Sabine glanced over to Madame Belleville, who smiled in approval. Sabine pinned the second cornflower on his lapel and tried not to cry. She was wearing mascara, which she’d done about four times in her life, and didn’t want it to run.
She threw her arms around Aubin. “This is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.”
“I’m glad. But you are crushing my corsage.”
She pulled back slightly and kissed him. “Better?”
“Not sure. Could you do it again?” So she did. His lips were soft and warm, and—
“Allez, allez, pas en public!”
Sabine and Aubin turned to see Yves at the top of the Mirabelle stairs. Sabine blanched. She snapped her head around to see if her mother had seen him, too. Yes, there she was, standing in the middle of the square, arms limp, staring at him in disbelief.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Marlow reeled. Sabine rushed over, looking sick. “I—I didn’t know he was coming, I swear.”
“What’s he doing here, then?”
“I don’t know. Or maybe I do.” Sabine turned towards her father, then turned back. “What do you want me to tell him? Do you want me to send him away?”
Marlow had no idea what she wanted. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Rémy arrive in an elegant black dress and shake people’s hands as if she were on the campaign trail.
“I’ll figure it out,” said Sabine, but Yves was already coming over.
“Bonsoir,”he said. “You both look lovely.”
“This is unexpected,” said Marlow.
“Yes, I’m sorry, I should have texted to let you know I was coming—”
“You think?”
“—but then I remembered that you don’t get cell reception up here, and I wasn’t even sure I could pull it off, so I just came.”
“Pull what off?” asked Sabine.
Yves turned to the stairs, where about two dozen people were spilling onto the square.
“Bringing guests. That’s what you need, right?”
“Yes, that’s what we need,” said Marlow, irritated and thankful all at once. Madame Belleville looked overwhelmed at the ticket table. “Sabine, can you help with tickets?” Sabine headed over as a woman approached, wearing silver go-go boots, tight neon psychedelic pants, a faux fur pink jacket with pink liquid eyeliner to match, and sparkly stars glued to her temples.
“Bonsoir,”she said, “you must be Marlow. I am Delphine, an old friend of Yves. I run an artists’ retreat, and I brought my residents—I hope that is all right.”
“It’s wonderful,” said Marlow, “Thank you.”
“Yves said there’s an auction. I want to donate a residency at Château Beaupré.”
“That’s amazing, but you don’t have to do that,” said Marlow. “You barely know me.”
“True, but I was inspired by your daughter’s art. She is gifted. And even though she has not yet decided whether she will attend, I want to support her in any way I can.”
Delphine headed for the stage. Marlow wanted to be furious with Yves, but he was helping, and wild Delphine with a galaxy of stars glued to her face was helping, too.
“I hope Sabine told you about Château Beaupré,” he said.
“She did. Right before she told me about you standing her up at the passport office.”
