“Ha ha. But you do not make your art. Why?”
“I’d need a script. I came close with a screenplay I wrote during university … but it wouldn’t be relevant anymore.”
“What does it matter? If you like it, shoot it anyway.”
“I’d need funding. I haven’t even made a short for years. My skills would be so rusty. And all the equipment has changed since I was in film school. It sounds ridiculous to say out loud—but I make these little fourteen-second videos on Instagram …” She trailed off, distracted by an ant making its way across the Maison Perdue stones, so vast in comparison.
“Tell me more,” he said, pulling off his shirt and letting it drop to the ground. It was July hot, and so was he. Lithe and tanned. An old amoeba-shaped scar spread across his right scapula. It didn’t tan like the rest of his back. How had he gotten it? She drifted back to the view of him half-naked through their bedroom windows and wondered what he would be like in bed. There wouldn’t be a lot of talking, but who needed talk? With Luc, clearly still waters ran deep. That silent sex might be out of this world.
“Marlow? Can you tell me more about these little movies?”
“You can’t call them movies, because a movie has a story. A character. A beginning, middle, and end. These are just … moments. A feeling, or hopefully meant to evoke one.”
“Like?”
“Like … the day before we left Toronto. I was out at lunch. People all around me were rushing, wondering what they were doing with their lives, or just what they’d make for dinner later. And I shot their faces through a puddle on the street. The water rippled a bit, and the clouds were caught in the shot, sort of reflecting their mood, I guess.”
“It sounds like a small work of art. I would like to see it.”
“You can see them all on Instagram.”
“I’m not on the social media.”
“I’ll show you later, when you won’t fall to your death because no one’s spotting you.”
That made him smile. “Do you make your small works here in France? Because without the practice, this fire will die. Or turn to shame because you did nothing with your dream. So this week, you will show me one new moment on your phone, yes?”
“And you will show me one painting.”
“If I must.”
How was it that she was now making pacts with someone who was stubborn, bossy, and so often infuriating?
What on earth was going on?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
It had taken Sabine and Aubin the last two days to paint all the scraped and repaired shutters the same shade of periwinkle as those of the other Mirabelle houses. Now they were cleaning up the courtyard.
“And why do you never break the rules?” asked Aubin, out of the blue.
“Because my mother works hard to keep us going. I’ve got to help out, you know, be dependable, keep it together. Especially if I end up single too.”
“Who says you will be single?”
She watched him dump a dustpan of paint flakes into a garbage bag and decided to take a little leap. “I haven’t been in love with anyone before. Seen stars or whatever.”
“You never kissed under the fireworks like Willa.”
Kissing him had produced something like fireworks for her, but she wasn’t about to share that. “What I mean about my mum is, she has to support us. I can’t disappoint her.”
He shrugged—his famous move.
“You don’t believe me?”
“I think there is another reason you push yourself so hard.”
“So now you’re my therapist.”
