J.C. and the Bijoux Jolis: The Rousseaus #3 (The Blueberry Lane Series Book 14) (10 page)

“You already love her.”

He did. He had from the moment Étienne and Kate had told him about her. That was a fact.

She chuckled softly, as though pleased. “You know what? Being a godparent looks good on you, Jean-Christian Rousseau.”

“And on you, Mademoiselle Feingold,” he responded, grinning at her as the complex thoughts in his head were whisked away by the sound of her husky laughter. “Hey…you know the way you just said my name? Your accent isn’t half bad.”

“My genes thank you.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Come again?”

“I’m French,” she answered. “A quarter, I think. My mother’s mother, my bubbe, is French.”

“A hundred percent?” he asked, merging back onto the highway.

“I…hmm…you know? I think so, but I’m not sure.” She twitched her lips in thought. “I never met my great-grandparents, and my bubbe doesn’t speak French. She’s a proud American, and my grandfather was born and raised in Brooklyn by fourth-generation Russian Jews. But every year, at Chanukah, my grandmother makes ‘madeleines.’ They’re these little—”

“—scalloped-shaped butter cakes.”

Libitz nodded. “Uh-huh. You know them?” She scoffed at herself. “Of course you know them. You’re
French
French.”

Jean-Christian, like his siblings, had been born in Paris, and he had called it home for the first twelve years of his life. Even now, twenty-two years later, he still retained French citizenship, spoke the language perfectly, watched Les Bleus kick ass on the soccer field religiously, and preferred reading books in his native language whenever possible. So something about the possibility that Libitz was also ethnically French felt like a puzzle piece fitting perfectly into place, and he shamelessly reveled in it the same way flowers bathed in sunshine. It just felt…good.

“I had no idea you were French,” he said.

She shrugged. “I’m also Russian, Polish…and I’m sure there’s some other stuff in there.”

“But your grandmother makes madeleines at Chanukah?” he asked, eager to focus on what they had in common.

“Yes. It’s tradition. When I was a kid, I was surprised when I realized that none of the other kids had madeleines at Chanukah. Just us. When I asked my bubbe about it, she didn’t know
why
she made them every year, just that her mother had done the same. In Israel, they make donuts called
sufganiyot
at Chanukah. She guessed that maybe madeleines were the French version.” She shrugged.

“We have them year-round, but my mother puts candied orange peel into the batter at Christmastime,” said J.C., “then dips them in chocolate.”

Libitz gasped, then turned to face him. “I think I just had an orgasm.”

“
Merde
.”

“They sound
amazing
.”

“They are,” he said, wondering if Jax had his mother’s recipe tucked into some drawer at Le Chateau. Maybe he could find out and try making them for Lib as a surprise. “Do you know where your great-grandmother was from?”

“No clue,” said Libitz. “I really don’t know very much about her.”

“And you never knew her?”

Libitz shook her head. “She died when I was a baby.”

J.C. nodded, turning onto Blueberry Lane and stopping at the gate in front of Le Chateau to enter a code into the security pad. “We’re here.”

“You know, I just thought of something,” she said. “You mentioned that your sister found
Les Bijoux Jolis
in the attic, right?”

“
Oui
.”

“Well…do you think there could be anything else up there? Letters? A journal? Something to tell us a little bit more about the painting? I’d love to know more about it.”

J.C. wanted to kick himself that he hadn’t thought of it before now. “I’m sure Jax wouldn’t mind if we took a look around.”

She raised her eyebrows and nodded with approval as he parked the car and cut the engine. “A treasure hunt. I can’t wait.”

***

Half an hour later, after Gard had helped move the heavy cradle to the back seat of Jean-Christian’s convertible and Libitz had exchanged pleasantries with Jax over coffee, Jax led them up four flights of stairs to the attic of Le Chateau, telling them to behave themselves as she headed back downstairs for a conference call with some TV executives in New York.

