Cognac & Couture (The Passport Series Book 2) (29 page)

IT ONLY TOOK
me two days to
slide into “comfort before fashion” mode. Now at Sea-Tac Airport, the arrival
screen showed that Sébastien’s plane had landed on time. He would have to go
through customs, which left me just enough time to whip into the bathroom at
baggage claim and check my hair and makeup. I saw a very different version of my
usually stylized self. I’d paired black wool trousers with a deep forest-green
wraparound silk shirt; but while my clothes were uber-fashionable, my unbound
hair was wild from the wind and rain, and my makeup was barely there. I was an
odd hybrid, Pacific Northwesty-Parisian.

Excited, I waited near the etched glass doors of the
international arrivals gate. When he finally stepped through the doors, his
brown eyes searched for me. Seeing me, he strode over, hungrily and purposefully.
In the few steps it took for us to come toe-to-toe, it was all I could do not
to throw myself at him. Marian’s comments months earlier about climbing him
like a pole flitted through my head. Then there was a moment’s pause, when our
eyes met and our connection was restored, followed by him pulling me tightly to
him and kissing me senseless, leaving me weak in the knees.

He growled seductively against my mouth, “Mon Dieu! It feels
longer than two days since I saw you.”

Breathing deeply, I inhaled his cologne. Unhesitatingly, I
admitted, “For me, too! We’re pathetic.”

Standing still, uncaring of the world around us, I wondered,
“How is it you look so good, smell so good, and taste so good? You can’t have been
on a plane for twelve hours.”

“It took a lot of restraint on my part, but I made use of
the restroom in the arrival area. I didn’t want to meet you smelling and
tasting disgusting. You might have abandoned me at the airport.”

Despite the laughter in his voice, I looked into his eyes
and shook my head. “Never.”

He took in the throng of people. “
Mon coeur
, are we
alone?”

Happily, I admitted, “Yes, I was desperate for some time
alone with you. We’ll spend plenty of time with them.”

“Oui. I will have you all to myself at night, and that will
be enough, for now.” He pressed another heart-stopping kiss against my lips.
When he came up for air, he growled, “Perhaps.” He stepped back just a little.
“And now?”

“That is up to you! I know that my mom and John will understand
if we want to have some time alone. However, they are waiting on lunch until I
call.”

“Chérie, we should go, no? Besides, I am excited to meet
them.”

A planeload of people began to emerge from the international
arrivals gate. We followed them, hand in hand, happy to be together.

While
he collected his bag, I
called my mother to find out where to meet, jotted down the address, and
assured her we’d find the restaurant. “We’ll be there in about forty-five
minutes.”

As we walked to the car, I confessed
my mother was really nervous about meeting him. As he put his bag in the back
of the Jeep, he teased, “Did you tell her something bad?”

While pulling out of the parking
space, I admonished him. “No! Of course not. I think she’s worried that
everything isn’t fancy enough. And, while Seattle is not Paris, it’s charming.
I’d forgotten how beautiful it is here. It’s really… earthy. People are a lot
more relaxed.”

“Relaxed sounds perfect.”

***

We drove north on the freeway. Off
to our left, the rugged summits of the Olympic Mountains could be seen, their
snow-covered peaks contrasting against the blue sky. Northeast were the
Cascades, also shimmering white, far away in the distance. Eventually, the
freeway took us through the middle of the city, affording
Sébastien
a clear view of Puget Sound and the city’s
diverse architecture. When we finally exited the eight-lane road, it was to
scale Capitol Hill. I acted as tour guide. “This part of the city has loads of
restaurants, bars, and nightlife in general.”

We wove our way to Melrose Street, up
steep roads that zigzagged upwards. He observed,
“I wouldn’t
call it a hill. It’s more like a mountain.”

Just then, the light turned green,
and he held his breath as the car in front of us rolled back a little before
getting enough speed to progress forward. I chuckled. “It used to make me
nervous, too.” Suddenly, I realized this was the first time we’d been in a car
that one of us was driving.

When I remarked upon it, he
complimented me then surprised me by saying, “You can never drive with Chantal.
She’s terrible. It’s a miracle she hasn’t killed herself or someone else.” I
tucked that little nugget away.

We parked on the street and set
about looking for the Melrose Market and the restaurant Sitka and Spruce.
Following the directions I’d brought up on my phone, we quickly found the
single-story building, painted a dull mustard-yellow, with large wood-framed
windows. The understated sign above the entrance assured us we were in the
right place. It had a tidied up, industrial vibe, with huge wooden trusses
supporting an open loft area above. Dark red brick walls, concrete floor, and
metal railings divided the space into market stalls for different types of
vendors. “It’s Seattle’s version of Marché Beauvau, minus the flea market,” I
observed.

We were just getting our bearings
when my mother and John appeared. They both looked a little shy. After the
hurdle of introductions, John guided us through a tall red door, where we were
immediately greeted by a young woman. “Welcome! How are you?”

