We’re back in the roomy Citroën after stopping in a chocolatiers shop and a wine shop where Max purchased gifts for Aunt Violette. I give him my aunt’s address, which he keys into the little screen on the dashboard.
“Would you like to drive us?” he asks in an afterthought. “You may know the way better than the GPS.”
“I’ve never driven a big car like this,” I admit. “I wouldn’t feel comfortable.”
“Whatdoyou drive?”
“I used to drive Mom’s old Clio, before it bit the dust.”
He turns to me, like he wants to say something, but then he decides against it.
We speed away.
Aunt Violette lives in Pourles, a village about forty minutes south of Lyon. It isn’t without charm, but the main treat is the drive itself. Once we’re out of Lyon, the sinuous road follows the relief of the Massif Central, winding among the Rhône vineyards and green slopes.
Over the centuries, local farmers and winemakers have sculpted terraces to correct the steep angle and allow a maximum of grapes to drink the light. I watch the endless low walls that trace the contours of the layered plots. Their shadows move along with the sun sliding across the sky. The effect is breathtaking.
Max plugs in some very pleasant instrumental music, simply perfect for this scenic drive. I steal a look at him. He’s leaning back in his seat, holding the wheel almost lovingly, his blue eyes on the road. His mouth is puckered as he silently whistles along. His eyebrows have ridden up with pleasure like a foodie during a gastronomic meal.
Even though the terraced vineyards appear to stretch into infinity, before I know it, we’ve arrived in Pourles. Max parks the car, and we walk up the hill to the church square. I can tell it will rain soon even without looking up. The light has dimmed abruptly, and the air has grown heavy with moisture.
After Aunt Violette and her family moved here, Mom and I used to visit quite often. I’ve always liked this village. It doesn’t claim to be the prettiest in France or in the region. But its thickset, traditional stone houses with their blue shutters and red roofs are full of charm. Their simplicity echoes the local way of life, which my aunt has fallen in love with. It’s a good life—a little boring perhaps—but full of sunshine, fine wines, and a serenity that few city dwellers can afford.
We reach the gate and I ring the doorbell.
My aunt and uncle have been expecting us, thanks to Mom’s phone call. Both my cousins work and live abroad. They visit no more than twice a year, so I’m not surprised when Aunt Violette hugs and kisses me like I’m the long-lost fruit of her own loins. Uncle Dominique is more reserved but no less delighted.
I point at Max. “Tata,Tonton, this is Max. He’s an antiques dealer and a friend of mine.”
They exchange warm greetings and usher Max and me in.
“I’ve made your favorites for dinner,” Aunt Violette announces.
I try to say we weren’t planning to stay for dinner, but there’s no arguing with her. She points out that it’s already five and that we’ll end up reading Gran’s ledgers in electric light, anyway, so we can as well do it on a full stomach.
Uncle Dominique serves the aperitif.
Over wine and olives, we talk about village life, my cousins, Mom’s shop, my new job, and Paris.
I turn to Max. “Consider yourself lucky. My aunt’s cooking is second to none.”
“Do you cook?” Aunt Violette asks Max.
“A chef does it for me,” he replies, before adding quickly, “I mean, erm, I don’t mean, not my personal chef, of course.” He clears his throat. “I get takeaways or deliveries.”
“It’s hard to find time to cook when one has a business to run,” Aunt Violette offers helpfully as she stands up. “If you excuse me, I’ll go check on the dinner.”
Uncle Dom turns to Max. “What kind of antique objects do you specialize in?”
The question seems to take Max by surprise, but then he plasters a bright smile over his momentary torpor. “I don’t cherry-pick.”
“Yes, yes, but I’m sure there are objects you’re passionate about,” Uncle Dom insists. “So, tell us what tickles your croissant?”
“Classic cars, Monsieur,” Max says.
Ah, boys and their toys!
“He loves driving,” I chime in, hoping to suggest that Iknow Max well, and we really are friends.
