Page 28 of Love in Bloom

“I see.” Alarms clanged in his head. Singapore, where the nightmares of his life were born.

“What did she say?” Best to know it all.

“She said you’d disgraced her cousin Jia.”

Tristan’s heart tripped and went splat. His leaden legs felt as if they walked through cement. Jia. Her name infused darkness in his heart.

“It seems preposterous that halfway around the world we’d run into someone from a country that I don’t even know if you ever lived in. Did you live in Singapore? Do you know these people? Why did she call you awful names? I keep telling myself that she’s mixed you up with someone else, but the fact is I don’t know that much about you. Why did we ever think this scheme was going to work?”

He let her words hang in the air between them. He needed to decide whether to lie or to tell her the truth. Neither was a cheerful prospect.

Camille slid her sunglasses down her nose to look him in the eyes. “Do you know a Jia? Do you know what she’s talking about?”

“I do.” He guided them over to join Louis and the group.

“Notice how the sophora japonica frame the view. They flourished last year, and the sight was exceptional. They’re shaping up quite nicely again this year,” Louis said.

“The little white clusters remind me of snow,” Tristan said to Camille.

She frowned at him. “Yes, they do. You’re avoiding my questions.” She dropped his hand.

As they walked through Leda’s terrace and the terrace of Anduze vases, Tristan weighed his options and gathered his thoughts. He trusted Camille, but after she knew the answers, could she trust him? Mrs. Chan had already planted seeds of doubt about his character in Camille’s mind. Perhaps Camille didn’t think as much of him as he originally thought.

“Notice the pink thyrses of the Lagerstroemia indica bloom all fanned out.” Louis pointed to the flowers. “Here is the double staircase, built in the eighteenth century. This is the statue of Saint Fiacre, the patron saint of gardeners.”

Tristan could use a saint. Divine intervention or at least guidance would be helpful at the moment as they wandered the vegetable garden.

When they were safely out of earshot of the group, Tristan said, “I did live in Singapore for a few years. It is very possible, even likely, that Mrs. Chan is related to the same Jia I knew.” He chose his words carefully. “The ultrarich in Singapore are connected by families, and Jia’s was one of the wealthiest. Judging by Mrs. Chan’s wardrobe and ring, I’d say she’s of the same set.” He watched Camille’s reaction out of the corner of his eye.

Creases formed along her forehead, and her chin angled toward the ground.

“I worked in a lab for a large company. Some of my work and theories attracted the notice of Mr. Song, the owner. That’s how I became acquainted with their family and with Jia, his daughter.” Acquainted was stretching it, even by his standards.

“But Mrs. Chan said you were a criminal. Did something happen at the lab?”

They strolled through a garden bordered by high walls. Two corners sported small towers used for storage.

Camille stooped to smell a blue-flowering Céanothes.

Did something happen at the lab? That was the most loaded question she could’ve asked him.

“Many things happened at the lab. Eventually I became aware of some company practices that I morally disagreed with. I attempted to intervene and redirect the methodology, but the company disagreed. We parted ways.” That was the biggest understatement. A parting of the ways didn’t leave scars and require therapy afterward.

They strolled in silence for several minutes before Camille asked, “Could you get a few pictures for me? There are some flowers I want to look into further when I return to London.”

“Of course.” He followed her around and snapped pictures at every bloom she indicated, as they made their way back to the château. “We should get a few of us as well. Honeymoon, remember?”

She nodded.

They snapped a few selfies.

Mrs. Kollman stepped forward. “You need one of the two of you that’s more than just your heads.” She directed them to stand in front of a cream-colored stone tower. “Closer.” She motioned with her hand.

Tristan slipped his arm around her waist so their bodies were pressed together. He couldn’t help but notice how well Camille fit against him, as if they were two halves split from one mold.

Mrs. Kollman returned his phone, and the group piled onto the bus.

“We’ll be staying in a luxury hotel at Toulouse tonight,” Lisette reminded the group.

A “humph” came from behind by Mrs. Chan, who spoke to her husband. “It had better have maid service and a spa. The last hotel was adequate, but I prefer ours to anyone else’s. I don’t know why they ever call this the Royal French Château and Garden Tour. I expected to be treated like a royal.”

Tristan overheard the remark she made to her husband. He needed to steer clear of her at all costs.

She shot daggers at him with her eyes as she passed but didn’t say a word, instead aiming a garish smirk at Camille instead.

As the bus transported them to their sleeping quarters for the night, Tristan mused over what he’d said to Camille. He’d told the truth, mostly. Still the conversation rubbed him the wrong way. At some point he’d need to come clean with her, even if it meant losing her. She’d agreed to this charade. She deserved that much.

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