A Fairytale in Provence: part V

              On Sunday we were dead tired from dancing. We really slept in. Normally a morning person, I felt strange sleeping so late. By the time we were up, it was near noon. As I dressed I could hear FWBs grandma upstairs.  He came down the stairs to get me once I was showered and presentable. And then I had to face the fam.

              Odette, FWBs maternal grandmother, is in her 80s, and insanely close to her grandson, who is very much the pride and joy of both his mom and grandma. Grandma is apparently a fabulous cook who still makes FWB the lunches he takes to work, the way she has been feeding him since he was a schoolboy. But you know what they say about men: if a man knows how to treat his mom and the women in his life, he'll treat his significant other or wife well too. This is certainly true for FWB: he's taking his grandma on a surprise ten-day cruise in December to Malta and the Grecian islands. She knows he's taking her somewhere, but not where yet, and she is adorably worried.

               Once upstairs I was ushered into the living room and met the famous grandma. We then sat down to a formal lunch prepared by FWB's mom, an entrée of salad and French cake, which is like a soft egg bread filled with cheese and ham and olives, and then mushrooms in a vinagrette. This was followed my a truffled omelette and then a typical southern dish, tomates farcies, which were fragrant and delicious. We finished off lunch with a mirabelle and apple tarte since it was FWBs dad's birthday (which I didn't know until the last minute! Or I would've brought something!) and delicious red wine and a mousseux de limoux with dessert. I was very full.

                 FWB's mom coyly asked how we met through the course of the meal.
 
                ¨ At a bar in the 6th after the first week of Master¨ he explained. He was trying to avoid what I like to call, and what my mom likes doing (love you too Mom), the Spanish Inquisition.

                Oh if you only knew you adorable French woman. She cannot be stupid, as most mothers aren't: it's not every day your son brings home an attractive young 20 something Californienne, not to toot my own horn. But I know mothers because I am close to mine and FWB's mother cannot be oblivious. She clearly, clearly had more questions she would've liked to ask.

                 Once lunch was over she and I chatted more and I said that it must have been hard for her to not have her son for a year, especially since he is an only child.  It must be even harder thinking that he might leave for the states. She said yes, but that it's different with boys, that she would've liked to have a daughter because mothers and daughters tend to be close. I nodded in agreement and explained this is the case with my mom.

                  ¨Maybe one day I'll be close to my daughter-in-law,¨ she laughed instead.

*  *  *

                  On Sunday, my train did not leave until 8h30 at night. I deliberately scheduled the latest train I possibly could to maximize my time down south. At three in the afternoon I could already feel my heart crippling under the dread of leaving, my chest tightening and choking back yet unshed tears. It was sunny out and FWB's parents suggested we take advantage of the sun since rain was in the forecast but held off. 

                    FWB then drove me to the hill at the top of his village where we overlooked the acres and acres of golden vineyards who slept in repose after the harvest. We went to the little church, which dates to the 12th century, overlooking the rest of the sleepy village.

                    ¨It's where I had my communion,¨ he touched the wooden doors. 

                    Then we hopped back into the car like we had all week-end. He took me to Séguret, where his grandma was born, then to Sablet, some of the most picturesque villages in all of France. I teased him, said it reminded me of Belle in Beauty and the Beast, and that I felt like I was walking through Disneyland the village was so quaint. 

                     Afterwards we drove to the dentelles de Montmirail and hiked to the top. We gazed out over the green, lush mountain tops hunching over pruned vines whose grapes were long gone. 

                      Then it was off to Vacqueyras and Gicondas, where he drove us through the vineyards. We stopped at wineries where he had worked summers as a teenager, and in Chateauneuf-du-Pape we pulled over so he could show me the AOCs famous stones: the vines grow upward through a thick layer of stones that, in the summer, absorb the heat of the day and reflect it back on the fruit in the evening as it cools, producing a rich, full grape bursting with juice. I picked two of the stones and he picked another one for me and I slid them into my bag to take home. 

                       The sun was sinking ever lower and time was passing ever more quickly. 

                       FWB mentioned that it was a shame the tasting room was not open, because we should've gone. 

                        ¨Next time you're here,¨ he said. La prochaine fois. You clearly want there to be a next time. But when will that be? I do not know. 

                       I did not want to leave. 

*  *  * 

                       After the vineyards, we went to the little island cross from the Pont d'Avignon and walked arm in arm, hand in hand. It was dark and the lights reflected on the river water. I tried to avoid looking at the time on my cell phone. 

                       ¨On se promène en amoureux,¨ he teased. 

                      Then we went to Avignon one more time, to grab a warm drink before I had to leave. We were across from one another,  him caressing my cheek, me doing the same.

                      ¨What was your favorite village? Or your favorite thing this whole weekend?¨ he asked me.

                      ¨Getting to see where you are from. Your village,¨ I replied. He smiled. He tried to make me pronounce the name of his village again. It is very, very hard given the first letter is an R. French R's are brutal.  He teased me all weekend when I couldn't quite get it.

                       ¨Not bad not bad, but not quite...you're getting there though!¨

                       ¨It's hard!¨ I laughed. ¨R is hard!¨

                       Then he took me to the train station. 

*  *  * 

                        At the train station, he took my suitcase in hand. We had a bit of time but I could feel my heart welling. He is planning to be in Paris this coming Thursday night, after his interview in Nîmes for his potential job in the USA. But  with time to kill, we went to the billeterie so he could buy his ticket for Thursday. 

                         Then I had to board and he walked me to check-in. There were trains on the tracks departing, not mine, but others. 

                         ¨Look, your train is leaving, I guess you'll have to stay, you're stuck here! You're not allowed to leave!¨

                         ¨I wouldn't mind that,¨ I felt the lump in my throat. I turned to face him and knew the tears were there. I hugged him. He leaned in and kissed me and I know he saw the tears I was fighting to hold back. His looked a bit teary too. He tried to say goodbye quickly, because it was painful, because neither of us wanted to. 

                          Then he left me and I bawled waiting for the train. 

                         I am not a crier. It is hard to move me this much emotionally, I can usually hold it together. The last time I cried like this was when he left the first time. 

*  *  * 

                          Once back in Paris, in my studio, after midnight, I started to unpack. My suitcase seemed oddly heavy. I laid it on my couch and unzipped it. 

                          There, nestled in amongst my sweaters, was a bottle of Vin Doux Naturel. The one he made me taste on our first date. The one I searched Paris high and low for last December to bring home to California, and had told him I hunted for. The one made by the local cave in his village. 

                            He had snuck it into my suitcase lord knows when. 

                           It is this sort of attention to detail, this caliber of thoughtfulness that is going to kill me, that has stolen my heart and whisked it away. He is out to rip my sentimental heart straight out of my chest. You cannot do these things and not expect me to get attached, to not expect me to fall for you. 

                           I didn't think it was possible that someone like this could exist, and if they existed, that they would want to do this for me. This is the sort of thing that happens in a fairytale. Pinch me now, how is this real? And how is it happening to me? I do not know what I did to deserve it, I feel like the luckiest girl in the world right now. 

                           But it also elicited another round of tears. It is painful not having him here, thinking about what could happen, where he could go. Where I could go. 

                           I texted my best friend in California. 

                           ¨Damn girl,¨ she messaged me back. ¨Think you snagged yourself a good one.¨

                           I have I have good lord ever I have, please just let me keep him. 

                          My heart has been stolen. I want no one else.

                          I am Cinderella, living a fairytale between Paris and Provence, afraid of when the clock strikes midnight and the spell will be broken.