Maxine

By Marie Tapia

Maxine Lamont is a passionate, independent woman with an unruly head of curly brown hair who believes in the power of love and the excitement of change. With three thousand miles between them, Maxine and her ex have recently parted ways. Max, as she prefers to be called, has learned through lifes circumstances to go it alone or so she thinks.

Not always the leading lady of her life and sometimes her own worst enemy, Max moves ahead unaware of the priceless friendship shes about to discover. She meets Marjorie Talbot, a headstrong but lovable gallery owner, who helps her through a series of relationshipsfrom a hot, romantic lover; to a foreign stranger; to an accountant turned boat enthusiast.

Max wonders over all the men in her life, but Marjorie keeps her sane through the proverbial girls night, during which they share wine and wisdom. As Max continues on her literal and spiritual journey of self-discovery, Marjorie is there to guide and show Max that, despite occasional heartbreak, every love we encounter is a gift that brings out something new and different in us, helping us to grow.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Nov 18, 2016
• ISBN: 9781532002205

Marie Tapia

Marie Tapia, a graduate of the California College of the Arts, is passionate about painting and writing. While in France, she explored a past life, which inspired her first book, The Red-Haired Man. She has currently returned to her first love, the Pacific Ocean, where she continues to write Maxine’s story and paint.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

The Tour

A BUMP IN THE ROAD... My head hits the window of the tour bus.

Startled, my eyes open wide as another bump jostles me. Groggily I sit up. Yawning, placing my hand over my mouth, I look out the window as the cottages of gray-blue stone come and go. A few autumn leaves dance across the roadway as the recently purchased tour bus rolls quietly along heading to our destination.

Throughout the bus a silence prevails. As I turn from the window I notice my bus partner, Olga, still asleep. Olga, a round woman of short stature, with fifty years of opinions, sits with arms crossed, eyes closed, lost in her own particular daydream.

The tour bus slows down as we approach a well-maintained French vineyard in the Dordogne Valley. A pale yellow chateau can be seen at the end of the estate. Our tour guide, Corine, begins to rouse the rest of the sleepy travelers by introducing us to the Valley.

Anxious to have a breath of fresh country air I step off the bus, camera in hand. While the remaining tourists follow Corine I am struck by the strong sunlight streaming onto the first two grape vines in the row. Never having been one to resist a photo op I inch closer to the vines glistening in the sun. Click...click...click…beautiful shots!

Maxine, Corine calls out, Would you like to join us? The tasting room is up the road, behind you.

Want to take these shots before the light changes.

See you later then.

Immersed in this light of the deep green leaves and the ripe, luscious grapes hidden from everyone but the autumn sun, I continue taking photos. The sun begins to change, slowly at first, then drenching the vines in its pale yellow autumnal shield.

Enthralled with this new light I work my way down the row of vines, taking photos as the sun plays hide and seek with the grape leaves. Rapidly taking shots of some dark green leaves and the ephemeral sun I bump into a man working in the middle of the rows.

"Perdonne moi."

My camera inadvertently drops onto the dusty, dry ground. As I bend over to retrieve it, I shield my eyes against the sun with my hand. The six foot tall shadow of a man with his back to the sun stands squarely in front of me. I straighten up for a clearer look at this figure.

They’re beautiful, aren’t they? he comments in flawless English, but with a prominent French accent. He gestures toward the rows of vines standing, growing silently in the field. As he moves from the sun I notice he wears a straw hat, light tan slacks and a crisp, long-sleeved white shirt. His sleeves are rolled baring his arms which have been tanned by the French sun.

"Oui, they are beautiful," I reply, using one of the few French words I know.

I noticed your camera. Do you take photos professionally?

No…only a hobby. The sun on the vines...I couldn’t resist.

Headed to the wine tasting?

Oui. The other members of the tour are already in the tasting room. I’m late.

With an unlit pipe clenched between his straight, white teeth, he walks beside me between the rows of grape vines. While the man in the straw hat and I take the quiet walk up the short dirt road a gentle breeze blows a couple of leaves across the path. I feel an innate connection to this man who lovingly tends the grapes, touching their leaves as though he knows them intimately.

