Pathways - Jeri Taylor [115]
Tom found this flirtation great fun, gradually lost his embarrassment, and entered into the teasing with complete enthusiasm. He assumed it was understood by all parties that it was nothing more than a harmless game. That’s when he learned something more about French women.
Odile had spent the weekend at her parents’ in Beziers, but had promised to meet him at Sandrine’s on Sunday evening, when she returned to school. Tom had passed the time in her absence at the library, studying Vulcan cthia, the stoic approach to emotion control that had been formulated centuries ago by Surak. He found it mildly interesting but not enthralling, and by Sunday afternoon he felt justified in taking a break and heading for Sandrine’s just a little early.
He’d made some friends among the regulars there, particularly the pool players, with whom he felt an affinity. One of those, a grizzled, wizened man named Balzac, who claimed direct lineage with the ancient writer, was an astonishingly talented player who had taken Tom under his wing and coached him in the finer points of the game. Tom found himself a natural student, and became semi-addicted to pool. He arranged a system of “rewards”: four hours in the classroom or the library netted him twenty minutes of nine-ball. Eight hours, forty minutes. It took all his discipline to stick to this arrangement, but he did it with surprisingly few lapses.
Having spent all of Saturday, Saturday night, Sunday morning, and most of Sunday afternoon in the library had earned him an entire hour and a half of nine-ball. Since he was meeting Odile there later that night, he decided to collect his reward before that.
He arrived about six, before the place was too crowded. He eyed Sandrine behind the bar, exchanged a few ribald pleasantries with her, and then sought out Balzac. They’d been playing for about ten minutes when Sandrine brought them both a covered soup dish which contained a heavenly fragrant stew.
“It is venison, cheri,” she whispered in her husky voice. “I think you are a man who needs meat, eh?”
“There’s no such thing as meat, Sandrine. It’s all replicated.”
“C’est vrai, but this is a special replication formula derived by my father. He claimed to have eaten the real thing, and said this was the closest version he’d ever tasted.”
“Interesting.” Tom took a healthy spoonful of the stew, which was rich with garlic and sage. It was a powerful taste, ripe and gamy, but not unpleasant. He smiled appreciatively at Sandrine. “Not bad.”
She sidled closer to him, pressing one leg against his, and he was immediately conscious of the heat rising from her. She looked up at him through lowered lashes. “It is a wild meat,” she murmured. “I think it is the right choice for a man like you.”
Heat began rising from Tom, too. She was wearing a faint fragrance, something so subtle one was drawn closer in order to detect it, not cloying, not overly musky, but a hint of something delicate, delectable, sensual. He became aware of Balzac’s bemused presence and backed away slightly, spooning more of the stew into his mouth, but keeping his eye contact with Sandrine. “I think you’re right,” he said right to her, not looking away. Her smile was hooded, mysterious.
“Are we going to play or are you two going off together?” asked Balzac with good humor. Tom put down the stew and picked up his cue. “To leave a game in the middle isn’t honorable,” he announced, enjoying this flirtation. It didn’t seem dangerous to him, not yet.
Later Sandrine approached him again, carrying a crystal goblet. “C’est un vin vrai,” she said throatily, handing him the beautifully carved glass. “Not the wretched synthehol.” She pronounced it “seen-tha-hol,” which he found enchanting. When he tasted it, it was elixir. He never had real wine before, and now began to understand the French obsession.
Two glasses later he was flushed and exhilarated. He had beaten Balzac in the last three games, a unique experience. He had long since abandoned his reward system, having exceeded his hour-and-a-half