7. Iris
IRIS
We go through the box that night, sitting cross-legged on the living room floor like children sorting through treasure.
There are photographs of people I don't recognize—men in work clothes, women in floral dresses, the same stone farmhouse in the background across decades.
There are photographs of Cat at various ages, gap-toothed and grinning, covered in flour, asleep in a garden chair.
There are photographs of Hélène, her face becoming more familiar with each one—sharp cheekbones, clever eyes, paint smudged on her fingers.
And there are photographs of my mother.
I find the first one near the bottom of the stack: a young woman with dark hair and a serious expression, standing in front of the farmhouse with what might almost be a smile. She can't be more than eighteen.
"That's Colette?" Cat asks, leaning over my shoulder.
"I think so." My voice sounds strange to my own ears. "I've never seen her this young."
"She looks..." Cat trails off.
"Happy," I finish. "She looks happy."
The next photograph is worse—or better, depending on how you count. My mother and Marguerite together, arms around each other, laughing at something outside the frame. The resemblance is startling; they could be sisters.
"They were close," I say. "Once."
"Before whatever happened."
I set the photograph aside, unable to look at it any longer. What could have made my mother walk away from this? What could have been bad enough to burn that bridge so completely that I never even knew it existed?
Cat reaches for another photograph, and her breath catches.
"Look at this."
She holds it up: Marguerite, younger but still recognizably herself, seated at a kitchen table with a woman whose face I've grown to know from the paintings on the walls.
Hélène. They're holding hands across the table, their heads bent close, and the love between them is so visible it makes my chest ache.
"They look—" I start.
"In love," Cat finishes softly. "They look like they're in love."
The photograph is dated 1985 on the back. Four years before I was born. Fifteen years before my mother cut off all contact.
"Monique said Hélène died in 2015," I say. "That's thirty years together. More."
"Thirty-five, if they met in 1980."
"Thirty-five years." I try to imagine it—thirty-five years with the same person, in the same house, building a life together. I've never managed thirty-five months. "And my mother never knew?"
"Maybe she knew." Cat sets down the photograph gently, like it might shatter. "Maybe that's why she left."
The implication settles over me like a cold blanket. My mother, rigid and conventional and so concerned with appearances. My grandmother, quietly in love with a woman for most of her adult life.
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 market in 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 my French, 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."
"De rien." I turn away before anyone can say anything else, heat rising in my cheeks.
Cat is staring at me.
"What?" I demand.
"Nothing." But she's almost smiling. "That was—"
"Instinct. I don't like cheaters."
"Clearly." She falls into step beside me, and I notice the way people are looking at us now—some with curiosity, some with what might be respect. "You know that vendor's going to hate you forever."
"He won't last the summer."
Cat actually laughs at that. "God, you sound like Grand-mère."
The words hit me somewhere tender. I look away, pretending to study a display of lavender soap.
"Iris." A hand on my arm makes me turn. Monique has appeared from somewhere in the crowd, her sharp eyes studying my face. "Walk with me for a moment."
It's not really a question. I glance at Cat, who nods and takes my shopping bags.
"I'll meet you at the café," Cat says.
Monique leads me away from the crowd, toward the quiet edge of the square where a stone fountain bubbles gently in the shade. She settles on the fountain's edge and pats the space beside her.
"Sit."
I sit.
"You defended that tourist," Monique says. "That was well done."
"Anyone would have—"
"No. Not anyone." Her eyes are steady on mine. "Most people look away from injustice. It's easier. But you stepped forward. That is Marguerite in you."
I don't know what to say. The comparison feels too large, too unearned.
"She loved you, you know," Monique continues. "I have never seen anyone grieve an absence the way Marguerite grieved yours. Every Christmas, every birthday—she would set a place for you at the table. A ghost's place, she called it."
"I didn't know." My voice comes out rough. "I didn't know anything."
"Your mother made sure of that." Monique's tone is matter-of-fact, not cruel. "Colette was always... rigid. She saw the world in black and white, right and wrong. No room for gray."
"What happened?" I ask. "Between them. Between my mother and Grand-mère. Was it—" I hesitate. "Was it because of Hélène?"
Monique is quiet for a long moment. The fountain burbles. Children's laughter echoes from somewhere across the square.
"That is not my story to tell," she says finally.
"But I will tell you this: Marguerite and Hélène had one of the great love stories of this village.
Thirty-five years together, facing everything side by side.
When Hélène died, Marguerite told me she had no regrets—not about loving her, not about anything. "
"And my mother?"
"Your mother could not accept that kind of love. Some people can't." Monique's eyes are sad. "She made her choice. And Marguerite spent the rest of her life paying for it."
Before I can respond, a voice calls across the square.
"Monique! There you are!"
A woman is approaching—my age or a little older, with short dark hair and a bag slung over her shoulder. She's striking in a way that has nothing to do with conventional beauty: confident stride, sharp cheekbones, an easy smile.
"Sophie!" Monique rises to embrace her. "I was just talking to Iris about Marguerite."
"Iris." The woman turns to me, and her smile warms. "I've heard about you. I'm Sophie Varin—the village doctor. I was with Marguerite at the end."
"You were her doctor?"
"Among other things. Friend. Confessor. Late-night whisky companion." Sophie's eyes crinkle. "She was a remarkable woman. I'm glad you're finally here."
Cat appears from the direction of the café, shopping bags in hand. Her face lights up when she sees Sophie.
"Sophie! I didn't know you'd be here."
"Market day—I always come for Madame Dulac's vegetables." Sophie embraces Cat warmly, and I notice how easy they are together, how comfortable. Something uncomfortable twists in my stomach.
"Cat's been telling me about your grand-mère's project," Sophie says, glancing between us. "The ninety-day condition. Very Marguerite."
"She always did like to meddle," Cat agrees.
"She called it 'arranging destinies.' I believe her exact words were—" Sophie affects a gravelly French accent. "'If I leave them alone, they will be stubborn forever. Someone has to force them to see.'"
"See what?" I ask.
Sophie's expression goes soft. "That they belong to each other. That they're family, whether they like it or not. That Marguerite's great love story wasn't just Hélène—it was all of you."
I feel Cat go still beside me. The words hang in the warm air, weighted with meaning I'm not sure I understand.
"I should go," Sophie says, glancing at her watch. "House calls this afternoon. But I hope I'll see you both soon. The village fête is next month—you should come."
She's gone before we can answer, disappearing into the crowd with a wave.
Cat and I stand in silence for a moment, watching her go.
"She's nice," I say finally. "Sophie."
"Yeah." Cat's voice is strange. "She and Grand-mère were close. Especially at the end."
"You two seem close too."
Cat glances at me, something unreadable in her expression. "We knew each other as kids. Her family's been in the village forever. She was... kind to me. When I came back and didn't know anyone anymore."
I nod, trying to ignore the uncomfortable feeling that hasn't quite gone away.
"What did Sophie mean?" I ask as we begin walking back toward the farmhouse. "About Grand-mère's great love story being all of us?"
Cat is quiet for a moment.
"I think she meant that loving someone isn't just one thing," she says finally. "It's all the people you love, all the ways you love them. Hélène was part of Grand-mère's story. But so were we."
The lavender fields come into view, purple-gray beneath the midday sun. The farmhouse rises beyond them, honey-colored and waiting.
"We're her love story," I say slowly. "Whether we like it or not."
"Yeah." Cat's shoulder brushes mine as we walk. "Something like that."