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.
He’d been committed to her. How lucky was she?
Not only had she married her high-school sweetheart, but they’d remained in love throughout twenty years of marriage. Not many couples could say that nowadays.
They’d been blessed by the arrival of two wonderful children who’d never caused them the anguish that she’d witnessed other families undergoing. Theirs had been a close and happy family unit.
That was why she’d never had a holiday without her family, and they’d shared some amazing experiences, albeit close to home in case Shane should have been called back to work to deal with an emergency. He’d enjoyed spending time with his family, but had never lost sight of his responsibilities. He’d taken them seriously; he’d taken everything seriously, actually, even his health. So it was unfair that, despite all his care, he’d still fallen ill.
She’d tried to make him well, and when it had become clear that he wouldn’t recover she’d done her best to make him happy, or, at the very least, comfortable. She’d tried hard, and he’d appreciated it. Never grumpy, never complaining, he’d thanked her every day for the sacrifices she was making.
Huh. As if she’d cared about what she was missing out on. Nothing had been as important as spending every moment with Shane, nursing him herself rather than hand over the chores to a paid carer.
What would Shane think of her now? She’d abandoned her children with the frivolous goal of learning another language. And what use would it be to her?
Once she left Nice for home, she’d probably never visit France again. Why should she, having got it out of her system?
