June 1936
As Bobby Davis lay in the cold mud, he couldn't help wondering if the weather was actually mocking him. From his vantage point on the ground, he stared up at the ominous grey clouds above him. They were the type that made you want to get inside before the storm could ruin your clothes as well as your nice day out. But what did the weather have against him at this moment? This is ridiculous, he thought, the weather can't have it out for you. Then a raindrop landed directly in his eye.
Or maybe it can.
Bobby had been driving through the French countryside, already late for a meeting with his father at the steel mill, when he had felt the car suddenly start to decelerate. Concerned, he'd pulled over, and just as he got out, the first rain drops began to fall. As he circumnavigated the car, he saw the reason for his troubles: the left front tire was flat.
No problem, he had thought, I'll just throw the spare on.
However, it turned out that doing so was easier said than done.
Bobby slowly eased himself out of the mud and the current bane of his existence came back into view. The flat tire.
It was still on the hub, and Bobby had the completely irrational feeling that it was gloating at him. The tire hung above the ground, high and dry and out of the mud. Unlike Bobby.
Standing, he rolled up his sleeves and approached it again. It was him or the tire. One of them was not going to get out of this alive.
Secretly, he wondered how the tire would kill him.
But that's when he saw it.
"Damn it!" he shouted, having finally seen the reason that the tire refused to come off.
He had left one of the lug nuts on.
Reaching out, tentatively, he prayed that he had at least remembered to loosen it while the car was still on the ground. Because if not, he would be lowering and raising the car… for the third time.
As he laid his hand on the nut, he whispered "please" over and over. Slowly, gently, he tried to turn the nut. And mercifully, it spun.
"Oh thank God!" Maybe things were finally looking up.
Then a flash of lighting caught his eye, followed quickly by a crash of thunder.
Or maybe not.
"Hello?"
Brigitte heard a thickly accented voice waft through the garage. Looking up from the wiring harness she had been working on, she was surprised to see a tall blond man, around her age, standing in the doorway. A man who was pretty much covered head to toe in mud.
"Can I help you?" Brigitte asked, unsure of what this strange, mud covered man wanted.
"Um, yes. The… uh… the thing on the car… broke." He spoke haltingly, his French thick with an English accent.
"The 'thing'?" Brigitte brought her hand to her mouth, trying to hide her smirk.
"Yes... I am sorry, I do not know the word. The thing the car is on." Brigitte narrowed her eyes, wondering if he meant 'chassis' when suddenly the man exclaimed, "That thing!" and pointed to the tire on the car that Brigitte had just been fixing.
Brigitte smiled, finally understanding. "Ah, the tire is flat."
"Yes!" The man clapped his hands together, smiling with relief, and Brigitte couldn't help noticing that he was probably pretty cute… under all that mud.
But then he opened his mouth again. "I need a mechanic. Where is he?"
Brigitte's voice turned icy, "I am the mechanic."
"Oh. Uh, okay."
There was an awkward silence, filled only by the sound of the rain pattering on the roof.
"Well, where's the car?" Brigitte asked, her voice still tinged with disgust. "I can't help you if I don't know where the car is."
"The car is outside. Should I drive it inside?"
"Yes. And park it here," Brigitte said, gesturing to the empty spot next to the car she had been working on.
The man left and Brigitte turned back to her wiring harness. She could feel the bitterness that often accompanied helping new customers rise within her. It didn't matter that she had been fixing cars alongside her father her whole life, whenever a new man came into the shop, he always instantly doubted her. Just because she was a girl.
Suddenly she wished her father was here right now. Not because she couldn't do the job. But because, sometimes, she just really hated dealing with the male customers.
The roar of an engine cut into her thoughts and she looked up to see a new Citroën Traction Avant cabriolet roll into the garage, the muddy man behind the wheel.
"This is a very nice car," Brigitte commented with a little surprise as the man got out. "Is it the '36 model?"
"Um, yes, I think. So," he said, pointing to the driver's side front tire, "this is the one that… uh…"
"Went flat," Brigitte offered.
"Yes! It is possible to fix now? Or should I come back?"
"If it's just a tube replacement I can do it now. Where's the old tire? In the spare compartment?" From his blank look, Brigitte was pretty sure that most of that had gone over his head. "Never mind." She pushed past him and opened the compartment. Hefting the muddy tire out, she inspected it and saw the small nail that had lodged itself in the tread.
