The Bar Next Door Page 6

  “I’ve met Québécois men much more charming,” she responds with a scoff. “It’s your accent. When you speak French, it sounds European.”

  I lean forward, staring at her over the top of my glasses as I lower my voice. “Aimes-tu mon accent, Monroe?”

  She doesn’t answer my question about whether she likes it.

  “Where are you from?”

  “La France,” I answer, laying the accent on extra thick. “Bordeaux, specifically, in case you wanted to know.”

  The inquisitive expression doesn’t leave her face. “Your English is flawless, though. When you speak it, you have this...I can’t quite figure it out, but you almost sound...”

  “British?” I supply.

  She snaps her fingers. “That’s it! I couldn’t place it. It’s really subtle, but sometimes I can pick it up. It was driving me crazy trying to figure it out.”

  I like the idea of driving her crazy way too much.

  “I had a few British tutors growing up,” I explain, “and after that, I was at Cambridge for a while.”

  Her shoulders stiffen. “Wait. Cambridge? As in, you went to Cambridge University?”

  “For two years,” I amend. “Then I dropped out.”

  “You dropped out of Cambridge University?”

  She lays both her palms on the table like she’s steadying herself.

  “You make it sound like I committed a murder.”

  She shakes her head slowly. “I can’t tell if dropping out of Cambridge is just plain sacrilegious, or if it makes you even more badass than going to Cambridge in the first place.”

  I chuckle. “Most people wouldn’t describe studying at Cambridge as the definition of ‘badass.’”

  “Most people have an underdeveloped appreciation for academia. What did you study?”

  “Economics with a minor in English.”

  She dips her chin down in a nod. “Well-rounded.”

  “And what did you study? And where? Are you about to tell me you’re an Oxford honours grad and that I’m just Cambridge shit?”

  “I wish I was an Oxford honours grad.” She claps her hands to her cheeks and gets glittery-eyed at just the thought. This is the most passionate I’ve seen her since she talked about that run-down bar she loves. “I went to school here in Montreal. I took a bunch of different courses before I settled on a major in English and a minor in classical studies. After that, I did my Masters in English.”

  “You have a Masters?”

  “Are you surprised?”

  “No. No, not at all,” I hurry to backtrack. “It’s just...It’s impressive. I couldn’t even get through my undergrad.”

  The server comes back, and we have to admit that neither of us has even looked at the menu. I glance over the wine offerings and ask the server a few questions before settling on a glass of Merlot. Monroe orders a cocktail called the Brandy Kiss.

  “So how does a French Cambridge dropout end up in Montreal?” she asks me after the server heads off.

  “I was filled with a desire to see the New World.”

  She scoffs again. “Okay there, John Smith.”

  “My father was from Montreal,” I explain, opting for the truth this time. “We came back to visit a lot after he decided to buy property here. When he...passed away, the property went to me, and I decided to come live on it. That was six years ago.”

  Most people look away when I talk about Papa. They have to glance at the floor or the wall for a moment, have to distance themselves from the pain and the pity before they can turn back and tell me how sorry they are. I understand that urge; it’s an intimate act to witness someone else’s loss, especially when that person is a stranger.

  Monroe doesn’t even blink. She wears her concern the same way she wears her confusion: with a child-like sincerity. Her voice goes soft—not with the affected gravity we all use to placate grief, but with genuine compassion. It’s almost unnerving to feel so clearly seen, so clearly understood.

  “You must have been young when he passed.”

  “Twenty-six,” I find myself telling her. “It was cancer. No one saw it coming.”

  Her hand twitches on the tabletop, and the urge to reach for it—to feel the way her fingers would fit wrapped up in mine—is so strong it’s only the arrival of our drinks that stops me from doing it. The moment releases us, and we each reach for our glasses.

  “Wine again,” Monroe mutters as she takes her first sip through her straw.

  “What’s wrong with wine?”

  “Nothing. I should learn to expect it from a Bordeaux boy.”

  I let out a laugh. “I don’t think anyone’s ever called me a ‘Bordeaux boy’ before. It has a nice ring to it.”

  “Are your family wine makers or something?”

  I set the Merlot back down. It’s decent enough.

  “We are the wine makers,” I tell her, unable to keep the pride out of my voice. “My mother’s family is...Well, picture whatever comes into your head when I say the words ‘French heiress.’ That’s my mother. Her family owned an estate in Bordeaux for over a century, but they didn’t do much besides own it. It looked good to have a winery, you know?”

  “Oh, of course,” Monroe teases. “I have to have at least one winery to match all my handbags.”

  I brush a hand over my beard as I laugh. “I told you; they’re the definition of French aristocracy. My father changed all that, though—well, at least as far as the winery went. He was a maître d’ here in Montreal when he and my mother met—”

  “Your French princess mother married a maître d’?” Monroe interrupts. “What is this, a fairy tale?”

  “It might as well be,” I agree. “He used to quote this one line by Eduardo Galeano all the time. I forget exactly how it goes in English, but it’s something like...” I trail off, making the translation in my head. I can still picture him looking at Maman as he said it. “Something like, ‘We are all mortal until the first kiss and the second glass of wine.’”

