She thrilled at hearing those words—“my daughter.” But still. “My mum and grandparents saved up for university back inCanada, though I’m pretty sure this place won’t qualify. And it’s way too expensive.”
“I am sure Delphine would give us a preferred rate either way—but yes, it would be too expensive if you registered as an international. But if you were French, we could manage.”
“I’m not, though.”
“You would be if we applied for citizenship. We’d fast-track it. Your father is French.”
Sabine focused on Aubin playing his tracks, people dancing, lit up. Her insides felt funny.
“I’ve wanted to be a part of your life for a while,” he said. “I tried in June—I was there on your last day of school, actually—I saw your mother at Renegade. I wanted to celebrate with you, but she felt it was too sudden, and I understood. I can’t just drop into your life. But now I have another chance. I’ve been terrible at showing you I care. I want to make up for that.”
Yves had been in Toronto the day she graduated. He had wanted to be with her … And now, he wanted to pay for this residency. The music soared, the dancers let loose, the lights pulsated and made everything alive. Sabine soaked in this magical place where she could create and be free.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Luc drove from Sylvain’s place through farm country against a blue-black sky, except for the occasional light in a house or bar in the middle of nowhere. Marlow sat, mushrooms cradled in her lap in a tea cloth, window down, feeling the breeze on her face.
Around nine o’clock, they arrived at a medieval village called Montsouris-le-Petit. It was the same size as Mirabelle, perched on a hill. In the square, a vegetable store was still open, its owner sitting on the step, drinking a glass of wine. At the restaurant, people ate outside. A wine seller was still open, too, bottles nestled in hay in crates, chatting on her phone.
“They have cell service,” said Marlow.
“Yes, they pushed until thefonctionnaireforced the internet company to install it.”
They walked up a street to an old manor lit by gas lights in the street.
“Montsouris was in the same state as Mirabelle five years ago,” said Luc. “This is my friend Camille’s hotel. It was about togo under. Most of the people had left, and the town was dying. The hotel had been in her family for a hundred years, and she couldn’t bear to have it close.”
“What did she do?”
“Camille’s family spends summers in Italy, and that’s where she saw a new kind of hotel that has become popular there–thealbergo diffuso. A scattered hotel. People in the community come together and make the hotel. Homeowners offer rooms. The restaurants take part. Locals who have skills to share teach guests—give them an experience—like learning how to make local food, tend to a vineyard, weave, make shoes from a pattern. She thought it could save her village. And it did.Shedid. Now it gets reviewed in travel magazines all over the world. Camille’s chef, Manon, was friends with my mother. She is the one who asked me for mushrooms.”
They stepped inside the hotel front hall. He rang the bell. A woman in her forties with long, silky hair in a braid, a flowing dress, and sandals came from the back and kissed Luc on both cheeks. This was Camille.
She took them along the village’s narrow streets, lit by gaslight. She showed them businesses that were part of the“hôtel disséminé”as she called it. It was sustainable tourism, because everyone was involved, and old buildings did not have to make way for new. There were no big, ugly, lit-up signs reading “Hotel.” It was a pact all the villagers shared.
They met Manon in the restaurant—four feet nothing, apron around her girth, grey corkscrew hair pulled back, escaped wisps of it framing her friendly face—and passed her the mushrooms. She clapped her hands together in delight.
“It was Marlow who found the most chanterelles,” he said.
“Then let me feed you some!” said Manon. And so while she fried up a few in butter and salt to put on top of slices of fresh bread made by her neighbor that afternoon, Luc pulled out achair on the restaurant terrace for Marlow, grabbed a bottle of Fortin wine and two glasses, and cozied up beside her.
“Surely this helps your emotions?” said Luc, licking his fingers in a very tempting way.
“For now,” said Marlow. “But my brain won’t stop churning. All these problems, and Yves winning Sabine’s heart—”
“It is not a competition. You have already won, making a daughter like Sabine. There is nothing he can do to touch that.”
“I don’t know. Maybe she’ll feel like he’s better than I am. More interesting. More creative. More parent-y.”
“You feel you are not deserving. Why?”
She chuckled, wry. “In my last year of high school, I was up for the Dorothy Puttnam Award. She was the founder of my school, so this was the fanciest award you could win. I had good but not great grades—nothing like Sabine—but I’d been at the school since kindergarten and had participated in every sport, club, play, fundraiser, so I made the short list. At the interview, I had to answer questions about integrity and honesty and depth of character. Like, what would you do if you caught another student cheating? I mean, did you know what you’d do about a moral quandary like that, at the ripe age of seventeen?”
“No,” said Luc, laughing. “I was the kid doing the cheating.”
“Not me. I’ve always followed the rules, tried to please everyone, especially my parents. Anyway, I fumbled my way through the interview, and thought, maybe I have a shot. My parents thought so, too—if only because of the years I’d put in. Graduation rolled around. Everyone got dressed up. I’d sewn my own dress. It had big blue flowers on it, and I had blue high-heeled shoes to match. I pictured myself up on stage, accepting the award in front of the student body, my teachers, the parents. The grad certificates were given out, the sports medals—the last thing was the Puttnam Award. My father pushed his way through thecrowd to take a photo. And then the headmaster announced the winner: Mercedes Phillips. A mediocre human. I turned to make ‘oh well, next time’ eye contact with my dad, and caught him fading back into the crowd. He was embarrassed. My parents have always felt like that about me. So my time in France, and everything I’ve gotten up to here, is par for the course.”
“You are not responsible for their feelings. And we know tomorrow if Ruth takes the house with the back taxes, so why worry?”
