Cady wasn’t sure what that meant, but Fabrice’s tone didn’t sound like “Come on in and make yourself comfortable.”
She glanced at her Renault, sitting sad and deflated like a fallen soufflé. The storm was building, the sheets of rain blown sideways by a howling wind.
“I can’t! There’s...” Cady didn’t know how to say “slashed tires” in French. “There’s a problem with my car.”
At last she heard a clanking and a shuffling, and Fabrice emerged from the kitchen down the hall.
“Please excuse me, Monsieur Clement,” she said, still in the doorway.
“I told you to call me Fabrice.”
“Fabrice, then.” Cold water was dripping from her hair and running down her collar. “May I please come in and use your phone?”
He grunted and started walking down a different hallway as Cady closed the door and followed him. Another pause. The stone corridor was no warmer than outside, but at least there was no wind. Still, she yearned for the warmth of the kitchen.
“I don’t have a phone,” he said when she caught up with him. He opened a door that led into a sitting room. It wasn’t as cozy as the kitchen, but at least it wasn’t as chilly as the hallway. It smelled of cigar smoke and must, and contained more piles of newspapers and books, an ancient television, a worn swayback couch, and a plaid recliner.
“Oh... really? No phone?” Cady could not remember the last time she had met someone who didn’t have a phone. But then again, Fabrice was a recluse. “Could I... if I could plug in my cell phone, I could make a call.”
“Who are you going to call?”
“A, um... a service station?”
“Closed.”
“What time do they open?”
“Normally early in the morning.”
“Well, that’s good. I’ll call first thing in the morning.”
“Can’t. Arthur takes his saint’s week off every year for vacation. Won’t be open for a week.”
“Oh. Then what—maybe... I’ll call Jean-Paul and ask for his help.”
He cast a jaundiced eye over her.
“What’shegoing to do about it at this hour? He’s probably sitting down to dinner with his mama and a whole pack of relatives. And before you ask, no stations will be open in Avignon, either. This isn’t New York.”
“I realize that.” Her teeth were chattering, and she crossed her arms over her chest for warmth. “Maybe I could call a taxi, or an Uber, get a ride to where I’m staying, and figure things out in the morning.”
“Taxi,”he snorted. “Out here?”
Cady felt a flash of annoyance and counted to ten. “I’m not familiar with how things work around here, in your lovely Provençal countryside. What would you suggest I do?”
She heard a dog barking again. Closer this time: not a yap, but a deepwoof.
Fabrice studied her for a moment, and she felt herself standing tall, failing to breathe, feeling like a little kid at the adoption fair, hoping prospective parents would find her acceptable. What was that intangible quality everyone was looking for, which no one found in Cady? Was it her appearance, her posture, the color of her eyes?
“A trade.”
“Excuse me?”
“I need someone for my dog.”
“Okay...” Cady wasn’t sure she had understood him. The French word for “dog” waschien, which she occasionally confused withchêne, oak tree. Could Fabrice be asking her to trim an oak tree?
“As you can see it’s a little hard for me to walk him lately,” Fabrice snapped. “If you take him out, you can stay here for the night.”
