“Impeccable!” Lagarde replied, with a hint of forced enthusiasm, thought Verlaque.
“And you?”
“Married!” Verlaque said, holding up his left hand where his gold wedding band shone in the sun.
“Congratulations,” Lagarde replied. “And good luck. I’m divorced, three kids, two Parisian mortgages now instead of one. Who’s the bride?”
“Marine Bonnet,” Verlaque replied. “She’s a law professor in Aix-en-Provence.”
“Une Aixoise?”
“Born and bred.”
Lagarde whistled. “Is it true that the Aixoise buy the most lingerie in France?” he said with a wink.
Verlaque smiled. He remembered now why he had enjoyed meeting Charles-Henri but never bothered to keep in touch. He said, “Congratulations on your new book. I read a glowing review in Le Monde.”
“And missed, I hope, the devastating one in Les Echos,” replied Lagarde. “But thank you.”
Verlaque tried to remember the book; he thought it was historical fiction, not a genre he usually read. He was about to say something about it when he saw that Lagarde seemed more interested in a woman in a miniskirt at the next table.
After a few seconds, his acquaintance asked, “Doesn’t Valère Barbier live in Aix now?”
Verlaque nodded and finished his beer. “Yes, he lives in the country, not far from Aix. Are you friends?”
“Sure, we’ve met a few times.” He glanced again at the woman, and then added unnecessarily, “At book launches and awards ceremonies.”
They chatted for a few more minutes while Verlaque waited for the bill. He texted Marine that he was running late and would meet her at the station. When Verlaque got up to leave, he shook Charles-Henri’s hand and said with genuine emotion how nice it had been to bump into him. For although Lagarde had reminded him of all that was wrong with his real-estate-mogul brother and his friends (and why Verlaque rarely saw Sébastien), Charles-Henri Lagarde had just given him the most insightful information about Agathe Barbier of the day.
Chapter Seventeen
New York City,
September 22, 2010
Valère had grown tired and asked Justin to tell him about himself—his family, his studies, his year in Paris—before excusing himself to go to the restroom. Justin drank three glasses of water as he waited for Valère to return. He also hurriedly texted his boss, who replied that the famous writer’s interest in an underling was a good sign. Justin sighed at her use of the word “underling.”
“Please, M Barbier,” Justin said when Valère returned. He wanted to hear more of Valère’s story, which was sounding increasingly like a confessional. But of what? “Let’s get back to your story before the dessert arrives.”
“I told the cheese guy to come back here with that trolley,” Valère said. He poured them each a glass of wine.
Bon. Michèle Baudouin was now out of her coma but still not well enough to return to the house and certainly not well enough, to my dismay, to go back to her own place in Paris. Sandrine seemed to have no interest in returning home, either, and I enjoyed her company so I let her stay. There seemed to be no harm in it, and we had both grown attached to Léa, who would show up at the door to help us with the thousand-piece puzzle of Paris we had started. Just after dinner that night Judge Verlaque called me—it sounded like he was on a train—and asked if he could see me the following day. Had he been up in Paris? Sandrine asked, looking worried but trying to hide it. We were both tired and agreed that it would be lights-out soon, when—it must have been about ten thirty—we heard a car on the drive. We looked at each other, puzzled, put on the porch light, and went outside.
The passenger leaned his head out the window and asked, “Can you loan me seventy euros for the taxi fare?”
“I guess I have no choice,” I replied, opening the car door. I could hear Sandrine mumbling, complaining that there was a shuttle service from both the TGV station and the Marseille airport that cost next to nothing and went to downtown Aix.
“We got lost twice,” my guest complained. He huffed and tilted his head in the direction of the cabbie, who was busy getting the luggage out of the trunk. “The driver doesn’t speak French, so I had to go to the village bar to ask for directions. He’s Eastern European, I think.”
I paid the cabbie and thanked him in Polish. It was a lucky guess—I love Poland and have been there many times—as he beamed and shook my hand, taking my hand in both of his. “Red Earth,” he said in accented English, pumping my arm up and down. “Amazing book!”
“Thank you,” I said again in Polish—my Polish is limited.
“Really amazing!” he said, getting back into the taxi. He drove off, waving out the window until he got past the Pauliks’ farm.
Our guest lazily—because that’s how he does everything—looked at his bag, wondering how it was going to get from the ground into the house. I smiled and said, “You can come in, but we were just going to bed.” I made no move to pick up his bag, nor did Sandrine. “Sandrine,” I said, “I’d like you to meet Agathe’s son, Erwan. Erwan, this is my housekeeper, Sandrine.”
To jump back a little, Agathe graduated in 1969 and was immediately hired as an apprentice to a master potter in the South of France, Georges Bonfand. Those four years, while Agathe worked in Vallauris, almost killed me. I thought there was no way I could leave a paper like Le Monde to work for some crap outfit like Nice-Matin, but looking back on it, I should have followed her down there. What? No, Justin, the TGV didn’t exist yet. It was an overnight train ride from Paris to Nice in those days.
I was insanely jealous and knew that Agathe was hanging around with the crème de
