Her Mediterranean Makeover. Claire Baxter

like the perfect plan, but it hadn’t turned out quite as she’d expected. For one thing, this language was really hard to learn. Or maybe she was too old for it. That saying about old dogs and new tricks was probably a cliché because it was true.

      Either way, she was having a tough time making sense of what people were saying. The other students didn’t seem to have the same problem, though, and she felt like a dill alongside them.

      And that was another thing. She’d thought she’d make new friends on the course, but she hadn’t counted on all the other students being so young. They were friendly enough, but when they asked if she’d like to go for a drink with them, they were only being polite. She could tell by the way they looked over her shoulder, careful not to make eye contact when they invited her.

      So she didn’t go. She didn’t really want to anyway. It would be like socialising with her kids’ friends, and wouldn’t feel right.

      She’d found the French people she’d met so far to be very polite. Shopkeepers went out of their way to greet her when she entered a store, which was nice, but in general they didn’t seem to do conversation. Not with strangers anyway. Back home people would snatch any chance for a chat, but here, in her experience, the locals didn’t speak unless spoken to, and then only reluctantly.

      Except for the man who ran the little café she’d found the week before. She’d been wandering the narrow streets of old Nice—alleys, really, they weren’t wide enough to be called streets—when an inconspicuous door had opened beside her, and the aroma that had poured out, combined with the sound of cheerful voices, had made her want to enter.

      She’d looked up at the wall above the arched doorway but had seen no sign, only a brightly planted window box at a green-shuttered upstairs window. Still, the scent of strong coffee along with the sight of tiny round tables crammed into the small space had called to her like the Pied Piper’s flute, and she’d followed it obediently. Inside she’d found a little café, and a welcome that had revived her as much as the coffee.

      Jean-Claude, the elderly man who’d served her, had been friendly, chatty and interested in her. That alone would have been sufficient to bring her back, but she’d also enjoyed the ambience of jazz music playing softly from unconcealed speakers on whitewashed walls alongside art that to her uneducated eyes, looked ancient.

      All the French newspapers were provided for customers to read, and she’d enjoyed a lazy browse, lingering over the few stories that she could almost understand. If she was going to stay, she thought now, it would be a good idea to set herself the goal of figuring out more written French each day.

      Within minutes, she was out of the apartment and heading for the café. She could go and buy the papers for herself, but this was much nicer. It allowed her the illusion that she was settling in.

      Besides, it gave her something to do and she needed that. During all those years of caring for others, of being constantly busy, she’d dreamed of taking a holiday alone, of having the time to do nothing at all. But now that she had her wish, she really wasn’t sure that she liked it. Maybe she’d just grown used to being needed, and here no one needed her at all. It was an odd sensation.

      The café was busy and Jean-Claude didn’t have time for chit-chat, and when she reached the newspaper rack only the most difficult one was left. Well, difficult for her, she admitted as she tucked it under her arm and carried her coffee to a table at the back of the room. Understanding one word in twenty did not make for an entertaining read.

      Having spread the newspaper on the table, she took a sip of coffee and scanned the room, wondering if this was the norm and she’d just happened to turn up last week on the one day when the café was light on customers. As her gaze drifted from table to table she did a double take. A good-looking man was smiling at her. She glanced behind her, but no, there was no one standing there. Gosh, he really was smiling at her.

      She smiled back. She’d seen him before. The first day she’d entered the café he’d been seated at the counter on one of the high stools. She couldn’t help noticing him. Well, he did stand out in his pristine white shirt and dark trousers when most of the other patrons wore smart-casual clothes; her guess was that he worked nearby. But it was more than that—there was something about him that made him stand out…a presence. Charisma, was that it?

      Whatever it was, he was still watching her. Maybe he thought he knew her from somewhere. If so, he was mistaken. With a mental shrug, she put down her coffee, reached into her handbag for her reading glasses and tried to concentrate on the words in front of her.

      She was reasonably successful, despite being forced to glance up every few seconds to see whether he was still there. After a while, Leonie gave herself strict instructions not to look up for any reason at all until she’d read to the end of one full story. The shortest one would do.

      Halfway through, though, she was interrupted by a male voice. When she looked over the top of her glasses, the man standing in front of her came into focus. The man who’d been smiling at her earlier. The same man she’d been unable to take her eyes off. And he was even better-looking close up.

      Older than he’d appeared at first, he had just enough silver sprinkled through his hair to make him appear…safe. Same deal with the laughter lines around brown eyes that were so full of warmth and humour she found herself smiling even though she had no clue what he’d said.

      She hurriedly shoved her glasses to the top of her head where they were anchored by her curly hair, then asked him to repeat his words. She watched his mouth closely as he spoke, trying her hardest to separate the sounds into individual words. Without much luck.

      She shook her head and gave him an apologetic shrug.

      Compassion filled his face and he leaned forward. ‘Vous êtes sourde?’ he enunciated clearly.

      Sourde, sourde… Leonie searched her memory for the word.

      He covered his ears with his hands, following the action with a questioning lift of his eyebrows.

      Deaf! That was it.

      ‘Oh, my, no.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m from Australia.’

      ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, changing smoothly to English and smiling again. ‘I didn’t think of that. This café does not normally attract tourists.’

      ‘I’m not surprised. It was pure chance that I found it. There’s nothing outside to indicate that it is a café.’

      ‘No. That’s the way we like it.’ He grinned. ‘I’m sorry. I meant no offence.’

      ‘Oh, none taken. I’m not a tourist.’

      ‘Ah, bon? You live here?’

      ‘Well, temporarily. I’m here to study the language so I’m a student. I look far too old to be one of those, I know. Do you object to students as well?’ She smiled, sure that someone with eyes that gleamed with humour couldn’t possibly be serious about disliking any group of people.

      ‘Not at all. Nor do I object to tourists,’ he said firmly. ‘They are important to the economy, they create many jobs, so how could I?’ He indicated the chair opposite her. ‘May I?’

      ‘Oh, yes. Please do,’ she said quickly. Not that she was desperate for company or anything.

      ‘I have been to Australia. New Zealand too.’

      ‘Well, you’re one up on me, then. I haven’t seen New Zealand. In fact, I’d never been out of the country until I came here. Do you travel a lot?’

      ‘Not now. I have commitments now that make travelling difficult. But when I was a young man, I wanted to see the world, and I travelled cheaply.’

      ‘Ah. Backpacking?’

      ‘Staying in hostels or with people I met. I suppose you would call it backpacking. I learned English as I went, because it was essential. I did some grape-picking and other temporary jobs.’

      And