hair to make him appear…safe. Same deal with the laughter lines around brown eyes that were so full of warmth and humour she found herself smiling even though she had no clue what he’d said.

She hurriedly shoved her glasses to the top of her head where they were anchored by her curly hair, then asked him to repeat his words. She watched his mouth closely as he spoke, trying her hardest to separate the sounds into individual words. Without much luck.

She shook her head and gave him an apologetic shrug.

Compassion filled his face and he leaned forward. ‘Vous êtes sourde?’ he enunciated clearly.

Sourde, sourde… Leonie searched her memory for the word.

He covered his ears with his hands, following the action with a questioning lift of his eyebrows.

Deaf! That was it.

‘Oh, my, no.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m from Australia.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, changing smoothly to English and smiling again. ‘I didn’t think of that. This café does not normally attract tourists.’

‘I’m not surprised. It was pure chance that I found it. There’s nothing outside to indicate that it is a café.’

‘No. That’s the way we like it.’ He grinned. ‘I’m sorry. I meant no offence.’

‘Oh, none taken. I’m not a tourist.’

‘Ah, bon? You live here?’

‘Well, temporarily. I’m here to study the language so I’m a student. I look far too old to be one of those, I know. Do you object to students as well?’ She smiled, sure that someone with eyes that gleamed with humour couldn’t possibly be serious about disliking any group of people.

‘Not at all. Nor do I object to tourists,’ he said firmly. ‘They are important to the economy, they create many jobs, so how could I?’ He indicated the chair opposite her. ‘May I?’

‘Oh, yes. Please do,’ she said quickly. Not that she was desperate for company or anything.

‘I have been to Australia. New Zealand too.’

‘Well, you’re one up on me, then. I haven’t seen New Zealand. In fact, I’d never been out of the country until I came here. Do you travel a lot?’

‘Not now. I have commitments now that make travelling difficult. But when I was a young man, I wanted to see the world, and I travelled cheaply.’

‘Ah. Backpacking?’

‘Staying in hostels or with people I met. I suppose you would call it backpacking. I learned English as I went, because it was essential. I did some grape-picking and other temporary jobs.’

And she’d bet he was a huge hit with the girls. Although his English was perfect, he spoke it with an accent that was unmistakably French, and in his younger days he must have been incredibly attractive. It would have been a lethal combination.

He tilted his head. ‘Are you here alone?’

‘Yes.’ For an instant Leonie wondered whether that was a smart admission, but then she dismissed the thought. Stranger or not, he didn’t seem the least bit dangerous. And it wasn’t as if he knew where she was staying. Sitting in this crowded café with Jean-Claude behind the counter, there was no risk at all.

As if he’d picked up on her hesitation, he said, ‘I did not mean to intrude.’

‘No, no, you’re not intruding.’ She hadn’t meant to give that impression.

‘I noticed that you preferred this newspaper last time.’ He held out the rolled-up publication that he’d been holding. ‘It is not as heavy-going as that one.’ Gesturing at the one on the table, he got to his feet. ‘Now, I will leave you to your reading.’

‘Oh, okay.’ Disappointed that their conversation was to be cut short, she said quickly, ‘I’m Leonie, by the way. Perhaps I’ll see you in here again?’

He smiled then, and Leonie felt the unfamiliar zing of…of appreciation, not attraction. It was just that she hadn’t seen such a good-looking man for a very long time. If ever. And his smile should come with a warning. If she’d been someone else—someone younger, someone…well, whatever—it would have knocked her off her feet. But she was a wife and mother. Well, she had been a wife, and was still a mother. She was well past all that.

Besides, she was sitting down.

‘I hope so. I come here often.’

But he was still a stranger, and had she really just suggested meeting him again when she knew nothing about him? What was she doing?

He held out his hand. ‘My name is Jacques Broussard. I am an old friend of the owner here,’ he said, nodding towards Jean-Claude. ‘Our families have known each other for years. If you want to check up on me, that is.’

Leonie grimaced. ‘Did you just read my mind?’

With a grin, he said, ‘Mind-reading is not one of my talents. But you seem like a sensible woman, and any sensible woman should take care when talking to strangers.’

‘Yes, well, I’m Leonie Winters. Pleased to meet you. And thank you for this.’ She tapped the newspaper he’d given her. ‘I was struggling with the other one.’

He nodded. ‘That’s understandable, and you’re welcome.’

After he’d gone, Leonie sat for a long moment. Jacques Broussard. What a name. Very…um, French. She could still feel his grasp on her hand as if he’d left an imprint. Glancing at her hand, she shook her head, dismissing the idea as ridiculous.

The last time anyone had shaken her hand was at Shane’s funeral. Before she could stop them, memories of that day flooded her mind, forcing out every other thought. Many of his former employees had approached her to shake her hand, to pay their respects. Tears filled her throat as she relived the emotional outpouring of admiration from people who’d known her husband. Shane had inspired the high opinion of everybody who had had meaningful contact with him, mainly through his work ethic and his one-hundred-percent commitment to anything he undertook.