  I might be imagining it, but I think Monroe nearly sighs.

  “He sounds like a poetic man.”

  “He was, but he was more than that. He wasn’t just a dreamer; he was a doer. He knew no one is ever going to work as hard for the things you want as you are. He had a vision for the winery. He came in, and he didn’t sleep until he made it one of the best in Bordeaux. Then he bought two more wineries.”

  “Because you can never have too many fashionable estates.”

  I raise my glass in mock-agreement. “Although for him, it wasn’t about fashion. It was about accomplishment, about building something. That’s why he was never upset that I didn’t want to join the business. He understood the need to grow something from nothing. He gave me that need. I could have bought out any Montreal restaurant I wanted with what we’ve got in the family trust, but I refused. I’ve never even touched it. It would feel too much like letting him down.”

  “He was very important to you, wasn’t he?”

  Her tone catches me off guard. She’s staring at me with that same open-faced concern from earlier, the one that seems to see everything—even the things I’d rather keep hidden.

  “He was.” I steady myself with a sip of wine. “I’ve never met another man like him.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Pierre Valois.”

  She lifts her glass and nods for me to do the same. “To Pierre.”

  “To Pierre,” I echo.

  We bring our glasses together, two crystals colliding in the shadows of the bar.

  “You’re alarmingly easy to talk to, Monroe,” I tell her, hoping to ease the weight of the moment. “Ever thought about working behind a bar?”

  “I...did,” she answers, stirring the ice cubes around in her drink. “I bartended my way through school.”

  “And now? Do you sit in dive bars on Avenue Mont-Royal writing revolutionary essays about the contributions of Herman Melville to the literary canon?”

  She rolls
her eyes. “Again with the mocking. Also, ew. Who wants to write about Herman Melville?”

  I chuckle. “Excusez-moi. I feel bad; we’ve spent the whole night talking about me. I don’t even know what you do for a living.”

  She gets very engrossed in her ice cubes again. “I...am a manager.”

  I wait for her to continue. She doesn’t.

  “...Of?” I finally prompt.

  “Of...a store.”

  “You don’t sound too sure about it.”

  “I am.” She stops playing with her drink and looks up with a newfound certainty. “I am a manager of a store.”

  “Am I not allowed to know which store? Do you manage a...sex shop, or something?”

  She hesitates.

  “Sacrement, Monroe, do you actually manage a sex shop?” I can’t keep the bemusement off my face.

  She throws back a pull of her drink before resting it on the table again. “I’m not going to confirm that.”

  “I wish you would. I have a lot of questions.”

  She grimaces. “You don’t have to be such a pervert about it.”

  “I’m serious! I’m a business owner. I studied economics. The logistics of running a sex shop are actually very interesting to me.”

  She shakes her head. “Nuh-uh. I’m changing the subject.”

  “To what?”

  “I don’t know what. I’m just not talking about the logistics of running a sex shop with you.”

  Our server passes by behind Monroe, and I swear he’s about to ask how we’re doing before he overhears the end of her sentence, does a double-take, and keeps on walking.

  “Alors, then why don’t we talk about how you went from English grad to adult supply store manager?”

  She makes another face at me but consents to the topic.

  “I was going to go for my PhD,” she explains, “but I took some time off to save up for the program, and then the management position came along, and it just...never happened.”

  “You could still go back to school. You’re young.”

  “You say that like you’re old. I’m twenty-seven. I can’t be that much younger than you.”

  That would make her five years younger, to be exact. It’s not much, but it’s enough to possibly be significant if we dated.

  If we dated? What happened to one drink?

  “Regardless, plenty of PhD students are much older than you.”

  “It’s not an age thing,” she counters, “and it’s not like I’m pining to go back. My life just...took a different path. I found a rhythm. I found a place where I fit. My job is hard work, but at the end of the day, I feel satisfied. I feel like I’ve done well, like I’ve helped people.”

  “With the sex toys.”

  I know she’d smack me for that if she weren’t in danger of knocking over our drinks.

  “Pervert,” she grumbles. “It’s not just about the customers, though. It’s the staff. We’re a family. We support each other. How many people are lucky enough to say that about their coworkers? I couldn’t just leave them. They need me.”

  “Sometimes supporting your family means letting them go, letting them leave to do the things they need to do.”

  It’s a bold thing to say, and I’m not surprised to see she looks mildly affronted.

  “I don’t want to leave. We’re not all industrious pioneers, Bordeaux boy. Some of us can go to bed happy just knowing we made someone smile.”

  “Or orgasm,” I amend. “You know, with the sex toys you sold them.”

  I can’t stop myself; she’s making this too easy.

  “You have the mind of twelve year-old boy, Julien Valois.”

  “I think we can both agree I at least have the mind of a fourteen year-old boy. I did get into Cambridge, you know.”

  Monroe laughs as I drain the last dregs of Merlot from my glass. She doesn’t have anything but ice left in hers. The server seems to sense the end of a round and shows up to ask if we’d like another. I glance at Monroe. She checks the time.

  “I should get going.”

  The trace of regret in her voice fills me with something that tastes like wine and burns like possibility. I ask for the bill.