She looked up to catch the man's attention before she started to speak again. "It's not a problem. I can fix it in about half an hour."
"Oh, good," he said, looking relieved. "Can I wait here? I do not have anywhere to go. And it is still raining."
Brigitte winced. She really didn't want him hanging out in her garage as she worked, but if her papa ever found out that she had sent a customer out into the rain, he would have her head. So she took a breath and tried to smile. "It's fine. You can stay here. Just..." she looked him up and down, "don't get mud all over everything."
"Oh, okay." The man began to wander aimlessly around the shop as Brigitte got the lug wrench to remove the spare tire. Fitting the wrench on the nut, she hardly had to twist at all before it spun free.
"Oh my God, did they not teach you to change a tire in England?" she exclaimed.
"What?" The man asked, walking over to stand beside her again.
"You're damn lucky you even made it here! These nuts are far too loose! Do you have any idea how the vibrations of driving can loosen these nuts?"
The man just stared at her, and Brigitte wasn't sure if he didn't understand what she was saying, or if he was just shocked that she was yelling at him. But she was just so pissed off that it was hard for her to care. Here, this man had been questioning her abilities, when all along he couldn't even change a tire? She looked back up at him, about to start yelling, but she reminded herself that it would do no good. Instead, she took a breath, trying to level her voice. "Look, Monsieur—"
"My name is Bobby. Say it again, please?" he asked. "More slowly?"
Sighing, Brigitte started again. "These things," she said pointing to the lug nuts, "were very loose. When you drive the car it vibrates and it causes them to unscrew themselves. The wheel could have fallen off. Next time you change a tire, you have to make these very tight. Do you understand?"
He nodded, this time seeming to understand what she had just said.
"Good." After jacking the car up, Brigitte took off the punctured tire, brought it over to the workbench, and began to replace the tube.
"What are you doing now?" he asked curiously.
Looking up, she noted that the muddy man, Bobby, she reminded herself, was right next to her again, hovering. As she looked at him, she felt the anger rise in her again. "What? Do you not trust me to fix a tire?" she challenged.
Bobby's face fell immediately at her expression, but it took a few moments before his language skills were able to catch up. "No! No, I do! I am just... interested. This was my first time…" he paused as he collected the words, "… changing a tire. And I have never seen this part. Can you teach me?" He let a smile cross his lips before he added, "Please?"
Brigitte was slightly taken aback. He wanted her to teach him? For a moment she thought that maybe he was making fun of her, but studying his face, she couldn't detect any deception. She took a breath, and thought about how to explain this in simple enough terms that he could follow. "Well, there is a tube on the inside that needs to be replaced, so that is what I'm doing."
Bobby nodded and another moment of silence passed between them. Brigitte grunted, wrestling with the damaged tire.
"What is your name?" Bobby suddenly asked. Brigitte looked up at him, a bit perplexed by the non sequitur. He must have noticed, because he quickly added, "You did not tell me."
He smiled at her again and she couldn't help notice how open and honest his face was. "It's Brigitte. Brigitte Bernard," she grunted as she returned to working on the tire.
"It is a pretty name. Pretty. Like you."
Brigitte side eyed him as she continued to work. Dressed in grey coveralls and with her dark wavy hair hastily pulled back, she very much doubted his words were an accurate description of her in her current state. But then again she looked pretty good compared to him at the moment, still covered in mud. It was drying now and starting to flake off around the garage. "Um, Bobby," she began as she pulled out the tube. "Why don't I give you a towel and you can clean up a bit. That way you don't ruin the interior any more than you already have." Or my garage.
A look of relief flashed across Bobby's face. "Yes, thank you."
After setting him up in the other room at the basin, Brigitte continued her work on the tire. Hearing footsteps, she assumed that it was Bobby returning until she realized they were coming from the wrong direction. Looking up, Brigitte saw her older cousin coming in through the garage door.
"Hey, Brigitte! Is Auntie Maria around?" Simone asked.
Brigitte set down the tire iron. "Yeah, Mama should be in the kitchen." Simone started to head into the house when Brigitte spoke again. "By the way, I like your dress."
Simone paused and made a childlike twirl, causing the hem of the blue dress with little white flowers to flair. "Thanks, it's new. I probably shouldn't have, but it just looked so good."
Brigitte nodded. "It really does. And maybe I could borrow it sometime?"
Simone laughed. "As long as you promise not to get engine grease on it."
"Hey, that only happened once." Brigitte retorted, her hands on her hips.
