Fabrice had called herpetite fille,which meant “little girl”—but also meant “granddaughter.” Cady had never had a grumpy grandfather or a goofy uncle. She had read about such characters and had watched them in movies for years. Now she had Fabrice, at least for the time being.
“I’ll take good care of him,” she said.
“I’ll be around for a while as well. He won’t be alone,” Jean-Paul said to the doctor, stepping forward.
Again Cady bristled. After the day they’d spent together, she should have felt closer to Jean-Paul, and she did... except that she still hated the idea of turning the château into a chain hotel, no matter how well done, or how much economic sense it made. Château Clement was like a treasure trove of family history; how could he even consider letting that go?
Dr. Miller left them with basic instructions: Keep the ankle elevated as much as possible and apply cold packs.
As the good doctor’s little car disappeared down the drive, Jean-Paul turned to Fabrice and said, “Thank you for not greeting us with the shotgun this time.”
Fabrice shrugged and scratched under Lucy’s chin.
“So,” Cady said, “am I now allowed to stay here again? It’s up to you, of course, but I’d like to know one way or the other.”
When Fabrice didn’t answer, she held up the heavy grocery bags and added, “Because if I go now you will never know the wonders of American garlic bread, which is an experience not to be missed. I have all the ingredients right here, ready to go. Yes or no?”
He looked at her for a long minute, heaved himself off the bench, and limped into the house.
“Comme tu veux,”he called over his shoulder.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Cady said as she and Jean-Paul followed.
• • •
“And that, gentlemen, is why garlic bread is universally beloved by my people,” said Cady as Fabrice and Jean-Paul served themselves third helpings of the wonderfully flavorful concoction. It had turned out particularly well tonight, probably because the bread itself was so good. “And here I thought the French were the ultimate gourmets.”
“I have no idea what she’s talking about; do you, Fabrice?” Jean-Paul teased.
“No idea,” Fabrice said, slipping a crust of the buttery bread to Lucy, who was trying to hide beneath the table but was so tall that when she stood, the table hovered and tilted, forcing them all to dive for their glasses.
That Fabrice deigned to answer at all made Cady smile. “You two probably haven’t ever had really good mac-n-cheese either, have you?” She didn’t know how to say the term in French, so she said it in English.
“Mac and...quoi?” Fabrice said.
“It’s pasta with a cheese sauce. Baked in the oven, and sprinkled with bread crumbs or, if you’re feeling wild, with potato chips. It’s incredibly good. Not as good as garlic bread, I’ll grant you, but still very good. I’ll make it for you,” she promised, then wondered if she would be here long enough to try out all her recipes. She already felt... what was it? At home? Was that possible?
Perhaps the garlic bread had worked its magic on Fabrice, or perhaps he was just tired, but tonight he seemed to be in a halfway good mood and enjoying the conversation. Cady wondered if, despite his protestations to the contrary, he might be lonely. How could he not be, out here in this huge château, all alone except for Lucy? But then perhaps he wasn’t as alone as she’d thought; he had people like the doctorand the teenager who delivered his groceries, and everyone in town seemed to know him.
“Fabrice,” she said, “when you were in Paris after the war, in the late forties and early fifties, is it true you knew Albert Camus and James Baldwin?”
The men launched into a discussion of authors and artists she’d never heard of, tossing around terms like “phenomenological—in the Heideggerian sense” and the “theory of pure surface.” She regretted her lack of formal education now more than ever. Yes, she read voraciously, and was observant. But how did one make up for a pure lack of education? How long would it take to catch up?
On the other hand, did anyonereallyneed to be able to toss around terms like “Heideggerian”?
Cady set about opening the wine, filling their glasses with a generous splash of the ruby red liquid, feeling like a servant at a literary salon in the Latin Quarter.
“To the power of American garlic bread to bring people together,” said Jean-Paul, holding up his glass.“Salut.”
Even Fabrice joined in the toast.
Cady decided to get over herself; to listen and learn. She brought out her journal and started taking notes as Fabrice and Jean-Paul continued to talk of the Parisian post–World War II literary scene.
“What are you writing down?” Fabrice asked.
“I don’t know a lot about that time period. Actually, I don’t know much about literature in general. I’m taking notes of authors I’d like to look up.”
Fabrice nodded, as though approving of her actions.
