Sabine eyed the magnificent building. “It’s hard to believe they’d take me so late.”
“They’d be fools not to,” said Yves.
It filled a hole in her heart to hear her father compliment her like that. “Can we call as soon as we can, to see if they’ll let me in?”
Yves nodded as they kept walking. Sabine felt like he could make anything happen, really. “And now, let’s shoot a pick-up or two.”
At the hardware store, Luc ordered a new pane for Madame Belleville’s window. Marlow found a sheet of corrugated metal. They could install it on the chicken coop on their way back.
Gérard wasn’t around when they arrived, but Marlow now knew how to use a drill. It took very little time, and she felt pleased with her handy new skills.
Luc dropped her at themaison de champagneto put in her festival hours. She stopped by Guillaume’s kitchen first. It was huge and modern, with built-in, high-gloss cabinets, a six-element gas stove, and gleaming copper pots hanging from a rack above the island. Copper pots. Those needed to be polished. You wouldn’t catch Marlow dead with pots like that.
Madame Klein had left lunch for her. It was so nice to be taken care of. While she ate, she WhatsApped Noah in Toronto. He answered, in the equally formidable kitchen of their parents’ stately Rosedale home.
“Uh-oh, Marlie, what now?” he said. “Bought another one-euro disaster? Arrested by the French government for not following their Byzantine rules? Pregnant by another low-rent filmmaker?”
“That’s low-budget, and Yves has been to Cannes twice, so I only get knocked up by the best, thank you very much. And don’t make assumptions that disaster’s afoot. It doesn’t become you.”
“It totally becomes me,” he said, “and they’re not assumptions if they’re always true. OK fine. Not assumptions. Predictions, more like.”
“If you’re so good at predictions, take up crystal ball readings as your next career.”
“You’re hardly one to give career advice. I’ll be taking that advice from you never.”
They laughed, but still, he seemed a bit off. “Why are you so cranky?”
“Because this,” he said, pointing his cell phone at the counter covered in eggs, cheese, chives and milk. “This morning, I’ve been commanded to make omelets. You abandoned me for France so I’d be the sole recipient of our lovely parental units’ disapproval and ire, something you usually take care of single-handedly. It’s unfair and rude.”
“You, too, can buy a one-euro house in France—in fact there are about thirty right near mine—and escape all that just like your sister.”
“Nah, I’ll live in the real world, thanks, and not screw up my life. Further, that is.”
“Suit yourself,” said Marlow.
“Marlie?” he asked, suddenly a little vulnerable. “You are coming home, right?”
She felt a pang of guilt for having a pretty wonderful summer so far.
“Of course I am. And listen—I have to sit my ass down and prep for a meeting with Oscar, so I’m wolfing down a bite while I check in.”
“You at champagne boy’s house? What’s for lunch?”
She’d told him about Guillaume. She’d also told him about Luc. Noah was relishing her burgeoning romantic life.
“Madame Klein made leek quiche,” said Marlow, holding her phone down to her plate so he could see. “With amâcheand strawberry salad.”
“Why don’t they sellmâchehere? Such a delicate lettuce. But strawberries and leeks? I would’ve gone with orange twists. Or blueberries, sautéed a titch in champagne and butter—”
“No one asked you. It’s delicious, and best of all, someone else made it.”
“That someone else is usually me.”
“If you want her to cook for you, like I said, get over here. Any jobs on the horizon?”
“Nope.”
“Boyfriends?”
