Queen of Babble

In fact, I bet she’d EAT New York City.

It’s at this point Agnes returns from the kitchen, holding a plate of snacks.

“Voila,” she says to me, looking extremely pleased with herself as she hands me the creation she’s prepared for me.

Which appears to be half a French baguette, sliced down the middle and stuffed with-

“Hershey bar!” Agnes cries, excited to be using the only English words she apparently knows.

I have just been handed a Hershey bar sandwich.

Agnes holds out the plate to Shari, who takes one look and says, “No thank you.”

Shrugging, Agnes then offers the plate to Dominique. The teenager doesn’t appear the least shocked that her boss’s girlfriend is half naked, proving that French people of all ages are way cooler about nudity than I am.

Dominique takes one look at the sandwich on the platter in front of her, shudders, and says, “Mon Dieu. Non.”

Well, okay. Maybe she wouldn’t eat New York City after all. Too fattening.

Agnes shrugs again, takes her own chocolate sandwich off the plate, sinks back down onto her chaise longue, and digs in. Crispy bits of crust fall all over the front of her bathing suit as she takes her first bite. Chewing, she gives me a chocolaty smile.

“C’est bon, ca,” she says, indicating the sandwich.

That much is obvious. The real question, of course, is how could it not be good?

Also, how can I say no to such a thoughtful and lovingly prepared snack? I don’t want to hurt the girl’s feelings.

There’s really only one thing I can do, of course. And so I do it.

And it is, without a doubt, the best sandwich I have ever eaten.

But it’s the kind of sandwich I can tell that Dominique-if she were to sink her business-oriented claws into this place-would outlaw immediately! Women recovering from lipo don’t want to be offered Hershey bar and baguette sandwiches! People on a corporate retreat can’t be served candy bars! I can practically see Dominique thinking this, even as she lifts a bottle of sunscreen and resolutely sprays her chest with it.

Agnes, and her Hershey bar sandwiches, will soon be a thing of the past if Dominique has her way with the ru

Unless, of course, someone stops her.

“Ladies.”

I nearly choke on the huge bite of chocolate bar sandwich I’ve just taken. That’s because Luke and Chaz have just shown up at the far end of the pool, looking sweaty and dirt-smeared from their morning spent hacking at the underbrush along the driveway.

“Salut,” Dominique says, lifting a darkly ta

“Hello, boys,” Shari says.

I don’t say anything for once, because I’m still too busy trying to swallow.

“Are you girls having a nice time?” Chaz wants to know. He is gri

“Dandy,” Chaz replied. “Thought we’d go for a swim to cool off a little.” Even as he says it, he’s peeling off his shirt.

One thing I’ll say about Chaz. He may have a master’s in philosophy, but he’s got the body of a physical trainer.

But Luke-I’m able to note all too clearly when he, too, pulls off his shirt a second later-is an even more spectacular example of athletic masculinity than Chaz. There’s not an ounce of body fat on his ta

SPLASH! Both guys leap into the sparkling water, not bothering to drop their shorts first, robbing me of the pleasure of seeing just what that trail of hair from Luke’s chest down into his waistband leads to.

“Christ, that feels good,” Chaz says when he surfaces. “Shar, get in here.”

“Your wish is my command, master,” Shari says. She lays down her book, stands up, and jumps. Some of the spray from the splash she makes gets on Dominique, who flicks it off.

“Dominique,” Luke calls from where he surfaces at the deep end. “Come on in. The water’s great.”

Dominique prattles something in French that I don’t completely catch, although the word cheveux is mentioned several times. I try to remember if cheveux means hair or horses. Somehow I don’t think Dominique is saying that she doesn’t want to get her horses wet.

Shari swims to the side of the pool and, folding her arms on the edge, leans out to say to me, “Lizzie, you have to get in here. The water is fabulous.”

“Let me finish my sandwich first,” I say, since I’m still working on the messy-but sinfully delicious-concoction Agnes handed me.

“Better wait half an hour after eating,” Luke says, teasingly, from the deep end. “You don’t want to get a cramp.”

Fortunately, I’m busy chewing, so my mouth is too full for me to ask, If I get one, will you rescue me, Luke? Flirting would be totally inappropriate, considering the fact that his girlfriend is sitting right next to me. Topless.

And looking way better that way than I could ever hope to.

“Ah, the new girl!”

I practically spit out the wad of bread and chocolate in my mouth, I’m so startled by the heavily French-accented male voice behind me. When I whip around on my chaise longue, I find myself staring at an older gentleman in a white shirt and khaki pants held up by a pair of stylishly embroidered suspenders.

“Um,” I say after I’ve swallowed, “hello.”

“This is the new girl?” the old man asks Dominique as he points at me.

Dominique turns around, looks at the old guy, and says, in a much pleasanter tone than I’ve ever heard her use before, “Why, yes, monsieur. This is Shari’s friend Lizzie.”

“Enchante,” the old man says, lifting my hand-the one that isn’t clutching the remains of my Hershey bar sandwich-and bringing it to the vicinity of-but not touching it with-his lips. “I am Guillaume de Villiers. Would you like to see my vineyard?”

“Dad,” Luke says from the side of the pool he’s hastily climbing out of, “Lizzie doesn’t want to see your vineyard right now, okay? She’s relaxing by the pool.”

So this charming old man is Luke’s father! I can’t say I can really see a resemblance-Monsieur de Villiers’s hair is wispy, not curly, like Luke’s, and snow white, not dark.

But he does have Luke’s same twinkling brown eyes.

“Oh, that’s all right,” I say, reaching for my sundress. “I want to see your vineyard, Monsieur de Villiers. I’ve heard so much about it. And last night I had some of your delicious champagne…”

“Ah.” Monsieur de Villiers looks delighted. “But technically it is not correct to call it champagne, unless it was made in the region of Champagne. What I make can only be called sparkling wine.”

“Well,” I said, having polished off the remains of my sandwich so that I have both hands free to struggle into my dress, “whatever it was, it was lovely.”

“Merci, merci!” Monsieur de Villiers exclaims. To Luke, who has come up to my chaise longue and is dripping on Dominique’s legs-causing her to give him an a

“You don’t have to go with him,” Luke says to me. “Really. Don’t let him bully you. He’s notorious for it.”

“I want to go,” I assure Luke, laughing. “I’ve never been to a vineyard before. I’d love to see it, if Monsieur de Villiers has time to show it to me.”

“I have all the time in the world!” Luke’s father cries.

“You don’t, actually,” Dominique says, with a glance at her slim gold watch. “Bibi will be here in less than two hours. Don’t you need to-”

“No, no, no,” Monsieur de Villiers says. He takes hold of my elbow to help me balance while I slip on my sandals. Or maybe to keep me from ru