It would explain so much. It would explain everything.
"I need air," I say, standing abruptly. "I'm going to—I don't know. Walk."
Cat doesn't try to stop me. "Don't forget about Napoleon."
Despite everything, I almost laugh.
The marketin Saint-Céline happens every Thursday morning, and Cat insists we go.
"It's the heart of village life," she says, already assembling a basket and shopping bags. "Everyone comes to market. If you want to belong here, even a little, you need to show your face."
"I'm not sure I want to belong here," I say, but I'm already putting on shoes.
"Liar."
We walk the kilometer to the village because Cat says it's traditional, which I'm fairly certain means she just doesn't want to deal with parking. The morning is bright and warm, a cloudless blue that seems painted on, and the air smells like lavender and wild thyme and something I'm starting to think of as home.
The market fills the main square, stalls arranged beneath striped awnings—aubergines and herbs and loaves of bread that smell like every good thing in the world. People call to each other across the stalls, kissing cheeks, gossiping in rapid French that I can follow if I concentrate. Everyone here has a history that stretches back generations.
Cat moves through the crowd like she belongs here, greeting vendors by name, picking through vegetables with the practiced eye of a chef. I trail behind her, feeling conspicuously foreign despite my fluent French.
"Ah, the American!" A woman at the cheese stall beams at me. "I heard you were here. Marguerite's granddaughter!"
"Yes," I say, and then, because I'm not sure what else to add, "I'm enjoying the market."
"Welcome." She presses a sample of soft cheese into my hand. "Chèvre. From my own goats. Try it."
The cheese is creamy and tangy and somehow tastes like sunshine. "It's wonderful."
"Of course it is." She winks. "I'll put aside some for you. Come back before you leave."
This happens three more times as we work our way through the market—strangers pressing samples on me, commenting on myFrench, invoking my grandmother's name like a blessing. By the time we reach the far end of the square, I'm stuffed with cheese and bread and olives and something that might be gratitude.
"See?" Cat says, a hint of smugness in her voice. "You belong here."
"I'm being fattened for slaughter."
"That's just French hospitality."
We're turning to head back when I see it: a vendor shortchanging a tourist at the produce stall, sliding extra coins into his own pocket with practiced sleight of hand.
I don't think. I just act.
"Excusez-moi." My voice cuts through the noise of the market. "I believe there's been a mistake with the change."
The vendor's face goes tight. The tourist—an elderly British woman with a confused expression—looks between us.
"No mistake," the vendor says. His French is accented differently than the locals; he must be from outside the region.
"I watched you count." I switch to English for the tourist's benefit. "He owes you three euros forty."
The tourist blinks. The vendor's jaw tightens. A small crowd is gathering.
"Perhaps you miscounted?" I suggest sweetly in French. "Easy mistake to make."
For a long moment, nothing happens. Then the vendor's hand goes to his pocket, and three coins clatter onto the table.
"Merci," the tourist says, looking at me like I've performed a miracle. "Thank you so much."
