dad fell off a mountain.” Alexandre obviously wanted to chime in. Jeanne-Marie wished she hadn’t spoken. “He would have taught me to climb mountains. Do you know how?”
“It was a long time ago, Alexandre. I’m sure Monsieur Sommer will be extra careful. We don’t tell our guests our family situation,” she said gently.
Matthieu Sommer inclined his head once, his gaze moving from her to her son and back again. She wondered what was going through his mind.
“I’ve given you room six. It’s a corner room with a view of Les Calanques.” She handed him a key and gestured to the wide stairs along the wall. “To the top and left,” she said.
“Merci.” He lifted his bag with no effort and soon was lost from sight.
Jeanne-Marie sighed a breath of relief. Meeting her disturbing new guest had caused dozens of emotions to clamor forth. She preferred families with small children to sexy single men who believed they could conquer the world. Especially when just looking at them affected her equilibrium. Too long alone, that’s all.
What caused the pain that lurked in his eyes? Why had he come to quiet St. Bart when she’d expect a man like him to choose a luxury place in Marseilles?
She studied the registration card for a long moment, as if his name and address could give her any insights. Sighing in defeat, she filed the card and tried to put her latest guest out of her mind.
Rene, the student who worked evenings, would arrive soon. She’d give him an update on their guests and then be free to take Alexandre for that swim. As she waited for Rene to arrive, her thoughts returned to Matthieu Sommer. He looked to be about thirty-five. Too old not to be married. Maybe his wife didn’t share his climbing enthusiasm. That Jeanne-Marie could understand. But when Phillipe had gone climbing, she usually went along and stayed in the village or town nearest the mountain to enjoy the local amenities and be near him when he wasn’t climbing. So, was the delectable Frenchman single or just vacationing solo?
Matt Sommer entered room six and glanced around as he tossed his bag on the bed. It was spacious, with high ceilings, windows that went to the floor and a view that didn’t quit. Fresh flowers brightened the dresser. He took note of the efforts the innkeeper had gone to, but she could have saved her time. A room was merely a place to sleep for him. When he could sleep, that was.
He crossed to the window and gazed at the cliffs he’d come to climb. A friend had recommended they challenge themselves with Les Calanques, but Paul had wanted to stay in Marseilles, and Matt knew that meant constant party time at night, not at all conducive to serious climbing in the morning. Man against nature, with unforgiving demands that allowed no room for error. He did it to escape. For a short while, his mind freed from the past, he’d pit his skill against the rocks. Brief respites from the unrelenting memories. He was prudent enough when climbing to know he wasn’t trying to get killed. But if something happened, so be it. It would be no more than he deserved.
He’d booked the room in this quiet village for a week and planned to do some free climbing with or without Paul. His friend was welcome to the nightlife in Marseilles. Spring was a quiet time at the vineyard. For the next week he was on his own. No one from his family knew where to find him. He’d instructed his PA to contact him only in the case of an emergency—a real emergency.
He studied the rocky crags for a long moment, then turned to survey the space he would inhabit for the next few days. Clean and fresh were the adjectives that sprang to mind. The bed was piled with pillows and a duvet with a pristine white cover. The sheers at the windows billowed slightly in the sea breeze. He could leave the windows open at night and hear the soft lapping of waves. The sun shone in, below the angle of the roof. It could get warm if closed up, but the proprietress obviously knew how to cater to her clientele. The room was charming with local artwork on the walls and two comfortable chairs near the side windows. He sank into one chair and regarded the bed for a moment. If he let himself, he could imagine what Marabelle would have thought of the room. But he wouldn’t give in. She was gone. Yet he knew she’d have found the place charming and been delighted to be staying by the sea.
Pushing himself up, he made quick work of putting his clothes away in the armoire against one wall. Time to explore the small town and maybe pick up some information on the best climbs. The small village nestled in one of the inlets of Les Calanques had appeared quaint enough as he’d driven through. Originally a fishing village, it had opened up to tourists some decades ago, yet still retained its roots. The main part of town flanked the marina and hugged the curving inlet.
The inn was older than he’d expected. How had the young widow become its owner, he wondered. She was pretty and friendly enough. A necessary attribute of an innkeeper, he was sure.
Madame Rousseau seemed far too young to be widowed. Not that there was a certain age that made it suitable. Her son was cute. Did she realize how lucky she was? He’d give anything if his son were still alive.
Matt’s own son had burned in the car crash that had killed both him and his mother. A car Marabelle had been driving when Matt should have been at the wheel. He fought the anguish. Nothing would ever ease the pain. The rest of his family had rallied around, but couldn’t get through to him much as they tried. No one understood. They offered platitudes, but no one had experienced the same kind of loss. The kind that ripped a heart into shreds and never relented.
The woman downstairs might understand. To a degree. How did she cope?
He wondered if the innkeeper’s family had offered the same platitudes when her husband had died. Had it helped? Or had she just wanted everyone to go away and leave her alone with her grief?
Not that he cared. So she was pretty. Marabelle had been beautiful. Love had come swiftly and ended in an instant.
He was here to try the kind of activities he’d once loved—and to forget, if only for a few hours at a time.
“Time to get ready for dinner,” Jeanne-Marie called to Alexandre later in the afternoon.
“I don’t want to,” he said, scuffing along at the water’s edge. His small footprints on the wet sand made her smile. One day he’d be taller than her and his footprint would be larger, too.
She joined him and ruffled his hair. “Too bad. We need to eat soon or you’ll be finishing dessert in your jammies.”
He laughed, clutching his cars close. “We can’t eat in our jammies. Can we eat at Le Chat Noir? I’m hungry for some of their food.”
“I had planned salad and soup for dinner.” Jeanne-Marie gathered their towels, slipping on the cover-up over her bathing suit for modesty’s sake. She didn’t bother with her shoes; they’d brush their feet off on the veranda and scoot to their quarters.
“Please, Mama. It’s a special day. The inn is full, I heard you say. And that’s always a good thing.”
It was her turn to laugh at his mimicking what she’d said to her friend Madeline. “Yes, it is a good thing. So perhaps we could celebrate with dinner out. But not until you wash that sand off your feet and change into dry clothes!” He didn’t even know it was the anniversary of his father’s death. She was glad in one way, but mourned how little Alexandre would ever remember about his father. Phillipe had loved him so.
With a yell of glee, he took off running toward the inn. Jeanne-Marie followed, keeping enough behind to let him win. They stomped on the veranda and brushed the worst of the sand from their feet. Alexandre scampered into the lounge and through to the back