I felt Sébastien shake. “What?”

“She asked, ‘How are you?’”

“You’re going to hear that a lot.”

We sat at the communal table; just
a few steps away, chefs worked their culinary magic.

Over lunch, Sébastien answered
questions about Chantal, work, and growing up in France. And he had many
questions for them, too, mostly about me. Sébastien told them how, at her
birthday dinner, Chantal and her friends had been skeptical of my passion for
painting. “They are young and have romantic visions of life as an artist. I
think Kathleen’s glamorous image confused them. I would love to see some of Kathleen’s
paintings.”

John extolled proudly, “She was
more than passionate. The way she pursued art… Well, I was convinced she was
going to take the world by storm, be the next… I don’t know who. Perhaps I’m a
romantic, like Chantal and her friends. I’ll never forget her last day of work
at the store. I asked her if she was sure she wanted to head to school in
Pennsylvania. She said she was, and I was blown away. When I heard she’d gone
to graduate school in England to study business law… Well, all I know is that
if I’d had half her talent….” He looked at me with affection, but something,
sadness perhaps, lingered in his eyes.

I took a deep breath and revealed,
“To lay to rest some of your concern, I
did
apply to Rhode Island School
of Design and
the School of Visual Arts in New York. Both of them turned
me down. So I took it as a sign from the universe to go in another direction.”
And gave up part of myself
. This thought had gone through my mind several times over
the last few months.

All three sat silent. “Kathy, you never told me,” my mother finally
said.

Seeing they were all surprised, I added, “I didn’t want to
get anyone’s hopes up. Turns out, I was right.”

John, his brows furled and his voice rough with irritation,
probed me further. “Did they tell you why you weren’t accepted?”

I registered his anger and purposefully stared into the
distance, avoiding eye contact. “To be honest, I don’t think I spent enough
time on my portfolio. I really didn’t know what I was doing when I put it
together. I think it was lacking in sophistication, that’s for sure.”

“That’s why you should have told me. I could have helped,”
John persisted gruffly.

My mother put her hand over his and spoke evenly. “Water
under the bridge, John. There’s no need to get upset. She made her choices, and
things turned out well.”

He looked at her with frustration and expressed his belief
that she hadn’t understood my true potential.

Sébastien looked at them
apologetically before saying to me in French, “Chérie, what did I miss?”

I reached for him and found the
calm I needed. My voice cracked under the tension as I responded, “I’m fine.
He’s angry, and I get that. He had really high expectations of me, for me. He
spent years teaching me and was disappointed when I didn’t pursue art school.
I’ve never shared my reasons with either of them. I think it would hurt them. I
wanted more out of life than he did. I know my mom struggled financially. It
wasn’t what I wanted for myself.” I paused before adding, “I was young and
thought I would get back to it someday. But it is hard to find the time.”

He looked at me with solemn eyes.
“Aksel Pedersen’s job offer must have been very tempting.”

“I have no regrets about that. We can
talk more about it later. For now, I think we should switch back to English.
Okay?”

“
D’accord!
” To them, he
apologized. “Forgive me, but my English fails me sometimes.”

***

We pulled
up to the house. “This is it,” I announced nervously.

“I know this may sound strange,
but I’m excited to be here, to be where you grew up,” Sébastien said as he gazed
at it.

I stretched across the car and
placed a kiss on his cheek. “I understand. As terrified as I am, I want to meet
your parents, too. See where you grew up. It’s a part of you.”

He cupped my face, stroking my
cheek gently. “Why are you terrified to meet my parents?”

I swallowed the lump in my throat.
“I want them to like me. Weren’t you worried? Don’t you care whether my mother
and John like you?”

He gave a subtle shrug. “Of
course, it would be best if they did, but if they do not, will it affect our
relationship?”

“It would make it harder to spend
time with them, but at the end of the day, it wouldn’t change my feelings for
you or any of my decisions.”

“You have your answer, chérie. You
can relax. I like them, and my parents will love you. Come, give me a tour of
the house, especially the bedroom.”

As we entered the cozy bungalow, I
returned to tour-guide mode. “They’ve done quite a bit of renovating since John
moved in. When I lived here, everything was white. John is responsible for all
the color, I think. It really suits the house, though. The color.”

Knowing we were purposefully being
given time alone, I wanted to rush upstairs and take advantage of him. However,
my plans were put on hold when he spied all the artwork hanging on the walls.
He seemed intent upon looking at each painting, drawing, and doodle. I tried to
look at them through the eyes of a stranger.

“He’s right, you know. You are
better than him.” He pointed to one of my first still lifes, carefully signed
and dated by me when I was six years old.

“Was.” I had come to the same
realization over the last few days.

“No, chérie—still. I’m sure, with
practice, your skills would return, and you would improve. Whether you stay in
your new job or decide to try something new, I will support you. I wish I had
seen all this before you told me about Aksel’s job offer. I would have
responded differently.”

