Jackson and I glanced between them, not understanding a word of what was being said, only that Sandrine’s tone was impatient and the boy was clearly distressed. And then Sandrine fell silent and her jaw went slack.
“Get in the car.” She looked shaken as she clicked her fingers at Jackson and me.
“Where are we going?” I asked. Mellie was coming for me in a bit.
“I have to take him home.”
“Is he okay? How did he hurt himself?”
“He fell over on the steps.” She nodded toward the footpath that led down the mountain to town. “He needs to go home to hismaman. There’s a tissue in the car. Do as I say and get in andstop asking questions!” she barked.
No one spoke as she drove us down the mountain and crossed over a bridge to the other side of the river, but there was a bad feeling in the car. I kept glancing across at the boy, worried for him. He was bouncing around because the road was bumpy and then he turned from his window to look out of mine and I saw that the tissue Sandrine had given him was spotted with bright red blood.His cheeks were tinted red from where he hadn’t been able to clean it off properly and his fingernails were dirty, rimmed with a mixture of mud and blood. He looked anxious.
As Sandrine pulled to a stop, he wrenched at his door handle, but it wouldn’t open.
He shouted something in French and she snapped a reply over her shoulder, telling Jackson to “Stay in the car.”
The boy tentatively let go of the handle, watching warily as she got out and went to the house. She tried the door and found it unlocked, disappearing inside and closing it behind her.
The boy pulled at his door handle again.
“Child lock,” I told him, shaking my head.
“Comment?” he asked, not understanding.
I tried mine too to show him that it wouldn’t open.
He stared with alarm at the house, pulling at his handle again, more desperately.
Jackson turned around. “She said to stay in the car.”
“Jackson, open his door.”
“Mom said—”
“Open it!” I didn’t care what his mum had said.
Jackson reluctantly got out of the front passenger seat and opened the boy’s door.
He bolted past Jackson and ran into the house.
Jackson slammed the back door and returned to the front seat, flopping in with annoyance.
“When are we going back to the pool?” he groaned, exasperated.
The action of opening the doors had let all the cold air out so it felt as though we were in a furnace. I shifted restlessly. And then Sandrine reappeared, her expression dark. She got in the car and started the ignition, doing a three-point turn.
“Who was that?” Jackson asked her.
“No one,” she replied as we left the house behind us.
Étienne was theboy, I realize. But I can’t make sense of anything else. Why did he come to see Albert that day? What did Sandrine say to him? To Estelle?
I pick up my phone and try Étienne again, but once more it goes through to voicemail.
In the car’s rearview mirror, I see the grapevine-strewn trellis outside La Terrasse. On impulse, I open the door and get out, crossing the road.
Lise is behind the bar, flanked by photographs of her sister on the wall. It hurts to see the woman Étienne allowed himself to love and lose.
