“Yes. I would like to see it again,” he replies, no nonsense. “It’s been a long time,” he adds a little wistfully before saying, “We will go there first, and afterward, lunch at the café—and ice cream.” He winks at me. “My treat.”
Albert drives us. I’ve never really paid attention to his car before—it’s a little red Peugeot and he’s had it forever—but now I realize that it’s a 206, which I’m guessing is the next model on from Étienne’s 205s.
There are so many old cars on the road here and Albert could definitely afford to buy a new one, so maybe Étienne is right about the French not throwing things away. There’s a distinct lack of car snobbery—people don’t get into debt just to impress their neighbors—and maybe there’s a lack of snobbery more generally. Countless buildings here would be knocked down or done up ifthey were in England. There’s plenty of contemporary and avant-garde architecture too, but the French embrace the old. This town and so much of this country has an aura of faded grandeur about it. Vintage signs like those on the garage walls can be seen everywhere. No one has painted over them, and the climate has preserved them as though they’ve been kiln-fired.
We park on the road, just a few meters away from the pink-and-white domed pavilion.
“That board there is loose.” I direct Jackson once we’ve made it through the bramble jungle.
He pulls it off with no trouble and turns back to offer his hand to Mellie.
I hang back with Albert. “Are you okay?” I ask as we hear Mellie loudly coo, “Oh my goodness!”
Albert nods, but his expression is pained as he looks around. “This park was lovely once.”
“It could be lovely again,” I say gently.
Jackson sticks his head back outside. “Albie?” he asks, his hand outstretched.
“I can manage,” Albert says. “Help Gracie.”
I can manage too, but as Jackson’s eyes move to mine, I reach out and accept his help, jolting as our palms press together.
“You all right?” he asks with a soft chuckle as he puts his arm around my waist to steady me while I climb down.
“Yes, fine,” I reply curtly, wishing I could hide how much his touch still affects me.
He’s seemed a bit more confident since we hung out a couple of days ago, almost as though the balance of power has shifted back in his favor. I don’t like it.
I’m distracted by Albert climbing down from the ledge. His eyes are shining as he looks around. “That’s where Josie was sittingwhen we met.” He points at the windowsill opposite the painting, where Étienne and I sat a couple of weeks ago. “And that’s where I proposed to her.”
“So many memories,” Mellie says warmly. “She even looks a bit like Josie.” She nods at the painting.
Josie must’ve been in her early fifties when she died, and from photos I know that she had straight shoulder-length hair and laughter lines fanning out from her eyes. Were they blue? They might have been. Her hair was definitely auburn.
“Maybe Josie inspired her,” Albert replies with a twinkle in his eye.
“Inspired who?” I ask.
“The artist. She worked at the factory in the bottling department many years ago. A lovely girl, good energy, always laughing.”
“You knew Estelle?” I’m taken aback.
“Of course I knew her. Who do you think gave her permission to paint this?”
Mellie gives me an encouraging nod.
I take a deep breath. “The person who showed me this is actually Estelle’s son, Étienne. Estelle passed away, so this artwork means a lot to him.”
“Oh dear,” he replies with dismay. “How did she die?”
“She had motor neuron disease.”
“Please tell Étienne that I’m sorry for his loss.”
“I will.”
“Can I say something?” Jackson asks.
