Honeymoon in France

Published by: eXtasy Books

ISBN :978-1-4874-3532-5

Page :47

Word Count :10739

Publication Date :2024-10-25

Series : Old Friends and Fairy Tales#0

Heat Level :

Available Formats : Honeymoon in France (prc) , Honeymoon in France (pdf) , Honeymoon in France (mobi) , Honeymoon in France (epub)

Category : Contemporary Romance , Romance , What's New

Product Code: 978-1-4874-3532-5

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Eric never forgets his father’s advice: Be yourself. Know your place. But a phone call could change everything…if Eric lets it.

It’s 1970, and Eric Larren has been following the life laid out for him since his parents died—a good job as a mechanic, just like his dad, and the height of his ambition is to marry Barb and settle down in a little rental. He has a nest egg, but the important thing is to know his place in the world.

Getting engaged to the girl he met at someone else’s wedding is the high point of his life so far, but then comes the phone call from France. Luckily, Uncle Mark speaks French, and before he knows it, Eric is offered a honeymoon in France. All he has to do is to marry Barb, get passports, fly to the other side of the world, and attend a meeting.

A picnic in a cemetery seems odd, but Barb is enchanted by the pretty church and the lavender farm. They tour an old castle smothered in roses and find a gravestone featuring a stone dove and a rose.

It’s a lovely holiday, but then there’s the meeting Eric has flown here to attend. There’s a story and an offer that could change his life—and Barb’s. Eric has a choice. He can go home and live the life he planned, or he can take a leap in the dark. He knows what his dad would have said, and he knows what Barb wants, too.

When I was a kid, Mum and Dad laughed a lot. That’s what I remember most. They were never bored. They loved to go dancing, and they’d leave me with Auntie Joy and Uncle Mark when they did. They weren’t my real aunt and uncle, but Uncle Mark had been in the army with Dad, and they’d stayed friends after the demob. Auntie Joy spoiled me rotten, so Mum said.

Uncle Mark had what’s called a gift for languages. He could spout French and German at the drop of a hat.

A slouch hat, he always said.

Mind you, he kept the German quiet because it wasn’t too popular in some circles.

Sometimes when he’d had a few too many at the pub and the publican didn’t want to serve him, he’d say Heil Hitler! That didn’t go down well, either. Dad used to give him the elbow and say, Keep it down, corporal, and Uncle Mark would say, Duly noted, old chap, in a posh British accent.

Dad used to mimic him, getting even posher…Jew-ly noated, owld chap!

It was a saying in our house. If Dad thought someone was going too far, he’d say, Keep it down, corporal, and whoever was in trouble had to say July noted, and pronounce it as if it was the month of July.

Dad laughed at Uncle Mark’s foreign songs—Mademoiselle from Armentieres and Margrete mein Leben, but he used to shake his head and say, “Eric, it’s fine to play about, but don’t ever start thinking you’re anything you’re not.”

He’d say it when he heard people on the radio big-noting themselves. When I turned fifteen, he and Mum got me a pair of brand-new footy boots. I had ideas about being a famous footballer, but Dad said, “Eric, you’re good, but you’re not great. Thinking you’re something better than you are just brings disappointments and makes you bitter. Be happy with doing things you enjoy. Don’t fret for something out of reach.”

“July noted,” I said.

Mum patted me on the head. “You’re a good boy, Eric Peter Larren. I’m proud of you, just the way you are.”

Dad was a mechanic. He worked for Ambrose Motors. Mum used to teach, but she stopped when she married Dad. She helped me with my schoolwork. I did all right, but I looked forward to leaving school and getting a job.

Dad bought a telly and we all used to sit and watch comedies and sport. Dad wouldn’t watch war films. He said he’d had enough of that in the army.

Mum liked soppy stories. I remember complaining to Dad about all the lovey-dovey stuff.

“Keep it down, corporal.”

“July noted.”

A couple of months after my birthday, I was moseying home from a footy practice, when an ambulance howled past. A police car hee-hawed after it. I jumped sideways into the ditch to avoid getting splashed, but I ended up knee-deep in slosh.

When I got out I scraped the mud off my shoes (I was carrying my new boots) and hoped Mum wouldn’t be annoyed at the big tear in my shorts and ask if I thought we were made of money.

It never crossed my mind that the sirens had anything to do with me.

Then I got to our place and the ambulance was there and so was the police car, and half a truck sticking out of our kitchen wall.

They said the brakes failed.