by Nell Goddin
Achille set off following the fence line, checking each post as he got to it, but before long his eyes were looking at the fence but he did not see it. Instead he was seeing the young girl from the market in Salliac last Monday. He guessed she was around twelve or thirteen. He thought about the way she had grinned at him when he offered her the cannelé. About her innocent expression. Her scuffed-up sneakers.
The more he thought about her, the more he was convinced she would do nicely. It would be much better, he reasoned, to have someone younger. That was a mistake he would correct this time, getting the age right. Younger would mean less fighting back, he reasoned. She would be more willing, more adaptable. More controllable.
He needed to see her again. And once he had that thought, Achille felt a sort of frantic pressure deep inside that he knew would stay with him uncomfortably until next week’s market day when he could try to find her again.
What if she isn’t there? What if she never comes back?
The fence post forgotten, Achille turned back towards the house, whistling for Bourbon. His face was contorted and one hand was balled up in a fist, while the other switched the branch against the ground, over and over.
It’s gotten stale.
He had to act. It was not a choice but an imperative, and it had to happen soon.
* * *
Running a gîte business turned out to be like a lot of other jobs—you’re just juggling one catastrophe after another. Molly went to give the pigeonnier one last check before the Dutch couple, the De Groots, arrived in the afternoon, and found that the dramatic rainstorm the night before had caused an equally dramatic leak in the new roof. She put in an emergency call to Pierre Gault and put her headphones in so she could listen to the blues while she spent the rest of the morning mopping up water, washing throw rugs and hanging them out to dry.
Thinking of what Mme Gervais had said the other day, she noticed that the pigeonnier would make a perfect place to hide someone. It was well off the road, for one thing. Even though it was bright enough inside, the windows were far too small for anyone to squeeze through, and too high up to see through. She made a mental note to look for more pigeonniers on the outskirts of the village and in the countryside nearby. Valerie could be like Rapunzel, being shut up in a miniature tower all those years. Molly shivered as a wave of claustrophobia passed through at the idea of being locked away for so long.
The hard physical work of cleaning up put her in a better mood, so that by the time Pierre arrived, she was no longer cursing but feeling optimistic that the De Groots would love the place—if Pierre could fix the roof before the next rain.
“Molly, I cannot imagine how this happened,” he said, from up on the roof. “It must have been a terrific gust of wind—you see, this tile right here has broken right off. Are you sure no one has been up here?”
“Why would anyone have gone on the roof? No, it’s been quiet around here as usual, and no one asking for a ladder to climb any roofs.”
“I will mend it today,” he said. “It is no problem. But I will need to remove the tiles above it, you see, before I can replace the one that broke. Perhaps something fell on it?”
“What could possibly have fallen from the sky heavy enough to break one of those tiles?” asked Molly, skeptically. “Come on, Pierre—you were napping when you put that one on. It must have been already cracked when you used it.”
Molly honestly had no problem with the mistake; she accepted perfectly well that stuff happens. But come on, when you screw up, just admit it, she thought, after saying goodbye to Pierre and heading back to her house to change for the arrival of the De Groots.
And it was a good thing she hurried, because the village taxi pulled into La Baraque not fifteen minutes later, just as Molly was trying to run a comb through her hair and giving it up as a lost cause.
“Bonjour!” she called out, genuinely happy to meet the new guests.
“Hello, Molly!” said Herman De Groot. “I hope it is all right to call you by your first name? I feel I know you after our exchange of emails.”
“Of course,” said Molly with a smile. “I’m very glad to see you,” she said to Christophe, the new taxi driver. “It would be a little crowded bringing guests here on my scooter.”
Christophe grinned. The De Groots had taken their bags out of the taxi and were standing with their arms around each other, gazing into each other’s eyes.
Ah, young love, thought Molly, with a manageably small pang of envy.
Herman smoothed his wife’s hair off her face and leaned down to kiss her. Christophe chuckled and climbed back into his spiffy green Citroen and backed out of the driveway.
An awkward moment while Molly stood waiting for the kiss to end.
“Um, well then!” she said, trying to hold on to feeling of graciousness when at a certain point she felt like giving them a kick.
The De Groots broke apart and Anika had the good manners to blush a little, and Molly led them to their lodging in the spick and span pigeonnier, nearly tripping over the orange cat who had suddenly appeared and gotten underfoot. They oohed and ahhed over the design, mentioning the glossy wood and the tiny windows, and after she got them settled Molly walked back to her house feeling a little less irritated with Pierre Gault.
But the worst of it was, she felt as though all of the tasks of her daily life—the cleaning and greeting of guests, fixing what was broken, making La Baraque a lovely and friendly place to stay—all these tasks were getting in the way of what really mattered, which was coming up with some kind of workable plan to find Valerie.
Who had left the note? And why, if he or she really had seen Valerie Boutillier, why not simply say where she was?
16
Of course Molly hoped all her guests enjoyed their stay at La Baraque, but she really wanted Ned and Leslie to leave feeling as though they couldn’t wait to come back. Mostly—well, entirely—because she hoped they would return with Oscar. The parents had indulged Molly by letting Oscar stay with her a few nights, since it was obvious how much joy Oscar gave her. And it didn’t hurt for them to get a little break from the little guy themselves.
