I don’t disagree with Sandrine: it’s a waste as a garage.
A three-dimensional sign made up of individual retro-looking letters spells out the wordsGARAGE DU RALLYEand around it there are painted advertisements, baked and bleached in the hot sun. As we make our way to the front, we see that the two old petrol pumps are still in situ beneath a curved awning, though they appear to have long since been disconnected. Several double garage doors with multiple square window panels face onto the forecourt, and the set nearest to us are open. From the clang of metal against metal, it’s clear that someone is hard at work inside.
My attention catches on a painting on the wall. Below a black-and-red advertisement for Shell that readsHUILE POUR MOTEURSis a faded two-foot-high portrait of a woman in a yellow dress. She has waist-long curly auburn hair and behind her isa decorative circle filled with green vines, blue birds, and pink flowers.
I remember a similar painting from my first summer here. Mellie had taken me for a walk—I was homesick as I hadn’t wanted to leave my mum for the summer so she was trying to cheer me up, pointing out things around town after we’d gone to get an ice cream. I recall her showing me the metal bridge railings that had been crafted to look like flowers, and we were right by the factory when she bumped into someone she knew. I got bored and went to take a closer look at the river, but when I tried to return to Mellie, she was gone. I panicked and ran to look for her and then a painting just like this one caught my eye. She reminded me of a Disney princess—she was so pretty. I just stopped and stared at her, and a moment later, Mellie found me.
“You’ve discovered Sainte Églantine,” Mellie said as I clutched hold of her, determined not to let her out of my sight again. “Do you like her?”
I nodded. I really did.
Mellie often used to teach me about art and architecture, which is why I’m now standing here, staring at this piece on the garage wall and feeling confused. The style is art nouveau, which is synonymous with the town, but that era ended in 1914 with the First World War. From the flat roof, Crittall-style windows, and curved awning, I’m pretty sure this building was built later, in the 1930s. It’s art deco, like some of the cinemas back home.
“Bonjour,”I hear Jackson call over the noise, which ceases with a resounding bang.
I carry on toward him, just as whoever’s inside replies with a deep and slightly dry-sounding “Hello.”
I come to a sudden stop at the sight of Étienne standingbeside a boxy black car on a scissor lift. He’s wearing dark gray cargo work trousers, a black T-shirt stretched tight across his chest and shoulders, and chunky yellow boots, and he’s holding what looks like a piece of rusty exhaust pipe.
“Hello!” I exclaim, caught off guard.
“Oh! It’s you,” Jackson belatedly realizes.
The only giveaway that Étienne is surprised byourappearance is the slight flaring of his eyes, half hidden behind a couple of wayward curls.
We look at each other for a long beat, and then he throws the rusted car part to the floor, where it clangs onto other similar pieces, before using his forearm—toned, tanned,filthy—to simultaneously push back his hair and wipe the sweat from his brow.
I stare at the grease mark he’s left behind with something akin to fascination. There’s another dark slash across one of his cheekbones.
Hot bartender meets hot mechanic.
I have no idea where that thought came from.
I snap my gaze away from Étienne as he asks Jackson, “How can I help you?” in a tone that is less than welcoming.
Jackson shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “We’re here to see the owner.”
“I’mthe owner,” Étienne responds, stalking over to a counter and snatching up a rag to wipe his hands with.
Étienneis the owner who refuses to sell?
“My mom said the owner was an older man. Olivier?”
“That’s my uncle.” Étienne discards the rag and comes back toward us. “He did own this place, but now I do. What can I do for you?”
“Sorry, I should have introduced myself,” Jackson says, a little flustered. “I’m Jackson.” He holds out his hand and Étienne giveshim a coolly assessing look as he shakes it. “And this is Gracie,” Jackson adds.
“Étienne,” Étienne replies, briefly meeting my eyes.
I wonder how he feels about the fact that I haven’t said we know each other. It’s hard to come clean now.
“Well,” Jackson says hesitantly. “I’m not sure if my mother spoke to you or to your uncle, or if you know anything about—”
“This garage is not for sale,” Étienne cuts him off.
Jackson stares at him, thrown. “Would you not even consider—”
“No,” Étienne firmly interrupts.
