In Napa, she had done her best to ignore the holidays, spending her nonworking hours roaming the vineyards, eating dinners of microwaved egg rolls and streaming show after depressing show from Netflix. Her mother had invited her to join her and her new husband in Palm Desert for Christmas, but Rosalyn had declined, citing the need to prepare for her trip to France. It wasn’t the holiday itself she wanted to avoid but the holiday spirit—the ever-present reminder of the joy of loved ones reunited, the pressure to pretend that she was enjoying herself, too.
It was agony, sometimes, donning that mask.
After making herself a cup of tea, she sat at the table and took outthe big leather-bound journal she had brought with her. A grief counselor had urged her to get the journal, to write to Dash, to allow her thoughts and feelings to spill out onto its smooth white paper. Rosalyn abandoned the project after filling only ten pages. Writing her feelings hadn’t helped; nothing did. Still, Rosalyn had brought the journal with her to France, partly from a sense of obligation and partly from the hope, scarcely recognized, that perhaps here the feelings would be easier to access.
Instead, she brought out a regular number two pencil—it was the best she could do without any true artist implements—and scrawled a quick sketch, smudging and crosshatching and erasing until she got the effect she wanted on the paper. She drew the stark black of tree branches against the slowly brightening sky, the man crouched down inspecting his twisty vines bathed in the old truck’s headlights, the light streaming through the parallel lines of barren-looking stalks, the mist hovering low to the ground like an otherworldly presence.
Lost in her sketch, Rosalyn was startled at the sound of a car pulling up outside.
She crossed over to the window—having finally figured out how to open the shutter, she was now unable to close it—and saw a man in his fifties climb out of a pickup truck. He was short and dark featured, his face tanned and lined from years of working outdoors.
Rosalyn lifted a hand in greeting. He reared back, as though shocked to see her. She passed through the entryway and out the main door.
“Bonjour, monsieur,”she said, already trying to formulate a few sentences in her mind.“Je m’appelle—”
“Bonjour!You must be the American? I’m so sorry. I thought you were arriving tomorrow.” He spoke French with a strong Italian accent, giving the melodious language a charming singsong quality. “I am Pietro Santini.”
“I arrived early,” said Rosalyn, searching for the words in French. “I was originally scheduled to spend some time in Paris but changed my plans. I had the code for the door, so I made myself at home. I hope that’s all right—I should have called.”
“Not at all. It is fine. You are most welcome. I am just sorry I wasn’t here to greet you. No one is in the office over the holidays, either. Look here. I bring you some baked things from my wife.” Pietro spoke slowly, but his scarred hands gesticulated energetically. “And she sends some eggs from our chickens, and homemade pâté, and jam.”
“That is so kind. Thank you,” Rosalyn said, accepting the gifts of food. “It all looks wonderful.”
“You find everything okay in the apartment? My wife, she make the bed and clean. You are the first guest!”
“Everything is lovely. Thank you.”
“This is a nice house, not like the old places here, made of cold stone. This is new and nice, eh?”
She smiled and nodded. “It’s very nice.”
“We are very small here in Cochet, not even aboulangerie. There is one in Salpot, my wife likes the best. Others prefer theboulangeriein Foucrault. Also there is a butcher there, and also a pharmacy—people get sick on flights, eh? And with this cold... Does the heat work all right?”
“Yes, thank you. It’s very comfortable.”
“Please, would you like to join my wife and me for dinner tonight?”
“Oh, I... Thank you so much for the invitation, but I’m still suffering from jet lag. I’d rather rest for a few days.”
“What will you eat?”
“You just brought me such lovely food.”
Pietro looked troubled. “But that is not a proper dinner....”
“I’ll be fine. Thank you.”
“All right, but if you need anything else,” he continued in his singsong French, “you call me, eh? You have my number?”
Rosalyn nodded. “I do. Thank you.”
“It is a quiet time now in the village, but soon will be New Year’s, and then Epiphany, and then the festival of Saint Vincent, and all will change,” Pietro said, returning to his truck and starting the engine. “You will see. Good thing you are staying awhile. But for now I hope you enjoy the peace. Maybe you relax a bit, eh?”
“Yes, thank you. I think I’ll do exactly that.”
After nabbing a fresh-smelling poppy seed muffin from the basket and stowing the rest of the food in the kitchen next door, Rosalyn returned to her room, and finally located Emma’s business card. She sent her an e-mail:
Dear Emma,
