Everyone cares how a bathing suit fits,thought Marlow.
“Come on,” said Luc. “Unless you are afraid people will see. If you are, stand behind the car door. Here’s the thing. Everyone looks the same under clothing.”
“Not true.”
He turned to give her privacy. She checked to see if anyone was looking. They weren’t. So she hid behind the car door, squirming out of her clothing and into the suit.
He pulled two old towels from the back of the car—towels he no doubt kept in there for just this kind of impromptu dip. If that wasn’t a quality-of-life indicator, she didn’t know what was.
They kept their shoes on and followed others in suits and bathrobes along a well-worn path, down steps carved out ofhardened mud, through a gate to a clearing around pools of thermal water made in the soft rock at the foot of a hill and waterfall. The area teemed with locals: old, young, fat, thin—ordinary people doing something restful. Towels and clothing were dumped along the shoreline. Some people chatted in their swimsuits. Others changed in plain sight, their rear ends and naughty bits hanging out for all to see. Luc was right—no one cared.
Some pools were big enough for two people, some for ten. Salamanders lay on the sunny rock faces, scrambling away when disturbed into patches of tall, woody grasses growing from the crevices. Luc showed her the way to climb up closer to the water cascading’s source, rock to rock, without slipping. They settled into a small, shallow pool all their own.
“This place is amazing,” she said.
“Yes. It is as it has always been, here to enjoy and not be sanitized in a spa or poured over you by an attendant who whispers about restorative powers. It is not owned by anyone.”
She floated, thinking about Maison Perdue, how far it had come, and how much of it was due to him. “Thank you for your work on the house. But we’re over two weeks in, and you still haven’t told me how much you’re charging.”
“We will see.”
“We will see? That’s a recipe for disaster. Like, poverty and ruin disaster. I’m already poor, but the ruin I can’t afford.”
“I am not doing anything else at the moment, and I am enjoying myself, even though you are terribly difficult,” said Luc, touching his floating toes to hers in the water.
“I’m not difficult, you are. I could ask anyone, and they’d agree.”
“Who? Lali and Fedir love me. So does Yakiv. Even Babka,chien terrible. And Madame Belleville—I unplugged her toilet last week—she loves me, too. Sends me food like she’s my own grandmother. Has she even smiled at you?”
She flicked water at him. “Not yet.”
“See? It is you who are difficult, and I am the golden boy of Mirabelle. End of story.”
“I’m going to get her to smile at me before the end of the summer.”
“I dare you.” Then he added, “I am not going to overcharge with this work. Trust me.”
The warm water and feeling of well-being swirled around them. “I recorded something on Instagram this morning, so I held up my end of the deal. Now you have to show me a painting.”
“Once I see the movie. Not a moment before.”
“It’s not a movie. And like I said. So difficult.”
He smiled and closed his eyes. She took in his lean, tanned body as he lay there, in the moment, no worries in the world. Was this what Sabine was talking about—having a situationship? No. You had to be two consenting adults, agree you were attracted enough to one another to enjoy each other’s time, in bed, no further commitment. She and Luc were flirting. She was also flirting with Guillaume—in fact, they’d already gotten to kissing. But with neither man did she have confirmation of status. So she was nowhere on both counts.
Marlow let that thought trickle down the rocks and closed her eyes, too. Floating there, adrift for a moment, she wondered if she truly had to make a decision.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Yves led them from Shakespeare and Company, through the gate into the Square RenéViviani, and along its gravel paths between a church and a garden, where one boy chased another around and around the manicured hedges.
I’m on a walk with my father, thought Sabine, as they exited onto Rue Lagrange.An ordinary, everyday walk that fathers and daughters, families of all kinds, take on an ordinary day. They arrived at a square of market stalls.
“Bienvenue à La Maube,”said Yves, “more formally, the MarchéMaubert. We will buy some things and eat somewhere special, yes?”
They bought cheese from thefromageriebooth, and slices of ham and chicken, and then Yves took them to La Maison d’Isabelle, a boulangerie on the edge of the market that boasted having won best croissant of Paris andÎle de France. Sabine’s mouth began to water.
“Order to your heart’s desire,” he said.
