The Vine Witch (Vine Witch #1)(15)
“Because they profess to be witches? Who are known to deal in the occult?” He’d overemphasized his words, speaking slowly, though his answer did little to convince the clerk, who returned a blank stare.
“Is that what they teach you in the city? Truth is, we’ve barely had a whiff of trouble with malevolent witches around here since the 1745 Covenants were signed. Why, my own grandmother was a vine witch and wouldn’t have harmed a soul. You want to know who I think is behind it? Those university boys who ride out here on the weekends to raise hell with the local girls. Them with their séances and Ouija boards. Who knows what mischief they get up to after dark.”
Jean-Paul let the issue rest. He always underestimated the sharp distinction the villagers drew between the so-called vine witches and the wicked witches who haunted his childhood dreams—the old hags who wouldn’t think twice about wearing a dead cat around their necks if it pleased them. The witches his nanny had warned him about quenched their thirst with human blood, stirred crow’s beaks and frog’s eyes into deadly potions, and stole babies out of cribs to roast over the fire for their evening supper. Naturally, he wished as a grown man the world could be rid of such superstition. They were living in the age of technology—automobiles, the cinéma magnifique, electric lights that turned on at the flip of a switch. A man had just flown across the Channel in an airplane for the first time, for God’s sake. Now there was some real magic to behold!
Not wishing to alienate himself further from skeptical locals who already viewed him as an outsider, he nodded as though the idea of college students killing cats for fun on the weekend had merit. He wished the man a good day and left.
Outside, the street bustled with traffic from people preparing for the weekend, a minor local holiday to recognize the siege of some long-forgotten castle. The celebration meant little to him, though he was told often enough if it were not for the victory the town would not be standing. Still, he couldn’t help but join in the festive mood as he walked along the sidewalk.
Normally he would visit the feed store to order grain for the horses or perhaps duck into the shoemaker’s shop to have a pair of boots resoled while he roamed the hardware store for a new shovel or spool of wire. He might even flip through the pages of a Boddington’s catalog and order seeds for a spring garden. But with the letter from home and talk of dead cats still rankling under his skin, he felt the need for a distraction. Turning down a quaint side street he rarely visited, he let his nose lead him forward. Vanilla cakes, cinnamon and sugar, and a hint of toasted almond drew him to the door of a decadent-looking bakery catering to tourists and housewives alike.
He stepped inside the tiny shop, setting the bell above the door jingling. A woman with a cord of black hair secured atop her head by a blue satin scarf, her cheeks brightly rouged, popped out of the back room. She wore gold hoops threaded through her ears, making her a dead-ringer for the bohemian women depicted in those art nouveau posters so ubiquitous in the city at the time of the Great Expo. She brushed flour from her hands and smiled when her eyes found his, the sort of coy-at-the-corners smile Jean-Paul understood immediately. He felt her appraising eye follow him as he surveyed the cakes and tarts in the glass cases.
“I wondered when you’d find your way to my shop,” she said.
“Beg your pardon?” He was certain they hadn’t met before.
“Took you longer than most. How long has it been? Three years since you bought the Renard vineyard, and not once have you paid me a visit. I’ve been ravenously curious to know what your taste is.” The woman tapped the glass above a tray of petits fours. “Macaron? éclair? Chocolate mousse? Hmm, not the madeleines, though. No, I think those might have left a bad taste once.”
He had been contemplating the coconut cake, wondering if Madame and Mademoiselle Boureanu would approve. He looked up at the shopkeeper, unsure if the mention of his ex’s name had been mere coincidence or something more. Had they met before? Could she know him from the city? Know Madeleine? Perhaps she knew him from gossip in the village. He hoped not.
Her flirtatious smile wavered. She excused herself and ducked in the back room, a quizzical expression overtaking her face just before she disappeared.
Just as Jean-Paul thought it prudent to leave without purchasing anything, she returned carrying a tray of small tarts still warm from the oven. “Never ignore a hunch,” she said, setting the tray down. She cut a slice for him to sample. “I have an inkling you’re going to love the taste of this.”
Despite his desire to leave, the fresh-baked smell captivated him, and he reached for the sticky tart. One bite and the full complexity hit him. The pastry tasted of fruit and nuts, butter and brown sugar, and the rich spices of cinnamon, nutmeg, and cardamom, all heat-seared by fire. Sweet, yes, but also sophisticated, heightened by a hint of salted brandy. Not unlike a well-aged wine, he thought, the way the flavors evolved on the tongue. He’d never tasted anything like it. His mouth demanded more, the desire tunneling deep into his core until he thought he might buy the entire tray.
“It’s fantastic. What is it?”
“Well, isn’t that interesting.” The woman narrowed her eyes as if trying to see something past his head. “My fig and praline tart. Haven’t made any in years. But something told me to dig out that old recipe again this morning.”
Jean-Paul swallowed, then licked the crumbs off his lips. “I’ll take them all, if you could wrap them up please.”