Simone was already headed into the house when she called over her shoulder. "Once was one time too many."
Brigitte shook her head and turned back to her work, just to be interrupted by another voice. "Who was that?"
"My cousin," Brigitte replied, carefully jamming the new tube into the space between the tire and the wheel.
"Ah." There was a long moment of uncomfortable silence as Brigitte worked and Bobby stared at her. Desperate to get his focus off of what she was doing, Brigitte asked, "What part of England are you from, Bobby?"
His eyebrows furrowed. "I am not English. I am American, from New York." There was another pause. "Why did you think I am English?"
Brigitte had just finished with the tire and was ready to put it back on the car. "Well, you obviously speak English, and England is much closer, so…"
"But we do not sound the same." Bobby replied.
Brigitte turned to face him, her arms crossed. "Oh, and you could tell the difference between me and a Quebecois? I think not."
Bobby laughed. "I guess not." Brigitte turned back to the workbench and hefted the tire. She made her way back over to the car, Bobby on her heels. "What are you doing now?" he asked.
It's not obvious? "I'm ready to put the tire back on." She knelt to get started but he stopped her.
"May I? To learn?" Bobby asked.
Brigitte was taken slightly aback, but again, he looked like he was genuinely interested, so she shrugged and replied, "Sure," before passing him the tire. As he placed the tire on the bolts, Brigitte directed, "Okay, now we need to lower the car back on the ground so we can tighten the nuts without the wheel spinning."
"Yes, I… learned. Earlier. I, um… raised the car first and… had trouble."
Brigitte let out a chuckle and watched him lower the car. In spite of herself, she was actually starting to enjoy teaching Bobby how to change a tire. Despite how he had come off at first, he actually seemed to respect her knowledge. And that was not something that happened every day to Brigitte.
When all four wheels were again in contact with the earth, Brigitte instructed, "Okay, now put the nuts on. And tighten them this time." She smiled at him as she passed him the lug wrench and nuts. "You'll need to tighten them to about 130 newton-meters."
Bobby looked up at her, confused. "I do not know what that is."
"It's the torque specification… a measure of force at a distance." Seeing that he was still confused, Brigitte went and got the torque wrench and showed it to him. "See, you can set this to your torque specification and it won't let you go any further."
"Oh!" Bobby suddenly exclaimed, then spoke in English, "It's a foot-pound!"
This time it was Brigitte that looked confused. "I do not know what that is," she replied in her own thickly accented English.
Bobby laughed and, switching back to French, said, "I think we are just using different, um… units." After Brigitte handed him the torque wrench, fitted with the lug nut attachment, Bobby went about tightening the nuts. "So, you speak English?" he asked as he worked.
"A little," Brigitte replied in Bobby's native tongue. "We learn in school, but I do not have a lot of, uh…"
"Practice?" Bobby provided.
"Yes," Brigitte said, switching back to French. "Also, your language has a lot of synonyms. It's hard. How can there be so many words for 'to see'? And they are all slightly different." In English she listed, "To see, to watch, to look, to gaze, to view… too many."
Bobby laughed as he tightened the last nut. "You are right. I never thought of that. But French is not easy either."
"Well, it's easier than English," Brigitte replied.
"You are French. Of course you think it is easy. I think English is pretty easy…" Bobby said as he tightened the last nut. "Voila! And I did it correctly this time, thanks to you."
For a moment, while they were crouched down around the tire, Brigitte felt her eyes lock with this strange, now slightly less muddy young man. And this time when he smiled at her, she suddenly felt nervous and quickly looked away. "Uh, yes," she said, standing.
Rising as well, Bobby asked, "How much does it cost?"
"It's fifty francs for the tube, don't worry about the labor… but don't tell my papa," Brigitte said with a smile.
Digging into his wallet, Bobby laughed. "Thanks. Although I am still not used to the exchange rate. I first think 'fifty dollars' and forget to um… convert it." Turning back to his car, he said, "Thank you, Brigitte. For the help and for the new words… 'flat tire,'" he said, looking proud.
In spite of herself, Brigitte smiled as she replied, "Bravo. Come back if you have more problems with the car."
"I will." And with that he started up the engine and backed the car out of the garage.
After staring out the door for a moment, Brigitte turned to see Simone still standing in the doorway leading back into the house. "Have you been there the whole time?" she asked her cousin.
"I have," Simone replied with a knowing grin.