Simultaneously the man and I slow down a few feet from the open door of the wine tasting room.

Thank you for escorting me.

Sounds like your group is getting rowdy.

He smiles as he listens by the door. Extending his hand he introduces himself as Gerrard. I respond in kind-Maxine. At the moment of this simple handshake I realize I would rather stay talking to the man in the straw hat than taste the wines.

With a tip of his hat he asks Madame, would you like a tour of the fields?

I’d like that.

He gestures for me to follow.

Without hesitation I oblige him, following toward the left of the road behind the tasting room.

Extended areas of land with rows and rows of grape vines crawl up the hill to the back of the yellow chateau. During the walk a comfortableness comes over me as I take more photos.

This way, Maxine.

I hesitate at first, realizing we’re probably trespassing on the vineyard owner’s home. Well-delineated signs mark the way to the tasting room. Along the path I hear nothing but the crunch of the gravel pieces under my feet. I smell nothing but the fragrance of chamomile, mint, thyme, and rosemary as I pass.

He gestures, opening the wooden kitchen door.

Here we are. After you.

A newly remodeled kitchen with every state of the art appliance and tool one could imagine reveals itself: two silver door ovens, a matching, double-door refrigerator, and a long, black, granite topped island with an inlaid gas cooking top. Above the island hangs shiny, hammered copper pots. In the far corner of the room is a neatly piled stack of wood planks, tools, and supplies resting on a tarp.

"Bienvenue."

Should we be here? What if the owner is home?

With a slight smile from the corner of his mouth he begins to explain, but is interrupted by a handsome Frenchman dressed in a brown day suit who enters the kitchen in an unassuming manner.

Monsieur, would you like me to prepare dinner for you and your guest?

No, merci, Maurice. Take the evening off.

He exits as silently as he entered.

My head turns toward Gerrard.

You…you are the Monsieur who owns this chateau?

But of course.

I had no idea.

Tell me you’ll stay for dinner, Maxine.

I’ll have to check with Corine. The bus is scheduled to return to Paris.

Come with me. I know Corine. She brings many tour groups to my vineyard.

I feel a bit of my rebel appear, ready to take a risk and try something new. Dinner in France at a winery with a lovely man...definitely time to take a chance. I have been lonely too long.

I scan the wine tasting room for Corine while Gerrard waits casually at the door. With his arm and shoulder resting against the doorframe he listens to the tourists’ comments of his new wine.

Corine, I’m having dinner with Gerrard. He will arrange for my transportation to Paris tomorrow.

Corine, with a twinkle in her eye, smiles and nods affirmatively. While I return to the bus for my bag, Corine and Gerrard catch up on the latest happenings.

See you tomorrow. The tour of Paris starts at ten.

"Till tomorrow."

Gerrard picks up my bag as he and I walk down the gravel path to the chateau.

I’ll place your bag in the guest room. Make yourself at home.

Gerrard takes my bag up a set of small stone steps, obviously part of the original chateau, while I remain in the kitchen. I look out the window over the sink to the garden. It is neatly kept with a few chrysanthemums lining the pathway to the vineyard.

From behind me I hear Gerrard ask, Do you enjoy cooking?

I do. I know nothing of French cuisine though.

I will show you. We’ll make a quiche. You can help.

Love to. Give me a job, I respond hoping for a simple task. A bit nervous I realize I am alone in a strange country with a strange man in his chateau.

"You can gather herbs for our ensalade. Outside the kitchen door, in the cabinet under the counter, are scissors and a basket."

My relief at having a simple job is vividly apparent. I step outside to collect the herbs while Gerrard prepares the pastry dough for the quiche.

The sound of the tour bus starting forces me to look in its direction. With the motor whirring, the dust from the dry country road obscures the tires as Frank drives off. No one from the tour looks in my direction. Throughout the tour I made a reputation by taking off on my own, then later reconnecting with the group. I would arrive to board the bus just in time as it departed for another city. It has been a whirlwind two week tour of the French countryside. I’m loving every minute of it, especially tonight with this vineyard owner.

