by Nell Goddin
In the third week, Coulon had led her into one of the guest bedrooms and told her to change into an outfit he had gotten for her to wear during her working hours. “It’s the least I can do, providing appropriate clothes for the job,” he said by way of explanation. Josette did not entirely understand the concept of ‘appropriate for the job,’ and with a shrug put on the black dress with a tiny apron hemmed with a frill. The bodice of the dress was tight but not so tight that she wanted to complain, and the skirt was full, short but not too short, and even had an underskirt of tulle, which Josette considered wonderfully fancy, having never had the chance to wear anything remotely like it before.
The outfit was not to last, however. After two weeks, Coulon led her into the guest bedroom once more, and told her that given the heat of August and the lack of air conditioning in his house, he thought it only kind to provide her with a summer outfit that would make her strenuous work more comfortable to perform. She looked doubtfully at the bed, where he had laid out a camisole and pantalettes made by La Perla, a name not familiar to her.
“They are the finest money can buy,” he said, trying and failing to sound casually authoritative. “It was cruel of me to expect you to run up and down stairs all day in this heat without any concession whatsoever to your comfort. This should go a long way to ameliorating the situation. And,” he added, going to the Empire chest of drawers and sliding open the narrow top drawer. “I have provided more selection, so that you may decide for yourself what you feel like wearing on any particular day.”
Josette was taken aback, as any young woman might have been, though other young women would likely have understood Coulon’s motivation more clearly. “You want me to…clean house wearing underwear?”
Coulon chuckled. “Oh, I don’t think of it as underwear,” he said, as though the suggestion was silly. “I think of it simply as something luxurious, something of great quality and high-class, that will make your day much more pleasant. Tell you what: try it for a week, and then decide. If you find there is anything about wearing La Perla that you do not like—if it impedes your work in some way, or you feel self-conscious, anything at all—then I will whisk it all away without another word. After all, the point is to make your day better, Josette. How does that sound?”
Josette did not feel she could go against him, and did not feel especially strongly about it in any case. She was used to the freedom of living deep in the country, where she could skinny-dip in the pond or strip off her clothes to feel the spring sun on her skin. And raising various farm animals over the years gave her that sort of matter-of-fact physicality typical of people whose early years are spent close to nature. Given all that, the young woman did not have an abundance of modesty, and while she regretted the loss of the fancy underskirt, these new items did look very beautiful, and were heavenly to touch.
She agreed to try it. And when Coulon left the room and closed the door behind him, she hurried out of her jeans and T-shirt and into the sumptuous underwear, marveling at its softness. It was like wearing nothing at all, she thought, taking a look at herself in the mirror in the armoire door, and liking what she saw.
Thus the new normal began. Julien continued to drive his sister back and forth to work, even on the days there was no market at which to sell the farm’s bounty. On market days, he continued to skim a bit of the profit for himself and usually took himself out to lunch, and Josette spent the five days of the work-week cleaning the mayor’s house with industry, while wearing very expensive lingerie.
Neither of them said a word to their mother about what went on in Castillac. Madame Barbeau asked a thousand questions of them both, but without having to say a word to each other, they answered with a stream of blandness along with a nearly complete lack of detail, and the poor woman was frustrated to the point of apoplexy. She insisted Josette hand over her earnings when she was paid, bi-weekly, but Coulon paid in cash and Josette had learned from her brother to hold back a little each week, gently adding to her nest-egg, which was wrapped in plastic bags and hidden in the rafters of the chicken house.
* * *
Toward the end of September it was still hot, and Josette was grateful to be wearing something light, especially on the days when her work was strenuous. She kept the black dress hung up in the guest room armoire in case someone rang the doorbell, or she needed to put something on so she could go outside to hang the wash.
On one wash-day, she had the dress on over the La Perla underwear and was on the point of opening the door to go out, holding a heavy basket of wet laundry, when she noticed a woman in the alley, lurking by the back gate. Josette set down the basket and moved out of sight, then peeked from behind the curtain. The wall to the back garden was high, but the woman must have found something to stand on because her head popped up; she was staring at the clothesline, at the silk pantalettes and camisole that Josette had hung out earlier that morning. Josette saw her reach a hand out—was she going to steal them right off the clothesline? The nerve of this strange person!
But one of the neighbors shouted about something and the woman pulled her hand back. She looked up at the house and Josette stayed very still, willing her to move on.
What business is it of hers, she thought crossly, waiting a few minutes after the woman had walked on down the alley and out of sight. She yanked the basket up and went outside, pegging the wash to the line aggressively, then carefully taking the dry La Perla things inside, folding them, and putting them in the narrow drawer where they belonged.
“I’m still not used to village life,” she said to Julien on the drive home that day. “Can you imagine, a stranger about to reach out and touch the wash on the line? I didn’t know whether to run out and yell at her or say nothing. I don’t…I don’t know the rules.”
“Eh, it’s not that complicated,” he answered. “It’s just the same as you learned in school. How to greet people, when to keep your mouth shut. Just pretend—who was that teacher in primaire, Monsieur Séverin? Just imagine what he would tell you, and do that.”
