“Salut,”said the guy, sliding off his headphones.“Tu es Américaine?”
“Canadienne,”said Sabine. Weird conversation starter.
“North Americans are the only ones who step on the grass,” he said, switching to English.
“Isn’t that what grass is for?”
He pointed to a sign.“Merci de ne pas marcher sur les pelouses.”Thank you for not walking on the grass. Oh. Sabine heaved herself up even though every inch of her wanted to be horizontal and stepped off the grass.
“Who are you visiting?” he asked, breath calming a bit.
“I’m not visiting anyone,” said Sabine.
“Are you a student, here to work for my uncle?”
“Nope.”
“Who are you, then?”
“Sabine.”
“Aubin. You sure you’re not working for my uncle?”
“I’m sure.” This guy was just so … off-putting. “Who are you?” Sabine asked back. Crabby, yes, but she felt nauseous. She stepped back on the grass and lay down again. She couldn’t help herself.
“Are you really going to lie back down on this forbidden grass?” he said.
“Mm-hm.” Forbidden grass had never looked so good. She closed her eyes and willed him to go away. Silence. Sabine cracked her eye open again. Aubin was gone.
Marlow sat on the bench outside the Nenier city hall, feet up on her luggage, eyes closed, but sleep wouldn’t come. She hoped she hadn’t done irreparable damage to her promotion prospects. Surely she’d built up more good will than that. Technically, if Oscar was unhappy, he’d have to file a complaint with HR. There would be a process.
Stop fretting over what you can’t control. For once, assume it’s OK to go after what you want.This was the sort of worrying Noah got on her case about.Respect yourself, he’d say.If you can’t do it for you, do it for Sabine so you model some self-worth for your daughter.She loved him, but it was irritating when her brother was right.
A Porsche pulled up beside the rust-bucket minibus. A man got out, mid-forties, maybe, dark brown hair, clean shaven. Well-dressed but understated—a sort of nonchalant “these pants cost more than your weekly wage but we will never speak of this” vibe. A white linen shirt tailored to his soccer star body, suede boots, horn-rimmed sunglasses, and a family crest signet ring on his baby finger all completed the look.
He spotted Marlow and smiled.“Bonjour, Madame.”
“Bonjour, Monsieur,”she replied, moving her feet off of her luggage and sitting up a bit. To anyone in North America, this would seem like the formal introduction of a suitor in a Victorian novel. But in France, calling each other Madame and Monsieur was the standardpolitesse. Madame Barbier, Marlow’s Grade 4 French teacher, had said that, here, you could never be too polite.
“Vous attendez l’ouverture de l’hôtel de ville?”
Yes, she nodded. She was waiting on the opening of City Hall. She could understand this fellow perfectly—not like Luc’s lightning-speed French.
“Vous aurez de la chance si quelqu’un se présente. C’est l’été.”
Really? Would no one show up at city hall just because it was summer? Was she going to have to come here every day forthe next nine days until someone showed? And how would she do that without any transportation?
“Vous ne pensez pas que quelqu’un viendra aujourd’hui?”she asked. That vaguely strung together. Did he not think someone would show up today?
“I apologize,” he said, hearing her accent and switching to English. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Guillaume Fortin. May I assist you in some way?”
“I’m Marlow Linden. From Canada.”
“Oh, Canada. I have been to the Okanagan and to the Niagara, with the beautiful waterfall. And to a charming place called the County of Prince Edouard.”
“Prince Edward County, yes. Are you in the wine business?”
“How did you know?”
