An Ever After Summer, page 1
An Ever After Summer
TONI SHILOH
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Toni Shiloh
Novellas
Copyright © 2021 by Toni Shiloh.
Previously published in Once Upon a Summer anthology.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning or other—for brief quotations embodied in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Scripture taken from the New King James Version®. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson. Used by permission. All rights reserved.
French scripture taken from The Holy Bible in French, Louis Segond version of 1910. Public domain.
Edited by Katie Donovan.
Cover design by Toni Shiloh.
Cover art photos © Depositphotos.com/ illustrator_hft (Maciej Sojka) and musillustrations (Mariia Nikolaeva) by permission.
Published in the United States of America by Toni Shiloh.
www.ToniShiloh.com
An Ever After Summer is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.
Created with Vellum
Dedication
To the Author and Finisher of my faith.
One
“Bonjour.”
“Bonjour.” Bellamy Larson repeated the French greeting, copying the inflection and tone from the French language audiobook. She was running out of time for the vocab to stick in her head, since her flight out of Baltimore left this evening. She hadn’t used any of her high-school French in almost eleven years.
She placed her neatly folded shirts into her suitcase next to a stack of leggings. Her luggage already held a few dresses, skirts, and cardigans in case the summer nights held a chill.
When her coworker Carter had returned to the office of In a Bind in tears, that had marked the fourth employee to be sent away from the Thibodeaux project. Her dad had been determined to fly across the Atlantic and give their client a piece of his mind. Unfortunately, her father had also been diagnosed with walking pneumonia earlier that day, which meant Bell was being offered as the sacrificial lamb. She couldn’t let her father worry when he should be focused on healing. Who knew what kind of germs he’d catch on the plane if he had to fly to France instead of her?
No, Jean-Luc Thibodeaux would just have to deal with her and not her father or any of the other employees at In a Bind. Three of the employees they’d sent to try and please the Grinch—though he lived in a château, so maybe Beast would be a better nickname—had threatened to leave In a Bind; a fourth actually had. There weren’t enough book curators in the world to lose one to a surly customer.
When Bell had offered to go, her father had been appalled.
“Are you serious? I can’t let my daughter deal with that man.”
“Right now, I’m your employee not your daughter. Plus, I’m more than capable of dealing with difficult clients. Have you forgotten the Martin project?”
“That was different. He was a flirt, and after you put him in his place, that was that. But if you go over there, I can’t guarantee it’ll be so easy. Don’t forget Melinda quit.”
And she was a big softy. “Dad, I can handle myself.”
He doubled over, coughing as his lungs fought the infection in his body.
“And you can’t go.”
He wiped his mouth. “If the doctor hadn’t just prescribed me antibiotics and ordered me to rest, I’d put up more of an argument.”
Bell smirked. “Go home. Leave Ronnie in charge, and tell Mr. Thibodeaux I’ll be there Monday.”
Which was why she needed to finish packing. The airport shuttle would be by in a half hour, saving her the battle of traffic from D.C. to Baltimore’s international airport, BWI. Despite the gloom that hung over the Thibodeaux project, Bell couldn’t wait to step foot in France. This would be her first time in Europe. She was hoping her weekends would be free and grant her the opportunity to see more of the countryside than just the small town of Merveille. Maybe even allow her to hop on the train and cross the border into neighboring countries.
Plus, she could escape Dominic’s nauseating delusions of a romantic relationship. The man insisted they’d be together and asked her every day at work when she would finally go out with him.
Bell dragged her suitcase down the brownstone steps to where the shuttle waited in the street, hazard lights flashing. The driver took Bell’s suitcase as she got into the back seat with her tote purse. There was enough room in her bag for a couple of paperbacks she’d yet to read, her cell phone, wallet, and her tablet that also had an eReader app downloaded. She would not be stuck on a transatlantic flight without reading materials.
After passing through security, Bell found an empty chair by the Air France gate. She took out her tablet and tapped her email icon. As she’d gone through security, notification after notification had pinged. A few had been for social media, but her email had a distinct sound that had her itching to ensure everything with work was okay.
She spotted an email sporting her new client’s name and opened it.
From: Jean-Luc Thibodeaux
To: Bellamy Larson
Subject: Expectations
Dear Mlle. Larson,
I cannot say I am pleased to note that M. Larson is sending yet another representative, as the ones before you were such gross failures. However, learning that you are the proprietor’s daughter offers a glimmer of hope that you are more skilled than your colleagues. To ensure we begin well, I am sending you a list of my expectations. (Do not worry, more detailed instructions will be given upon your arrival.)
1. You have access to the library, your room, the kitchen, and the garden. Nothing else. Nothing more.
2. As I am renovating the château for public use, everything must be ready for public viewing by the end of August. That includes the library. As your colleagues have delayed me severely, I can only hope you work with a speed that would be admirable if it were not a necessity.