"What's that look about?" Brigitte demanded as she turned her attention back to the wiring harness.
"Oh, nothing…"
Well, maybe things are looking up after all, Bobby thought as he pulled up to the steel mill. He half expected for a sudden downpour to prove him wrong, but as he turned off the car, only sunshine and the happy tweeting of birds greeted him.
He leaned back slightly and let his mind drift back to Brigitte, his cause for optimism. The way she had smiled at him as they said their goodbyes, her charmingly thick accent when she had spoken to him in English. Hell, he was even strangely turned on by the way she yelled at him.
And then, of course, there was the fact that she was drop dead gorgeous.
Bobby was so busy ruminating on Brigitte's finer qualities that he was startled when he heard a voice call out to him. "Where the hell have you been? And what the hell happened to the car?"
Bobby winced as he turned to see his father. Getting out of the car, he took a deep breath. Now was not the time to start a fight with his father. "The car got a flat while I was driving to the main road from the house. I had to take it into town to get repaired and then go back home to clean up."
Bobby watched as his father, Robert Davis Jr., slowly rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Clean up?" he asked, his voice weary.
"I was covered in mud," came Bobby's sheepish reply.
Heaving a great sigh, his father said, "Of course you were. Well, you missed the meeting I wanted you to attend so you could meet some of the French backers on this project. You made me look like quite the fool, Bobby, saying that my son would be here any moment just to have you never show up."
"Sorry, Dad, but I can't control if a car is going to have a flat tire!"
"You could have thought to call and let me know you were going to miss the meeting. This is always the problem with you, Bobby! You get distracted so easily and you never think things through!" Robert threw his hands up in the air. "I don't know what I am going to do with you sometimes!" For a moment Bobby was afraid that this was going to devolve into a full blown lecture, but, much to his relief, his father turned away and headed back inside. "Just be on time Monday."
And with that he was gone.
Getting back in the car, Bobby took a deep breath and, grasping the steering wheel, he rested his forehead between his hands. He knew his father had a point. Maybe he should have called. But knowing that just made him feel worse. Maybe his father was right about his lack of focus and discipline. But there was something about working in the steel industry the rest of his life that just made him shudder.
Not that he had a great deal of choice in the matter.
Picking his head back up, he looked at his watch. It was already four in the afternoon. The day was pretty much shot, but at the same time, Bobby didn't want to just go home. There wasn't much to do there, after all.
Slowly his mind drifted yet again back to Brigitte. He had never met a girl quite like her. She was nothing like the girls back home that his mom was constantly setting him up with. While all of those other girls were pretty enough, most of them were as dumb as bricks. But Brigitte… she didn't seem like that at all.
At that moment Bobby knew exactly how he wanted to spend the rest of the day. Starting the car again, Bobby drove back into town.
Brigitte was about to lock the doors to the garage when she saw the Citroën cabriolet drive back up. Pausing, she watched as Bobby, now clean, stepped out of the car. She couldn't help but notice how good he looked now that he wasn't covered in mud, his fit form dressed in well-tailored beige slacks and a dark jacket. Shaking her head slightly she called out, "Bobby! Is there something else wrong with the car? We're just closing."
"No," he said as he walked toward her. "I hoped you would be here… I… I wanted to ask you…" He paused, suddenly looking unsure.
"What is it?" Brigitte asked, her eyebrows furrowing.
"Will you have dinner with me tonight?" he asked, pulling a daisy from behind his back.
What?! Brigitte was shocked into silence. She just stood there for a moment, trying to comprehend what was happening. This man, whose head she had ripped off earlier, wanted to have dinner? With her? He was still standing there, holding out the flower. For lack of any better idea, she took it from him, twirling it nervously in her hand.
Maybe she was just mistaken as to his intentions. "Are you asking me out on a date?"
"Yes… do you want to go on a date with me tonight?"
Nope, not mistaken. She eyed him for a long moment, again, trying to figure out if this was a joke or if he was making fun of her. She could tell he was getting nervous at her reaction, and for a moment she felt kind of bad. After all, what had he done other than ask her on a date?
She pondered what her response should be. He seemed nice enough, when his foot wasn't in his mouth. But now really wasn't a good time. She should be focusing on studying, not going out on the town.
But it also wasn't like there was a line of men waiting to ask her out. And he did seem nice. And while she couldn't explain it, there was something about him that intrigued her.
"It is okay to say no. I understand."
