by Nell Goddin
However, some of the teachers, including perhaps a few on the present faculty, had turned out to be capable enough as artists, and their classroom work was creditable, and yet, still, one might say that they were not precisely the best choices to mold young minds. That at least is what Jack Draper, head of the current administration, hinted to Dufort, when he was asked about the faculty and their relation to the students.
“It’s France, after all,” said Draper. “Some of the students, Americans in particular, they expect to have flirtations, maybe an affair or two. It’s part of the experience of studying abroad. You know how it is.”
Having an American remind him that they were in France might push a less seasoned officer right over the edge of annoyance, but Dufort merely gave a faint smile. It had not come naturally, but he had learned over the years to keep his feelings and reactions from showing in his expression; and, so without having to work at it, the urge to tell Draper he was a jackass passed without a trace.
“Are you saying, Monsieur le Directeur, that you believe Amy Bennett was romantically involved in some way with a faculty member? That there was a relationship beyond that of teacher and student?”
“Well, of course it’s possible. Here at Degas we do not follow those old rigid classroom models, where the teacher is all-powerful and the students are meek and never dare to express themselves. We are open. We make room for creativity—yes, for passion—to bloom.”
With some effort, Dufort kept his eyes from rolling.
“I am happy to hear that creativity is blooming here at L’Institut,” said Dufort. “Would you be so kind as to print out a list of Bennett’s classes, with the schedule and teachers’ names and cell numbers? I would be interested in talking with some of them, only for background, you understand.
“The most likely thing is that the girl has run off, for any of the reasons that young women find to do that. But at the same time, I wish to be thorough. You said that Bennett was a serious student, a conscientious one. That doesn’t quite fit with a flighty girl running off for romance, do you think?” Dufort’s expression was open and questioning, perhaps a bit slow-witted.
“Of course I will provide you with anything you ask for, anything at all,” said Draper. “As for flighty—who knows what lurks in these girls’ minds? Sometimes it is the most serious ones who have the biggest screw loose, am I right?”
“Are you suggesting Mademoiselle Bennett has a screw loose?”
“Not at all, not in the least. I’m only saying that girls that age, young women—they can be unpredictable. The students here are not studying to be bankers, Officer Dufort. They are creative spirits of a rather high order. And that means, yes, that we might see more, how to put it, instability of behavior and emotions than one would encounter at a school for, say, tax accounting. You understand?”
Dufort nodded. He understood that Monsieur le Directeur was saying that if Amy Bennett was missing, it was her own fault, not the school’s, and moreover, that her flightiness was just part of how very special she was. Dufort appreciated art as much as any Frenchman, and he also had a sensitive bullshit detector, which at the moment was letting off a piercing shriek.
5
The Wolfsons were due in two days, so after drinking her morning coffee and checking her email, Molly went over to the cottage to make sure it was ready, feeling pleased that she was staying organized and ahead of schedule.
Oh. Forgot to make the beds. Needs vacuuming again. Please tell me that’s not the faucet leaking. Or worse.
It was the faucet. Molly wasn’t completely useless as a handyman, and she managed to get the water to the cottage turned off and the faucet taken apart. It just needed a new washer. Hoping to avoid getting in the car and driving out to the big box stores, she glanced in a mirror to make sure she was presentable and hurried into the village to see what she could find. Perhaps there was some sort of general store, preferably in the vicinity of Pâtisserie Bujold.
The elementary-school age kids had Wednesday afternoons off, and the streets were thronged. They pushed each other, ran in circles, sang, held hands. Molly wondered if she would ever be able to look at a group of kids and not feel a stab in her chest. The bad marriage—that she could get over, and was most of the way there. But being nearly forty, without the children she had wanted so deeply…she wasn’t sure if there was any getting over that.
A world of regret and sorrow bubbled up in such moments. But Molly had learned to carry on anyway, and at the moment, that meant finding a washer and preparing for the Wolfsons, no matter how hard she was being jerked around by her emotions.
She found a hardware store, and by deft use of her pointer finger got what she needed to repair the faucet. While there she stocked up on some tools (a wrench, some decent pliers, a drill) she was clearly going to need to keep La Baraque from falling to pieces, and wondered how much local handymen charged, since she assumed before too long she would encounter emergency repairs that went beyond what she had learned from watching her mother fix stuff, or what she figured out from watching youtube.
Pâtisserie Bujold was only about four blocks from the hardware store, practically right on the way, so she swung down that street, her mouth already watering. No art students out by the fountain today even though the weather was perfect, but more throngs of schoolchildren and their happy chatter.
She decided not to take her pastry home but to enjoy it there at the shop, with a petit café. There were only two tiny tables outside and she sat at one, waiting for her coffee with her face turned up to the sun, freckles and skin cancer be damned, the bag of new tools at her feet. Her sadness had faded, and the pain au chocolat was brilliantly sweet and salty, the outer layers shattering in an explosion of buttery flavor and the inside moist and dark and delicious.
