Chapter 18 #2
Day after day, they were fed by Madame Belleville, who just kept cooking on her gas stove, no electricity needed, with food from her freezer and with whatever risked spoiling in everyone else’s fridge as well.
They restored order in Mirabelle and fixed things that were broken: some that weren’t working as a result of the storm, some that hadn’t worked in years.
She and Luc fixed the shutters. They painted two more coats in every room in Maison Perdue.
The fruit seller’s awning had been further torn to shreds by the storm, so they took it down and covered the places that the pigeons had been roosting.
They cleaned up the broken stained glass around the tiny church.
They pulled weeds from between the square’s stones.
They repainted the bicycle rental store’s racks, rusted through from disuse.
They repaired and repainted the town sign, which made Mirabelle look like a place where people lived instead of the ghost town it had become.
Madame Belleville supervised it all in her floral apron, socks, and sandals. “Bravo, Madame le maire de Mirabelle, bravo!”
Marlow eyed Luc. “Did she just call me the mayor?”
“You’re in trouble now.”
Madame Belleville rewarded them with a flourless chocolate cake and liqueur made from mirabelle plums in an old Maison Fortin champagne bottle.
This, of course, was where the village’s name had come from—and Madame Belleville, a twinkle in her eye, shared the secret of how the making of Mirabelle liqueur had been the village’s greatest illicit market.
It didn’t start out illicit, it started out as something people made in their kitchens from the harvest of mirabelle plums from family orchards not too far away.
The “fruits d’or,” or golden fruit, she said, had to be un peu croquants, bien sucrés, avec un parfum un peu vanillé (a little crunchy, sweet, with just a hint of vanilla flavor).
They could be pitted and macerated, or softened, with gin, vodka, rum, or brandy—Madame Belleville preferred brandy herself, drinking the resulting liqueur alongside ice cream with the delicious, soft, liqueured fruit dolloped on top.
And the illicit market part of the story, Marlow had asked?
Well! About fifteen years ago, a group of intrepid twenty-somethings from nearby Neufchateau had stolen two dozen bottles out of her cellar and had made off with the haul down one of the hilly footpaths from Mirabelle to Nenier where they’d parked their getaway car.
Madame Belleville used old Fortin bottles to make her liqueur, so the fraudsters made up counterfeit Fortin labels on their color printer, called it a once-in-a-lifetime run of award-winning, vintage Fortin mirabelle liqueur, and charged a thousand euros a bottle.
They actually managed to sell a baker’s dozen before getting caught.
Madame Belleville told this story with great pride, given it was her own recipe that was earning top dollar on the black market.
Marlow loved hearing these fabulous stories about the village and didn’t have the heart to tell her she’d be leaving soon.
They hauled all the rubbish down to the Nenier bins.
It took a dozen trips up and down the stairs.
Marlow’s thighs had gotten toned and strong.
Every time she went down those stairs, she looked for Rémy’s Audi to see if she could get the Maison Perdue transfer papers.
Rémy kept remarkably inconsistent hours, often not even appearing in the prescribed time slot.
This business of being a fonctionnaire was looking pretty good: make your own schedule, invent your own rules, change them when it suits, and seemingly report to no one.
In the afternoons, Marlow rode the moped to Guillaume’s and worked for the festival.
She often saw him for an espresso or tea in the kitchen—but the visits were fast, and Madame Klein was usually there cooking, so there was no time to really talk. Only once in the last few days had they had a moment alone, but both had had pending meetings. Frustrating.
“Tell me three things fast,” she said, eating the chocolate layer off of a Petit écolier biscuit from a plate Madame Klein had left on the counter. “That way, we can say we actually talked even though we had no time.”
“I’m furious with Aubin for being part of the Escape to Paris scheme,” he said, reaching over for the biscuit layer she was not going to finish, and popping it into his mouth.
“I have bought my flight for California in September. I think about you all the time even though I am working and you are working. Having you close is making me a little fou.”
“That’s four things,” she said, reaching for another biscuit.
“And you?” he replied. “Three things. Or four, to make us even.”
“I appreciate you being furious with Aubin, but I urge you not to do anything. There’s one.
” She pried the chocolate off the biscuit.
“I’ve decided to give Sabine the space and trust she’s asked for, and Aubin is part of that.
Two. And three: even though you refused to finish our conversation last week about why you only do situationships, I think about you somewhat, too. ”
“Somewhat?” he asked, leaning in to take the remaining biscuit bottom from her hand. “You think of me somewhat?”
“I only have two more minutes before my next video call with Oscar. I beg you to tell me why you haven’t settled down with one woman.”
He ate his biscuit and thought about it. She could see his jaw working as he chewed. Strong jaw.
“My parents have cautioned me against settling down with anyone. They want me to be absolutely sure. For the woman to have a perfect character. They’d in fact rather she came from money, so that it was clear she was not how do you say, a chaser of gold?”
“Gold digger.”
“And there have been a few, to be honest,” he said, “some from money, some not.”
“That makes sense.”
“If you do this for long enough, however, keep from joining your heart with another, it becomes the only way you feel comfortable.”
“That makes sense, too.”
This time, he reached for a biscuit and ate the bottom cookie part off the chocolate, prying it off with his tongue. She couldn’t take her eyes off of him.
“But I like you enough,” he said slowly, “that I will take you in a situationship, or not in a situationship. I will take you either way.”
“Take me?”
Their eyes locked. A million stars and planets collided in that moment. Celestial bodies in motion. Unharnessed energy everywhere.
And then her cell phone alarm rang. “Shit. I have a meeting.”
“Have this for sustenance then,” he said, passing her the remaining chocolate. She took it and let her fingers touch his for just one moment … Then popped it in her mouth, and headed back to her office.
That night, she headed back to Mirabelle, where she, Luc, and Lali’s family feasted at Madame Belleville’s. Then Marlow retreated home, exhausted but satisfied. Luc frequently left his door ajar, candles lit, even after the hydro people came and restored the power. Marlow resisted the temptation.
This night, though, she sat on her bed and stared at her phone. It had been seven days, and Sabine had not texted once. Luc, wearing only pajama bottoms, spied her through their bedroom windows.
“I leave my door open, but you don’t come,” he said.
“I’m trying to be good.”
“What about being with me would not be good?”
“Very little. But you said you weren’t into situationships. To get back into it would just confuse things.”
“I respect that.” He sat on his window ledge, taking her in like she was some great beauty. “On another note, I wonder if you might consider letting me paint you.”
“Naked?” She immediately thought of all her imperfections.
“If possible. Three or four sittings, an hour or two each.”
“I thought you didn’t do portraits anymore.”
“I changed my mind.”
“What if I don’t like the result?”
“It’s not for you.”
She eyed him and thought about how easy it would be to go over there and get into his bed.
She could find solace in his embrace, escape in the pleasure of being touched and held: a distraction from all the things crowding her brain.
She could stop running around, stop overthinking things, and simply be.
“I could start right now,” he said.
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” she said. “I think I’m … going to sleep.”
“The door is unlocked if you change your mind.”