Ava Fodor, a slightly plump, frizzy-haired nineteen-year-old American au pair in Paris struggles with being less than perfect. Jean-Michel is Ava's fussy, exacting first French boyfriend whose provincialism drives her up the wall yet who educates he...
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"Ça va, ma belle? How are you, my beauty?" Arnaud asked, as he gunned the car away from the sidewalk, at the same time popping some music into the stereo system. "Tu as bien dormi? Have you slept well?"
"Oui, j'ai bien dormi, yes I slept well," I replied, looking out the window to hide my blush. If only he knew what thoughts had lulled me to sleep – perhaps the same ones he'd had.
"T'as la pêche?" he continued.
"Uh ... c'est quoi, ca? What's that?" He'd either asked me if I had the peach or if I was a peach. I hoped the whole weekend wouldn't go like this. He had home court advantage so I needed to come up with some other sort of advantage fast. Being female and not yet bedded by him seemed a strong one. After the bedding part, I intended to hold an even stronger position, although I wasn't sure how. I counted on my inner goddess to advise me.
"It means, "are you feeling peachy today? In good spirits?''" he explained.
"Ahh. Yes. In fact, I am." He'd gotten that right. "And you?"
"Mais oui. Certainement." He accelerated as if to prove his point. His pale pink polo shirt accentuated the gold of his skin and set off the auburn highlights in his hair. I longed to reach over and touch him. Instead, I touched the base of my throat as I rested my elbow on the arm-rest.
He glanced at me, saying nothing. This was a good sort of game to play to equalize the playing field. I'd touch whatever part of my body I wanted him to touch, he'd notice, and when the right moment came, voilà, his hand would replace mine. Our two-and-a-half hour drive would be the appetizer to the feast that awaited when we arrived. And who cared if we ate anything, although this being France, I knew we would both eat something and care about what we ate.
Once we got on the autoroute, I relaxed. We traveled south, on the A6 Autoroute du Soleil or Highway of the Sun. Even the name sounded promising.
"Where are we headed?" I asked.
"To the LoireValley."
"Where the chateaus are?" The enormous chateaus of the LoireValley built for various kings, queens and kings' mistresses were France's most magnificent.
"Not my family's village, but yes, some well-known chateaus are nearby. Have you been there?"
"No."
When it came to my knowledge of France, I was a big-city girl. Outside of Paris, except for Nice and Pascal's largely forgettable suburb of Saint Denis, I was a total neophyte to French regions, un zero as the French say, like a born and bred Manhattanite, completely out of one's element the moment one crossed the bridge or tunnel to New Jersey, the Bronx, or Long Island.
