“No, nothing like that. Johnny read a text I received, about the idea to do a book about Château Clement, with photographs.”
“You mean the carousel?”
“It started with the carousel, but then the publisher liked the idea of me hanging out in a decrepit château with an old man and his dog, and they thought it could make a really cool book.”
Jean-Paul remained leaning against the counter. His typically open expression seemed suddenly guarded. “You’re planning to do some sort of exposé on Fabrice?”
“No, of course not. I would certainly never have done anything without his permission. It was a fantasy, really—I just love taking photographs, and of course the idea of them being published was enticing, but I would never do that. Not without permission. I know I have a few boundary issues, but not like that.”
After a beat he nodded. “Good. Glad to hear it. So Fabrice wouldn’t let you explain all of that?”
She shook her head and took a long pull on her drink. “It was almost as if he was waiting for me to betray him. The way Paulette did. He said I remind him of her.”
There were footsteps overhead, and the muffled sound of voices. Jean-Paul glanced at his watch. “I should go help my mother prepare dinner. Will you eat with us?”
“Thank you, I would like that. Could I just wash up...?”
“Of course,” he said. He went into the bathroom, flipped the light on, and handed her a towel. “Take a shower, whatever you like. There’s no rush; dinner will be an hour at least.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Cady,” Jean-Paul said. She turned back to him. “You’re telling me the whole truth? Nothing else happened?”
She gave a humorless laugh, and refrained from slamming the bathroom door between them.
• • •
Cady allowed herself a quick, frustrated cry in the shower. She still blamed it on hormones—it hadbetterbe hormones,she thought. If this was what came of aging, she was going to be seriously pissed off. But again, she’d been staying in Saint-Véran only a short period of time. It seemed like forever in some ways, but in reality, her time in the Provençal countryside was barely a blip on the screen of her life, much less in the life of a town old enough to remember dragons.
She dressed and headed for the side kitchen door of the main house, where Jean-Paul had brought her in before.
Cady raised her palm to knock but hesitated at the sound of raised voices.
“Elle est une intruse,”said a voice she thought belonged to Johnny’s father, Andres. “She’s an interloper, probably wants to make a fortune on that carousel.”
“She washelping,” came Jean-Paul’s ever-patient voice. “In addition to taking care of Fabrice, she’s finally gotten him to allow her to unearth the carousel—and yes, it will be worth a lot of money if we can fix it up. It could help with raising funds to properly restore the château. And she might even have discovered some photos from Yves Clement that shed light on our family history.”
“My point is, she’snotfamily,” said Gerald. “She should go spend her energy on her own family and leave ours alone.”
“Jean-Paul tells me she’s an orphan,” said Louise. “She doesn’thaveany family.”
“That’s her problem, not ours.”
“It might be one reason she doesn’t understand how family works,” said Louise gently.
“Cady told me herself that she has some problems recognizing boundaries,” said Jean-Paul. “Sometimes she can seem... pushy, or forward. But that’s probably the reason she’s gotten so far with Fabrice.”
“Family is family,” said Gerald.
“And she’snotfamily,” said Andres.
This was what they thought of her. Cady couldn’t listen anymore.
After she lost her baby and apartment and then Maxine passed away, Cady had found herself stunned at how quickly things could change. And now she felt that way again. Just yesterday she had been restoring antique French carousel figures, listening while Fabrice confided his darkest stories, making love with Jean-Paul, feeling like a part of things. But the truth was this: She wasn’t wanted here. She didn’t belong.
Cady returned to Jean-Paul’s apartment and penned a brief note thanking him and saying good-bye. On the kitchen table, as before, sat the rolled-up blueprints and hand-drawn sketches of Château Clement. But alongside them was a formal letter from an auction house, pertaining to the approximate value of “one Bayol carousel, circa 1900.”
Fabrice had repeatedly accused Jean-Paul of wanting to cash in by “selling the place off for parts.” Had he been right all along? Had Jean-Paul been helping with the carousel restoration only because it would be worth a lot of money?