Brigitte's head snapped up and she met his eyes. How long had she been thinking? "Of course I can say no," she retorted, almost instantly regretting the harshness in her voice, especially at the look on his face.
"I understand, it was nice—"
Brigitte cut him off. "I didn't say I was saying no."
"Oh?" His expression perked up.
Oh, what the hell. "I can't go out tonight. I have to help my parents unload the supplies that my papa went to pick up today. But I am free for lunch, tomorrow."
Brigitte watched, with some amusement, as Bobby's face went from hopeful, to disappointed, to confused, as he was obviously having trouble following what she had just said, "Wait… sorry. What? Can you say that last part again?"
Brigitte smirked at him. "I will have lunch with you. Tomorrow."
Bobby broke into a grin so wide that, for a moment, Brigitte wondered if his face would split. "That is wonderful! Tomorrow. Noon? Where do I pick you up?"
"Noon will be fine. And come back here, our house is behind the garage."
"Great. I will see you tomorrow."
As Bobby walked back to the car, Brigitte found herself with a grin on her face that could have matched Bobby's. Her first date. Idly, she wondered if Simone would let her borrow that new blue dress.
"Brigitte, when you're finished with the nuts and the bolts, I want you to sort and put away the hydraulic fittings," Philippe Bernard said, hoisting a box out of the back of the bed of his pickup and placing it on the hand truck. He then watched as his wife tilted back the truck to move the boxes across the garage, while his daughter sat on the ground, still sorting the hardware but unresponsive to his request.
He waited a moment more for any reaction from Brigitte before walking over to his wife to help her unload the boxes. Speaking loudly he said, "Maria, I think our beautiful Brigitte has finally figured out how to go to the moon, because she certainly isn't here in the room with us."
Brigitte looked up, the combination of her name and her father's joking tone finally catching her attention. "I'm sorry, I was… concentrating."
"On sorting nuts and bolts? You've been doing that since you were old enough to know better than to put them in your mouth. What's got you so mixed up today?"
"Oh, nothing," Brigitte said distractedly, turning back to her work.
"Simone did mention that a cute boy came by," Maria cut in, her French lightly tinted with a Spanish accent.
"Is that so?" Philippe asked, winking at Brigitte.
Much to his surprise, Brigitte shifted uncomfortably. "Yes, an American man did come to the shop today. He had a flat tire. I fixed it and he left."
"And why didn't I see this in the log?" her father asked.
"Because… I didn't charge him for the labor, just the tube."
"Brigitte!" her mother scolded. "Do you think money grows on trees?"
"No, Mama. Look, he did most of the work anyway, I just… had to talk him through it."
Philippe waved his hand dismissively before his wife could respond. "It's fine, a little charity grows customer loyalty." Turning his attention back to Brigitte he continued, "Is that really all that happened?" Philippe knew that his daughter sometimes struggled with 'customer interactions'… especially when those customers were pigheaded males.
Brigitte took a deep breath. Oh no, he thought, though he waited patiently for her to speak. "He… he came back right before I locked up… and asked me to go on a date with him."
A shocked silence filled the room. That wasn't what he was expecting at all. He would not have been surprised if she had said that the man had doubted her abilities, or she had yelled at him…. But this?
Random men did not ask out his daughter. That… just didn't happen.
"So let me understand." Maria's voice broke Philippe out of his thoughts. "Some American boy comes into the shop with a flat tire, you fix it, and then he asks you out?"
"Yes."
"Did you agree to go out with him?" Maria asked.
"I did. We're having lunch tomorrow."
A silence filled the room until Phillippe finally found his voice. Trying to sound casual, he asked, "So, what is the story with the American? What's his name?"
Brigitte returned to her sorting as she spoke, "His name is Bobby."
"Does Bobby have a last name?" Philippe asked, grunting as he returned to unloading the boxes.
"Umm, I don't think I asked."
"Well, ask tomorrow," Maria said as she stood again next to the hand truck waiting for Philippe to finish placing boxes on it. "Why is he here?"
"He didn't say."
Maria huffed, clearly not too comfortable with this situation. "Well, what do you know about him?"
"I know that he drives an 11CV Citroën Traction Avant cabriolet and that he now knows how to say 'flat tire' in French."
"Really? A Traction Avant? That's a pretty nice car for a young man to be driving," Philippe commented.
"And he's driving the latest model, too. I'm actually hoping he'll bring it back in so I can get a better look at it. I'm interested in that front wheel drive system," Brigitte said, the excitement over the car's drive train evident in her voice.
