Page 56 of The Stranger

Lola sighs. It’s a strangely expressive sound. But before Paco can take another step, she draws back her head and let’s fly. A globule of spit lands squarely between his eyes.

“Oh my goodness!” I exclaim.

Paco freezes, his expression one of profound shock as a strand of greenish llama resentment slowly slides down his nose.

Lola resumes chewing like the bass bitch he is. Apparently, the conversation is over.

“Wow, llama drama.”

Next to me, Sylvie begins to laugh so hard that she doubles over. I find myself smiling, the sight and sound of a child in full, uninhibited belly laugh as fun for me as a spitting llama is to her. But, gosh, why is children’s laughter so infectious?

“Primrose, do you see his face?” Sylvie gasps, laughing so hard she can barely point.

“I do. Or maybe that should be I goo.”

“This is the funnest thing I have seen,” she exclaims. “In all of my days, ever, and I’ve had a lot of days.”

“Funniest,” I gently correct.

“Why do you think she spits at him?”

“Is he her brother?”

She smiles, like she gets the joke, but then she begins to wave frantically. “Alejandro! Look, it’s Alejandro!”

At the other side of the paddock stands a man. Tall, tan, and fair hair, boots, and green overalls dusted in, well, dust. Her waves and then begins to amble in our direction.

“Bonjour, Mademoiselle Sylvie,” he says with a small smile her way. An American?

“Bonjour, Monsieur Alejandro,” Sylvie response. “Ça va?”

“Très bein,” he answers in a terrible French accent. He looks to be in his early thirties, sun-bronzed, with a nice smile. As he turns my way, he offers me his hand. “I’m Al.”

His hands are broad and warm, with dirty fingernails. Ew.

“Hello.” My hand meets his despite the fingernails. “Primrose,” I add.

“Sorry about the dirt.” He curls his fingers inward as he pulls a face. “I’ve been taking samples this morning.”

“Of dirt?” I ask doubtfully.

“Alejandro grows Papa’s grapes.”

“That I do,” he says, beaming down at her.

“The Frenchman allows an American to fondle his grapes?” The words are out before I realize how they sound. Oh my days.

“Well, I wouldn’t have put it quite that way.” He rubs his hand across his mouth. “But we grow a decent grape in California. But where are my manners,” he says, turning to the llama and sketching a playful. “Bonjour, Lola.”

“She can’t talk,” Sylvie scoffs.

“No, but she does holds grudges.”

“Yes, we just saw,” I say.

“Lola spitted at Paco.”

“Spat,” I correctly softly.