“I don’t like people being nosy,” she said, raking her fingers through her hair.
“You get that from Maman,” her brother said, rolling his eyes. “People are naturally interested in other people. Doesn’t have to be a bad thing. Of course, Maman thinks it is bad, but you do know she is crazy as a loon?”
Josette looked out the window and did not answer.
3
2007
* * *
A stunning June morning, and Molly Sutton, proprietress of the gîte business at La Baraque, was pruning roses when her pal Frances rode a bicycle across the lawn, shouting and zigzagging all the way. Bobo ran back and forth barking her head off.
“I don’t think I have ever seen you ride a bike,” said Molly, laughing, and kissing Frances on both cheeks.
“I don’t remember ever learning. I never had one single day of being sporty my whole life. But Nico dared me. Or not dared exactly, but he said he didn’t think I could do it. Can you imagine!”
“Wait, you’re insulted because he didn’t think you could do something that you can’t actually do?”
“But I can, Molly, that’s point number one. And number two, I never wanted to. So…well, a lot of good you are!” She crossed her arms and pretended to be mad.
“You must be about to die of thirst, picking the hottest day of the year to start exercising. Come get a cold drink.”
“I won’t say no,” said Frances, letting the bike clatter to the ground and sending the orange cat streaking for safety under the bushes. “So let’s see, it’s…what the hell day is it? Village life has me so relaxed I can’t keep track anymore.”
“It’s Thursday. I have to keep track because unlike some people, I work for a living.”
“I don’t know which people you’re trying and failing to throw shade on. I happen to have sent off a new jingle this very morning, for your information. And I expect the renumeration to be quite handsome, thank you very
much.”
“A lot handsomer than the gîte business is turning out to be, though I shouldn’t complain. There’s a lot to be said about doing work you actually like.”
“Cheers,” said Frances, clinking her glass of Perrier with her friend’s. Molly had left Boston and her fundraising job when her marriage broke up, and come all the way to Castillac in search of a new life. A wild plan, some would say reckless, but so far it had turned out better than she had thought possible.
“So what’s your line-up this week? Anybody interesting coming?”
“I have my first repeat customer, which is nice.”
“I hope it’s that Eugenia Perry, I really wanted to get to know her better.”
“Afraid not. It’s Wesley Addison.”
“The weird dude? The one who killed his wife?”
“He didn’t kill his wife. At least, I don’t think so. Sometimes the dead bodies pile up so fast around here that we think natural deaths aren’t even a thing.”
“Good point. I just want you to be a little more careful, after what happened last winter when La Baraque was fully booked and—”
“I know, I know. I am more careful now. Much as I hated to do it, I had a lock put on my bedroom door, and a new one on the French doors to the terrace. And while I’ll admit that at first Wesley Addison made me want to poke my eyes out with forks, once I got to know him, I was won over.”
“Because you are a marshmallow.”
Molly shrugged. “You and Nico want to come over for dinner next Friday night?”
“Who else is coming?”
“You have no manners.”
Frances laughed. “I mean, yes, we’d be delighted. Will it be you and Ben?”
“I can invite Wesley if you beg.”
Frances laughed. “Make that vegetable thing I adore so much? Listen, I’m glad you invited us, because there’s something we’d like to talk to you about.”
Molly raised her eyebrows.
“Well, you know…”
“Good heavens, Franny, out with it! This isn’t one of your visionary business ideas is it?”
“No, no, nothing like that. It’s…it’s about the wedding. I’m just…one minute I’m all gung-ho, and the next, I just want to run for the hills,” she said, her voice so low Molly could barely hear her.
“For someone who’s been married as many times as you, you sure are skittish.”
“That’s exactly why. Duh.”
“Okay, what about it? Have you and Nico set a date? Are you going to have it in Castillac? You know I’d be happy to do it here at La Baraque, if you want to have it outside. Or I can help you find something fancier in Bergerac if that’s what you’ve got in mind.”
“I know I brought it up, but listening to you jump in with all those questions…well, you’re right, I am skittish about the whole thing. It’s not Nico, you know I love him to pieces. It’s just…my sketchy marital history, you know? Anyway, the idea of having a traditional sort of wedding, with me walking down the aisle and all that—I’m just…not sure I can go through that. Again. Seems like for a third marriage, you ought to do something different besides get a new dress.”
“The guy is different, Franny, that’s all that matters.”
“Maybe,” said Frances doubtfully. “But you can’t say symbolism means nothing or why would anyone bother? Anyway, Nico and I were wondering what you and Ben think about an out-of-town wedding. What do you think about going somewhere and celebrating, just the four of us?”
Molly scrunched up her face. “I don’t know. Give me some time to think about it?”
“You’re not without your own marriage scars, I know.”
Molly nodded. Her only marriage had ended in divorce, though her new life in France had done a pretty thorough job of healing most of those old wounds. It was not another marriage she was desperate for, but a child. And as her fortieth birthday loomed on the horizon, her prospects were feeling dimmer and dimmer.