His words meant the world to me.
“I think it’s good that it unfolded as it did then. Everything will work out
with time.”

Standing at the foot of the
stairs, I wrapped my arms around him and kissed him. I needed to convey how
happy I was to be with him and how much it meant to me that he believed in me.
The fear I felt at the possibility of losing him, if I had chosen another path,
surfaced, and I clung to him, holding on for dear life. I felt such deep
sadness and overwhelming desire at the same time. What he felt or sensed, I
don’t know, but when he kissed me, he succeeded in obliterating my emotional
turmoil, pushing me down the path to where I was only aware of physical desire.

His lips ravaged mine, then he
soothed them, gently tracing the curve of my mouth and blowing softly on them,
which set the nerves of the tender flesh buzzing. He trailed a path of warm
kisses to my ear, where he caressed me while sliding his hands over me,
reacquainting himself with my curves before pausing alongside my breasts and
cupping my ribs. Breathing hard, I held on for dear life, wanting more. Always
more.

In a raspy voice, he asked, “Where
is our room, chérie?”

I ran the tip of my tongue over my
swollen lips while I swayed toward him, trying to make sense of his words. In response
to my confused state, he nodded his head toward the stairs. “Show me.”

In our snug bedroom, he dropped
his bag out of the way and closed the door. I quickly reached for him, wanting
to follow where he led.

The cold
rain bucketed down. Heavy drops pounded fragile crocuses and hardy
rhododendrons. It was impressive to watch from the safety of the front porch,
ensconced within its deep, protective overhang.
We had
wrapped ourselves in heavy blankets, safe from the cold and damp, and huddled
together on a wide, reclining bench that was snugged back against the house. As
I tussled with the blanket, tucking it around my feet,
Sébastien
watched in amusement.

“You could help me.” I grinned while reproving him.

“I could, but it’s fun to watch you struggle.” Then, always
the gentleman, he threw off the coziness of his blanket and bundled me up.
“Better?” he asked after dropping a kiss on my forehead. When I nodded, he
returned to his cocoon and closed his eyes, worn out by the long day.

Gradually, his head slowly drooped
to the side, up against the backrest, his lips gently parted, while his breath
came slow and strong. His legs slumped against mine. Happy to have him rest
against me, I settled in and studied his face. A youthfulness came over him when
he slept; his relaxed face lost traces of age, and his rumpled dark hair
flopped out of place.

Gradually, my thoughts turned to the heart of my worries: my
future. What did I see for myself? I had everything. I had an enviable life
that left me unsettled. At work, I remained the same driven woman. D
espite my genuine, giddy happiness at being in love, I
understood that I was searching for something that might cause ruts in the road
for Sébastien and me. From the outside, I had it all; on the inside, I didn’t
know what that meant.

When the front door opened, an energetic combination of
trumpet and piano punctuated the quiet, accompanied by the scent of
orange and cinnamon
. My mother quietly
offered me tea, which I eagerly accepted as Sébastien
woke.
He looked around and sought his bearings, smiling at me as he remembered where
we were.

“Would you like some?” my mother offered.

He breathed deeply and nodded.
“Mais oui. It smells wonderful. Besides, I must try what makes
Kathy
so
happy.”

Looking up into the darkness, she
said, “We have a fire going. Want to come inside? Or should I bring the tea out
here?”

Deciding to head inside with her,
he took both blankets while I carefully carried my tea.

In the living room, I found myself
staring at an oil pastel drawing and recalled the day I had sat in the
Quadrangle at the University of Washington, gazing at the cherry blossoms in
bloom, trying to see all the subtle shades—pale pink petals to dark red nubs of
closed buds. I had worked hard on this painting, creating texture through
color. At the moment, I felt supremely proud of my fifteen-year-old self.

“Earth to Kathy.” That, too, was
familiar. My mother had always said that when I was lost in my imagination or
up to my elbows in projects.

I looked up. “Sorry.”

My mom laughed. “I was wondering
what your plans for tomorrow were. You should go to DeLaurenti’s for lunch,
drag him around Pike Place Market, have a muffuletta for lunch.” My favorite
sandwich at my favorite local Italian deli.

I looked at him to see what he
thought.

Sébastien said, “Anywhere is fine.
I would like to look for a gift for Chantal. She wants something truly American
and preferably vintage.”

“Fremont is more Chantal’s speed
then.”

Confused, Sébastien asked me,
“What is Fremont?”

A chuckle escaped me. “It’s a
where
,
not a what. It’s a neighborhood west of here. Loads of vintage shops,
restaurants, quirky art!”

“Perfect! Sounds like Chantal.” He
asked my mother if she and John would be interested in joining us.

“You two go alone. We both have a
few things to do.”

His offer to include her and John
touched me, especially since I had forgotten to do it, myself. I caressed his
hand to say thank you.