“Behave ourselves?” scoffed Libitz, batting at a creepy cobweb hanging from the low, raftered ceiling. “What exactly does she think we’re going to do up here?”

Jean-Christian chuckled softly from behind her, but his laughter stopped as his arms wrapped around her waist and the heat of his lips pressed against the back of her neck. “This?”

A shiver rushed down Libitz’s spine as she leaned her head back against his chest and closed her eyes. Damn him, but he knew how to make her wet in an instant.

“Or this,” he purred, sliding one hand under her blouse and resting it flat on the warm skin of her stomach as he bit her earlobe.

“Or this,” he said, scoring her neck with his teeth as he raised his hand to her breast and gently squeezed it through her bra.

Libitz whimpered softly, turning in his arms and looking up into his dark and dilated eyes.

“What does Neil have that I don’t?”

She gulped over the lump that instantly formed in her throat. “Did you know I’ll be thirty on December 17?” She nodded. “I will. I’ll be thirty years old.”

“Okay…,” he said slowly, searching her face like he wasn’t sure where she was going. “I’ll be thirty-five on April 11.”

She took a deep breath, forcing herself to hold his eyes as she shared her truth. “I want kids, Jean-Christian. I want a home. I want to spend my life with someone I love, someone who loves me back.”

He nodded almost imperceptibly, his expression darkening.

“I…God, it would have been so much easier if I’d met you a year ago,” she said. “Before Kate and Étienne reconnected. Before thirty started looming on the horizon. I would have slept with you, no problem. And I would’ve been able to walk away with a wave and a smile.”

His brows furrowed, and she tried to back out of his arms, surprised when he tightened them around her.

“I’ve had a lot of fantastic sex,” she said. “Like you, I’ve had a lot of fun. I don’t regret it. I wouldn’t trade it.” She pursed her lips, dropping his eyes. “But it’s time for something else now.”

“Does Neil want what you want? A wife and kids? Forever?”

She thought of Neil—of his strawberry-blond hair and the freckles on his arms. She pictured his eyes, soft and tender, when he looked at her, his arms bearing gifts: flowers, Challah, kindness, goodness, stability…

She looked up at Jean-Christian’s handsome face and nodded. “Yes.”

“Does Neil want
you
?”

If she wasn’t certain of Neil’s intentions, Jean-Christian’s question might have hurt her, might have stung. But she was certain. Neil had fallen for her over a year ago—his persistence in pursuing her told her so. His voice when she asked him to stay over on Monday night told her all she needed to know.

“Yes,” she said. “Neil wants me.
Only
me.”

She didn’t mean it as a dig against Jean-Christian, only as a truthful answer to his question. But his countenance cooled immediately, and he released her, reaching up to rub his chin with his thumb and forefinger, looking over her head at the boxes, trunks, and furniture behind her. He must have been holding his breath, because he released it with a huff, avoiding her eyes.

“Well, then. That’s that.”

It doesn’t have to be!
a voice inside of her bellowed.
It could be you and me, if you wanted me…if you wanted what I want from life.

She swallowed, blinking her eyes and blaming the attic dust on their sudden burn. “Yes. I suppose it is.”

He looked back at her, his face turning thunderous as the silence between them grew thick and heavy. Finally, he half-shouted at her: “I don’t want it! I never did. I don’t want to be someone’s husband. I don’t want to hurt someone I’m supposed to love, to let someone down who I promised to—I mean, fuck! How do I even know I’d be a good father? I don’t. I’d probably be shit just like my…” He scoffed, rubbing his chin again, his eyes furious. “And forever? Forever is for chumps who think it exists.”

“Chumps like me?” she asked.

“Sure! You. And Neil. And Kate and my brother. And even Jax and Gard, buying Le Chateau and playing house like a couple of kids.”

