“It was her proof. And now Valère’s cleverly left France. Where is he exactly?”
“Pantelleria,” Verlaque answered, pulling the dripping bottle out of the ice bucket. He refilled their glasses and sat back. “He told me before he left that Michèle Baudouin had recommended the island. He’s going to write his memoir from there, after he finds a new publisher.”
“Sounds egotistical.”
“He did make right with some things,” Verlaque said, shrugging. “He’s talking about buying that old-fashioned shoe store on the rue Thiers for Sandrine to run.”
“Are you kidding?” Marine asked. “I was just in there yesterday, buying sandals. I was so sad to hear they were closing. I bought a pair for Charlotte, too, who should be on a plane right now to Berlin.” She took a sip of champagne and then looked over at her husband, who sat on a chaise longue, legs extended and eyes half-closed, slowly moving his right foot back and forth, a slight smile at the corners of his mouth. Usually, only Italy made him this relaxed. Jacob’s house would be perfect for them. “You liked Valère—didn’t you?”
“He was just the kind of person I always hoped the great writer would be,” Verlaque said. “Smart, funny, kind, absentminded. A bit silly, even.”
The noise of tires crunching on gravel caused Marine and Verlaque to turn around.
Verlaque slapped his forehead. “I invited the Pauliks,” he said. “I forgot to tell you. Bruno mentioned that they would be in Aix this evening, running errands—”
Marine quickly got up and wrapped a sarong around her bathing suit.
“Hello!” Bruno Paulik called out as he came around the corner of the house, carrying a cooler. Hélène and Léa followed, each carrying a tote bag. “Not a bad place,” he continued, grinning, as he looked up at the golden stone house, with its taupe-colored shutters, and the manicured gardens that led down to the pool.
“I think it will do for us,” Verlaque said, shaking Paulik’s hand and giving Hélène and Léa the bise.
“We brought food from Aix,” Hélène said, gesturing to the cooler. “Two roasted chickens, a big potato salad, some fruit, and a few bottles of my new vermentino.”
“And cheese and bread!” Léa exclaimed, holding up a bag.
“Wow, this place is straight out of Architectural Digest,” Hélène said.
“Is it too posh?” Marine asked, wincing. She knew what her parents, especially her mother, would say when they saw it.
Hélène shook her head. “Not at all. It’s chic and stylish.”
“Léa and I would like to test the chic and stylish swimming pool,” Bruno Paulik said, putting his arm around Léa.
“Go right ahead,” Verlaque said. “There’s an insanely big pool house down there, where you can change. I’ll take you.”
“Come into the house with me,” Marine said to Hélène. “I’ll show you around a bit.”
Hélène whistled as they walked into the vast kitchen, redone by Jacob in stainless steel, Carrara marble, and pale ash cabinetry, with the farmhouse’s original deep-red terra-cotta tiles on the floor. “Terre cuite,” Hélène said, tapping her foot. “Super belle.”
“My mother will tell me how hard terra-cotta is to keep up,” Marine said, laughing.
“My mother would do the same,” Hélène said, setting the cooler on the floor.
“How has Léa been?” Marine asked, opening the cupboards and looking for more wineglasses.
Hélène leaned against a counter, looking out a large bow window with views of the garden. “She’s better now,” she answered. “But at first she was really sad.”
“Yes, that’s understandable. That night . . . being chased . . .”
Hélène nodded. She smiled as she watched her daughter jump into the pool, followed by her husband who was pushed in by Antoine Verlaque. “But she was more sad than upset.”
“Oh, really?”
Hélène turned to Marine. “We’re worried about her,” she said. “Léa told us she would miss her friends at the bastide.”
“Valère and Sandrine,” Marine began.
“No,” Hélène said. “I mean, she said she’d miss them too, but she’d miss her secret friends. Léa’s never been a child who had imaginary friends.”
Marine got goose bumps on her arms, and shivered. “My bathing suit is damp,” she explained when Hélène looked at her, concerned.
“We’re thinking of taking Léa to a therapist,” Hélène continued, “to help her deal with the trauma of that night. Gosh, even I need it. Bruno told me your mother has been researching the history of the bastide. Has she found anything interesting?”
“Nothing much,” Marine replied.
“Well, whatever was going on in that house is now gone forever.”
“Ashes to ashes,” Marine said, setting down four large wineglasses.
Chapter Thirty-two
New York City,
September 23, 2010
Justin had spent so much time worrying about the restaurant and what wines to order that he hadn’t chosen a spot to smoke cigars after dinner. Instinctively, he ushered his guest toward the river, where there were bike lanes, trees, and views of Brooklyn. Thankfully, it was still warm out, despite being after midnight. Neither of them felt like going to an uptown cigar bar. They bought some sparkling water on the way.
“Is that Brooklyn?” Valère asked as they cut the Cuban cigars he’d removed from his jacket.
“Williamsburg,” Justin replied, touching a newly purchased torch lighter to his
