“A personal code.” The man yanked the fuel nozzle out of histruck, returned it to its resting place in the pump, and flipped the gas door closed with smooth, efficient movements.
Damn it. What now? “And there’s no way to pay cash, right?”
“The store is closed,” he said. “As you can see. Most of the businesses are closed this time of year.”
Rosalyn nodded, trying to figure out her next step. Maybe she could make it back to thegîteon fumes. If not... did they even have taxis or ride-share services in this part of France? Too bad she hadn’t thought to bring Pietro’s phone number with her.
You’ll be fine,she assured herself. If worse came to worst, she was probably close enough to Cochet to walk home.
Rosalyn felt the man’s eyes on her.
“You are the one walking before dawn,” he said, a frown creasing his brow.
“Oui, c’est moi.”She felt oddly vulnerable to be recognized, as though her cocoon of privacy had been cracked open. Rosalyn had enjoyed the anonymity of their predawn encounters, the infinite possibilities and the absolute lack of expectations.
“Why do you do this?” he asked. “Why do you walk before dawn?”
“C’est à cause du décalage horaire,”Rosalyn responded, blaming the jet lag.
“Speak English. It is easier for you.”
She was simultaneously relieved and insulted. “Thank you. I’m visiting Cochet until the festival of Saint Vincent. I’m staying at Gaspard Blé’sgîte.”
The man was silent for a moment, then walked around to her side of the gas pump, inserted his card, and tapped in a code.
“It will work now,” he said, handing her the nozzle.
“Oh, thank you. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this. I’ll pay you back in cash. I have euros.”
He shrugged, now looking amused.
The machine hummed as it filled the Renault’s tank. They waited without speaking. As she watched the digital numbers speed by, Rosalyn’s anxiety rose. Liters were smaller than gallons, she knew. But how many liters did her car hold? She did have enough euros to reimburse him, didn’t she? She tried to remember where she had last seen an ATM.
“You start work awfully early,” Rosalyn said to break the silence.
“I practice biodynamic agriculture. Things have to be done on a certain schedule.”
“Is that the same as organic?” Rosalyn recalled from her college courses that in France organic produce is called “bio,” orbiologique.
“No.” He did not elaborate.
The numbers were mounting fast, along with her apprehension that she would not have enough cash to cover it. Sure enough, when the tank was full and she put away the nozzle, she was several euros short.
“I’m sorry. I’m a little short on cash, after all,” she said, holding out all the money she had. “I think I saw an ATM in Reims. I’ll go there right now and get the rest I owe you.”
He glanced at the wad of bills in her hand and shook his head. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Of course I will pay you back. Should I stop by your home, or...?”
He gave a firm shake of his head. “Consider it a New Year’s present.Bonne année.”
And with that, he turned and walked to his truck, hoisted himself into the cab, turned on the engine, and drove off.
Until that moment Rosalyn hadn’t realized it was New Year’s Eve.
And she didn’t even know his name.
Rosalyn declined Pietro’s invitation to join the townspeople at a small New Year’s Eve fete in themairie, though from the solitude ofChambre Chardonnay, she could hear the sounds of laughter and revelry.