He had his fists clenched at his sides, and though she’d thought to spar with him when she’d asked “Chumps like me?” his answer had unexpectedly disarmed her. His words were so naked, so desperate. It only took a second for her to realize that he wasn’t trying to be a dick; he was scared. Someone had done a number on him. And it was a doozy.

“And none of us will work out?” she asked in a low, even voice, trying to understand.

“How the fuck should I know? Maybe you will. Maybe you won’t. But there are no guarantees, are there? Any of you could change…could become selfish fucks who…who…”

“Who what?”

His head fell forward, and he stared at the grimy floor, all bunched muscles and coiled anger, barely restrained fury emanating from his body like heat.

She reached out gently and touched one of his fists, little by little covering it with the palm of her hand, her thumb working itself into the tight spiral formed by his fingers curled into his thumb. And slowly—so very slowly—his fingers loosened and unfurled until she was holding them, until she could lace her fingers through his and clasp their palms together.

Looking up, she found him staring down at her, his lips parted, his face set as though in pain. Raising their hands to her lips, she kissed the back of his, rubbing it tenderly against her cheek. When she lowered them, she offered him a small smile.

“It’s okay,” she whispered.

“It’s not,” he answered. “I’m…I’m not capable of—”

She raised her free hand and clapped it over his lips, frowning up at him. “Of course you are. We
all
are.”

He clenched his jaw so tightly under her palm, she wondered if the hinge would pop. Withdrawing her hand slowly, she looked deeply into his troubled eyes.

“Listen…you’re right, Jean-Christian. There are no guarantees. And yes, any of us could change at any time.” She raised her chin, thinking of her parents and grandparents. All still married. All still working hard to build
l’chaim tovim
, a good life. “But forever exists. I promise you it does. And no, it’s not for chumps or punks or hacks. Because forever takes work.” He stared down at her, his face angry but not, she realized, closed off. It made her wonder if he was listening to her. It made her continue. “That’s how I know that you’re capable—that anyone is capable. It’s not a predetermined thing like your blood type or eye color. It’s a choice. It’s a choice to love someone and be faithful to them and do the work. We’re
all
capable of that.”

He didn’t say anything. Not a word.

As the oppressiveness of his silence grew, she loosened her fingers from his, taking a step back and looking around the attic.

“Well, um…I didn’t mean to lecture you. I just…um, so, where did Jax find the painting?” She let her eyes rove around the dim, dusty space, feeling self-conscious about such a hypercharged conversation and wishing that she hadn’t suggested they look for more clues about the painting.

“Lib,” he said softly.

She jerked her head around to look at him, thankful for the sound of his voice and eager to hear something—anything—from him.

“Yes?”

“You really believe all that?”

“My grandparents have been married for sixty-one years. My other grandparents for fifty-seven. My parents for thirty-six.” She inhaled deeply through her nose and exhaled through her mouth, nodding confidently. “Yeah. I believe it.”

He stared at her long and hard, as though absorbing everything, mulling it over and trying to find a place for it. Finally he nodded curtly and gestured to an area behind her.

“She found it over there.”

***

J.C. watched her slip around an old steamer trunk and disappear behind a five-foot-high ornate armoire, still reeling from the force and certainty of her words.

It’s not a predetermined thing like your blood type or eye color. It’s a choice. It’s a choice to love someone and be faithful to them and do the work. We’re
all
capable of that.

He had seen happy marriages, of course…or rather marriages that
looked
happy. But his cynicism always got the better of him as he wondered if it was a façade—if the smiles of “happy” couples were faked to conceal a world of pain behind them.
One of them is cheating and the other just doesn’t know
, he’d reason. Or he’d think,
They’re still in the “in love” stage
, as his parents had been for a long time, but one day it would all change. When he felt a longing for “happily ever after” surge up inside of him, which pretty much happened whenever he was with his siblings, he shoved it down, reminding himself that someone would have to be “the strong one” when all their relationships went to shit and they came crying to him. He didn’t believe in true love…or at least he didn’t want to.