The basket is full with the sweet and savory aroma of freshly cut herbs. I open the kitchen door. The pungent smell of the combination of freshly grated cheeses rises from the counter-top. His six foot frame bends at the waist as he scours the open refrigerator for the coup de gras...fresh eggs and cream.

Aha! There you are! He speaks to the eggs as he delicately takes each one from the refrigerator.

Here are the herbs. I place the basket next to the sink and begin to wash them.

Gerrard glances at me. I return the glance.

There we are. Pastry shell is ready.

He smiles at his handiwork as he takes it from the hot oven. It’s perfect. The golden brown crust is his pleasure. Soon the entire kitchen is engulfed with its aroma.

Ready for the next step? This is my favorite part.

His absolute delight with cooking this quiche is contagious. Caught in this whirl of enthusiasm I prepare the salad while he beats the eggs. He adds the cream, cheeses and nutmeg to the mixture. I feel as though we’ve met before, yet I know this is not true.

With the quiche baking in the oven, and the salad prepared, I join Gerrard.

For a while we wait.

He pulls the cork from a bottle of chilled white wine, pouring two glasses.

For you, Maxine. He hands me a glass.

To our great meal, I toast.

To our great meal, he echoes.

I haven’t cooked with someone in a long time. Glad you gave me salad duty. Gerrard smiles shyly then takes another sip of wine. Strangely odd behavior on my part, to be so sure, so safe with a man I’d met only hours ago. You can call me Max. All my friends do. I blush.

Gerrard moves to the refrigerator to find some cheese to clean our palates. He has another wine for me to try.

Because you missed the wine tasting I would like to know what you think of this. It is my newest wine. I am quite proud of her. It has taken a long time to bring this wine to birth.

Glasses of the new wine in hand, we walk out to look at the section of the vineyard that is closest to the hub of the garden. Gerrard explains a bit of his work to me. I can see the love he has for it and the fire in his eyes in producing an extraordinary wine. The aroma of the quiche wafts from the open kitchen door. The moment it hits our noses we sense it is on the verge of ruin and run back to rescue it from total and utter decimation.

Saved in time, he exclaims as we peer at the quiche resting on the cooking rack.

Would you mind if we eat at the kitchen table? I am remodeling parts of the chateau and the dining room is in transition at the moment.

I eat at my kitchen table most of the time.

This room has been remodeled, he tells me as he glides his hand over the newly replaced woodwork.

Recently I bought an older, small home in Monterey California. It could fit into four or five of your rooms.

Are you remodeling it yourself?

No. I have a great contractor. I honestly don’t know what I’d do without him. We are working on it together. I do a lot of the prep work. Nothing like you’ve done here.

I love beautiful wood. I feel happy to work with it, the sawing and nailing.

I agree, I add as he plates up the salad while I set out the utensils and napkins on the table. It is a simple six foot long wooden table in the middle of this spacious kitchen facing a picture window with a view of Gerrard’s precious grape vines. Row upon row of manicured vines can be seen from this vantage point.

Some baguette slices, butter, and of course, our quiche. Dinner is served.

A quiet dinner together, remarking solely on the flavorful food, prompts us to share recipes. Time passes quickly.

Care for another glass of wine, Max?

No, merci. Couldn’t drink or eat any more.

Cooking relaxes me. I come in from the fields and I love to cook. The colors, the smells, the infinite possibilities fascinate me. Some of the inspiration for my new blends comes when I am cooking.

I’m definitely not the chef you are. I do love to cook, though. For me, living alone makes cooking easy. If it doesn’t turn out exactly as I’d envisioned I have the choice to eat it or throw it away. Who’s to know?

Gerrard laughs. We watch the sun set with each last glimmering ray caressing the grape leaves before it fades.

While reaching for my hand he invites me to walk the halls of the chateau with him.

This is an amazing place. My eyes look straight to the wood beams in the ceiling and hand carved woodwork which comprise the original part of the chateau.

What matters is the feeling. It is the heart of the home that counts.

That’s true.

One of my pass-times is carpentry. Laboring on this chateau is exciting to me. It was in disrepair for quite some time. Now I can see progress…finished rooms.