Life was good, if sometimes annoying and never perfect, and she sat back and watched people going about their errands and stopping to have long conversations with their friends and neighbors. It felt so much less busy here, somehow, even though she had plenty to do. Or maybe it was simply that she felt less rushed, less like everything had to be done yesterday.
She would get the drippy faucet fixed before the Wolfsons arrived. And eventually, no matter how long it took, she would get the potager in the back of the house producing again, and the borders in the front free of vines and bursting with sweet-smelling color. Her gîte business would continue to grow. She would read good books and eat more pain au chocolat; and the loneliness she felt from not having children or a partner would simply be part of the fabric of her life, and not its defining tone.
Molly ventured into Pâtisserie Bujold again before heading home, with the idea that she would be so happy to wake up the next morning knowing there was a pastry waiting for her, even if it was a little bit stale.
* * *
Chief Dufort closed the door to his office and passed his hands over his face. Stress was part of his job; it was inevitable and expected even in a village where the crime rate was low. He had handily withstood a number of extremely stressful situations: a sea of blood from car accidents, several attempted suicides, a chase or three in which he was pushed to his physical limit. Yet making a call to inform parents that their child was missing filled him with dread.
He was going to be firm in his reassurances and of course do his very best to believe his own words. But he and the parents knew the percentages—everyone who reads the paper or watches television knows them. All three would feel the dark abyss opening in front of them, even if they didn’t speak of it. Dufort had been born in Castillac and never lived anywhere else, but in a moment like this, he wished he lived and worked in a big city where he imagined getting lost in the crowd, even as a cop, somehow always too busy to be the flic who had to make the call.
He sat at his desk for some long moments looking at the sheet of paper with the Bennett’s phone numbers. Always the possibility loomed that a parent was involved in a case like this. Mental illness, personality disorde
rs, family dysfunction—they could all lead to a parent doing something unimaginable, and he would have to listen for any indications of that when he spoke to the family.
Another woman, vanished. The third time. Will it be like the others, with no evidence, no trace, no resolution?
A little part of his brain, the weaselly part everyone has, wondered if perhaps it might be better to call later, first thing in the morning being not so convenient after all. Why ruin their day right at the start, why not give them several more hours of blissful ignorance? Dufort chased the weasel away and took a deep breath, then slowly tapped the numbers into his cell.
Jack Draper should be making this call. Dufort had no official responsibility for Amy Bennett, but he knew the call needed to be made and he did not trust Draper to do it.
“Hello, I’m looking for Sally or Marshall Bennett,” he said, in passable English.
“This is Marshall Bennett.”
“I am Benjamin Dufort, chief gendarme of Castillac,” he said. He knew the word “gendarme” would send a chill through Bennett, and he paused a moment even though he knew Mr. Bennett would not have time to recover from it.
There was not enough time in the world to recover from it.
“I call because your daughter Amy is reported missing from L’Institut Degas, and I am hoping you have some information about her location.”
“What?” said Marshall Bennett, his voice sounding far away.
“Amy’s roommate called my office to say that Amy was not seen. We have looked, but not found. Mr. Bennett, I am sorry for my English.”
“I’m going to get Sally. Please hold on.”
Dufort sighed. He took another deep breath and let it out slowly, but felt just as tense. He had the strong sensation of wanting time to stop and then roll backwards, zipping back to the place where Amy was still with her roommate, at which point time could reverse again, this time everyone being careful not to let Amy out of their sight until the moment of her disappearance was safely past and the awful mistake was corrected.
He could only imagine how deeply the parents would wish for this, if the feeling was so strong for him when he had never even met the girl.
“Hello?” said Sally Bennett.
“Hello Madame, I am Benjamin Dufort of the gendarmerie de Castillac. I spoke to your husband about your daughter. I wonder if you have heard from her in recent days?”
“I don’t understand. Amy is in school, at the L’Institut Degas. She is a painter.”
“The school tells me she is a good student, Madame Bennett. I am calling you because she is not seen, her roommate does not know where she is. I wonder if you have these informations?” He closed his eyes and smoothed his palm over his face.
Silence on the line. Dufort heard a strangled sort of grunt, then Mr. Bennett came back on the line.
“We have not heard from Amy since last week,” he said. There was a long pause. “She works very hard. She is not in touch every minute the way some girls her age are. Are you saying…what exactly are you saying, Chief? Is that what I call you, Chief?”
“Oui, that is good. What I say is that your daughter is reported missing. This is not an official phone call because in France the gendarmes do not investigate missing adults. But, Monsieur Bennett, the roommate of Amy called my office, and I do not want girls missing from my village, if you understand me. I want to know where she is, and I’m sure you do too.”
“I appreciate your concern.”
There was another long pause. Dufort tried to imagine what it was like, receiving a call such as this one. He knew that there was never any preparation, never a way to know how you would react until the thing actually happened to you. He suspected the Bennetts were in shock, and there was no guessing how long that phase would last.
