“It’s so nice to meet you,” said Rosalyn. “I got your note.”
An elderly man joined the line. “I hear she brought him the boy, at least.”
“Who?” demanded Blondine.
“She’s asking about Jérôme,” said the older woman in purple.
“He isn’t... Are we talking about Jérôme Comtois?” Rosalyn asked.
“You know him?” Blondine asked.
“No, though I do owe him some money.”
“How do you owe money to someone you do not know?” Blondine asked, sensibly.
“It’s sort of a long story....”
“He never wanted the place,” said the man, his voice loud. “But his brother ran off, and he had to step in. That Raphael never was any good. He was a sneaky little kid, too.”
All three women nodded.
“I hear Raphael took off with the wife,” said Dominique.
“That’s just gossip,” said the woman in purple, gesturing to Rosalyn. “But she went back to Paris, for sure. She’s like you.”
“Like me?” Rosalyn asked.
“She means American,” said Dominique. “Jérôme’s wife was American.”
“This sort of thing happens with Americans,” said Blondine. “They think all of France is Paris, and when Jérôme brought her to the countryside, she was not pleased. She did not like village life.”
The group at the checkout stand gazed at Rosalyn, as though expecting her to explain the actions of a fellow American.
“Personally, I’m not that fond of Paris,” Rosalyn said.
The villagers burst out laughing and spoke quickly among themselves. Rosalyn couldn’t follow the conversation, but the tone sounded complimentary.
Blondine then introduced her to the other two townspeople, andRosalyn tried to commit their names to memory: the elderly man was Gilbert Schreyer, and the woman in the puffy purple coat was Valérie Trepot.
“Please wait for me,” Blondine said, still in French, “and we’ll walk back together.”
So Rosalyn waited for Blondine to purchase her groceries, badeau revoirto her new acquaintances Dominique, Valérie, and Gilbert, and began walking with Blondine back to thegîte.
Seeing Blondine in the natural light, Rosalyn guessed she was probably in her early thirties, older than Rosalyn had initially assumed. Her blond hair was cropped in a flapper style that curled under her chin, and her high-heeled leather boots tapped out a smart tempo. Blondine’s short skirt and frenetic energy would have fit in perfectly in New York, Rosalyn thought. She seemed out of place in this sleepy French village, carrying a woven basket of groceries.
Rosalyn tried to keep up with Blondine’s confident stride, carefully navigating the cobblestones, wary of patches of snow and ice that glistened here and there. Strategically placed metal posts were the only things standing between them and a car careening too quickly through the narrow streets of the village.
“I must beg your pardon for not meeting you when you arrived,” said Blondine. “My father is furious with me.”
“No, it was my fault.” Rosalyn was pleased to be able to understand Blondine’s French, but felt awkward responding, her lips and tongue tripping over the pronunciation. “I changed my plans and arrived early. And Pietro checked on me and brought groceries. It was nice to have time to settle in.”
“Oh, that’s good. I could not resist the chance to visit Mallorca. A friend of mine invited me to stay in her place... and I think I’m still hungover. Have you been?”
Rosalyn shook her head.
“It is so beautiful there,” Blondine said with a dramatic sigh, casting a jaundiced eye at the cold gray of the village. “Not like here. Spain is warm and sunny, even in January. Probably like it is in California. You must cry to be here in this season.”
“It’s not so bad. I don’t mind the cold.”
