“It will,” I said. “I promise.”
She looked at me and her eyes welled up with tears. “I’m sorry, M Barbier. You’ve been through it too.”
I nodded. “You could get professional help. I did.”
“Huh?”
“A therapist,” I explained.
She waved her hand in my face. “That’s for rich city people. A few days in the Cévennes did the trick. Besides, who would I go to?”
I didn’t understand at first, but then I realized she meant a therapist. “We’ll find someone in Aix.” Her face got a funny look. “The sessions can be paid for by the government health plan,” I said. “Or if it’s been too long since the accident, I’ll pay. And I don’t want any arguments. There is one more thing, though. That night I called out in my sleep—”
Sandrine began to whistle and look around the kitchen.
“Sandrine. Where were you that night? Were you seeing Hervé Pioger?”
She looked at me and began crying. “I sure know how to pick ’em, don’t I? He wouldn’t even see me. I kept knocking on his door . . . and the next day I bumped into him in the village, and he said such cruel things.”
“Forget about him, Sandrine,” I said, handing her a tissue. “It’s better to be alone than with someone who isn’t good for you, who’ll bring you down. You’re way above that kind of guy.”
“Really?”
“I’m certain of it.”
“A girl gets lonely, M Barbier,” she said.
“I understand all about loneliness, Sandrine. I’m not judging you.”
She sat up straight and lifted her glass. “I’m better already, thank you.” She looked around and then asked, “Where is everyone? Erwan? Michèle?”
“You’ll be happy to know that they both left,” I replied. “For now, anyway. Erwan left, taking with him one of Agathe’s smaller vases—”
“You let him?”
“I’m tired, Sandrine, and I wanted him out of here.”
“He’ll only sell it—”
“His mother made it,” I answered. “He has a right to it.” I skipped over the part about why I let the little bastard take the vase.
“And Michèle?”
“In the Luberon at some film producer’s megamansion,” I said. “She’s coming back in a few days, to get the rest of her bags, and then leaving.”
“Phew!” Sandrine said, lifting her glass again and touching it to mine.
We were taking our first sip as Léa walked in. “Coucou!” she called from the kitchen door. “Sandrine!” she called, running into her arms. “I knew you’d be back soon. But we didn’t know where you were!”
“I’m sorry, chérie. Technical hitch. I was in the Cévennes, but now I’m back, and on my way here I swung into Aix and picked up something for you.” Sandrine dug into one of the bags and pulled out a flat rectangular box, handing it to Léa.
Léa sat at the table and opened it. It was the photograph of me and Maria Callas, framed. I won’t tell you about the frame. Let’s just say it had lots of rhinestone hearts on it. “Thank you!” Léa said. She hugged it to her chest then carefully put it back in its box and set it on the counter, as I had challenged the girls to a game of Scrabble—them against me. We spent an enjoyable hour or so playing, Sandrine helping her team win by turning on into déception in a triple-word score using all their tiles. Well, it was Sandrine who thought of the word but Léa who correctly spelled it.
At eight Léa looked at the kitchen clock and said she had to go home for dinner. Sandrine said that she had found a risotto recipe in La Provence and asked Léa if she’d like to help. “That’s the least we can do for creaming you at Scrabble, M Barbier,” Sandrine said. I argued that it was a close game and they were lucky with their letters, while Léa telephoned her parents for permission to eat with us. Sandrine and Léa had left the finished game set up, pushing it to the edge of the table, teasing me. Sandrine flew around the kitchen, gathering ingredients for the risotto, and Léa helped stir the rice, a long and arduous task, and one that always made me glad not to be involved.
We finished eating around nine thirty and got out some flashlights and walked Léa home through the garden. Yes, Justin, I know this sounds like a detailed unemotional police report, but I’m trying to give you all the facts here. This Tennessee bourbon is very good, by the way. I would have gone for the traditional Armagnac.
When we got to the Pauliks’ house, the lights were on and Léa opened the door, waved good-bye, and that was that. Sandrine said, “Zut! Léa forgot her photograph.”
“We can bring it to her tomorrow,” I said. Sandrine then insisted that we walk a little longer to work off the risotto. I was in such a good mood that I agreed. Besides, I had a cigar in my pocket and quite like smoking and strolling.
We made it all the way to the village—lifeless at that hour—and then walked home. It was only ten fifteen, and we were both suddenly exhausted. We said good night on the landing, and then the telephone rang. “Âllo,” I answered rather gruffly. It was late and I don’t like calls at night.
“Âllo, Valère,” Bruno Paulik said. “I know you guys must be having fun, but it’s time for Léa to come home. I can come up and get her.”
My heart leapt to my mouth. I couldn’t answer.
“Valère?” asked Paulik.
“She’s at your place,” I said. “We dropped her off an hour ago.”
“Don’t kid.”
“I’m serious,” I said. Sandrine heard the conversation and came out of her bedroom, her face white and her mouth open. Bruno said something to Hélène, and I could hear her shrieking. “Check her bedroom. She probably went straight to bed,” I offered, as if I knew their child better than