At least he had not felt anything untoward in either Bennett’s voice. It was of course way too early to know for certain, but his intuition said that they were truly shocked by the news, and not perpetrators in any way.
“I would thank you if you would call me if you hear from her,” said Dufort gently. “I will give you my cell number and my email, please to use anytime at your convenience.” He really should get some tutoring for his English. It was excruciating to struggle so hard to make himself understood.
“Thank you for calling,” said Mr. Bennett. “I’m sure she’s off somewhere working on something and forgot to let her roommate know. Something like that, at any rate. We will let you know when we hear from her.”
After giving them his contact information and several exchanges of politesse and gratitude, Dufort ended the call and put his phone down on the desk. Even though he had no children, it was not hard to imagine the horror the Bennetts were in for if their daughter did not turn up soon.
He was thirty-five years old with no girlfriend at the moment, but had always assumed he would have a family someday. He wondered whether he might have resisted settling down because having a family, having children, meant never being able to avoid the possibility of something very bad happening, something so bad it would take everything in you to get past, if you even could. A loss of the very worst kind.
He was mature enough not to think in certainties, and not to be superstitious. But he could not forget the bad feeling he had from the moment he first heard Amy Bennett’s name. He knew the percentages, and he believed the calm of her parents was unfortunately going to be quite short-lived.
6
By that evening, just at dusk, Molly had more or less finished unpacking, and she wandered around the house at loose ends even though there were a million things she felt she should be doing. She went out to the garden and inhaled. A summer scent of mown grass with a hint of roses was still in the air, but the garden itself was so overgrown that it was overwhelming to contemplate how much work needed to be done. The orange cat sidled up and rubbed against her leg. Distracted by the garden, she reached down to stroke it and once again the cat bit her and ran under the hedge.
“Nasty beast!” she called after it, and then fled through the gate and into the village for a drink and some company, hoping to find at least one person who could speak English. It was Friday night and she hoped villagers would be out enjoying the nice weather and in a welcoming mood, tolerant of her subjunctive tense (which was utter rubbish).
Chez Papa looked promising. It was right on the main square with a large number of tables outdoors, and a small crowd seemed to be enjoying themselves, having apéritifs, drinking beer, and eating peanuts and potato chips from bowls on the bar. Three small dogs were underfoot. The place looked lively but not too intimidating. Molly made her way inside to the bar, and when the bartender gave her his attention, she pointed at the drink that belonged to the woman next to her and said, “Comme ça!” The bartender gave a short nod and took down a bottle.
Molly felt happily victorious for getting out a phrase and being understood.
“Let me guess—American, Massachusetts?” said an older man in probably the best-looking suit Molly had ever seen.
“Um, yeah?” she said, mystified.
“Lawrence Weebly,” he said, holding out a hand, then taking hers and kissing it. “I have a little hobby of guessing people’s accents. But I admit, yours was not much of a challenge.”
Molly laughed. “I’m Molly Sutton. But you only heard me speak two words of French! It’s not like I asked where I should pahk the cah or anything,” she said.
“That would be fish in a barrel. So thank you for providing the evening’s amusement by giving me only the two words, and not in English.”
“But seriously, how did you do that?”
Lawrence just smiled and sipped his bright red drink. “Now tell me, you are the new owner of La Baraque? How are you finding Castillac so far?”
Molly flinched. “It’s a little unsettling having everyone know who I am before I even meet them,” she said, managing a weak smile.
“That’s life in a village,” said Lawrence. “For better or wo
rse. Even in the age of the internet, most of us find our neighbors make up a decent portion of our entertainment. We gossip, we pry, we want to stay informed of the latest. Another!” he said to the bartender, pointing at his empty glass.
“Well,” said Molly. “I may fit right in then.” She turned and surveyed the other customers with curiosity. “I’ve been called nosy. Once or twice,” she added in a lower voice.
“Here in Castillac we just consider that to be interest in humankind,” he said, taking a long swig of his fresh drink.
Molly nodded and smiled. She liked Lawrence Weebly. And it was really wonderful to speak English, face to face, after days of struggling to make herself understood or having only herself for company. Now that she had someone interesting to talk to, she could feel just how lonely she had gotten.
The bartender had placed her drink on the bar in front of her and she’d been too distracted to try it. She took a sip and nearly choked. The bartender grinned. “Cognac and Sprite,” he said in English, shrugging. “It is what you ordered.”
“But—” said Molly, pointing at the woman’s drink. “That’s what she’s having?”
“It is a fad,” said the bartender with a sigh. “Unfortunate, as most fads are.”
“Spoken like a true Frenchman, Nico,” said Lawrence. “And I couldn’t agree more.”
“You speak English like a professor,” said Molly to the bartender.
“I studied in America for three years,” Nico said, shrugging. “Your French will come along, now that you’re here. You’ll see.”
“Your lips to God’s ears,” said Molly. Then she turned to Lawrence. “What are you drinking?” asked Molly, looking at his red cocktail.
