It might be nothing—that particular tattoo—a popular design that had caught the girl's attention in some local tattoo parlor. She thought of Innis and Luna with tattoos covering both arms, most of which meant nothing to anyone else, but had particular meaning for them.
What were the odds, she thought, at the same time she handed several Euros over to the girl for the apples.
“Do you live near the village?”
There was that cool expression again and a shrug of the shoulders in that vague way that might mean anything.
“Not far,” the girl replied. Then a polite, “Merci.” She said something to the vendor and they shared a laugh. Then she ducked under the canvas at the back of the stall.
A coincidence? Possibly.
Kris stepped over to the next stall where the vendor the girl had been speaking with was packing up what was left of the assorted packages of smoked and roasted almonds he had been selling. She picked up a jar of cinnamon-roasted almonds.
“Do you know the girl who was in this stall?” she asked him.
“Eh?” he looked up. She hoped his English was better than her French.
“Do you know where she went?”
He smiled. “Valentine? You have some of her apples. Qui,” he gestured toward the village.
“She was late for work,” he chuckled. “But Sevier will forgive her. She is his best worker.”
“Work?”
He nodded. “The café, La Maison Ondine. Everyone knows it. Good food.”
“Thank you.” She looked around for James.
He was at the far end of the row of stalls talking with the woman. As customers, a couple in biking gear, and others pushed around her, it was impossible to get his attention. She glanced back the direction the girl had gone.
The café was crowded. It took her a moment to find Valentine as she grabbed two platters of food and navigated through the tables to the customers who had placed the order.
An apron was tied around a slender waist and she moved with the energy of an athlete. Considering the crowded tables, she needed that energy to keep up with the flow of orders that were placed and food that came from the kitchen, with only oneother person, an older man, possibly the owner, who poured wine by the glass, and chatted with the guests, while passing orders through to the kitchen.
She finally wedged between guests and caught the girl's attention.
“Oui?” the girl said, efficiently juggling two armfuls of plates.
Bloody hell! One minute she was there, then she was gone.
James scanned the line of vendor stalls, cyclists who had stopped for the evening before continuing on in the morning, couples who meandered along the line of vendors, those who were already packing up their merchandise.
“The woman who was just here,” he asked the startled vendor, the last place he had seen her.
“American, pretty, shoulder-length reddish brown hair?”
A shrug of the shoulders and that vague expression.
“We had an argument,” he told the man. More truth to that than not.
The old man's expression changed to one of sympathy.
“Ah, lovers' quarrel.” He gestured toward the village. “La Maison Ondine,” he replied with an amused expression.
Lights had come on throughout the village, glittering through the misty rain. Most shops were closed—a small pharmacy, an antique shop, the local butcher, the small medieval church at the center of the village, surrounded by stone houses, one that had been turned into a bed-and-breakfast, the local feed and grain store in a centuries-old barn, a flower shop where the young clerk finally gave directions.
The House of Ondine, that a few centuries earlier had been the local brothel, unless he missed his guess, another local business establishment.
