The night in Alsatian carried the cool scent of falling snow. Jiang Wanju walked slowly down the steps, one step at a time, until she stood before Chen Zhouren.
Chen Zhouren reached out, adjusted her scarf, and brushed the snow from the ends of her hair.
Jiang Wanju asked, “Mr. Chen, do you want to have tea just for tonight, or do you plan on coming for tea every day?”
Chen Zhouren replied, “That depends on what Miss Jiang thinks.”
“I only have enough tea for a one-time drink in my room,” Jiang Wanju said with a smile. “If you want tea every day, then I’m sorry, Mr. Chen. Please head back. I don’t have that much to offer.”
She turned to leave, but Chen Zhouren grabbed her wrist.
Jiang Wanju frowned slightly. Chen Zhouren leaned closer, the dimple on his right cheek barely showing. “Then keep it for now. When Miss Jiang has time, we can drink it slowly.”
He didn’t stay. Jiang Wanju walked forward without looking back, pushed open the door with a jingling bell, and the shop attendant with brown curls greeted her with a smile. Jiang Wanju, her mind a mess, smiled back and said hello.
She stepped onto the wooden stairs that creaked softly and pushed open her room door. Taking off her scarf, she scrubbed her wrist vigorously, as if she could wash away every trace of Chen Zhouren’s grip.
The next morning, while Jiang Wanju was having breakfast downstairs, she once again ran into Chen Zhouren and his cousin, Wen Chongyue.
Chen Zhouren was ordering, speaking to the staff with focused attention.
She intended to pretend she hadn’t seen them, but unfortunately Wen Chongyue greeted her first.
Chen Zhouren then looked up, quickly said something to the staff with a smile, and walked toward her.
“Would you like to have breakfast together?” Chen Zhouren invited calmly. “What would you like for breakfast? Tea or coffee?”
Jiang Wanju said, “Tea, thank you.”
In a room filled with jazz and blues, Jiang Wanju sat at the wooden dining table. The server quickly brought out the dishes: cheese and thinly sliced potatoes slowly baked in cream until fragrant, slices of venison laid on jujube leaves, a flaky butter mille-feuille paired with onion sauce, organic vegetable soup, fried eggplant pie, and other vegetarian dishes.
Jiang Wanju rarely joined the two men’s conversation. She ate quietly and quickly amid the music, until one particular line drifted into her ears, making her lift her head sharply. This story is hosted at novelping.com.
Chen Zhouren’s relationship with his parents was not good. He had no intention of returning home for the New Year and planned to stay in Alsatian France for the Spring Festival.
Jiang Wanju slowly sipped her tea. “I want to go home too, but I can’t.”
Airfare, travel expenses, time and energy.
None of these were small costs.
Chen Zhouren laughed. “That’s because you don’t have to worry about being pressured to get married when you go home.”
He said it lightly, and Jiang Wanju finally saw Chen Zhouren’s face clearly.
She suddenly realized that, in the eyes of elders, he had indeed reached the age where he should settle down and start a family.
Yet Chen Zhouren had no intention of doing so.
Jiang Wanju’s next stops were the tower-filled, cobblestone-paved Ribeauvillé, then to Hannevey to see the adorable storks and otters—there was even a small otter breeding center there. The cloud-filled Colmar, birthplace of the Statue of Liberty’s designer…
Wen Chongyue parted ways with them here. He was headed back to China. This trip to France had been for business, and he had only stayed on afterward to spend Christmas. But Chen Zhouren remained, occasionally taking calls or video meetings with business partners. Most of the time, he simply wandered leisurely with Jiang Wanju along the routes she had planned.
Jiang Wanju had to admit, traveling with an adult man significantly reduced the risks of her trip.
In the ancient castle hidden in a quiet valley, and in the square with a Renaissance-style fountain, Chen Zhouren and Jiang Wanju shared a local specialty wine. Jiang Wanju never had to worry about the alcohol being unsafe. Chen Zhouren might be troublesome, but he wasn’t the kind of hopelessly rotten person who would stoop that low.
He even told her the story of the Butchers’ Tower and the clock installed on it. In the winter air, inside the old and cozy restaurant, Jiang Wanju listened to Chen Zhouren’s stories while slowly eating roast suckling pig with acacia honey and artichoke hearts.
Unfortunately, a small mistake had slipped into her plans.
In winter, there were no storks to be seen; they only returned in spring, when more than two hundred storks and their chicks would fly freely around the area. The otters could not be seen either, and the butterfly garden—everything would only reopen at Easter.
But this little mishap did nothing to dampen Jiang Wanju’s mood. She still found joy in Riquewihr, with its medieval walls, maze-like streets, and chocolate-box courtyards.
She never had any further intimate involvement with Chen Zhouren. The closest they came was the moment Jiang Wanju almost slipped, and Chen Zhouren reached out and caught her in time. She fell straight into the warmth of his coat.
She smelled the familiar perfume on him, her lips brushing the cold surface of his buttons. She thought it must have been very cold that day—cold enough that when Chen Zhouren pulled her to her feet, the wind made her shiver.
“How can you be so careless,” he said in the tone of an old friend as he helped steady her. “Always rushing around.”
That was the only moment that crossed the boundary of friendship.
Perhaps because her period had only ended recently and her hormones were still settling, Jiang Wanju didn’t feel much desire for anything right now. She clearly understood that what she needed was simply a companion, a friend who could also act as a bodyguard to keep her safe. And at the moment, Chen Zhouren was fulfilling that role perfectly.
This warm and friendly relationship continued all the way until Jiang Wanju returned to Paris. She and Chen Zhouren had their final dinner together in a beautiful Art Nouveau–style brasserie. They exchanged contact information and business cards, agreeing that when the Spring Festival came, they would go watch the lion dance performance in the streets together.
But four days before the Spring Festival, early in the morning, Chen Zhouren called Jiang Wanju.
It was a Saturday, and when she received the call, she still hadn’t fully woken from her hangover. She had attended a coworker’s birthday party the night before and drank a bit too much. Her head throbbed. Rubbing her eyes sleepily, she answered and greeted him in French: “Hello?”
She had no choice. In France, it almost felt like a crime not to speak French. Whenever she dealt with most French clients or colleagues, Jiang Wanju had to use French.
Chen Zhouren said, “It’s me, Chen Zhouren.”
Jiang Wanju switched to Chinese. “Mm… what’s the matter?”
“You just woke up?” Zhouren asked. “In fifteen minutes, I’ll be downstairs at your apartment building.”
Jiang Wanju yawned. “Ah, then could you buy me a croissan—”
“I’ve already brought a hot coffee, no sugar, no milk, plus a corn flakes toast and a fruit-and-vegetable salad,” Zhouren said simply. “Don’t rush.”
After a pause, he added, “The private jet route application has been approved. I’ll take you home for the New Year at four this afternoon. We have plenty of time, so let’s take it slow.”