Free Evan and Elle by Rhys Bowen

nights at raves, Betsy. People do grow up,” Bronwen said. More carrot slices flew.
    Yvette chuckled deep in her throat. “You English—excuse me, Welsh. You are so afraid to talk about sex. A man and a woman desire each ozzer. What could be more natural? Why pretend zat it doesn’t exist? Your Constable Evans was so funny when ’e was wiz me zee ozzer night . . .”
    “What?” Bronwen and Betsy stopped chopping simultaneously.
    Yvette went on coating chunks of beef in flour. “ ’E was ’ere zee ozzer night—you did not ’ear? ’E say zat people will talk about us. We have a good time togezzer. How you Welsh would say politely . . . zee nice little chat,
n’est-ce pas?
” She gave her throaty laugh. “Now I sink ’e know zee difference between zee girl and zee woman.”
    “Evan would never . . .” Bronwen began.
    “I ’ad to trow ’im out at one o’clock.” Yvette said. She threw chunks of beef into a hot pan. “Zis ees zee secret of zis dish. Start by making it ’ot enough to sizzle.”
    “He wasn’t home when I fell asleep about midnight,” Mrs. Williams muttered to Mair Hopkins. Bronwen went on cutting as if she hadn’t heard, but her cheeks were flushed.

    That afternoon Evan strolled up the village street to visit Bronwen. He smiled to himself in anticipation—a free weekend and good weather. Maybe they’d take a hike tomorrow, or a picnic on the hill above the village . . .
    Bronwen opened her front door. “Oh, it’s you, Evan.” She didn’t immediately invite him in, but stood with her hand across the doorway.
    “Hello, Bron. We didn’t make any plans for the weekend yet.”
    “Didn’t we?”
    There was something wrong but he wasn’t sure what. “I still haven’t taken you to dinner at the French restaurant, I know. Don’t think I’ve forgotten. But I think I should stick around here tonight and tomorrow. The other fires happened at weekends. This time I’m going to be on the lookout. But I thought that maybe you’d like to demonstrate what you learned at cooking class?”
    “What I learned?” She was looking at him steadily. Then she tossed back her hair. “I’m sorry, Evan, but I’m busy this weekend. I’ve already arranged to get together with some people I met at last week’s conference.”
    “Tonight?” Evan’s face fell.
    “We thought we’d have dinner together and do something tomorrow too. They were very amusing and it’s time I mixed more socially. I’ve been burying myself, shut away in this village.”
    “Oh. I thought you liked it here.”
    “Oh, I do like the teaching. Socially it doesn’t have much to offer, does it? Now if you’ll excuse me—I need to get changed . . .”
    She turned away and went to shut the door.
    “Bronwen, have I done something wrong?” he asked.
    “You’d know that better than I, wouldn’t you?”
    “What are you talking about?” he demanded.
    “I really have to get ready. I have friends waiting for me.”
    She closed the door, leaving him standing outside. Evan shook his head as he walked away. What was all that about? He would never understand women if he lived a million years. He was clearly out of favor for some reason and now it was up to him to find out why. It crossed his mind that the sex-with-no-strings-attached approach offered by Madame Yvette might not be such a bad idea after all.
    The weekend didn’t improve much after that. Mrs. Williams served him a few chunks of beef and a couple of pearl onions in gravy that tasted of nothing because she refused to buy wine. Evan hung around outside the pub, keeping an eye on the street, but there was no fire. Worst of all, Bronwen was gone all weekend. Evan began to wonder if the other teachers she had met were all women.
    On Monday Evan timed his afternoon patrol through the village to coincide with the end of the school day. Bronwen was standing at the gate, chatting to one of the mothers as he approached. She glanced up, noticed him, frowned and went