“Yeah, I got that. Do you know who he is?”
“C’est un enfant à problème,”he said. Meaning, essentially, that he was ajeune voyou. A bad kid.
“I thought I might track him down, get him to come back and clean up his mess.”
Fabrice’s expression was unreadable. “Go buy the groceries, please. The boy is no concern of yours.”
• • •
The trip into town was an easy drive down a straight highway. Tall rows of sycamore-like trees lining the road created a regal route, though a lethal one should a driver veer out of the lane.
To her left were extensive fields of lavender, and to her right were acres of olive trees. A few stone farmhouses, fallow fields, and vineyards dotted the low hills. The appearance of a walled cemetery announced the entrance to the village, its narrow and twisting streets flanked by stucco town houses.
Fabrice’s map was easy to follow. He had even drawn tiny cars to indicate where to park.
The town, though small, had cell phone reception, and Cady immediately called the car rental company, which, after a few minutes of debating, agreed to send a tow truck from Avignon. Next she called the landlady of the room she had reserved in Saint-Véran and apologized for having to cancel her reservation. The woman was so surprised to hear that Cady was staying at Château Clement that she didn’t even argue. Finally, Cady sent Olivia the rather histrionic text she had written the night before, along with a P.S. about how lovely the area was now that she was no longer stranded and the sun was shining.
Business completed, Cady paused to regroup and poke around the village. Her stomach growled again. That settled it: first stop, theboulangerie.
The store was crowded with locals purchasing their day’s supply ofbaked goods, but Cady didn’t mind the long line. She inhaled the aroma of fresh bread, her mouth watering at the sight of arched croissants and squarepain au chocolat, flaky layers glistening with butter; tiny quiches studded with ham and herbs; long baguettes with their characteristic slash marks; the slightly sweet loaves of puffy brioche. When it was her turn, she asked for two baguettes and a roundboule de campagne.
Then she ordered apan bagnat, or bathed bread. It was a sandwich filled with typical Provençal ingredients: tomatoes, bell peppers, black olives, anchovies, and tuna—asalade niçoisebetween slices of crusty bread.
Cady was so hungry she couldn’t resist taking a small bite while driving. Eating behind the wheel was considered a no-no in France, though, so she looked for a park, like those where she had often eaten lunch in Paris. Remembering the cemetery, she pulled in.
A gray-haired man dressed in a black overcoat, a white felt scarf wrapped around his neck, was tending to one of the markers. The graves were raised above the ground, with marble slabs covering the tombs. Many headstones held little oval photos of lost loved ones. Most were adorned with flowers, both fresh and plastic. Some had framed photographs sitting atop the slabs; others had military honors, or religious icons. A huge monument in the very center of the cemetery was emblazonedCLEMENTand listed dozens of family members. Clearly Fabrice’s family had lived in this area, and had been important, for a very long time.
It seemed disrespectful to eat in the cemetery, so Cady sat in the car and finished her sandwich, washing it down with a bottle of Perrier. Thepan bagnatwas luscious, just as good as the Parisian sandwiches she had savored.
Meal over, Cady consulted her map and drove to the grocery store, which was even more fun than theboulangerie. Cady meandered up and down each aisle, lingering over the unfamiliar packets of pâté andsaucissons, potato chips boasting the flavor of goat cheese, brightly colored packages of children’s cookies, long whole vanilla beans in plastic tubes.
Her curiosity temporarily sated, Cady settled down to the business at hand: tonight’s meal. Fabrice’s list, written in a spidery, old-fashioned hand, included a whole chicken, potatoes, green beans, lettuce, preserved chestnuts, chocolate mousse, pistachio gelato, and a bottle of absinthe.
She added a few other staples to her cart and, unable to resist, tossed in a bag of goat-cheese-flavored chips and a “Yes” candy bar because the name appealed to her.
The unsmiling cashier was a blond woman in her thirties, who ignored Cady as she rang up the groceries but paused at the pistachio gelato.
“You are buying for Monsieur Fabrice Clement?” she asked.
“How did you know?”
“It is his usual Tuesday order. He called and said someone would be in to pick it up today.”
“Is that right?”He told me he didn’t have a phone,Cady thought.“Yes, I’m staying with him for a little while.”
“You’restayingwith Monsieur Clement? At Château Clement?”
“Yes.”
“You are American?”
Cady nodded. “From California. My name’s Cady Drake.”
“I’m Annick Boyer.Enchantée. How is Monsieur Clement?”
“Recovering from a hurt ankle, but otherwise okay. Do you know him, then?”
She laughed. “Of course. Everyone knows who he is. But he almost never comes into town, and does not allow people to visit him.”