“Want an almond croissant?” she said abruptly, because almond croissants could make anyone feel better, even if they were a little on the stale side.
* * *
Frances had only just careened off, looking as though she were going to topple over any minute, when Molly heard a brisk rap on the door.
“Lapin!” she cried, surprised to see her friend on the front step. She almost always saw him at Chez Papa, the local bistro where she had meals or cocktails several times a week.
“I’m sorry to bother you at home,” he said nervously.
“Gracious, Lapin, you look distraught! Come in and tell me what has happened. Can I get you something to drink?”
“A glass of something would not be amiss.”
Molly checked the half-drunk bottle on the kitchen counter. “Côtes du Rhone okay?”
“Yes, yes,” he said, waving his hand in the air. “Oh, Molly, I hope you don’t mind my coming to you, but you’re the only woman I—I mean, you know I am fond of women, very fond, it’s just that—I can talk to you. Of course you are extremely lovely, I don’t mean—”
“Mon Dieu, Lapin. Relax. Just tell me what’s wrong.” She gave him the glass of wine and they sat down together on the lumpy sofa.
“It’s Anne-Marie.” Lapin gulped his wine. “She wants…she wants to get married.”
Was it something in the water? Was the rest of the village going to come trooping through her living room expressing angst about marriage, or was Lapin the last in line?
Seeing his tortured expression, Molly suppressed a laugh. When she first came to the village and met Lapin, he had been the sort of guy who drooled over women but never got very far with any of them, partly because of his boorish behavior and also, Molly and others suspected, because he was actually too afraid for anything to happen. But then he had met Anne-Marie, and she had seen something in him that other women had missed, and they had been happy together for longer than anyone would have guessed.
“Okay, so she wants to get married. Is this actually a problem? From what I’ve seen, you and Anne-Marie get on like gangbusters.”
“Well, yes. Yes, we do. But that’s exactly my point. Why change something when it’s working so well?”
“Do you want to have a family?” Molly asked, valiantly trying to put her own feelings aside.
“Family? You mean children?” Lapin’s eyes were like saucers.
Molly laughed lightly. “Yes, children. Has Anne-Marie said anything about wanting them?”
“We haven’t talked about it.” Lapin took another large sip of wine. “Thing is—you remember, Molly, my mother died when I was just a boy. And my father, he was…difficult. Very tough.”
“Abusive.”
“One could say that.”
Molly raised her eyebrows.
“All right, yes, abusive. I don’t want to complain, I’m quite aware that others have had it much worse than I—”
“Lapin, that’s neither here nor there.”
“Huh?”
“I’m just saying that the fact that others have it worse has nothing to do with how it was for you. It’s not a competition.”
Lapin’s eyes got wide again. “I have to think about that…but on its face, it seems quite wise. I knew it was a good idea to come see you.” He polished off his glass and placed it carefully on the coffee table. “But please, tell me how to get Anne-Marie to forget this crazy idea! I was so happy before this.”
Molly shrugged. “I’m afraid that’s beyond my powers. And yours, to be honest. My advice is to ask her for some time to think it over, tell her how you feel about her, and let the whole thing sink in a little bit. You’re freaking out now, but maybe once you get used to the idea…”
“I have never seen myself as a married man,” said Lapin. “A roué, perhaps, a man about town…”
Molly somehow managed not to roll her eyes. “Couples need to do what’s right for them. Maybe marriage is the thing, maybe it’s not. You’ll have to figure that out for yourself.
Now, I don’t mean to rush you out, Lapin, but I’ve got a long list of chores to get through today.”
“Understood, understood. Gîte business treating you right?”
“Not bad. I’ve got four guests leaving, and three coming this Saturday, including a repeater.”
“Quite a compliment! It’s not as though Castillac offers a bounty of sightseeing.”
“There’s plenty within an easy drive,” Molly said, feeling defensive even though she realized Lapin was only making conversation and meant no insult. “And some guests come for the peace and quiet.”
“Ha! That’s what the village used to have, before you showed up. Now that the Master Sleuth is a resident of Castillac, seems like we have a murder every other week.”
Irritably, Molly said, “Not fair. There’s been nothing since February, and here it is June.”
Lapin just laughed. “I think that proves my point more than yours!”
“Like I said, work to do,” Molly said, standing up and pointedly walking to the front door. All the talk of marriage had put her in a foul mood, and there was nothing to do about it but spend some quality hours in the garden, preferably hacking at things with a sharp object and working up a good sweat.
4
Mayor Coulon tapped his fingertips on the table at Café de la Place, stuck in the uncomfortable ambivalence of wishing his ex-wife would hurry up and get there while at the same time dreading her arrival. He signaled to the Pascal, the server with movie-star good looks, who strolled right over.
“What can I do for you, Mayor?” said Pascal.
“I’m waiting for Odile,” Coulon said, not hiding his irritation.
“Would you like a drink in the meantime?”
“Just bring me…do you have a plate of something, crudités?” Coulon made intermittent efforts to control his waistline, and silently congratulated himself on choosing vegetables in such a stressful circumstance.
