“One euro,” they said simultaneously. She saw him crack a half-smile but turn back towards the stones to hide it. She made attempts at light conversation at the foot of the ladder: weatherobservations, comments about the state of the house, pondering the lack of amarchéin Mirabelle or even Nenier below them. He barely responded, muttering only which tool to pass him, or when to refill the water bucket.
She watched him work slowly, methodically. He’d take a photo of a wall section as official record of what it once was, remove the damaged stones, chip away any old, cracked mortar with a chisel and small sledgehammer. He’d number the stones, clean them with water, then reaffix them in the same configuration with new mortar.
She appreciated his patience and care for his village, but she didn’t love being ignored. When she contributed—washing stones, passing him tools, or mentioning a thought she had—he quibbled with her, bossing her for the sake of bossing her.
Fine. If he wanted to break his neck, so be it.
“I’m going to make a new batch of mortar,” she announced, stepping away from the ladder. The faster the work, the sooner she could pay up, and the less she’d have to be with him.
He didn’t respond. She waited for him to give her permission, then was furious with herself for doing so. It was her house. She could make a pail of mortar if she wanted to. But when it was ready, he came down the ladder, eyed the inside of the bucket and shook his head.
“Bah non, this is not the right color.”
“There is no color. It’s mortar.”
“You must match the rest of the house. So we can’t tell what is old, and what is new.”
“Seriously? No one can tell. It doesn’t matter.”
He cursed under his breath in French.
“Why are you making such a big deal of this?”
“Because we want this village to look as it always has,” he said. “We shouldn’t see the repairs. Like in the big city where the architecture is of one sort, and some new person decides to put another floor on their house, all glass and steel. It changes thelandscape. Here, we are as if restoring a painting. Carefully making this picture whole again.”
She cocked her head and thought about it. Eyed the house, then him. “OK.”
“Quoi?She agrees with me?”
“I do.”
He looked at her for the first time in days.
She pushed hair out of her face and met his gaze. “I’m not the enemy, you know.”
“I know. I will try my best not to be …” He searched for the right word.
“An asshole?”
They both chuckled.
He stepped in close to show her how to mix new mortar, spread it in thin patches on a plank, let it dry, then pick the one that best matched the original color. It was true—it looked better. So close to him, she could feel his heat. Smell his skin. A bit sweaty, but not in a bad way—the smell of earth on a warm day.
He showed her how to repair the wall, and she worked on the ground while he worked up the ladder. The house started to look better.
He told her about art school in Paris. How he’d been full of aspiration to change the art world but had not enjoyed wooing an art gallery, the intense competition of the business—and how could it be a business anyway, when it was about art? And so he’d moved back to Mirabelle, found himself unable to make a living painting, so now worked in renovation, and helped his cousin Pierre with Voyages Celeste. She told him about working at the film festival.
“If you don’t love it, why are you so eager to return?” he asked.
“I have to see Sabine through university. She wasn’t happy in high school, even though she did so well. Teenagers say theydon’t need you, but they do. And I still want to make a feature film—get back to that life.”
“But you’re not.”
She flinched.
“I don’t say this as an accusation, just an observation,” he said from atop the ladder. “For example, I still paint here in Mirabelle. I know why I am not in the business of art, but I am in contact with it, because it makes me happy.”
“You? Happy?”
