Invitation to Provence(80)
By now, Clare’s ear was tuned perfectly to Jarré’s Proven?al twang. “I’m not hungry, thank you.”
“Eh bien, a drink perhaps? A glass of wine? Ricard? Champagne even?” He’d open his best for her, give her anything she wanted.
Clare thought opening the champagne would probably be premature and she shook her head, “Non, merci. Jarré, I need to talk to you.”
He gave her a look with those big, sympathetic brown eyes that made her curl up inside. “Bien s?r, Madame Clare.”
“Clare,” she said firmly.
He nodded. “Clare.”
She perched on a green vinyl barstool, leaning an elbow on the bar, wondering how to begin. He came and sat next to her, a big man, a warm man, a man with heart … a salt-of-the-earth-type man.
Realizing that, at this moment, gestures mattered more than words, she reached for his hand. She held it in both hers and leaned closer. “Kiss me, Jarré,” she said, smiling at the look of surprise in his beautiful eyes. For such a big man, his lips were gentle on hers, sweet and searching, as though he were tasting a great wine.
“Clare,” he murmured, and then he put his arms around her and kissed her again. She slid off the barstool and he caught her and held her close. “Ah, Clare,” he murmured again, kissing her some more. Her blue kerchief slipped over one ear and she pulled it off and shook her hair free. Jarré put his hand to her hair, letting the smooth strands slide through his fingers, still looking deep into her eyes. Clare wanted to die of happiness, but she couldn’t allow herself, not yet, because after all, that happiness might not belong to her.
“I’ve loved you since the moment I first saw you,” Jarré said in French, but Clare understood it in her heart.
“And I love you,” she said.
To her surprise, he frowned. “Clare, you are a rich woman who lives in big cities in America,” he said somberly. “I am only a village café owner. I’ve never even been to Paris. How can I ask a woman like you to marry me? Besides,” he added sadly, “I know you are already married.”
“Not for much longer,” Clare said firmly. “And I’m certainly not a rich woman. And of course you can ask me, but before you do, I want to tell you something.”
She stood back from him, arms stiffly at her side, chin in the air, keeping her dignity. “Look at me, Jarré,” she said. “Because I want you to understand that what you see is not exactly what you get.” She paused, took the notebook from her pocket, and looked up the French phrases she needed.
“Jarré,” she said, a little breathlessly because she was very nervous, “when I was very young I was very poor, as poor as the migrant workers here, and I worked in the fields just like them. I couldn’t stand it, I needed to escape badly, I just knew there was another world out there, a beautiful, laughing world meant for me. But to escape I needed money.” She stopped and looked at him. “And there was only one way for an uneducated, pretty girl like me to make money.” She looked him in the eye and said, “So I took it.”
Jarré said nothing, just looked solemnly back at her.
Clare went on, half in English, half in stumbling French, telling the story exactly as she’d told it to Franny. She left nothing out. When she’d finished, she took a deep breath and stood, eyes closed, waiting for him to say something—even though she was sure it would be just one word: goodbye. But still Jarré said nothing, and then she knew it was over. Lips pressed tight to stop from crying, she turned and headed for the door.
She felt him behind her, felt his hand grasp her shoulder, but she pulled away from him, fumbling to put on her dark glasses so he wouldn’t see the tears that came anyhow. Jarré pulled her around, he looked at her, then took off the glasses and lifted the tears gently away with a big finger that smelled faintly of the garlic he’d chopped for the frittata special that morning.
“I’ve never met a woman like you,” he said in a very quiet voice, and Clare stared dumbly down at her espadrilles. Of course he hadn’t. “Women like her” didn’t show up too often in small villages in Provence.
“Clare, you’re not a poor young girl anymore. You don’t dance naked in bars now,” he said. “You did what you needed to do then to keep yourself alive. You’re a beautiful woman, a woman with spirit. You are who you are now.” A glimmer of hope dawned in her teary eyes as they met his.
“I love you, Clare,” he said, “but I’m a simple village café owner. I tend my vegetables and I cook for our local families and the tourists. It’s a simple life and it will always be this way. I cannot ask you to share that life with me.” He shrugged sadly. “I have nothing to offer a woman like you.”
Her heart plummeted. There, he’d said it again. A woman like her. She pulled away from him. “Goodbye, Jarré,” she said, but he stopped her.
“I cannot change,” he said, his face just inches from hers. “This is my life, my world. Would you want to share that with me?”
She stared at him, eyes popping out of her head, hardly believing. “In a heartbeat,” she said, sliding her arms around his neck.
He probably didn’t understand what she’d said, but he understood the look in her eyes all right. And when he said, “So will you marry me then, my beautiful, darling Clare?” she said Yes.