On my way to the guest room I notice potted ferns dotting the hallway gracefully overflowing their black wrought iron plant stands. Gerrard escorts me to the guestroom where my bag is waiting for me.

Bon nuit. The bath is through that door, he gestures to the right, inside the bedroom. I will arrange for Maurice to drive you to Paris. You must see Paris.

It was a delightful evening.

Merci. I enjoyed it too.

I lean forward to give Gerrard a quick kiss on the cheek. He blushes, bending his head, then reciprocates the gesture.

Our bedrooms are at opposite ends of a long, lemon yellow hallway.

As I close the door to the guestroom I smile a wide smile. I lean against the closed door feeling that the expansive blue sky over the vineyard has landed on the walls of this room. The bed is covered with soft, white linens and a single down coverlet. I flop happily in the middle of it as it surrounds me like a marshmallow cloud.

A delicately carved rectangular gold bench stands at the foot of the bed waiting for someone to sit upon its three sumptuous purple velvet cushions. Gold male peacocks with aqua eyes whose tails open like fans stand at each end of the bench forming the legs. Their outstretched tail feathers are the handles of the bench. These teal feathers contrast with the polished gold of the bench. Rising from the bed I sit crossed-legged on it, feeling the velvet cushions with my fingertips. Hung on the wall next to a highly polished cherry wardrobe is a large oval mirror with a simple one inch gold frame.

I walk over to the mirror looking intently to see the sparkle of adventurousness return to my hazel eyes. It’s a welcome sight.

I open the adjoining bathroom door. There is a luxurious large white tub on a white platform in the middle of the room. Groups of three to five white pillar candles outline the platform. This bathroom is almost the size of the bedroom at my California home. I brush my teeth using the bottled water which sits on a small, white antique table. There is a bright red carved bird at the front of this table appearing as if it might take flight out the round window above the sink. I stand here, soaking in the splendor of everything. Then I draw the bath and place my towel on the floor. Slowly I immerse my body in the tub while the water embraces me.

With my towel around me I turn out the lights and leave the drapes open without a care. I dress for bed with only the sparkling starlight to guide me then turn down the white comforter. Soft lavender blankets and crisp white sheets trimmed with a delicate band of hand tatted lace await my tired body. As my head lays on the soft down pillow my eyes feel heavy. I drift off to sleep with an amazing appreciation for this gracious man. My curiosity about this vineyard owner deepens.

What kind of man invites a perfect stranger into his home for dinner and lets her stay the night without making any advances?

Closing my eyes I relax and drift off to sleep.

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A gentle but firm knock at the bedroom door awakens me. It’s barely daylight.

Cafe au lait and a croissant, Madame, Maurice calls out from the other side of the door.

Barefoot I walk toward the door and stand behind it. Gingerly I open it. Maurice enters and places the wooden tray on the small, white, round table by the window and takes his leave. Eventually French sunlight enters the window as I sit there enjoying my breakfast, gazing at the vineyard below.

Coffee’s gone.

Time to get ready to return to Paris. The magical evening is over, never to be forgotten.

Slim jeans, which took a bit of maneuvering to get into, my powder blue shirt and a loose fitting white sweater stare back at me from the mirror.

Mirror, you better not be lying to me now. I actually look pretty good, I whisper as I take my suitcase and close the guestroom door.

I walk along the hallway remembering every window and every fern as I pass. As I descend the original stone steps to the kitchen I notice how they have been worn from servants constantly running up and down. The stones are large, polished, brown and gray and rounded on the edges. One step in the middle of the flight of stairs takes me by surprise. My right foot fits perfectly in the footprint worn through time. I stay there a minute lost in another era.

I see myself in a long black dress. A crisp, white apron is tied at my waist with a proper bow. My shoulder length brown hair is pinned underneath a cap which sits firmly on top of my head. A few stubborn wisps of curls refuse to cooperate, sticking out the sides of my cap by my ears.

Gerrard calls to me inquiring whether or not I’m alright. For a moment I return to when I was a servant in the long black dress bringing the leftovers of a large pot of hot soup down the stairs to the kitchen. I blink my eyes. It disappears like smoke.