"Well, just don't let this get in the way of your studies. It's less than two months until the bac." Phillippe said, taking the last of the boxes out the truck.
"I know, but one afternoon not studying won't kill me."
Let's hope it's just one afternoon, Phillippe thought.
"Oh, come on, France. Can you not rain for just one day?" Bobby pled in English as the first raindrop fell on his windshield.
Just a few minutes before, the sun had been shining in what could only be described as a perfect Saturday for a picnic. He had cheerfully filled a basket with cheeses, meats, bread, and wine and placed it in the trunk of his car. After all, these were the only things one could possibly need for a picnic in France, he had thought. As he drove into town, however, the weather grew dark and the wind picked up. And on his final approach to the garage, the first treacherous drop of water fell from the sky.
Bobby was still sitting in the car when he looked up and saw Brigitte. She was walking towards the open garage door, smiling.
She looks amazing, he thought as he felt his stomach drop. Her hair was loose and fell past her shoulders in soft waves, her lips were full and red, and the knee-length dress she wore fit her trim frame perfectly.
He was brought back into the moment by a flash of lightning, followed shortly by a clap of thunder. Through the sheet of rain that now separated them, he could see Brigitte sheltering under the eave of the garage.
Brigitte watched as Bobby hopped out of the car and quickly made his way towards her. Despite the short distance that separated them, by the time he got to her he was soaked.
"You look amazing," Bobby said, pushing his damp hair back off his face.
Brigitte couldn't help but smile at this. Thank God for Simone's dress, she thought, but replied, "Thanks. So… where are we going? If we are walking we may want to wait until the rain lets up a bit."
She watched as Bobby heaved a sigh and gestured towards the rain. "Well, I wanted to go on a picnic. But the weather is… not good."
Brigitte peered out from under the eave to take a look at the clouds. "Yeah. I think I'm going to have to recommend against that."
"I have the lunch in the car… but maybe a café? Is one nearby?" Bobby asked. He was still staring at her, which made her feel both flattered and vaguely uncomfortable all at the same time.
She folded her arms over her chest, suddenly very aware of how low cut this dress was on her. She thought of the nearby places they could eat, but then her thoughts turned back to the food in the car. "Yes, but since you have the food, there is no point in letting it go to waste. We can just eat here."
"In the garage?" Bobby questioned.
"Yeah. We're closed today so no one should bother us. Except maybe my parents. They're curious about you." Brigitte could just imagine her father coming in, making up some excuse about something he needed just to get a look at Bobby.
"They are?"
"Yeah. You're the..." Brigitte paused, realizing that she didn't really want to admit the next part. Well, then you shouldn't have opened your mouth! "You're the first boy that's asked me out."
Bobby looked shocked by this revelation. "I am? But you are…" Bobby paused.
"Odd?" Brigitte offered.
"I do not have the French words for this. In English I would say fascinating."
Brigitte smiled at the English word. "I understood that. It's the same word in French," she said as she supplied the French pronunciation for him. "So I'm 'fascinating'?"
"And beautiful. And many more words I do not know how to say in French. So I am surprised that a man does not have you."
"No man will ever have me," Brigitte retorted, a little annoyed. Instantly, she began to wonder if she had been wrong about him, if this was a bad idea.
But then Bobby blushed and stammered, "I am sorry, my French is so bad. Maybe I mean to say I am surprised you do not have a man."
Brigitte couldn't help but smile at his response. "You're a charmer, aren't you?" Before he could respond she continued, "Why don't you go get the food so we can begin?"
Returning moments later after braving the rain again, Bobby started to lay out the blanket when Brigitte grabbed it from him. "Wait, I have to check the ground."
Bobby looked at her, perplexed. "What?"
"I have to make sure that there is no oil on the ground… so we don't ruin our clothes." And so Simone doesn't kill me, Brigitte thought as she sought out a clean patch of cement. "Here will be fine," she finally pronounced before laying out the blanket.
Sitting, Brigitte watched as Bobby joined her and started laying out the contents of the basket. She picked up the bottle of wine and the corkscrew, but paused when she saw the label. "This is a nice wine, Bobby! Much too nice for a picnic."
Bobby looked surprised. "It is? I just took it from the, uh … the wine cellar."
"Yeah, it is. Your father will be mad when he sees this is gone."
"Um, he does not drink much," Bobby explained. "He will not be mad I took the wine. However, he might be mad I am drinking the wine."
