Marlow, as sweaty and filthy as she was, swelled with pride. “Thank you! We’re about to move inside to repair the plaster, but I have to go into Neufchâteau and pick up supplies.”
“I will drive you. And here,” he said, passing her the box. “Pastries from the boulangerie.Subsistancefor the workers.”
Yakiv burst out the door.“Les desserts, les desserts!”he cried. Yakiv had a sixth sense for delicious treats afoot. He took the box and skipped inside with it.
“We’ll be lucky to get crumbs,” said Marlow. “And I’d love a ride, but I feel guilty about leaving you, Luc.”
“I will prepare the walls. See you later.”
So Marlow cleaned up and left with Guillaume, turning back to take in the lovely periwinkle shutters on her little house, and Luc, watching her go, a strange look on his face.
Aubin and Sabine sat amidst the Mirabelle fort ruins and ate baguette and cheese for lunch. She perused the old map of Paris, ripped along its worn crease lines, sites long ago circled in pen.
“Monsieur Dubois went to the Arc de Triomphe,” she said.
“Napoleon had it built, and then died before it was finished.”
“That’s disappointing.”
“I’m sure he would have liked his work. Twelve main avenues radiate out from it—why it used to be called Place de l’Étoile.What you don’t want to do is drive your car around that traffic circle, though. That is madness. So when are we going?”
“Oh, we’re not,” she said, eyeing him. “Right? We’re not really going to go, are we?”
“You want to see Paris, you’re here in France, I have a car. What’s stopping you?”
“I … don’t know.” She looked down at the valley’s roads. Far enough along one was Paris. She bit her lip. “I do, actually. My father lives there.”
“I didn’t know he was in the painting.”
“It’s ‘in the picture,’ but I like your saying better. And he’s not. Or—he’s dropped in and out. I was the result of a fling. He wasn’t into having a kid, and my mother let him out of any responsibility. I guess he took her at her word.”
“Mm,” said Aubin, considering this.
“Sometimes when he’s in Toronto, he drops by. And he texts me on my birthday and Christmas. With lots of emojis.”
“Happy face birthday cake streamers candles happy face?”
She laughed. “How’d you know? And sometimes he transfers money so I can buy myself something. But I don’t really know him.”
“What does he do?”
“He’s a filmmaker. He and my mum met at the film festival where she works.”
“What’s his name?”
“Yves Barrat.”
“Merde, your father is Yves Barrat? He’s had films in Cannes. But wait. If your father lives in Paris, why don’t you want to go?”
“My mum’s been, like, heroic raising me alone. She’d be crushed if I saw him.”
“Who says you have to see him?”
“No one.” Tears welled up in her eyes. He scooched closer, draped his arm around her, and rested his chin on her shoulder. She could feel his breath through the fabric of her shirt.
“Do you want to see him?” he asked.
“Maybe? He doesn’t even know I graduated. But like I said, I don’t want to hurt my mum.”