3. You will find a list of my book requests in the library. Please do not wander the halls of the château to “find me” and “clarify” my instructions. What I have written is what I mean. It is in English. As I assume you cannot speak French, you are welcome.
I trust you understand that I am on a deadline that cannot and will not be moved. If you do not prove your worth after one week’s time, I will terminate my contract with your father and seek reimbursement for my trouble and constant delays.
Sincerely,
Jean-Luc Thibodeaux (I respond to Mister if you do not use Monsieur. We will not be on a first-name basis.)
Bell’s mouth dropped as she read the final line of the email. What nerve! If this was how he composed an email, she could only imagine how he’d be in person. Still, she wouldn’t let his attitude dissuade her from doing her best work. If possible, she’d kill him with kindness.
Lord, I don’t mean that in a bad way. More in a heaping-of-the-coals way. Okay, wait. That sounds bad too. But biblical, right?
She blew out a breath. Perhaps she should start her prayer over.
Lord, please bless my time in France. Please help me to meet Mr. Thibodeaux’s expectations. And please soften his heart. Dad needs this contract.
Because Mr. Thibodeaux was offering heavy compensation that would keep them all employed well into the future and hopefully earn them more clients like him—loaded, not temperamental, of course.
Bell sat back in her chair and clicked on her eReader app. It was time to escape into a romance and let the worry of Mr. Thibodeaux remain at bay until she stepped foot in France.
“Ahem.”
“Quoi!” Jean-Luc growled deep in his throat at the fifth disturbance from his butler. In truth, more friend than anything, but still. His hands fisted at his sides as he looked away from the wallpaper.
“Mademoiselle Larson has arrived.”
“And? I told you I didn’t want to be disturbed, Adrien. I will never get this wallpaper hung if you insist on alerting me to every change that flies with the wind.”
“Oui, I understand that, but, well . . . just come down and see the problem.”
Jean-Luc wanted to bang his fist against the guest room wall. Instead, he strove for a measure of calm he did not feel. “I need to hang this panel. Then I will come down to . . .” he trailed off.
“I’ll give her a quick tour of the permitted places, and we will end in the library. Meet us there, s’il vous plaît.”
Jean-Luc couldn’t imagine what problem could have arisen already. The last four In a Bind employees had at least lasted a few days. If the owner’s daughter was crying foul already, that did not bode well for her one-week trial.
He ran a hand down his face, not even grimacing when his fingertips grazed his scars as they passed over his cheeks. But being able to touch them without being affected didn’t mean he wanted others to see them. He hated meeting new people—seeing the questions in their eyes, and often the disgust that curled their lips and erased all forms of politeness. But if his looks would be a problem for Mademoiselle Larson, better to find out now and get his money back from her father.
With a huff, Jean-Luc climbed down the ladder and wiped his hands on the handkerchief hanging from his back pocket. He tossed the rag onto the tarp-covered floor and headed down the hall. The corridors had already been updated—the crown molding a pure white and the walls a smoky gray. His footsteps were silent on the herringbone pattern zigzagging across the floor as he made his way to the library.
Jean-Luc slowed his steps as he listened to Adrien converse with his newest employee. He’d hired the company to set his library to rights, so they worked for him, not the other way around. Something the previous employees hadn’t seemed to understand.
“This is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” A young woman’s voice reached his ears.
He stilled, a sudden chill streaking down his spine. Her voice was distinctly American, but a kindness filled the depths. She seemed to be genuine in her compliment. He peeked into the bibliothèque but couldn’t see Mademoiselle Larson’s face, her back facing him instead.
“Ah, Monsieur Thibodeaux, come,” Adrien called to him.
Jean-Luc bit back a groan. He put on a mask of indifference and strolled into the room. The bibliophile turned around . . . and Jean-Luc’s feet tripped over themselves. He paused, cleared his throat, and resumed his walk.
Adrien tossed him a cheeky grin. “Mademoiselle Larson, this is Monsieur Thibodeaux. Monsieur, Mademoiselle Bellamy Larson.”
Mademoiselle Larson smiled brightly at Jean-Luc, and he waited for her gaze to fall to his cheeks, to the raised skin—the scars that made his face look like he’d lost a fight with a cheese grater—but her gaze never left his.
Unfortunately, he could not keep his attention from roaming her features: her cognac-colored eyes staring guilelessly at him, the prominent cheekbones that held a rosy hue, the full lips his gaze quickly skimmed past, and the pointed chin that emphasized her petite features. His mind also catalogued her black, wavy hair and brown skin with warm undertones, smooth without blemish. And so very unlike his own.
“Enchantée,” Mlle. Larson said.
“We shall see,” he muttered.
