Hélène and Bruno Paulik walked out of the house and called over to Marine. “It’s cooler inside, believe it or not,” Hélène said.
“I believe it,” Marine said.
They exchanged the bise, and Hélène ushered Marine into their vast kitchen. “I’ll pour you a big glass of water,” Hélène said, “and then we have a surprise. We’re invited to our neighbor’s for an aperitif.”
“Chez Valère Barbier?” Marine asked.
“Yes,” Bruno answered. “Apparently, he has a gift for Léa.”
“It’s a bit like meeting a rock star,” Marine said after taking a sip of water.
“You’ll see,” Bruno answered. “He’s just a regular bloke.”
Hélène said, “He’s even a bit . . . melancholy.”
“He’s probably never gotten over the death of his wife,” Marine offered.
Hélène smiled, knowing that her newly married friend was a romantic.
Marine finished the water and went on: “And the fact that Agathe Barbier died mysteriously—”
Bruno waved his hand. “No amateur sleuthing, please.” He adored Marine but worried for her safety when she stuck her head into police business. “She drowned.”
“The case is still open,” Marine quickly said. “I looked it up.”
“You’re supposed to be writing your book,” Hélène said, shaking a finger and laughing.
“You’re so right,” Marine said. “I thought when I retired from the university I’d have all kinds of time to write. But the days seem to fly by.”
“You guys, it’s time to go,” Léa said, calling from the front hall.
Bruno rolled his eyes. “Our alarm clock.”
“I heard that, Papa,” Léa answered.
“Do you know who this is?” Valère asked Léa. They were sitting on the cool tiled floor of the bigger salon, gathered around an opened cardboard box, looking at a black-and-white photograph. Charlotte sat beside them, and Hélène, Bruno, and Marine were seated on armchairs formed in a circle around the box. Sandrine was in and out of the room, bringing in chilled rosé for the adults and Orangina for the girls. Sandrine was thankful the electricity was on—but the EDF guys warned her that one day the ancient wiring would need to be entirely redone.
Léa smiled and stared at the photograph. “Of course I do,” she said.
Bruno winced; his daughter was getting more and more haughty as she got older. But Valère Barbier adored her assurance and egged her on. “So then, do tell me,” he said.
“Why, it’s Maria Callas,” she answered. Léa brought the photo closer and said, “She was so beautiful.”
“Yes, she was,” Valère said.
“Did you take the photograph?” Charlotte asked, as she twirled a colorful silk scarf that had also been in the box around her shoulders.
Valère laughed. “No, that’s me in the photo, beside Maria.”
“The sailor?” Charlotte asked, leaning in to get a better look.
The adults laughed, including Valère. “It was a sort of fashion back then, in the early seventies, on the Côte. I paid a lot for that white linen jacket and blue cap. Pierre Cardin!”
“What was she like?” Léa asked, not interested in designer clothes.
“Always hungry,” Valère answered. “Poor Maria loved food but had to watch her weight. We’d go out to eat, and she’d bug the chef about the dishes we had all eaten—but not her. Then she’d write down the recipes on little pieces of paper and stuff them into her purse. She loved cakes and desserts but could never eat them.”
“But you have to eat to sing,” Léa said.
“I agree!” Valère answered. “Maria ate lots of salad and raw beef.”
“Beurk!” the girls cried in unison.
“We listen to her at the conservatory,” Léa said. “My teacher says that her middle ranges were perfect, but she was too shrill in the higher registers.”
“She was more than perfect in the middle ranges,” Bruno said. “She was hauntingly beautiful.”
Valère turned to face Bruno. “You’re an opera fan?”
“Since I was so high,” Bruno answered, placing his hand, palm down, about three feet off the floor.
“And are you also in the wine business?”
Bruno laughed. “No, I’m a police officer.”
Valère dropped the photograph and tried to laugh. “A cop, eh?”
“Police officer,” Léa said. “Daddy is the commissioner.”
“Léa,” Bruno said, “please don’t correct adults.”
Valère waved his hand. “It’s quite all right. ‘Police officer’ is the correct term. I for one hate to be called a romance writer.”
“Did you know Maria Callas very long?” Marine asked.
“Only very briefly,” Valère said. “She was . . . difficult.”
“‘I am alone, always alone,’” Bruno said. “That’s what she said at the end, right?”
“Exactly,” Valère said. “It’s odd, how often writers and actors and singers say that. Here we are, surrounded by people—our characters, our fans, our public—and yet often we feel alone.”
“Snacks!” Sandrine called out as she walked into the room carrying a tray of small bowls.
“And here I am, living in the country for the first time in my life,” Valère continued.
“My husband and I are thinking of buying a house in the country,” Marine said. “But I’ve lived downtown all my life. He—Antoine—works downtown, so there will be days when I’ll be alone at the house. I love being surrounded by my fellow Aixois.”
“Night is worse,” Valère began.
“Who would like something to eat?” Sandrine cut in. “We have pistachios, expensive English potato chips, cherry tomatoes, and olives from the market.”
Léa didn’t answer. She was still staring at the photograph. Valère looked at her and said, “I’d like you to have the photo, Léa.”
She looked up at him wide-eyed. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, M Barbier, are you sure?” Hélène asked.
“Absolutely,” he answered. “Sandrine is forcing me to throw out things I haven’t used or looked at in the past few years. I had even forgotten about that photograph.”
“Let’s get it framed, M Barbier,” Sandrine said. “We’re already going into town to get your late wife’s drawings framed. That way you can sign it for Léa.”
“Excellent idea,” Valère answered. He looked at Charlotte, who was still playing with the silk scarf, twirling it this way and that. “And you, Charlotte, may keep the scarf.”
“Merci beaucoup!” Charlotte said, beaming. “I love it!”
“A woman’s scarf I’m certainly not going to use,” Valère added, laughing.
“The scarf didn’t
