Mellie chuckles. “Yes, I do. A lioness protecting her cubandher king.”
I turn to her. “Would you have done it though? If you could have stepped into Josie’s shoes?” Has there ever been a moment when she wished she and Albert were more?
“No,” she says simply. “Some people are better off as friends.”
I choose to ignore the look she gives me.
13
The humidity is insufferable onSunday morning when I walk down to Étienne’s garage. I texted him after my chat with Mellie to see if he still planned to visit Les Saules this weekend—he suggested meeting here at eleven.
The garage doors are closed so I venture down the steep cobbled driveway, only to find him coming toward me in the opposite direction.
“Salut,”he says.
“My God, it’s hot,” I reply.
“There’s a storm coming.”
“I hope it arrives soon. We need some rain to freshen everything up.”
He nods at a car tucked up against the retaining wall. It’s navy and, just like the Peugeot 205 GTis in his garage, it has a red line inset between the black bumper trim running around the exterior.
“Is this your old GTi?” I ask with astonishment—we must have walked right past it on the night of his party.
“Yep.” He climbs in.
“I can’t believe you still have it!” I exclaim as I get in beside him. “But of course, in France, you don’t just throw things away.” I affect a French accent as I say this, mimicking his words from his party back at him. “You’re just like Madame Joubert.”
He slowly turns to look at me, his expression deadpan. “I am also very sentimental,” he states evenly, his gray eyes challenging me to mock him.
I don’t dare—this was his mother’s car. Instead I grin widely, as though butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth.
His lips twitch as he turns the key in the ignition, revving the engine.
“It still has a tape deck!” I say with delight, looking around as he slowly drives up the hill to the road. “You’ve done such a good job.”
“Put your seat belt on,” he instructs.
I reach for it and click it into place, and a moment later we launch like a rocket ship onto the main road. I clutch hold of my armrest and he throws the car around the corner and onto the first of the town’s three bridges. The last is at the far end by the factory and there’s also the pedestrian bridge near La Terrasse.
“Are you sure you’re not a rally driver in your spare time?” I ask through gritted teeth as he whizzes left, running parallel to the river.
“You’re getting me confused with Dion,” he replies.
That’s one of his many friends—I met him the other night.
“What’s Dion’s surname?”
“Auclair.” He glances at me. “Why?”
“Mellie’s into WRC.” That’s the World Rally Championship. She and Albert watch all the races together. “I’ll ask if she knows of him.”
“She will.”
He has to slow down to drive through a residential area. Old cream-stone houses line the roads, many with wooden shutters in varying shades of blue—sky, cornflower, indigo, azure. Between gaps in the buildings we can see the river, and occasionally a flash of baby pink, hot pink, or white flies past—the oleander bushes are teeming with flowers at this time of the year. Then he hits open road again andfloorsit. It takes me a while to relax into the ride, but once I get used to his driving style and the general nippiness of the car, it’s actually quite fun. I can see why he loves this car—and why he decided to hang on to it. I’d be sentimental about it too, especially as it belonged to his mother.
I don’t own anything that belonged to my dad. Not a single thing. All I have is one small picture of him, age nineteen, in a student union bar with my mum and about half a dozen other people. He has milk-chocolate-brown hair, a straight nose, and green eyes. I inherited the last two features from him. Mum hardly ever talks about him, but she did also once say that I have his spirit and determination, and apparently, when I frown, I wear his exact same expression. But when I laugh, I’m all Mellie.
