“Yes, but do tell.”
“Rain check? I’m running for my life here.”
“What if I ply you with a glass of wine?”
“Not even then. We have to go to France to deal with a little mess I got myself into.”
“Oh, yeah. Sabine told me all about it. What an adventure!”
“It’s hardly going to be an adventure. We’re going to get a refund, see a castle or two, eat in a few French restaurants we can’t afford, and be home before you know it.”
“I expect a full report when you get back.”
“You’ll get it.”
“And I’ll regale you with tales of having won the dog-strangling vine battle once and for all—as if—and having gone on two hot dates, back-to-back, same date, same bar.”
“Seriously?”
“Absolutely. It’s efficient scheduling, and what could possibly go wrong?”
Marlow rolled her eyes and climbed the coach-house stairs, rummaging for her keys, but the door opened before she could find them. Sabine was standing there with two carry-on bags.
“Are those packed?” asked Marlow.
“I gave us five pieces of underwear and socks each—we can wash them halfway through. The passports are good to next year. The flights aren’t cheap because as of yesterday it’s summer holidays, but not the worst price either. My session’s about to expire and when you refresh, prices can go up.”
Marlow tried to catch her breath. “This is a bad idea, because you haven’t picked a school yet and—”
“France’ll give me time to think,” said Sabine. “I’ll choose there. Promise.”
“Pinky swear?”
They linked baby fingers and squeezed. Marlow stepped inside and sat on the couch beside Sabine, the passports, fourgranola bars, a bag of pistachios, two metal water bottles, and the receipt for Maison Perdue.
She pulled the laptop onto her knees. “We can either go straight tonight, Toronto to Paris, or we can go tomorrow for forty bucks cheaper with a layover in Reykjavik.”
“Do I want to know how much they cost?”
“Nope.”
Whatever it was, it was not a thirty-thousand-euro security deposit.
“Mum. Which tickets?”
“Let’s go tonight.”
“Pass me your credit card.”
While her mother decided what else to bring, Sabine booked flights, scrolled “coolest things to do in France” while downloading boarding passes, texted her Uncle Noah to drive them to the airport, reserved a place to stay the first night as close as possible to Maison Perdue, couldn’t help but check all of Willa’s social media updates about getting ready for prom, and found a driver to pick them up at Charles de Gaulle, because the house was three and a half hours east of Paris, and not close to a train station.
It was super short notice, but Noah showed up about an hour later.
“I’m driving as contrition for my bad behavior last night,” he said to her mum as he hauled their luggage down the coach house steps. Sabine had no idea what he was apologizing for, but she guessed they’d had some sibling squabble after sushi. Marlow seemed to forgive him (a friendly punch to the arm in the garden confirmed it) whereupon he proceeded to rib her the whole way to the airport.
“I hate my life,” he said, pretending to be her. “I’m drunk on my kid’s thank-God-high-school’s-over bubbles, I’m scrolling Facebook to avoid the work my boss said is due at nine—”
“Midnight.”