Adrien rolled his eyes, shaking his head in disappointment at Jean-Luc’s less-than-cordial greeting. But Jean-Luc didn’t care. He wouldn’t let his friend scold him. Mlle. Larson’s greeting had broken the spell her looks had cast over him.
He hadn’t expected a Black American. Although France had a decent-sized Black population—mostly immigrants—Jean-Luc didn’t know how large or small it was compared to other countries. People born in France were French and only French. At least, that was what the government tried to encourage. Jean-Luc knew his dark skin marked him as different, let alone the scars covering his face.
“Adrien says there is a problem.”
Mlle. Larson arched an eyebrow, eyes widening as she glanced at the aforementioned man. “What? No.” She spread her hands apart. “You have a magnificent library. And I’ve been shown the other places I have access to.”
Jean-Luc turned to Adrien. He gave his best you-bothered-me-for-nothing look.
“Pardon, mademoiselle.” Adrien bowed, then tugged on Jean-Luc’s arm, dragging him a few feet away and out of hearing distance.
“What, Adrien? I was busy, and she has no issue.”
“Did you see her?” Adrien said under his breath, sparing Mlle. Larson a glance.
“Yes. You just introduced us.” Jean-Luc’s hands fisted.
“She can’t sleep in the dependencies. Those apartments are not fit for someone of her beauty.”
“What do her looks have to do with where she lays her head?” Jean-Luc rubbed his forehead. “I can’t believe you pulled me from wallpapering a guest room for this.”
“Talk to her. It’s obvious she had a more luxurious upbringing. How can we send her out there? Give her one of the finished guest suites.”
“They’re not ready.” But the dependencies were. The stone building had been divided into six separate rooms, each with its own toilet.
“I disagree. Le Bleu suite would be perfect for her.”
“Non. Colette hasn’t finished decorating it.”
“Bah. She’s been with Fran all day. Summon her and demand she ready the suite. Then voilà, all will be well.”
“No,” Jean-Luc growled. “Show Mademoiselle Larson the place where her colleagues stayed. If she objects, then send her packing.” He stalked from the room, ignoring Adrien’s pleas.
The less time he spent in other people’s presence, the better off they all would be.
Two
Bell pressed a hand to her stomach, hoping to quell the firing nerve endings that had buzzed with awareness at the magnetism that was Jean-Luc Thibodeaux. His presence had filled the room, making everything else shrink in comparison. Suddenly her five-foot-six height might as well have been a mere five feet. When his jet-black eyes had latched on to hers, time had slowed. In his irises lay a world of hurt she couldn’t even fathom, though she could clearly see he’d been deeply wounded in the past.
No wonder he prowled the château, lashing out at people left and right. If she hadn’t witnessed his abrupt manner with his own employee, Bell would have thought his bad behavior was specifically reserved for her father’s company. Now she knew the truth.
Jean-Luc Thibodeaux needed the kindness of Christ in his life.
“Mademoiselle?”
She blinked, and Adrien came into focus. “I’m so sorry. What did you say?”
“I asked if you would like to see the grounds? We have some lovely gardens, and Colette needs to prepare your room.” An impish smile curved across his face as he slid his cell phone into his pants pocket.
Gray stubble covered the lower half of his face, matching the color of the buzz cut he wore. Adrien was probably about sixty years old but seemed spry and not ready to slow down anytime soon. Judging from the way he’d flitted her from place to place, walking the halls of Château de Rêves was the reason he still held a wiry frame.
“The gardens sound lovely.”
“Fantastique. You will love the rose garden. It is Monsieur Thibodeaux’s pride and joy.”
Bell followed Adrien out of the library and through the halls out the back. He led her through a walled garden, and Bell stopped behind him.
“Oh my goodness,” she breathed. At the back of the garden sat a stone bench flanked by two trellises covered with pink roses.
She strolled forward along the stone path. The lush green grass made her want to lie back, stare at the white fluffy clouds, and dream the day away. Bell strolled to a nearby rose bush and inhaled the fragrance.
“You like?” Adrien asked.
“I love.”
He beamed. “You may come here whenever you like. The only rule we have is never pick a rose. Monsieur is quite particular, as you can imagine, non?”
“Oui.” She returned his smile. One of the travel blogs she’d read had encouraged tourists going to France to speak the language whenever possible. Saying yes was simple enough.
A cell phone pinged, and Adrien pulled his cell out of his pocket. He peered down, then grinned. “Bon! Colette says Le Bleu suite is ready for you. Come. You will love it.”
Bell was sure he was right. She’d loved everything about France so far. From the car they’d had waiting for her—the driver, Léon, had been a complete charmer—to the wonderful views of the Loire Valley countryside as they drove from the airport to the château, and of course, Château de Rêves itself.
