Do-It-Yourself 1 - Fatal Fixer-Upper by Jennie Bentley

Author:Jennie Bentley [Bentley, Jennie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2011-08-11T04:00:00+00:00

12

––'Ma petite chou! ' Philippe exclaimed five minutes later, when I had made it downstairs to the main floor and had dialed his number. 'How are you , ma chérie?'

'I'm fine,' I said shortly, wrinkling my brows. He sounded much too happy to hear from me, although that wasn't what had given me pause. Something he had said sounded wrong, but I couldn't put my finger on it. 'Do you call Tara your little cabbage, too?'

He must have thought I was jealous, because Philippe chuckled warmly. It trickled over my skin like a gentle mist, but it didn't go any further. No telltale tightening in my chest or my stomach this time around.

'Mais non, chérie. Naturellement!' He sounded shocked, although I wasn't entirely sure whether it was the idea that he'd call her by my pet name, or the idea that he'd call the coltish Tara a cabbage in the first place, that was surprising to him. He lowered his voice to an even more throbbing register. 'I miss you, ma petite. '

'I miss you, too,' I answered automatically. In truth, what I missed wasn't Philippe himself, it was just someone I could talk to, and laugh with, and turn to when I was happy or sad or scared or worried.

'When are you coming back, chérie?'

'I'm not sure,' I said. The way things stood, the likelihood of my going back to Philippe was slim to none, unless he fired Tara and came groveling on his hands and knees, and even then I didn't think I wanted him back. Still, I didn't feel up for an argument, especially when I had a favor to ask. 'There's a lot to do up here. And I may go out to California to visit Mom and Noel before I come back to New York. It's been a while since I've been there.'

'But chérie—' Philippe said, and I knew that he was pouting like a disappointed five-year-old. Things must not be working out with Tara.

I interrupted. 'I was actually calling to ask your help. Since you're such an expert on both antique furniture and French history.'

'Oui?' It's always possible to shake Philippe out of a case of the sulks by appealing to his ego.

'Remember when you said that maybe I'd find a valuable treasure in my aunt's house?'

'Oui?' He was beginning to sound decidedly cheerful.

'Well, I don't know how valuable it is, but I came across this old fainting couch up in the attic. You know, a chaise longue.' I gave it the French pronunciation. 'It's made in France, I can tell that much, and in the late eighteenth century . . .'

'Tell me about it,' Philippe commanded, his accent almost missing in his excitement. I did my best to describe the piece of furniture I had found, and when I wasn't doing it to Philippe's satisfaction, he asked me increasingly detailed questions, including one about what I thought might be a maker's mark burned into the underside of the couch. After several minutes of interrogation, he seemed satisfied.

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