“I believe I also saidyouweren’t welcome here, either. Didn’t you tell me you were going to spend your last week in Paris?”
Cady recalled the advice Jonquilla had given her, so many years ago:“If you’re caught red-handed, deny it. Deny everything.”
“I was, uh, looking for my bed-and-breakfast.”
“Uh-huh.” He cast a significant glance around the dark courtyard and vacant buildings. “And you thought this was it?”
“I got lost.”
Before Jean-Paul could respond, a gravelly voice shouted: “Stop, right where you are!”
A man limped toward them, a wooden crutch under one arm, a shotgun under the other.
“Cousin Fabrice, salut! C’est moi,Jean-Paul,”said Jean-Paul, holding up his hands in surrender.
Cady did the same.
The old man squinted at them, as though having difficulty seeing in the dark.
Cady tried speaking in her best French: “Please pardon me, monsieur. This is my fault. I couldn’t tell if anyone was home. I thought I heard the sound of glass breaking and was afraid someone might need help... of some kind....”
She trailed off as he lifted the shotgun and trained it in their general direction, holding it surprisingly steady.
“Fabrice, please—,” Jean-Paul began again, but Cady cut him off.
“I have whiskey,” she blurted. “American bourbon, the good stuff. Jean-Paul tells me you don’t like Americans, but would you make an exception for an American with a bottle of good Kentucky whiskey?”
Jean-Paul and Fabrice stared at Cady for a long moment. Something rustled in the bushes, and they heard the soft hooting of an owl. Cady hoped it wasn’t a bad omen. She felt a few drops of rain on her head, and the wind picked up.
“What do I have against Americans?” Fabrice asked finally.
“I’m, uh,” stammered Cady. “I’m told we can be a little obnoxious. You know, like... coming onto private property without an invitation.”
“American soldiers liberated this valley from the Nazis,” he said and spat into the bushes. “That was in 1945. I was in Paris when the Yanks arrived, marched right down the Champs-Élysées. Suppose I should return the favor by inviting you inside.”
“I can’t take credit for that,” said Cady. “That was before my time.”
The old man snorted, but stepped out of the shadows. He no longer had much in common with the romantic young man pictured on the jacket of his book,The Château. Cady could make out a set of heavy-lidded hawk eyes, shaggy eyebrows, and thin white hair, long and scraggly. His wool sweater was frayed, and he looked generally disheveled.
“I certainly don’t have anything against whiskey,” Fabrice said. “I don’t like people, that’s all.”
“Ah, well, on that we agree. People are awful,” said Cady. “Why don’t I get the bottle from my car and we’ll share a drink?”
There was another long pause as Fabrice studied her. He then turned to Jean-Paul.
“What areyoudoing here?”
“I heard you hurt your ankle. I wanted to see if you needed any help.”
“Fell down the damned steps. What about that fancy job of yours in Paris?”
“The staff can carry on without me for a while.”
Fabrice snorted. “I don’t need your ‘help.’ What are you trying to do, hurry things up so you can inherit this place? Well, good luck to you. I’ll go when I’m damned good and ready, and not one minute before.”
Even in the dim light Cady could see a muscle working in Jean-Paul’s jaw. “Don’t be ridiculous,” Jean-Paul said. “I wanted to see you.”
“I don’t like visitors.”