They had made several more childless excursions and had a wonderful time, coming home to a happy child and a radiant babysitter. It was like having a grandmother who loved children right at hand, someone who was always ready to put any chores aside and scramble around on the floor to the delight of the crawling baby.
Not that Molly would have been pleased with being thought of as a grandmother; she was only thirty-eight and hadn’t completely given up on having her own family, not all the way deep down. But the part about putting off work and being ready to play? Yes, a thousand times yes, and she was going miss the baby terribly when the family finally had to go.
They were leaving on Tuesday. Molly wanted to do something a little festive, so she invited some of her Castillac friends as well as Wesley Addison from upstairs (because how could you have a party and not invite a guest from inside your house?). Not dinner, just cocktails, or apéros as the French called them, along with “heavy apps”, as they called decent hors d’oeuvres back in the U.S.
Molly spent a good couple of hours in the kitchen making those hors d’oeuvres: gougères, little cheesy puffballs; pissaladière, an onion tart; and brandade au morue, which was salt cod whipped with cheese and potatoes, ready to be scooped up with slices of toasted baguette. None of the dishes were difficult or demanded any particular precision, but still, an ambitious menu for one person to pull together in a few hours. Just when the first guests were due to arrive, Molly was sliding the last tray of brandade into the oven and running to shower and change. Luckily she knew no one would actually show up on the dot of the appointed hour.
She forgot about Wesley Addison.
As she was stepping into the shower, she heard him walking heavily down the stairs. It gave her pause, being naked with a strange man in her house, just down the hallway, but there was a lock on the bathroom door
and she used it. Surely he could look at old gardening magazines for the few moments it would take her to finish getting ready.
“HELLO!” Mr. Addison shouted.
Molly rolled her eyes and put shampoo on her head, massaging it in, and trying to let irritation rinse off like the suds in her hair.
“MISS SUTTON!” he shouted again.
For God’s sake.
“COMING!” Molly shouted back. Bobo watched intently as she hopped out of the shower, dried off, and put some product in her hair, making sure it got to the ends. If she skipped that step—actually let her hair do its natural thing, unaided by humankind—it would tangle up into the frizziest ball of crazy and no comb or brush would be able to tame it. But she suspected the delay was going to cost her.
Quickly she threw on a short spring dress, wiggled her feet into a pair of sandals, and left her bedroom, hoping to settle Addison down and put a little makeup on later.
“Miss Sutton! I was under the impression that you had invited me to a social gathering this evening?” He looked pointedly at his watch.
“Yes!” she said, with a false tone of gaiety that she was only glad Lawrence wasn’t there to hear, because she’d never hear the end of it. “I’m afraid—oh! Let me—” The brandade smelled ready and she moved quickly to the kitchen and took it out of the oven. “I hope you’re hungry!” she said, coming back around the counter while putting on an apron. “The others should be here soon. I’m afraid here in Castillac, the time given for something like this is more of a vague suggestion than a train departure time.” She laughed.
Addison stared at her. “Train departure time?” he said, looking utterly confused.
“I just meant…oh, never mind. What can I get you to drink? Kirs are very popular, or I’ve got wine, and a bottle of vodka somewhere…”
Addison kept staring but didn’t answer. Bobo growled at him—softly, as though wanting to be subtle about it.
“Or if you’d like something without alcohol, I’ve got mineral water and lemon?”
Molly thought she saw him nod at this, so she got a glass and made him a drink of cold Perrier, and added a chunk of lemon. “So, tell me how you ended up in Castillac,” she asked him. “We do get some Americans visiting, but not all that often. I’m always curious about how people find their way here.”
“I’ve been here before,” said Mr. Addison. He lifted the glass to his lips and drank half of it. “I was here seven years ago,” he said. “And I’ve always had the desire to return, and see how things had changed.”
“So…back then, were you here for a long stay? What time of year was it?”
“Three months, July through September. I was meeting with a group of British people who had moved here, studying the progress of their language acquisition.”
“Interesting! And how did they do?”
“Poorly. Too old. You do know that after a certain age, fluency in a non-native language is no longer possible?”
Molly nodded. “I’m not surprised to hear that. Although I feel quite comfortable speaking French now. Comfortable making embarrassing mistakes, I guess,” she said, laughing.
Addison looked at her intently. “I don’t understand. Mistakes make you feel comfortable?”
Unconsciously, Molly stepped back a few steps, wanting a bit more breathing room between her and Wesley Addison. She slid the onion tart into the over to warm and made herself a kir.
A firm knock and Michel Faure came through the front door, opening his arms to Molly. “Salut at long last!” he said, and they kissed cheeks.
“I’m so glad to see you!” she said. “And where is Adèle?”
“She’s coming, she just stopped off at her apartment for a moment on her way. We’ve missed you, Molls!”
“I think if I had been vacationing in the Seychelles, I wouldn’t have missed anybody!” she said.
“I don’t understand,” said Mr. Addison. “Why would the location of one’s trip have any bearing on one’s feelings about who was not along?”