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In the kitchen Gerrard is having coffee at the wooden table. Leaving my bag I walk toward my host and extend my arm to shake hands.

How can I ever thank you for opening your home to me?

I don’t usually do this. When I saw you there, taking photos, I knew I had to know more about you.

He reaches into his jean pocket pulling out a business card with his email address.

Stay in touch?

Sure. My mouth stumbles over the word as I fish in my handbag for my business card and a pen. Rapidly I scrawl my personal email address on the back.

As he examines the card he casually says, This is you, a landscaper.

I love plants.

My journey with my vineyard is beginning. I love the vines.

Know what you mean. Nature overtakes part of you and there it is, inside your every cell.

Madame, the car is ready, Maurice interrupts as he takes my bag.

Well, Gerrard, let’s keep in touch.

He pulls me closer to him and kisses me on each cheek.

Oui, let’s keep in touch.

With that I am on my way to Paris. Gerrard is not able to accompany me. He has a client coming to look at the grapes. This appointment was made long before my tour bus appeared on the scene.

In the back of his chauffeur driven car I smile at my new-found bravado. Perhaps this is exactly what my lonely heart needed. I have been alone too long.

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My day is filled with a visit to Napoleon’s tomb, the Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame Cathedral, the Arc de Triumphe, and the Champs Elysees. The rest of the day I relax at a café watching Parisians come and go about their business.

What kind of spell has France cast over me? Sadly I must say my goodbyes to this most magical of cities.

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At the Charles de Gaulle Airport the tour bus pulls in and opens its doors. Frank unloads myriads of suitcases and bags containing souvenirs of the two week adventure. While goodbyes are said I realize each of us will return to our daily lives making this trip nothing more than some photos in an album.

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Bags stowed, I comfortably adjust my seat belt. Ready to depart I leave an intriguing and mysterious man at the yellow chateau in Bordeaux. I have no assurance he will keep in touch. Nor do I have any idea who he truly is. I only know I desperately want to see him again.

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CHAPTER 2

Returning Home

THE PLANE BEGINS ITS DESCENT to the San Francisco International Airport. At first nothing but the continuous blackness, the isolated darkness of the night, then small glimmers of light suggest life below. Looking out the window I’m swept away by the thousands of lights. The plane rotates from side to side as the captain offers a view to those who are waking from the flight.

There it is...touchdown and the feel of the plane’s wheels on the tarmac. Suddenly...nothing...engine is off...lights on...tired travelers squinting, reach for their belongings. The rustle of carry-ons, the opening and closing of overhead bins, and people’s muffled footsteps on the carpet are the only sounds I hear as passengers file past my seat.

Time to leave.

The fairytale adventure has come to an end.

It’s one a.m. as I gather my carry-on and head toward the airplane door.

Other than the remaining passengers from my plane and the drone from the vacuum of the cleaning crew, the airport is empty and silent. Previously bustling kiosk storefronts are closed with their shades drawn and chairs up on cafe tables.

I wonder what the vineyard owner is doing.

All cleared I make my way to my car.

City by the bay…how I’ve missed you, I say aloud as I step off the shuttle taking a deep breath of that familiar San Francisco air.

I am thankful for this trip as I drive home to Monterey. My eyes fight to stay open as I pull my Honda into the driveway. With my bags in hand, I open the wooden cornflower blue front door. Feels good to be back. Think I’ll sleep for a whole day.

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Sunlight’s falling on my parched lips. I’ve slept with my mouth open in a deep, dreamless sleep. Barely opening my eyes, twisting my neck, and lifting my head, I realize I am home. I fall back onto the pillow for another twenty minutes. The anxiety of the trip is over. I stumble to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee and pull back the drapes throughout the first floor. The light enters my home. I love my six little rooms. One of these days they will be repainted and refurbished.

Till then I’m walking over pieces of drywall, patching plaster in a container larger than my Thanksgiving turkey, and tools whose names I don’t even know. Once more it’s time to roll up my sleeves and get to work. I spend the afternoon patching and sanding cracks on the walls. My guess is they are from an earthquake. This coastline captivates you so you don’t give a thought to earthquakes. You’re too busy taking in the beauty.

