I gave her a quick lesson in cigars, explaining that there are no chemicals added to the tobacco and, most important, that one doesn’t inhale cigar smoke, so lung cancer isn’t a risk. But with you, Justin, I’m preaching to the converted. I’ll tell you right now, too, that I brought some Cubans over with me from France, to share with you tonight.
Sandrine asked, “But a big cigar like that must be so strong, no?”
A common misconception, I told her, and let her have a drag. It may seem like an intimate act, but sharing a cigar has never bothered me, especially if I can get a convert out of a cigarette smoker.
Her face lit up. “Ça alors!” she exclaimed, slowly blowing out cigar smoke like an old pro. “It tastes good! Very good!”
An hour and another whiskey later, Sandrine went into the house to get us some snacks. She came out with a bowl of peanuts and some salami that she had cut into big chunks. I tried not to wince: food thinly sliced always tastes better. Agathe taught me that. Sandrine chatted about Provence, the weather, her sister, Josy. I was as relaxed as I had been in months. At around eight or nine o’clock she stretched and reached into her purse for her car keys. She had been drinking a lot of water for the past hour, so I knew she’d be all right to drive. I stood up to walk her to her car, shook her hand, and told her what an enormous help she had been. “Can you come back tomorrow?” I asked.
“Of course!” she answered as she got behind the wheel. “We have the kitchen to do, and we can make some plans to redesign it.” She put the key in the ignition, and the car made a sputtering noise. She sighed and laughed, patting the dashboard. “Clochette! Allez, Clochette!” Yes, she called that beat-up Citroën Tinker Bell. The car was making funny sounds and wouldn’t start. You can see where this is going.
“Is it the battery?” I asked. As a Parisian, I know nothing about cars.
“It’s a new battery,” she answered. “You can hear the battery trying to turn over the engine.” She looked up and smiled at me, thinking it funny I hadn’t figured that out. “No, it’s the fuel pump,” she continued. “I had the fuel filter replaced when I had this problem before, but now I’m afraid I have to get the pump replaced. Ô purée!” That’s a cute way, in the South, to say putain.
She got out her cell phone and dialed someone. I could hear a man’s voice on the other end, and I stepped aside to give her some privacy. She was speaking a mile a minute, more yelling into the phone than actually talking. Her Provençal accent seemed to be dialed up. “Connard!” she finally yelled, and then hung up.
I walked over to the car. “I take it he can’t help you out?”
“Connard d’ex!”
“Your ex-boyfriend?” I asked. Or maybe it was her ex-husband. Or ex-brother-in-law. I had no idea. At any rate, she called him an asshole.
“Yes! One of my ex-boyfriends. André!” she exclaimed. “He’s at home watching the World Cup!”
“Soccer, right? Is that on now?”
Sandrine whistled. “Wow. It’s the last game tonight. What planet are you from?”
“And Josy?” I asked, ignoring her jab.
Sandrine paused before answering. “She’s gone on holiday.”
“Don’t worry,” I reassured her. “It’s probably better that you don’t drive after those whiskies.”
She sighed and got out of the car. She patted the hood and said, “It’s not your fault, Clochette.”
She began searching through the contacts on her phone, but I could see she didn’t look convinced that anyone would come. Her hand trembled slightly.
“You bought enough sheets to set up a small luxury hotel,” I said. “You can take your pick of any of the bedrooms, and we’ll get a pizza delivered from the village for dinner. I’d drive you into Aix, but I’ve had more whiskey than you. Tomorrow we’ll get a mechanic out here. I noticed that there’s a garage in the village.”
“I’m so sorry, M Barbier,” she said. She looked up at the house, and I wasn’t sure if she was sorry that she was inconveniencing me or she was afraid to sleep in La Bastide Blanche. She shrugged and said, “At least I’ll be here if EDF shows up early tomorrow morning.”
We walked back to our chaises longues, and I went into the house to get my cell phone and a bottle of wine. During one of my walks into Puyloubier, I had put the pizza place’s phone number in my phone. The village was only a kilometer or so away, but I didn’t feel like walking, and it would soon be dark. Sandrine went into the house and brought out two wineglasses and a corkscrew; she was definitely a take-charge kind of woman. I asked her what kind of pizza she wanted, and we agreed on chorizo with mushrooms and red peppers. The call made, we sat back again, and I poured some wine. “M Barbier,” she asked, “what made you decide to start writing your wonderful romance books?”
This is a question I have been asked over and over again, but I guess Sandrine hadn’t read my standard answers. “I was heartbroken after Agathe’s death,” I said. “I wrote the first romance—”
“Another Day!”
“Right,” I replied, “as an homage to Agathe. I wasn’t thinking I’m going to switch genres. I was just writing what was in my heart, and what I thought I needed to say.”
“Your older books you
