Sabine and Marlow stepped back onto the Mirabelle square with their luggage. Her mum struggled a bit with her purse, suitcase, and all that paperwork. Sleeping for an hour on forbidden grass had only made the jetlag worse and had given Sabine a headache.
“What the—” said Marlow.
“I know,” said Sabine.
“I mean—”
“I know.”
“How will we even find our house? I don’t have Wi-Fi or data, which means no Google maps, which means wandering around like idiots. And I might need the bathroom. My stomach’s upset, like that time I got a call from Revenue Canada because I’d forgotten to file—”
“Your stomach’ll settle, Mum. Give it a second. Let’s just go and poke around.”
“I don’t want to.”
“There’re only five or six streets—look at the size of it.” Sabine squinted through the sunshine at the tiny village.
“Still,” said Marlow. “She couldn’t have given us a map?”
“We’ll find the house, and if we don’t, there’ll be someone to help. And if there isn’t, we’ll come back and ask.”
“She just said she’s closing shop. Look, it’s a ghost town!”
“It’s not a ghost town. We’ve met four people already.”
“Three. Luc, Guillaume, Rémy the devil incarnate. Three.”
“I met some guy while I walked around Nenier before, so four. And last resort, we can call a cab to take us to the hotel.”
“Do you see any cabs? And I don’t have cell service to call an Uber—”
“It’s going to be OK.” Sabine didn’t really believe that. For a second.
“Is it?” said Marlow. “That Rémy’s enjoying this. Let’s bring two unsuspecting foreigners five thousand kilometers across an ocean, plunk them in the middle of nowhere and see how they make out. Maybe there are hidden cameras, and we’re part of some cruel reality show. I mean—”
Why did people get something stuck in their mind and go over and over it until you wanted to scream or run away or both? Sabine’s grandmother did that, and her mum had inherited the habit, as much as she was determined not to be like Grams. Sabine vowed to avoid all mental ruts. Mind you, not having a clue what to do with your life was a rut, so best not judge.
All Sabine had done for the last year other than finish school was search for a university program that interested her. To her mum, she’d presented a list of five options, with acceptances and scholarships to all of them, but to Willa, Sabine referred to it as “ the mild list”: undergrad programs that only mildly interested her.
“Can I escort you to your house?” said Guillaume, coming out of themairie.
“Do you know where it is?” Marlow asked. “We don’t want to be an inconvenience.”
“I do, and it would be my pleasure,” he said, smiling.
Wow. Were these two flirting? Sabine and Marlow had been in France all of a minute.
“That would be very kind,” said Marlow, smiling back.
Definitely flirting. Well, good. Her mother was on holiday and deserved some fun. Maybe Sabine would find some fun for herself, too.
Most of Mirabelle’s houses were sad and dark, with an“ÀLOUER,”or“ÀVENDRE”rental or for sale sign in the window or on the door. And yet, it was an artist’s rendition of an ancient, miniature town, drawn with no clean, straight, modern lines: a picturesque yet empty playground.
“What would make a beautiful place like this lose all its inhabitants?” asked Marlow.
“There are old reasons and new ones,” said Guillaume. “Years ago, the main industries here were wine and cabinetmaking. This area was covered in vineyards until the phylloxera problem.”
“What’s that?” asked Sabine.
