“But the priest stayed here, in Cochet?”
She nodded. “The garage belonged to his love’s family. I don’t think he makes much money, but the shop is part of his house. And even though he’s very old, Monsieur Bonnet is still good with cars. He served in the military as well.”
Blondine then switched subjects and told Rosalyn she had come to Dominique’s store this morning because she had forgotten the vanilla for thecrème anglaise, which her mother had promised to teach her to make tonight. Her parents had separated when she was a teen, she said, though they were not divorced. She had two brothers and one half sister, but none of them showed any aptitude for wine. Blondine sold wine for her father’s vineyard, but what she really wanted to do was to become an independent agent and, above all, to visit the wine-producing regions of the United States.
“But to get a work visa? Impossible...” She trailed off with a shake of her head. “It is impossible. The United States is worse than France, and we’reterrible. Tell me, what are the men like where you are from?”
Rosalyn’s first thought, as always, was of Dash, but that wasn’t fair. Dash was one of a kind. More typical were the boys she had known in college, often sweet but unfocused and unsophisticated, or the surfer dudes, who acted as if there was sand between their ears as well as between their toes. The Silicon Valley sorts were young and ambitious, and though often bright and hardworking, many were socially immature, as though their parents had never taught them how to do their own laundry.
And yet to a Frenchwoman raised in a small town by a farmer, perhaps hipsters who couldn’t cook but were willing, if not eager, tospend hundreds of dollars on fancy cocktails and meals in farm-to-table restaurants would seem glamorous.
“Why don’t you come to Napa and see for yourself?” Rosalyn said, having given up on describing American men.
“Really? I would love that!” Blondine said, then added, deflated, “But I don’t know if my father would allow it.”
Rosalyn opened her mouth to ask why a grown woman needed her father’s permission, but refrained.
Blondine gave her a sidelong glance. “I know. It sounds strange, does it not? My father is very demanding. Anyway, here we are,chez vous. How do you like thegîte?”
“It’s lovely,” said Rosalyn.
“But you ran out of toilet paper,” Blondine said, peeking into Rosalyn’s bag of groceries, as if taking notes. “I must stock more. We haven’t rented the room out yet, so you are the first. Please, tell us if you need anything different. I have heard that Americans are very particular about their bathrooms. We made the shower after an American design.”
“It’s really quite nice,” Rosalyn assured her, wondering if she had somehow been too free with the toilet paper.
“But you Americans always say that, and then you don’t return or you leave a terrible review on the Internet. I have been warned this is how you are. Why are you afraid to tell us to our face? I’m not sure I like this.”
Again, Rosalyn felt odd speaking on behalf of all Americans.There are more than three hundred million of us,she felt like saying.We’re a diverse lot. But perhaps Blondine was right about the strange politeness face-to-face, with an Internet bomb lobbed afterward. It wasn’t the sort of thing Rosalyn would do, but she could imagine others might.
“You really want to know?”
“Yes, I asked you already.”
“Okay... I could use more towels, and a hair dryer would begreat. Maybe a hot pot and tea or coffee service so a guest doesn’t have to go to the kitchen just for a hot drink? And the lights aren’t very convenient—you have to switch them off at the door rather than from the bed. Also, I can’t figure out how to make the shutters go up and down very well.” Rosalyn was glad she had looked up the word for “shutters,” thinking to ask Pietro how to operate them:les volets. “In fact, some curtains would be nice.”
“This is a lot.” Blondine frowned. “I thought you said everything was fine.”
Rosalyn let out a startled chuckle. “And I meant it—but you asked me to tell you everything that wasn’t perfect, so I did.”
Blondine shrugged. “Show me.”
They went into thegîte. Rosalyn cringed when she realized she had left the bed a tangled mess of sheets; there was a damp towel hanging on the back of a chair and yesterday’s clothes were in a pile on the floor.
Blondine didn’t say a word, crossing to the shutters and showing her how to work the controls. “You don’t have shutters like these in America?”
“Not really. Some businesses have them, but not homes. Is it... Is theft a big problem here?”
“No. Why?”
“They look like high-security shutters.”
“Huh.” Blondine brought the shutters all the way down so that it was completely dark inside. “This way you can sleep. You see?”
“But it’s so disorienting not to know what time it is because it’s always dark. Especially when you have jet lag. If you added some curtains, a visitor could choose how much light they wanted. It’s just a suggestion. But since you asked: Americans like choices, especially when they’re on vacation.”
Blondine nodded, and seemed to make a mental note. “What else?”
“Maybe some art on the walls? Something to remind guests that they’re in France.”