  “How was your Brandy Kiss?” I enquire while we wait.

  “It was good, sort of spicy.”

  “Do you often go for cocktails? Didn’t Roxanne say you’re a craft beer enthusiast?”

  “I like to experiment—and don’t make another sex shop joke about that.”

  The bill arrives, and I pay before we get up to ask for our coats at the front. The night has gotten colder since we came in. I thought it was finally warm enough to start wearing a spring jacket, but apparently I haven’t learned much in the six years I’ve spent in this arctic vortex of a country.

  Monroe, on the other hand, looks perfectly warm—and unreasonably kissable—as she pulls the faux-fur lining of her hood closer around her face.

  “Let me call you a car,” I insist as she starts to dig for her phone. “I’m the one who dragged you all the way down here.”

  “You can only order one Uber at a time. How are you going to get home?”

  “I don’t live far.”

  She looks confused for a moment and then laughs to herself. “Right. When you said you lived on your dad’s property, I guess I just pictured, I don’t know, a pasture or something.”

  “A pasture?” I repeat. “Just how far is the closest pasture from here?”

  “Don’t make fun of me!” she complains.

  “I live in a condo.”

  “Near here? Must be a nice condo.”

  “It’s all right.” It’s valued at almost a million. My father did not like to think small. “What’s your address? I’ll order the car.”

  I type the address she gives me in and watch it pop up on the map.

  “Right near your favourite tavern,” I comment. “Maybe I can convince you to become a regular at my wine bar instead of Taverne Toulouse—if there’s even still a Taverne Toulouse on offer.”

  Something in her expression darkens way more than I expect it to.

  “Why are you so obsessed with demolishing Taverne Toulouse?”

  “I don’t want to demolish it; I possibly want to renovate it. Why are you so insistent that it stays the way it is?”

  “Because there are more important things than turning a profit.”

  She throws her hands up in the air and then crosses them firmly over her chest, turning away like she’s embarrassed. I still can’t figure out why that little dive seems to be such a sore subject for her, but this isn’t how I want to end the night.

  “I know that, Monroe. That’s why I wanted to open the wine bar in the first place.”

  She turns back to me, a question on her face.

  “It’s my...It’s my tribute—to my father. I’ve opened four businesses on my own now. I never could have done that if it weren’t for what he taught me, for how he raised me. I want to build something that will give people a chance to appreciate wine the way he did. That’s what everything he did was always about. He wanted to be successful, yes, but he saw wine as this...this gift that everyone deserved to experience to its full potential. Now that he’s gone...” I pause to swallow. “I want to make sure that gift doesn’t get lost. I’m finally at a place in my career where I have the chance to do it.”

  “Is it worth doing it if it hurts other people?”

  I drag my hands through my hair in confusion. “Monroe, what are you talking about?”

  “Nothing. It’s fine.”

  “Non. It’s not fine. I...” I trail off as search for the courage to admit what I’m feeling. “I haven’t had an evening this nice in a long, long time, and if I said something to upset you—”

  “You didn’t. I’m sorry.” She uncrosses her arms and stares down at her hands as she rubs them together to warm herself. “I...I had a nice evening too.”

  “Let’s have another one.”

  I say the words before I ev
en think them. She squints at me.

  “A drink?”

  “A date.” Apparently my mouth has a mind of its own. “Go on a date with me—a real one. I want to see you again.”

  She starts to stutter, and I don’t know who’s more startled by my directness: her or me.

  “I don’t, um, I don’t know if I have time. My job keeps me so busy...”

  “Of course.” She agreed to join me for a simple thank you drink; of course she’s not going to say yes to an actual date. At least she’s doing the courtesy of letting me down easy. “I own three restaurants and a club. I’m the last person you have to explain about being busy to.”

  A beat passes.

  “I just sounded like a douchebag, didn’t I?”

  She grins. “Just a little.”

  The Uber pulls up, and she lifts her purse strap higher up on her shoulder.

  “Thank you for the drink. I haven’t been to the Old Port at night in forever.” She glances up at the aged facade and ornate columns of the building beside us, yellow streetlights carving shadows into the stone. “I forgot how pretty it is.”

  I watch her face soften as she says the words, and I know she’s talking about the city, but all I see is her. She is so pretty. So disarmingly, distractingly pretty.

  I can’t help but keep staring as she walks away, every foot of the growing distance between us marking the end of a night I wish could last so much longer. She’s almost at the car when she whirls around, marching toward me with determination in her steps.

  “Give me your phone.”

  I hand it over without a word.

  “There,” she says after a few seconds of typing. “You have my number now. I get to pick the next bar, and you have to drink something other than wine.”

  “Why can’t I have wine?” I ask as I take the phone back, doing my best to sound collected.

  I’m anything but.

  She puts her hands on her hips. “Do you want to go on this date or not?”

  “I’ll drink whatever you tell me to.”

  She hitches her purse up again. “That’s what I like to hear, Bordeaux boy.”

  I wave at the car as she leaves before I’m left standing there wondering what kind of idiot waves at a car. Then I start wondering what kind of idiot asks a woman on a date when he’s in no position to start dating anyone.