beginning to dissipate, and the staff of the Château
beginning their work already. A man in blue coveralls
heading to the outbuilding where the furnace lived. A pair
of women carrying rakes making their way to the kitchen
garden. And in the distance, barely visible in the pre-dawn
murky light, she saw a couple wandering along, a man and a
woman, holding hands, nuzzling each other as they walked.
Usually Jo would turn away from a sight like that, not
allowing herself to feel anything. But this time, she
watched the couple, saw them turn down the path to the
guest cottages, and she felt a yearning to have that kind
of warmth in her life too.
She couldn’t really imagine what it would be like,
but she wanted it. And for the first time ever, admitted it
to herself without flinching away.
Her parents hadn’t had it, that was for sure. Jo had
grown up in a run-down little box of a house just outside
of Trenton. Her father had drunk up his paycheck most
weeks, and spent his time at home on the sofa watching TV
in a total haze. Her mother was so wrapped up in trying to
keep her husband from drinking, or yelling at him for
drinking, or threatening to leave him because of his
drinking, that she wasn’t available to give Jo much
of anything either. Jo had latched on to teachers at school
and a few neighbors, who got her through those hard early
years. And then she had left that house as soon as she was
old enough to make it on her own, and never looked back.
She wasn’t sure her parents had noticed she’d
gone.
She was sitting on the floor now, with her legs spread out
as wide as she could get them, leaning to one side and then
the other, twisting her torso, feeling the muscles pull
until they would go no farther. She made a time zone
calculation and realized it would be a good time to call
Marianne. She grabbed up her cell and slid back under the
covers for some girl-talk.
No answer. Jo started to leave a message but remembered
that Marianne detested voicemail, and so she texted her
instead:
aMAzing. cant sum it up in a txt. get ur butt
ovr here. xxoo
The sun was peeking up over the horizon and the sky was
turning pink. Jo put on her riding clothes and boots and
trotted downstairs, looking for coffee. And maybe, if she
were going to be completely honest, looking for David as
well.
Later that day, Tristan, Alain, and Jessica reluctantly
left
La Petite Espionne
, after five courses
followed by glasses of digestif, feeling heavier than when
they went in, heavier but suffused with happiness.
“I have had snails many times,” Tristan was
saying. “It is not a dish of my region but I have
loved them since I was a child, and order them whenever I
have the chance. No plate of
Helix pomatia
has
ever come close to the pinnacle of deliciousness as that
one. The ingredients are so simple. And each one was
bursting with flavor on my tongue, so fresh it’s as
though the chef ran outside to pick the parsley after
getting my order.”
“I always thought escargots were like chewy pencil
erasers,” said Jessica.
“Well, yes,” said Tristan. “But with
garlic, parsley, and butter sauce. That rather changes the
effect.”
Alain smiled somewhat painfully. That last bit of
crème brûlée
had been a step
over the line, and he would rather not think about food for
at least a few minutes.
Paris in October, Tristan realized, was a revelation. The
tourists were few enough that they were invisible unless
you went to the Eiffel Tower or other major picture-taking
sort of attraction. The sky was a brilliant blue. And the
Parisians seemed full of gaiety, now that they had survived
another season. It felt neighborly to be there, not like a
big city, but friendly and relaxed. Tristan had been to
Paris numerous times in his life, but he had never
experienced it quite like this. And the conversation at
lunch–and the