"Why would your father be mad about you drinking wine?"
"I am eighteen. In New York you must be eighteen to buy alcohol, so it is new for him. And he was for… um… the time of no alcohol."
"Prohibition?" Brigitte offered.
"Yes! He thinks drinking is for lazy people."
Brigitte could not believe what she was hearing. "Even wine? We drink wine every night and we're not lazy."
"Well, I think… I do not agree with my father on many things." Bobby replied as he poured her a glass.
Brigitte shrugged and took in the scent of the red wine before sipping. "This is really too good for a picnic," she reiterated. "Especially one in a mechanic's garage."
"Well, it is not too good for the company."
Brigitte paused. Why did he keep doing this? Calling her pretty, fascinating… all these compliments. Before she could stop her mouth, she said, "You compliment me a lot. Why?"
She could tell that Bobby was shocked by the boldness of her question. But she was equally perplexed when he answered her question with a question. "People do not compliment you?"
"No." Brigitte paused for a moment. "Well, the teachers at school sometimes say I'm clever and my papa says he's proud of me. But people don't compliment me the way you do."
"Well, it is their problem. Maybe it is another… um… 'cultural difference'."
"Maybe."
A pause filled the room. Bobby busied himself making a little sandwich out of the bread and meats, all the while wondering why Brigitte was so resistant to the idea that he liked her.
"What's your last name?" Brigitte's voice brought Bobby out of his thoughts. He looked up, as she continued, "My parents asked and I realized I didn't know."
I didn't properly introduce myself? My mom would have my hide! "Davis. My name is Robert Walter Davis, the third."
"That's a very fancy name," Brigitte said, taking a sip of her wine. He wondered if she was actually starting to flirt with him.
"Maybe a very fancy name, but I do not think I am so fancy. Anything else for your parents?"
"Yes, actually. Why did you move to France?" Brigitte asked, her attention focused on the slice of cheese and the hunk of baguette in her hands.
"Oh, I did not move here. I am just here for the summer. My dad works at a steel mill near here and I came with him to…" Bobby paused and tried to think of a way to say 'learn the ropes' in French that would makes any sense. "He is training me. I will do his work when I am older."
"Ah. Like my papa and me."
"You will have this?" Bobby asked, gesturing at their surroundings.
"Maybe, maybe not. I'm supposed to go to university in the fall, but I'm not really sure what I'll do after that."
"What will you study?" Bobby asked, a little surprised that Brigitte was even going to university. He didn't think many working class girls in New York could afford such a thing.
"Engineering," Brigitte replied casually.
Even more shocked, Bobby blurted out, "Engineering? Really?"
"Yes, really. Why?" Brigitte replied, obviously upset over his tone.
He back peddled, and tried to explain. "I do not know girls… In New York the girls do not like math and science."
"Well, I do. Is that a problem?" she challenged, the volume of her voice rising.
Oh, shit. "No, it is great," he said, trying to sound as genuine as possible. He really did think it was great… it was just a bit unexpected. But so was being a female mechanic.
Brigitte seemed stunned by his words. "You think it's great?"
Bobby nodded, enthusiastically. "Yes. I like it. That you know so much about cars. I find it…" he paused. Could he really tell her that her intelligence and passion, not just her looks, had attracted him? "You are going to laugh."
Brigitte shook her head. "I won't laugh."
"You promise?"
"Promise."
Bobby cleared his throat. "Well. I really liked it. How you taught me about the tire. It was, um, I do not know how to say it. But it was… charming? You were charming while you taught me."
There was a moment of silence that was quickly broken by Brigitte's laughter.
"You promised!" Bobby exclaimed, giving her a playful shove. He couldn't help but smile as well at how that had all come out.
"I know, I'm sorry. But the idea that I'm… charming, when I order you around, it's too much."
"But it's true."
There was another moment of silence as his words quieted her laughter. "Really?" she asked.
"Really," he responded, his voice serious.
Bobby watched as she looked away and busied herself with some bread and cheese. He wasn't sure what else to say, and was positive that even if he thought of something, he didn't have the language skills to properly convey it. Thankfully, Brigitte changed the subject. "So, did you attend lycée?"
Bobby paused for a moment, recalling what he knew of the French educational system and trying to think of a way to explain the American system so Brigitte would understand. "Um, yes? It is different in America. We do not have collège and lycée, only high school," he finished the last word in English.
