“I’m so sorry.”
“He was my big brother, and I idolized him. It was very hard for me, for my family. I don’t think my parents ever recovered. I went off to university. I know I did things, but I have almost no memory for more than two years after he died.”
Rosalyn nodded. They stood together in the foyer of thegîtefor a long moment, neither speaking, neither making a move to leave or to force the moment to pass. Allowing the kindred knowledge of loss and pain to fill the space, the slightest delicate comfort found in the sharing of it.
“I just wanted you to know that in some small way, I understand,” André said. “As Emma says, it is very heavy to carry.”
“André, would it be all right to give you a hug?” Rosalyn asked.
“Of course.”
They held each other for another long moment, and then they each went on with their day.
When Rosalyn made her way into the kitchen for coffee, she found Blondine and Emma sitting at a table, eating breakfast.
“Bonjour.”They traded hellos.
“Rosalyn, Emma told me your news, about your husband,” said Blondine, rising to face her.
“News travels fast in small towns.” She meant it as a joke, but there was a bitter tinge to her words. Not that her widowhood was a secret; it just hurt to deal with it, even at this level.
“I had no idea,” Blondine continued. “I am so very sorry.”
“Thank you.”
“Guess what,” said Blondine, changing the subject. “Emma’s taking us to Paris!”
“I’m sorry?” Rosalyn was in grave need of coffee, and her discussion with Emma last night—and the encounter she’d just had with André—left her feeling raw and vulnerable. Also, she was a wee bit hungover from last night’s champagne.
“I have an appointment in Paris that I can’t reschedule,” said Emma. “So I was thinking, why not make it a girls’ road trip?”
“Oh, I...” Rosalyn busied herself in the kitchen, putting the water on to heat and prepping a mug. “I don’t think I can make it.”
“It’s all of an hour’s drive from here,” said Emma.
“More like two, depending on traffic,” Blondine said.
“It’s not far, is my point,” said Emma. “What’s the holdup?”
“I’m not really fond of Paris,” said Rosalyn.
They both stared at her.
“I’m sorry. I just... I went there once, a long time ago. That was enough.”
“I thought you were kidding when you said that before,” said Blondine. “First, you don’t like champagne, and now you don’t like Paris?Everybodyloves Paris.”
“And maybe I will, someday,” said Rosalyn. “But I only have acouple of weeks left in France, and there’s a lot still to do here in Champagne. I’m not being paid to traipse around Paris.”
“Are you sure I can’t convince you, Rosalyn?” Emma said, her voice so full of gentleness and understanding that it grated. “A road trip might be just the thing.”
“No, thank you,” said Rosalyn. “Truth to tell, I could use a little time by myself. But take pictures; I look forward to seeing them, and hearing your stories. And if you need bail—do they have bail in France?—anyway, if you do, I’ll be happy to deal with the gendarmes on your behalf. I’m sure André and I will have you out of the slammer in a jiffy.”
?Rosalyn had been looking forward to a return to solitude, but she found herself missing her friends: the late-night talks around a bottle of wine, cooking together, sorting through the letters. It was lonely at thegîtewithout them.
It wasn’t like her hermitage when she first arrived, however. Rosalyn knew people in Cochet now. Gaspard and Pietro were often around, as well as the Blé Champagne office manager. When she walked to the store for supplies, she chatted with Dominique, then stopped to say hello to Monsieur Bonnet as she passed by the mechanic’s shop. Waving to familiar faces on the street, Rosalyn realized she had made connections almost despite herself. She had also become attuned to the rhythms of village life: the shouts of the children at the end of the school day, the regular chiming of the church bells, the growing number of tractors in the fields as more townsfolk returned from their vacations.
Rosalyn meandered through the little cemetery, and even slipped into church when she noticed a service being held, letting the words of mass in French slide over her in an incomprehensible stream,smelling the mingled scents of old damp stone and incense, reading the walls engraved with the names of the deceased.