How I love you west coast!

Arms are getting tired. Think I’ll stop for today. I decide to make a sandwich and view my vacation photos in the computer. I scan them looking for inspiration for my next job. Close-ups of plants, intriguing walkways, and views of castle grounds pop in front of me.

Then, there it is, the chateau series. I check my email. No news from Gerrard. It was lovely…dinner companions for a meal...nothing more.

My throat tightens. The tenseness in my stomach returns as I turn off my computer. To distract my mind I resume making notes for my next job.

It’s been difficult getting back to the idea of dating and having another person in my life again. A marriage with nothing but youthful passion to build upon crumbled before my eyes. I was young with much to learn. Neither of us knew what love was. I thought it would come into being by the fact we were together and a marriage ceremony had been performed. It’s time to open my life to new experiences which is proving to be more difficult than I ever imagined.

The thought of the yellow chateau becomes sandwiched between the landscape ideas and the reconnection of the tour group.

Back to work…can’t get distracted now, I rationalize. This new project must be stunning. There is a lot riding on my client’s approval of this design. I have never landscaped a store front before, yet alone one in California. The sense of drama and the impact on the visitors is crucial. Perhaps plants from a French garden look can be along the side gravel path leading to the backyard. It can be reminiscent of Monet’s garden on a smaller scale. This can lead to a quiet, restful pond surrounded by tall grasses, lily of the Nile, regally giving it privacy where small white water lilies bloom on the pond’s surface. The guests can explore this secluded area in the backyard. Satisfied with my basic plan I retire for the night.

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Coffee in hand I take a moment watching through the windows as my corner of the world comes to life. Cars begin to appear on the street as people head for their jobs. In the distance I see my beautiful ocean, waves coming and going with predictable rhythm. There it is. That strong ray of sunlight. Another swallow of warm coffee, another minute of silent contemplation.

My screen-saver of the yellow chateau stares boldly at me as I turn on my computer. No messages from Gerrard.

Involved in every aspect of the landscape, I design for hours without a break. My eyes become heavy. I can no longer keep them open. My body screams that it needs to rest. I sit cross-legged on the carpet by my desk, too tired to go to bed, and too tired to fall deep asleep.

The ringing of the phone wakes me. Dazed I answer it. No one there. Checking my computer I hope Gerrard has emailed.

Nothing.

People don’t think clearly when visiting other countries. They do things they wouldn’t normally do, like buy overpriced shoes and a matching handbag. They don’t usually have dinner with a vineyard owner at his chateau. Here I am, a forty eight year old woman feeling as awkward in this situation as if I was in high school.

After my divorce I put every bit of energy into my landscape career, making a name for myself in this business. I have blocked out the remotest chance of anyone entering my life. Always too busy, no time, remodeling not complete, a business to grow... then Gerrard appears.

Life has dealt me some interesting cards. I have been raised by the best parents anyone could have requested. They were kind, caring, responsible people who wanted nothing more from life but a home and a family. For a few brief years that is exactly what they’d been given. Relatives contracted long term illnesses and my parents were deemed caregivers. It was time for me to explore who I was and what interested me. My passion for nature and landscaping was born.

A very muscular landscaping student caught my eye. Our deepening attraction grew. He took my breath away every time he entered a lecture hall. After graduation I married this Adonis in spite of my parents’ misgivings. The impetuosity of youth gave way to troubled times. With divorce on my list of experiences I moved from my home in the east to the west coast. I relinquished the thought that anyone would want to be with me.

The passion for my work has taken the place of a lover. My heart sings when I hold a plant in my hands, or dig out a space for a beautiful pond. Yet this brief dinner with a French vineyard owner has left an impression.

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Somewhere, I know I had it here somewhere, I talk out loud to myself as I search for Gerrard’s email address. It’s not on my phone nor on my computer. I remember it was on his business card. Where’s that card? Can’t find it anywhere. If I don’t dwell on it maybe my brain will discover its location.

I push myself to finish the last revision completing my portfolio for tomorrow’s meeting. This design is a radical departure. It far surpasses any of my previous ones.

Yes, I know