Page 53 of That Weekend in Paris
The make and model aren’t one I recognize, so I’m assuming it’s a European manufacturer. I look at Dillon and dangle the keys. “Would you like to drive?”
“I think I will leave that up to you,” she says.
“I’m not making any promises. I’ve driven in LA, but I’m not sure how that will compare to this.”
“We’ll see,” she says, smiling and sliding into the passenger seat.
I get in, my knees hitting the dashboard under the steering wheel. “Ouch.” I move the seat back as far as it will go.
“I’m not sure this car is going to be big enough,” Dillon says.
“We’ll make do.”
“We could remove the driver’s seat, and you could sit in the back,” she says, giggling. It’s the first time I’ve heard her laugh like that, and I realize with a jolt how much I enjoy being the one to cause it.
“Reverse chauffeuring, or something like that.” She giggles again, and I make an attempt to stab the key in the ignition, finally finding it and starting the car. It makes a rattling sound that causes us both to look at each other with a question mark on our faces.
“Ah, do you think they gave us a good car?” Dillon asks.
“Remains to be seen,” I say. “We could take it back or just go with it. A rattling muffler outside the Ritz Paris is a bit of a contraindication, but we’ll see where we get.”
“Okay,” Dillon says, not hiding the skepticism in her voice.
The car is a manual shift, and it’s been a long time since I drove anything other than an automatic. I let the clutch out, and we lurch forward. I hit the brake. The tires squeal. Dillon is laughing full force now, and I glance out the window to see a frowning hotel employee clearly ready for us to get this jalopy out of the square. I give another try, and we’re off, fairly smoothly this time. I turn the car onto the street, stopping at a red light.
“Okay, now. No more making fun of my driving. Have you got the GPS on?”
“Yes,” Dillon says, still trying not to laugh. She props her phone on the ledge above the car’s radio and points at the map. “We’re here, and we’re going there.”
“Let’s hope we make it,” I say.
“You sure we shouldn’t change out cars?”
“Too late now,” I say. “We’re off.”
The Paris traffic is definitely different from Nashville, but it’s not LA. I manage to get us to the outskirts of the city without incidence. I give Dillon a side glance. “Sure you don’t want to drive?”
“Oh, no, you’re doing excellent,” she says. “And besides, I don’t know how to drive a straight. That would be disastrous. When did you learn how to drive a straight?”
“Somewhere along the way. One of my buddies in high school had an old farm use truck he used to take out in his granddaddy’s hayfield and cut up on. He taught me how to drive it one Saturday night when he’d had a few too many. He started me out on a hill, I guess because he thought it would add a little humor to the situation and that if I could conquer that, I’d be good to go.”
Dillon smiles. “Were you?”
“Pretty much, after we rolled backward a dozen or so times.”
Dillon smiles, and I can tell she is picturing my learning curve. “So tell me about this place we’re going to,” I say.
“Okay,” she says, picking up her phone and tapping out of the map screen. “It’s a château that was built in the sixteenth century. Obviously renovated since then. They have a vineyard and make their own label of wine. They have an orchard and use the peaches and pears they grow in the foods made in the restaurant. They have a barn of forty horses that do various disciplines, including jumping. That one I’m sure you will want to do,” she says, cocking me a smile.
“Of course, absolutely,” I say.
“They have ponies for children. They have horses for trail riding and some dressage.”
“Dressage. What exactly is that?”
“That is a discipline in which the horse is taught certain movements at the most basic level and advances up the chain of difficulty. It’s beautiful to watch, sort of like a horse dancing.”
“Sounds beautiful,” I say. “You’ll be doing that, right?”
