“What’s next?” asked Yves. “What university have you chosen?”
“I haven’t quite,” said Sabine, letting thereligieusemelt in her mouth. “Making my choice any day now.”
“What?” said Aubin, staring at her. “You just told your mother …”
Shit. She was a terrible liar. “I said I chose University of Toronto, and I was going to, but I didn’t go through with it.”
“It’s soon, no?” said Yves.
“Yes. Though technically I can choose anytime this summer.”
“What Sabine is not saying is that she got a hundred percent in her final marks in school, so she can do whatever she wants,” said Aubin. “The world is her mussel.”
“The world is youroyster,” Sabine said, laughing, shooting him a look to stop talking.
“One hundred percent?” asked Yves.
“Sort of,” said Sabine, focusing very hard on abateau mouchegliding by.
“She is just being, how do you say, without pride,” said Aubin. “Every mark was a hundred percent. Every university said yes, with scholarship money.”
“Incroyable,”said Yves. “You should be proud in this matter. I am.”
Life was funny. She had a boyfriend who was not a boyfriend, and a father who was not a father, both proud of her.
“So if you have the pick of universities,” asked Yves, “why wait?”
“I guess I want to choose the right one. I’m not actually sure.”
“But life is never exactly right,” he said. “If one school is not exactly right, you have time, you can change courses, schools … You can adjust. But life is also short, so don’t wait.”
The Seine flowed around the island. People passed on electric scooters and bicycles. Sabine unraveled the pastry of the pain au chocolat from around the piece of chocolate inside, saving it for last. Aubin flipped through his new book and talked about his dream job, hosting outdoor events at Maison Fortin with music, so people could drink and dance by the vineyards.
Sabine suddenly remembered the time and scrambled to her feet. “We’re going to miss our train.”
“Text your mother,” said Yves, unworried. “Leave in the morning.” There wasn’t really another option, and there was no Wi-Fi in Mirabelle, so Aubin would have to text Guillaume and ask him to drive there to tell her mother—what? Yves and Aubin chatted more about music, but Sabine was too busy dreaming up the next lie.
Marlow slipped into a maxi skirt and tank top and went to Luc’s house for dinner. It was no different from hers in layout but was filled with books, newspapers, deep armchairs with worn springs, and faded footstools someone had needlepointed long ago. His parents had lived there and their parents before them; stuff had piled up. The rustic kitchen had a boarded-up fireplace, a table covered by a brown and orange tablecloth, a counter made from an old door on makeshift legs with two propane burners and a toaster oven. Taps connected to a water heater mounted on the wall above a solid, flat stone slab sink with a rim.
He pulled mismatched glasses from a crooked sideboard, opened a bottle of wine, poured them a glass, and toasted her. “To a day of doing Haute-Marne like the locals,” he said.
“Enough stalling. Where’s my painting?”
He rolled his eyes and took her to a set of arched double doors past the living room. “This used to be the stables. My grandparents made it into a lounge. Now it is my studio.”
An easel. A table covered in half-squeezed tubes of paint. Old food cans filled with paintbrushes. Dozens of canvases—some blank, some half-painted, some complete. He pulled out a small one and showed it to her.
It was the layer cake of newer Nenier, old Nenier, and Mirabelle on top, at sunset, rendered in pinks, oranges, and yellows. Warm and sensual.
“There. Now, stop bothering me.”
“It’s beautiful,” she said. “When did you paint this? Do you paint every day?”
He sipped his wine and considered his answer. She sipped, too, feeling the warmth spread through her. She had not eaten enough today. She’d be tipsy in no time.
“No. Even though it gives me great pleasure, I neglect it. I get busy working on people’s houses, I drive the minibus for my cousin Pierre, I get moody …”
“You? Not possible.”
