To sell the book idea, Marine had organized the chapters as simply as she could. The book would cover two long lives, in one of history’s most tumultuous centuries, so she ordered the chapters chronologically. Once the contract had been signed, she thought she could be a little more daring with the narrative and perhaps go back and forth in time, but in the end it proved logical to keep the chapters as they were. All day she worked on organizing chapter 3, 1937–39, and toward the end of the day typed in a chapter title, “The Oncoming War,” before closing her laptop. Verlaque had transformed the mezzanine, which gave onto his living room, into an office for Marine. “What about your office?” she asked. “I have an office already,” he said. “At work, at the Palais de Justice. The only work I do at home is bill paying, and that I can do at the dining room table.”
Conscious of the fact that she was about to go out into the scorching heat, Marine drank a tall glass of water. She then grabbed her car keys and purse, and headed out of the apartment to pick up her goddaughter, Charlotte. Charlotte and her mother, Sylvie, Marine’s best friend, lived around the corner. Twelve years ago, Sylvie had had an affair with a married man and kept the resulting pregnancy a secret from him, against the advice of almost all her friends, including Marine. That evening, Marine and Charlotte were invited to dinner at Hélène and Bruno Paulik’s, as Léa and Charlotte were good friends. Verlaque was going out that evening, with cigar friends, visiting downtown apartments in the hopes of finding one suitable to rent as a clubhouse.
Charlotte was waiting in the street, beside her front door, when Marine arrived. It shocked Marine to see Charlotte standing there alone, and she forgot how grown up she was at eleven years old. “Where’s Sylvie?” Marine asked after exchanging the bise with her goddaughter.
“She had to leave,” Charlotte answered. “She was late for an appointment.”
Marine nodded and said nothing, thinking that “an appointment” probably meant a date, and Charlotte didn’t want to talk about it. Charlotte had never met her father, but Marine knew that he was a well-known photographer from Berlin, with children of his own.
“Maman spent hours in the bathroom getting ready,” Charlotte said.
Marine looked at her goddaughter and smiled. “Oh yeah?”
“I had to brush my teeth at the kitchen sink.”
“Poor you!” Marine said, trying to have fun with it. She was unsure where the conversation was going, and if Charlotte’s feelings were hurt.
“She finally came out of the bathroom and then ran right back in again and wiped off most of the makeup she was wearing,” Charlotte said, “and then changed her clothes for the third time.”
Marine whistled. “Sylvie looks good no matter what she wears. She needn’t worry so much.”
Charlotte smiled. “Yeah, Maman is really pretty.” She reached over and held Marine’s hand, and they walked toward the underground lot where both Marine and Antoine kept their cars, their arms swinging in motion as Charlotte told Marine about school. Next year Charlotte would be in junior high, and she was determined to take the exams to enter into the bilingual French/English class at Collége Mignet. Antoine Verlaque was her English tutor. Léa Paulik would surely be admitted into the intensive music program, also at Mignet, and the girls were thrilled at the possibility of studying at the same downtown school.
In less than twenty minutes, they were driving up the dusty gravel road leading to the Pauliks’ house. Verlaque had convinced Marine to buy a new car, showing her photographs of small, sleek Italian and German race cars. She instead bought a small four-door Renault Clio. “Made in France,” Marine said, “plus my parents always buy Renaults.”
“I know,” Verlaque said, his expression exaggerating the sadness in his voice.
Marine laughed. “My family has been a customer at the Aix Renault garage for years, and I know they won’t rip me off when it comes to repairs.”
Today the temperature read 34°C, and she was thankful that the Clio had air-conditioning. “There’s the mountain!” Charlotte called out, leaning forward to get a better look at mont Sainte-Victoire.
“It looks like it’s leaning over us, it’s so close,” Marine said. She swerved the car to avoid a pothole. “As if it’s protecting the vineyards.”
“It’s so white!” Charlotte exclaimed. She shielded her eyes and Marine laughed.
“Here we are, and there’s Léa waiting for you!” Marine said as she parked the car under an oak tree, hoping it would provide a little shade. Léa came running and embraced Charlotte as soon as she stepped out of the car. Marine smiled as the girls chatted. Charlotte was almost a head taller than the short, plump Léa.
“Âllo, Marine!” Léa called, and she ran to Marine to give her the bise.
Marine embraced her and said, “You sure do a lot of running, Léa.”
“I’m not allowed in Mom’s wine lab,” Léa said, wiping some perspiration from her brow. “She’s afraid I’ll break something!”
“That’s probably a good idea!” Marine said, laughing. “Hélène’s wine is very expensive these days.”
Léa shrugged, having no idea of, or interest in, the prices of her mother’s wines. “Let’s go to my room,” Léa said to Charlotte. “I have some new Alices.” The girls
