between them?
Frank jumped in again, hating to see them argue. “George and I are glad you met somebody nice. Does she like Provence?”
Glad for a more neutral topic, Jack readily said, “Oh, she can’t get enough of the landscape and the food, but it’s really the people that fascinate her. I spend hours translating for her with all her questions about how they grow lavender, what their mangy hunting dogs are named, how many children they have, anything at all.”
“Well, that sounds promising,” George said. “You’re tied to the land, like we are. Any woman you are serious about would have to understand the pros and cons of you being the Comte de Brissard.”
“That’s my problem. I haven’t told her who I am.”
There was another second of silence. “She doesn’t know?” Frank asked in amazement. “But you’re staying at your own home, harvesting your own lavender and roaming your own estate. She must think you’re the biggest moocher in France—the houseguest from hell.”
“Really, Frank,” George chided him. “I’m sure Jack had his reasons for portraying himself as a simple disaster-relief physician.”
“She doesn’t know I’m a doctor, either,” he mumbled.
Frank guffawed. “You’ve really stepped in the cow patties now.” Frank had always loved American farming colloquialisms. “Your only hope is to tell her the truth—and pronto, before someone else does.”
“I have to agree with him, Jack. It sounds as if you’ve been less than forthcoming. And especially if you like her, and she likes you. It sounds as if you have much in common—both the adventurous types and you both like Provence.”
“Like? Aside from the language, it’s as if she were a native. Lily loves it here.”
The L-word hung significantly over them. Lily loved his homeland. What else did Lily love? She couldn’t love…him, could she?
No, of course not. Why would she love him? He was a skinny, pasty Frenchman who knew too much about dying and not enough about living. “Another thing just came up. The agency wants me to go to Malaysia. Just short-term,” he hastily added. “I haven’t told them my answer yet.”
The air of disapproval was palpable. “I know what you can tell them,” Frank announced. “You can tell them you almost died earlier in the year and they can go to hell.”
George cleared his throat. “I have to agree with Frank, though not quite as bluntly. What would you say to a patient who wanted to do the same thing? You’d keep them home for much longer, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes, but they need me.”
“So do we, Jack,” said George.
“You guys are fine. This farm runs well without me. My mother is tied up in her social events. I’d be at loose ends if I didn’t have someone to help.”
Frank made a sound of exasperation. “We all need to be needed. You don’t have to become a martyr for it.”
It was as if someone had chopped him in the gut. Nadine had said almost the same thing to him at his disastrous homecoming party. Had called him St. Jacques and told him he wanted a statue to himself. “Guys, I have to go.”
“Oh. Right,” Frank said hesitantly. “Take care of yourself, okay?”
“Yes, please do,” echoed George. “And again, accept my apologies in casting aspersions on your ladyfriend. I misspoke.”
Jack accepted, of course, feeling grumpy and irritable and generally pissed off—at himself, not George.
Jack hung up. He could go to Malaysia without having some kind of martyr-complex. His friends just didn’t understand the shortage of willing doctors. Jack should know better than to get all worked up over trivialities. After all, he was the cool, collected Dr. Montford, trained physician, award-winning philanthropist—and all-around jerk to his friends.
“DID HE HANG up, George?”
“I believe so, Frank.”
“He’s a goner for this girl, George.”
“I think you’re right, Frank.”
“I usually am.”
“Ha.”
“Ha, yourself. Go give Renata a kiss for me.”
“Ciao, Frank.”
“Ciao, George.”
15
LILY FINISHED HER blogpost for Fashionista Magazine and checked the clock again. Jack had been working outdoors for several hours and she hoped he wasn’t overdoing it. Maybe he was back at the manor house with Marthe-Louise. Her stomach growled. And if not, maybe there was something to eat there.
Lily wandered down to the kitchen garden. Tomatoes, herbs and various squash overflowed the beds. Mrs. Wyndham’s gardener would be pea-green with envy. He fought humid weather and various related plant ailments all summer. Marthe-Louise was stooping over to clip some chives. “Ah, bonjour, Lily. You desire Jacques?”
Heck yes, she desired him, but probably not what Marthe-Louise meant since even Lily knew the French verb