Oh. It won’t download as there’s hardly any phone reception, but he’s also written a long message in French. I almost pass it to Jackson to translate, but I hesitate.
I’d rather ask Étienne.
What is wrong with me? I have the undivided attention of the man that I’ve been in love with since I was fifteen and I can’t stop thinking about someone else.
My phone buzzes. I snatch it up.
Are you still out?Étienne has asked.
My heart thumps as I reply:I’m at a restaurant but I’m going to the market in a bit. Why?
Come have a drink with us, he suggests.
Where are you?I ask.
Text when you’re at the bandstand. I’ll find you.Another message follows:Him too.
I glance up at Jackson. His eyes are steady on mine. They’re such a lovely dappled mix of bark brown and leaf green.
“Étienne has invited us for a drink,” I say.
The pizza restaurantis on the other side of town and I thought it was well worth the walk earlier, but now it feels like forever away as we traipse along the back streets, past the casino complex and public swimming pool and into the park where the Thursday-night summer market takes place.
The market is like something out of a dream. I’ve come every week since I’ve been here and each time I’ve been swallowed up with nostalgia, remembering summers past. Seeing Mellie behind her table with her stoneware bowls and cups laid out so beautifully on her wooden tiered display stand has filled me with overwhelming love and affection. I feel the same way now as we approach her stall.
“Hang on,” I say to Jackson, putting my hand out.
Tourists and locals swarm around us as we stand in the middle of the path.
“What’s up?” Jackson asks, perplexed.
“I just want to watch her for a minute.”
She’s talking to a customer, her face lit with passion. She laughs and I swear I can see the blue in her eyes from here. She’s wearing a pale yellow linen dress and she has her long gray hair tied into a braid that reminds me of Estelle’s. Étienne was robbed of seeing his mother grow old. And here I am, looking at Mellie, age seventy-six, and knowing that time is extraordinarily precious.
I hate that I have to go home as soon as this project wraps up.
“Are you okay?” Jackson asks as I blink back tears.
I nod. I can’t look at him, but I can sense his concern.
“Don’t you worry about Albert?” My voice sounds husky.
He puts his arm around my waist and guides me off the path.We hover behind one of the stalls, the sound of traditional French music filling the air from the live band.
“Of course I do.”
I look up at him. “You’re so far away, Jackson,” I say softly.
“I know.” His expression is pained.
“Why wouldn’t you move here? Like,now.”
He gives me the slightest shake of his head. “I’m not sure I’m ready,” he admits, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. He rakes his hand through his chestnut hair and gazes at me. His jaw looks so square from this angle, so perfectly chiseled. “I won’t always be able to run things from the States. I certainly can’t do everything Albert does. I’ve lain awake so many nights thinking about it. I know that he’s getting old.”
“Could you leave the distribution side of things to someone in America?”
“Maybe,” he says. “But I’m just not sure that I want to settle here full time. Not yet, anyway. I’d miss New York. What about you?”
