“Oh, Uncle Guillaume comes here! He loves the South.”
I went on, “It’s only a three-hour train ride from Aix—”
“Only?” she asked. “And what do I do when I get there? My uncle is busy with work. Who would show me around?”
I wanted to say, You just buy a map or a guidebook and wander to your heart’s delight. Or sit in a café and people watch. Or visit the Louvre. Justin, herein lies the difference between people who read my early books—the Pauliks, for example, I would imagine—and those who read my later ones, which as you know are filed in airport and train station bookstores on the romance shelves. The former are active and get things done. The latter can only dream about it.
I’m not being fair, you say? We’ll see. I finished my coffee and realized that if Sandrine Matton really wanted to go to Paris, she would have. Right? But all she could do was dream about it. The safer choice.
Chapter Six
New York City,
September 22, 2010
I’ve heard there are people in Jersey City who’ve never been to Manhattan,” Justin said. “But that may be an urban myth.” He looked at their empty glasses and, picking up the bottle, poured a little wine into each. He knew that was the sommelier’s job, but she was nowhere to be seen.
Valère tapped the edge of his glass, and Justin continued pouring. “Do you want us to die of thirst?” Valère took a big sip and continued, “Sandrine is a really fascinating person. She’s full of contradictions. She travels with her own tool kit and talks like a rough-and-tough city kid, and yet she’s afraid to go to Paris.”
Justin sipped his wine. It was just about the best thing he had ever tasted. “What’s she so afraid of?”
Valère played with his wineglass, twirling it around by the stem. “Sandrine has her own ghosts to deal with as it turns out. She . . . no, that should come later. I’ll get back to the morning when I first met her.”
We finished our breakfast—stale croissants that Sandrine warmed in the vintage gas oven—and we did a tour of the bastide together, trying to figure out what to unpack first and where things should go. It was too big of a house for me, and she saw the worry and disappointment on my face. “M Barbier,” she said, taking my shoulders in her hands, “we will unpack all these boxes and crates, and this house will fill up in no time. Plus, not only can I clean and organize, but I’m also a little bit of an interior design whiz!” I looked at how she was dressed and forced a smile. “What’s in these crates, anyway?” she asked, pointing to one of the larger ones that sat in the middle of the dining room.
“My late wife’s artwork,” I answered.
“Sculpture?”
“Pots.”
Sandrine looked at me with one eyebrow raised. “Huh?”
“Ceramic pots,” I went on. “Agathe was a potter.”
“Oh, I see,” Sandrine replied slowly. She looked around the room, her index finger resting on her chin. “Do they have pedestals?”
“The smaller ones, yes, and the bigger ones stand alone.”
“This is going to be fun!” she exclaimed. My heart leapt a bit, for the first time in months. “I’ll go get my drill to open these crates.”
“Your drill?” I asked. I couldn’t believe this woman. Like I said, Justin, I couldn’t make this stuff up.
“I brought my tool chest,” she went on. “And don’t worry, the drill runs by battery, and I charged it this morning. I know you don’t have electricity yet.” She slapped her forehead. “But before I get the drill, I’ll call the EDF and get them out here ASAP!” She pulled her cell phone from a huge bright-blue purse covered in sequins, dialed a number, and began, very politely, asking for the hookup service. She stayed calm while getting switched from person to person, and soon she had the third one laughing. I sat down on the bottom step and listened. She rang off, and came out into the front hall where I was sitting. “Tomorrow morning,” she said. “They promise. One more night of campfires—eh, M Barbier?” She laughed and went out to get the drill.
We spent the rest of the morning getting Agathe’s pots out of their crates. “These are good crates,” Sandrine said. “We’ll take them down to the basement later.”
I mumbled in agreement but couldn’t see myself ever needing them again. Sandrine was right: the place soon filled up with Agathe’s pots, which we tried to place artfully around the downstairs rooms. I had missed them, with their rough surfaces and dark terra-cotta hues.
After a quick lunch of very decent egg salad sandwiches made by Sandrine (she had thought to bring ice, and beer, for my cooler), we began unpacking smaller boxes. Sandrine would remove an item—say, a crystal ashtray—hold it up in the air, and ask, “Have you used this recently? In the past year?” If I answered yes, as I did with the crystal ashtray, a gift from Jacques Mitterrand, she put it aside, in this case on an antique end table. If I answered no, back in the box it went, labeled “Emmaüs.” The charity would come and collect everything after Sandrine arranged a date.
By the end of the day we’d furnished three rooms: the big salon, which Sandrine had taken to calling la salle des fêtes; the smaller salon, which she called la salle de télé, something I abhor; and the dining room. I was elated. She made it clear that she didn’t appreciate my taste, a mixture of 1970s Italian and French antiques, but I was happy that she liked Agathe’s pottery.
“What do you think, M Barbier?” Sandrine asked, hands on hips, as we stood in the middle of the dining room.
“It’s wonderful,” I said. “The furniture and Agathe’s pots look so beautiful next to the faded blue
