It was on the tip of her tongue to ask if Jérôme had turned Dash down because, like the man she had overheard at the party, he didn’t trust Dash to pay his bills. But that made no sense, she thought. Jérôme had refused Rosalyn’s offer of representation, too. But what she had overheard at the Gathering of Vintners had rattled her, and she found herself wondering if everyone had known what she learned only after he had died—that their lavish lifestyle was a sham; that when it came to money, Dash was well intentioned but unreliable. Was that his reputation? Should she have realized that earlier?
“Your husband was very well liked, Rosalyn,” said Jérôme. “He was kindhearted, and charming.”
She forced a smile. “That he was.”
There was a long pause, but as before, it didn’t feel awkward.
“Well,” said Rosalyn as she finished wiping the windshield and tossed the dirty paper towels in a trash receptacle, “fun running into you here. We’ll have to do it again sometime.”
“What will you eat?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Tonight, since you are alone at Gaspard’sgîte. What will you eat?”
“I... haven’t thought about it.”
He tilted his head. “Come dine with us.”
“Oh, no, thank you. I wouldn’t want to bother you.”
“I’m cooking anyway; we just bought groceries—at a store thatisopen, by the way, in Foucrault. My son is with me.” He called out, “Laurent,viens ici. I would like you to meet someone.”
The boy crawled out of the cab. His cheeks were rosy, and he was dressed in a little green wool sweater that looked handmade.
“This is my son, Laurent. Laurent, this is Madame Acosta.”
“Bonjour, madame. Enchanté.”
Laurent tilted his head up to her, and she leaned down so they could kiss on both cheeks.
“Enchantée, Laurent,”replied Rosalyn.“C’est un grand plaisir de te rencontrer.”
“You’re the American?” Laurent asked in lilting, slightly accented English.
“I am, yes.”
He looked up at his father.“Elle mange avec nous?”
“You see?” Jérôme asked Rosalyn. “Even Laurent knows you should come eat with us. This isn’t California, you know. In France, one cannot just skip a meal. It simply is not done.”
She fiddled with the locket at the base of her neck, and looked up to find his eyes on hers. Was it just her imagination, or did she find a kindred sadness there?
“Will you show me the collection?”
“You are a very stubborn woman, Madame Acosta, if I may be so bold.”
“You’re not the first to notice.” Rosalyn smiled.
“Come, then, allow me to cook for you and to show you my family’s collection. And then perhaps you will find something else you would like me to do for you. I am at your service.”
She laughed. “I’ll try to come up with something. You, sir, are a true ambassador for your people.”
“Bon.It’s settled, then. Please follow me.Allez, en route, Laurent!”
The boy ran and climbed into the truck, and Rosalyn drove after them in her car, down the highway toward Cochet before turning left onto a long lane just before the town limits. She noticed something she hadn’t before: a sign had been covered over. They passed through a gate, and the pitted pavement gave way to gravel, which in turn yielded to mud. The last of the snow had melted, leaving behind puddles and small ponds in the gullies.
Rosalyn said a fervent prayer that her rental car wouldn’t get stuck in the thick mud, then realized a farmer like Jérôme would have more than enough equipment to pull her out if need be. She forged ahead.
