That full mouth twisted as he gave me a look that was full of something I never thought I’d see on his older, wiser face: wistfulness. “I didn’t for a long time. Didn’t think I was suited for it.”
I found myself fiddling with the shoulder strap of my bikini. “And now?”
“Now I find myself wanting all sorts of things I shouldn’t. I suppose a family might be thrown in there as well.” Before I could probe what, exactly, he meant by that, he asked me, “And what doyouwant, Marie?”
“What…what do you mean?”
His hand spun an invisible idea through the night air. “For your life. You’re young. You must have dreams.”
I swallowed. “Well, I just accomplished one of those dreams, didn’t I? Your family made it happen by sending me to Paris.”
He tipped his head, the storm-cloud gaze starting to swirl as though he could see through my lies, or at least through my partial truths. “And after? I doubt you want to prepare my family’s meals for the rest of your life.”
I stared through the water at the soft, pale shapes of my bare legs compared to his longer, stronger ones on the other side of the pool. Our toes were only inches from each other.
“Does anyone really know what their dreams are at twenty-five?” I asked. “What did you want at my age? Was your dream to increase your family’s net worth by a factor of fifteen and become the youngestFortune500 CEO in history?”
I had the feeling Lucas knew I was deflecting.
Still, he answered. “Fortunehas a tendency to exaggerate its estimates.” Then, under his breath, “It was closer to ten.”
I snorted.
“But I take your point,” he spoke more loudly. “And my case was different. I wasn’t really allowed to have dreams. I inherited a legacy instead.”
“And did that make you happy?”
“You know it didn’t.” His gaze drilled into me. “There’s a strong possibility I never knew the meaning of the word until just recently.”
I wanted to ask exactly what he meant bythat, but he shook his head.
“Stop avoiding the question.” He shifted around the pool so he was a bit closer. Close enough to make me turn to look at him. “Culinary school isn’t really a dream. It’s a means to reach one. And I don’t believe working for my family is yours.”
“It was for Ondine.”
“Ondine was fifty-three when she started working for us. She had raised children. Gotten married and divorced. Helmed a Michelin-starred restaurant. She had set her goals, reached them, and by the time Winnifred found her, she was ready for something simpler. We provided that.”
He moved closer again, enough that his broad shoulders cast a shadow over the water in front of us.
I didn’t look at him, though. Instead, I stared through the steam rising from the water, watching it dissipate into the cool night air. Somewhere below us, London hummed with people going home from work, meeting friends for dinner, having dates, friendships, lovers, careers. Living their complicated, messy, beautiful lives.
And here I was, twenty-five and as isolated as ever, trying to drum up the courage to admit the one thing I’d ever really wanted but was too terrified to reach for.
“I want my own place,” I confessed. “A restaurant, maybe. I’m not sure. But it doesn’t matter, because I don’t think I could do it.”
The admission hung between us. It was the first time I’d said it out loud, but like a bell that had just been rung, it couldn’t beunrung. The echo was out there, vibrating through the world.
“Why not?” Lucas demanded gently.
“You know why. I’m scared of my own shadow half the time.”
“You struggle outside your routine. It’s not the same thing.”
I shook my head. “At the Institute, on top of our classes, they had usstageat a few different places in Paris.”
“What does that mean, ‘stahj’?” Lucas said, struggling over the French pronunciation.
“It’s sort of like a cooking internship. You work alongside chefs or specialists to learn techniques, experience the pacing of their work, and provide them with help in return. I did a month at a café in the Left Bank, two with a patisserie in Montmartre, and six months with Ondine’s old restaurant. She still knows the owners.”