Molly took a deep breath. “Let me introduce my guest, Wesley Addison. This is Michel Faure, who has been traveling with his sister Adèle, who I hope will be coming any minute. And now if you’ll both excuse me for a moment, I have some things to do in the kitchen.”
For the first time, Molly wished she had the old-fashioned kind of kitchen, not open but safely behind a closed door, where she could escape and tend to her heavy apps and maybe drink half a kir in peace before facing Addison again.
She knew in her business you had to get along with everybody, and she tried to accept this first real challenge with grace, even if she didn’t feel it.
* * *
Before long, the big open downstairs of Molly’s house was filled with friends laughing and telling stories. Ned and Leslie had come over, and Molly had seen Mme Sabourin in her yard and called out an impulsive invitation to her as well. The De Groots had begged off and were holed up in the pigeonnier. Adèle had arrived with a new handbag as a present for Molly.
Lawrence had contented himself with straight vodka and Molly’s apologies over not having all the ingredients for a proper Negroni. “You do know you’re an utter philistine,” he said affectionately, sipping the vodka and reaching for an olive.
“Absolutely,” grinned Molly. “I don’t think of that drink with fondness,” she added.
“I think there’s a story there,” said Michel, raising an eyebrow.
“Yes, but you can guess it. The only thing that makes it slightly interesting is that after two Negronis I got in a taxi with a killer.”
“I don’t think I can outdo that,” said Michel. “And listen, my beauty—this brandade is perfection!” He dipped a toast in and chomped happily away.
“Michel has been eating everything that’s not nailed down,” laughed Adele. “The boy has expensive tastes that were apparently neglected for far too long.”
“You like handbags, I like caviar,” he answered. “No need to judge.”
“So does everybody have a ‘thing’? Negronis, handbags, caviar…I’m not sure I fit in,” said Leslie.
“I don’t have a thing either,” said Ned.
“You do too!” Leslie said. She shifted Oscar to her other hip and pointed at her husband. “This man has a shoe thing that you wouldn’t believe. We had to bring a separate duffel bag on the trip just to hold them.”
“Interesting,” said Lawrence, giving Ned an up-and-down look. “You don’t often find that in the straight world.”
“I think of them as tools,” said Ned. “Each one has its role. The slipper, the running shoe, the hiking boot—you want to wear a shoe that’s made for the specific activity. Multipurpose shoes are sad little things: jacks of all trades, masters of none.”
“I had no idea,” said Molly, taking a look at Ned’s feet. “But you’re wearing moccasins now, not fancy loafers. If I told you those won’t do, could you upgrade?”
“Of course he can upgrade,” said Leslie, laughing. “He almost wore the loafers, just changed his mind at the last minute.”
Mme Sabourin was smiling politely and sipping a kir. She only knew six English words and so the conversation was gibberish, but still she found it interesting that the younger people seemed to be inspecting each other’s feet with so much good humor.
“And how about you, Wesley? What’s your shoe collection like?
Wesley stared at Ned as though he couldn’t quite make out what he meant. “I’m sorry,” he said finally. “I am having some difficulty paying attention to what you are saying because I am listening to your accent instead of your words. I am a linguist,” said Wesley, reaching out to shake Ned’s hand. “Once wrote a paper on the Australian accent, discussing the degree of allophonic variation in the alveolar stops, to be precise.”
Everyone paused.
“I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about,” said Ned. “So how about we get a plate of this incredible food and take our drinks out to the te
rrace and you can explain to me what the hell you just said.”
“All right,” said Wesley, making a half-bow.
“Hello little goose,” Molly said, coming over to make faces at Oscar. Oscar shook his head and smiled at her. “I’m going to miss you guys so much,” said Molly. “I feel like all three of you are part of the family now.”
“We are sad to go,” said Leslie.
A gust of humid air blew in as the front door opened and Frances swept in, followed by a glum-looking Nico. Frances was looking very dramatic, as usual, wearing a short shift-dress made of a filmy, barely-there fabric, and clunky platform shoes that made her legs look even longer.
“Well, hello, you nutter!” said Molly, giving her friend a kiss on both cheeks. “I hardly see you anymore! Oh my God, are you blushing?”
Frances flicked her black straight hair out of her face and lifted her chin. “I do not blush,” she said. “And let me tell you,” she whispered, “Nico is…he’s such a man of mystery!”
“Uhm hm,” said Molly, having heard this before from Frances concerning husbands one and two. “I’m happy for you. And so glad you came. You’ve got to try this brandade. It’s my new fave, I think I’ll be eating it three meals a day from now on.”
Frances laughed and went off to say hello to Michel.
Molly went to the kitchen to get more gougères out of the oven. She tumbled them into a napkin-lined basket and then stood for a moment, looking out at the room filled with people she hadn’t even known a year ago. Mme Sabourin was chuckling over something with Adèle. Frances was making Michel laugh, and Nico was glowering at them. Lawrence was standing by himself, petting the orange cat. Molly’s eyes started to well up, she was so grateful for finding her way to La Baraque, to Castillac, and for having all these people in her life now who were so dear to her.
