Jackson has always been an enthusiastic dancer and I’m laughing as he throws shapes on the dance floor, giving me the occasional twirl. We’re both hot and sweaty within minutes andit’s fun, but I’m also kind of distracted. It’s not long before I find my way back to Étienne—Jackson has gone to the bathroom.
“So why did you want to know about the painting?” Étienne asks.
“I’ve always been into the natural, botanical-inspired art around here.” It can be found all over Sainte-Églantine in painted motifs on building facades, stained-glass windows, and metalwork.
“Your T-shirt looks kind of art nouveau,” he muses.
I glance down at the gold-crane-and-red-sun design. “Huh. Mellie gave this to me; picked it up from the market. I wonder if the movement was inspired by Japanese art.”
“I have a friend who’s an imitation artist. Bet he’d know.”
“What’s an imitation artist?”
“He reproduces art. He worked on Grotte Chauvet 2,” he explains.
“On what?”
He stares at me. “Chauvet 2? The very famous replica of the very famous cave?”
“Oh!” I know what he means now. Back in the 1990s some explorers discovered a bunch of cave paintings from, like, thirty thousand years ago. They sealed the cave off to the public and made a replica for people to visit instead. “I’ve never been.”
“You’ve never been? You’ve been coming here for how many years?”
“You sound personally affronted.”
“I am,” he snaps. “I can’t believe Mellie hasn’t taken you to see the replica of humanity’s first great masterpiece. It’s offensive. You are the worst tourist to have ever come to the Ardèche.”
“Oh please, do keep flirting with me,monsieur,” I reply sarcastically. “You’re making me weak at the knees.”
His nostrils flare, and then he states: “You have the worst French accent of anyone I’ve ever met.”
“Well, your English is—” I start to say, but can’t bring myself to finish because it’s too far from the truth. “It’s actually very good these days,” I admit reluctantly. “Who’s been giving you lessons? Lise?”
“No, not Lise. Go to the cave.”
“Fine! I will!”
I huff out a laugh and shake my head at him, which raises a smile. How could I forget how patriotic he always was?
“Did you restore the cars downstairs?” I ask. “Is that what you do for a living?”
“Yes. But this is a garage too.” He nods at a red car at the end of the room. “That Citroën needs a new bumper and that little Clio belongs to Madame Joubert.” I follow his gaze to a car nearby that looks green, but it’s hard to tell with all the flashing colored lights. “I’m replacing the clutch, but something else will go wrong with it before long.”
“Might be time she got a new one.”
He tuts. “In France, we don’t just throw things away. That car is her baby. She’s sentimental.”
“What about that one?” I indicate the car bar, with its trunk full of rapidly melting ice. “Looks like you’ve got a leak somewhere, the rain’s getting in.”
He snorts. “That belongs to my friend Charles. He had a waterproof liner made to fit so he can take it to events and sell beer out of it. And the 205 GTi”—he nods at the boxy black Peugeot on the scissor lift—“is my next project.”
“Didn’t you use to have one like that?”
It was around the back of his house and two of its tires wereso flat that weeds were growing up around them. It was filthy too, as though it hadn’t been used in years.
“You have a good memory,” he replies. “Navy though, not black. That was the first car I ever restored.”
“Is that where you got your passion from?”
