She was about to leave when a familiar truck pulled up on the other side of the pumps. Jérôme Comtois. Her heart sped up. A young boy sat on the passenger side of the truck, just tall enough to look out the window. She waved at him, and he smiled and waved back.
“Need me to buy gas for you?” Jérôme asked as he climbed out of the cab.
“Not this time, thanks. I’m fine,” she lied. “I just wanted to clean the windshield. But why isn’t the store open?”
“Saint’s day.”
“Anothersaint’s day?”
He nodded. When he smiled, crinkles appeared at the corners of his eyes. The last rays of sunlight peeked over the horizon, painting the whiskers of his face with an orangey light.
“Just out of curiosity, do the stores close for every saint’s day? I mean... isn’t there a saint for just about every day?”
“There is, as a matter of fact. But the stores only close for the saints that are important to the region, or sometimes to the owner.”
“Clearly, I need to keep track of such things. Is there a calendar of when businesses are closed? Or maybe an app for my phone?”
He shrugged and began pumping gas. “I suppose it’s something one grows up with around here.”
Rosalyn used the squeegee to scrub her windshield, carrying through with the charade. “I guess I need to learn to plan ahead.”
“I remember when I was in New York,” Jérôme said, leaning back against his truck while the numbers on the pump ticked by. He wore work clothes and his muddy boots. “Things were open all the time. There was no need to plan ahead. I found it convenient, but also... disconcerting.”
“That’s New York City. Small-town America is more like Cochet, where the sidewalks get rolled up at sundown. Looks like you’re hard at work, though. Isn’t that going to offend the saint of the day?”
“The vines don’t allow many days off. And the saints don’t seem to mind. So, where is Emma? Isn’t she your—what is the expression?—your ‘partner in crime’?”
“I guess she is, in a way.” Rosalyn smiled at the thought. “She’s out of town at the moment. Is there something I can help you with? Us being partners and all.”
“She was asking about my father’s collection at the party, and I assumed she would follow up. But I haven’t heard from her.”
“She and Blondine went to Paris.”
“Really?” Jérôme pushed out his chin in a classic Gallic move. “They should have talked to me; they would have been welcome to use my flat there. But perhaps it wouldn’t be nice enough for them.”
“Emma does seem to have champagne tastes, so to speak.”
“You didn’t want to join them?”
“I’m not that fond of Paris.”
“I’m surprised. Most people like Paris.”
“Once was enough for me. I didn’t enjoy the tourists.”
“Then you weren’t with the right tour guide. One of the great things about Paris is that although there are a lot of tourists, it’s also a city where people live, and work, and raise their families. There are many neighborhoods, restaurants, cafés, where you rarely see tourists.”
She used a paper towel to dry the edges of her windshield.
“You were there with your husband?” Jérôme asked after a moment.
She nodded. “Honeymoon.”
“Ah. Well. That makes sense, then.”
“Did you know him?” Rosalyn asked suddenly. “Dash?”
“I wouldn’t say I knew him. We met once, briefly, years ago, when my brother was still involved in the vineyard. Your husband approached us about representing our champagne in the U.S.”