"Do you take the bac at the end of high school?" Brigitte asked.
"The what?"
"The baccalauréat… the end of school exams."
Bobby paused, trying to think of what that would be in America. Final Exams? The SATs? "We do not have a baccalauréat. But I finished school, if this is what you are asking."
Brigitte nodded her head slightly, still not really understanding the American system. "Well, I'm not done yet. The exams begin the sixteenth of July… so I feel like all I do is study now."
"You are studying already? It is more than a month from now. Is it that hard?"
Brigitte nodded. "They're difficult. And there are many different subjects I will be examined in: math, physics, history, French…." she trailed off.
"Sounds… hard," Bobby said, silently lamenting that he didn't know the word for 'intense' in French.
"Well, it will all be over soon," Brigitte said nonchalantly as she returned her attention to the bread and cheese in front of her. "So, if you are done with school, are you not going to university?"
"No, I will go to Yale in the fall."
Brigitte's eyebrows raised slightly at that. "Really? That is a very good school."
Feigning offense, Bobby replied, "I am not smart?"
"Well, you couldn't change a tire…."
He laughed. "I am not exactly…" he paused again to collect the correct words, "good at mechanical things."
Brigitte's eyebrows furrowed. "You work in a steel mill and you're not good with your hands?"
"Oh, I do not work… with my hands," Bobby replied, copying her phrasing. "I… I work as… the boss?"
"Like a foreman?" Brigitte asked.
"Um, maybe. I do not know this word. Can you explain?"
"He is a manager?" Brigitte tried again.
Bobby instantly recognized the cognate. He knew it didn't exactly translate to owner, but he thought it was close enough. "Yes, like this."
"I see. So, what are you going to study at Yale?"
"History, I think."
"History? Why history?"
Bobby shrugged. "I like it." Bobby paused again, trying to organize his thoughts into French. "My future… it is planned. I will work with my father, but there is no degree for this. My dad, he wants me to have a degree so I will be respected. But he does not care what the degree is in so… I want to enjoy it."
"I guess that makes sense."
"I am glad you think so," he replied teasingly. "So, for the next four years, when I am not at school, I will work with my father. And next year we will return to work here again."
"Oh?" Brigitte replied, the surprise evident in her voice.
"Yeah. So if we become… um… friends, maybe I can see you again then?"
"I think we need to see if we get along first."
"Well, I think that we are getting along very well, up to now," Bobby said, leaning in a little towards Brigitte.
Brigitte watched as he leaned towards her, but was unsure how to react. She wanted to lean in as well, to flirt a little more with him, maybe see where else this would go… but this all seemed so fast, And how much could she trust her judgment when she kept getting these butterflies in her stomach whenever he smiled at her?
Bobby must have sensed her hesitation, because he moved back, clearing his throat. "I mean," he stammered. "I mean, I would like to get to know you. But I like you, up to now."
Brigitte tried to hide her smile. She couldn't help but think that he was being genuine and just had a penchant for sticking his foot in his mouth.
Well, you only live once, Brigitte thought. She had started to lean back in towards him when she heard the door that connected the garage to the house swing open.
"Brigitte, why are you still here? I thought—" Maria Bernard had started speaking to her daughter in Spanish before realizing Brigitte was not alone. And that her daughter was sitting suspiciously close to a tall, blond, blue eyed boy. Simone was right, he is cute, she thought momentarily before saying in French, "Oh, I am sorry; I did not know you both were here."
Brigitte stood, followed hastily by Bobby. "Mama, this is Bobby Davis," she said, accentuating the last name. "Bobby, this is my mother, Maria Bernard."
"It is nice to meet you, Madame Bernard," Bobby said, holding out his hand.
Maria nodded stiffly, taking his hand. "It is nice to meet you, too."
There was silence for a moment, until Brigitte broke it. "Bobby planned for us to go on a picnic, but the weather made that impossible. He suggested we go to a café, but I thought we should just have it here so we didn't waste the food."
You are a sensible girl, aren't you? Maria thought, but just nodded. She looked Bobby up and down one last time, giving him a bit of an evil eye to scare him into keeping his hands to himself, before saying, "Well, I am sorry I interrupted. Please continue. Your papa and I are just inside if you need anything."
"I know, Mama," Brigitte responded as Maria turned to leave. Closing the door that connected the house to the garage, Maria got one last look at her daughter. Brigitte was already chatting again with the cute American man, the brief interruption forgotten.