"Of course I'm serious. We're going to be living together for three months. We need structure."
Cat stares at me for a long moment. Then she laughs with genuine, surprised amusement.
"What?" I demand.
"Nothing. It's just—" She shakes her head. "You really do make lists for everything, don't you?"
"Lists are how things get done."
"Lists are how you don't have to feel things." The words are gentle but pointed. "You can't spreadsheet your way through this, Iris. Trust me, I've tried."
Something hot prickles at the back of my eyes. I blink it away, focusing on my phone screen.
"We need groceries," I say, changing the subject with all the grace of a freight train. "Where do we get food?"
"There's a market in the village on Thursdays. Today's Friday, so we'll have to go to the épicerie—Chez Sylvie. She's got most of the basics."
"Fine. I'll make a list."
"Of course you will." Cat's voice is dry, but when I look up, she's smiling. "Come on, then. Finish your eggs and we'll go introduce you to Saint-Céline."
The village is exactlyas charming as it looked when we drove through yesterday—maybe more so, now that I'm walking the cobblestone streets instead of viewing them through a car window. The morning light is golden, the air smells like bread and flowers, and everywhere I look there are window boxes overflowing with geraniums.
It's insufferable, really. Too pretty to be real.
Cat navigates the narrow streets like she was born here, stopping to exchange greetings in rapid French that I can follow but couldn't replicate. Everyone knows her, everyone is delighted to see her, and everyone looks at me like something she dragged in off the road.
"L'américaine," I hear an old woman mutter to her companion as we pass. "La petite-fille."
The granddaughter.
"They're just curious," Cat says, clearly reading my expression. "It's a small village. Everyone knew Grand-mère. The fact that she had another grandchild—one no one ever met—well. It's gossip."
"Wonderful."
"They'll adopt you by August." She pushes open the door to a small shop with Épicerie Chez Sylvie painted on the glass. "And then they'll be just as nosy, but in a loving way."
The shop is tiny and stuffed to the gills with everything from canned goods to wine to mysterious packages labeled only in handwritten French. A woman behind the counter—Sylvie, presumably—looks up as we enter, and her face transforms into something that can only be described as delighted horror.
"Catty!" She bustles around the counter to embrace Cat, kissing both cheeks. "We heard you were back. Marguerite would be so happy. And this must be—" She turns to me, eyes sharp with assessment. "The other one."
"Iris," I say, extending my hand. "Iris Beaumont-Clark."
Sylvie ignores my hand and kisses my cheeks instead, which I endure with what I hope is good grace. "Beaumont. Yes. You have Marguerite's eyes. Come, come, let me look at you."
She holds me at arm's length and studies me with an intensity that makes me want to flee.
"She talked about you, you know," Sylvie says finally. "Marguerite. Always wondering. Always hoping. 'Mon fantôme américain,' she called you. My American ghost."
Apparently I have a title in two languages.
"I never knew her," I manage.
"No.But she knew you. In here." Sylvie taps her chest. "A grandmother knows. Even from far away."
I don't know what to say to that. Thankfully, Cat intervenes.
"We need provisions, Sylvie. The basics—eggs, cheese, whatever vegetables you have. We're going to be at the domaine for a while."
