4. Ryan #3
I fold the card and slide it back into the envelope, although I have no idea why I’m preserving it instead of throwing it away. Maybe because it is the first remotely kind thing anyone has done for me since I arrived in France.
Aside from bandaging my foot.
And warning me that my inherited house may contain structural abnormalities and rooms that should never be opened.
Though I only arrived yesterday, so again, I’m probably just being dramatic.
I crouch beside the basket and pull back the linen covering.
A long loaf of bread lies across the top, its crust dusted with flour, beside a wedge of pale cheese wrapped in waxed paper.
There are tomatoes still attached to a green vine, a cluster of dark grapes, several peaches, a glass jar of olives, and a bottle of wine with a cream label covered in elegant French script I cannot begin to decipher.
Beneath those, I find a bottle of mineral water, a tin of coffee, lavender soap, sunscreen, insect repellent, and a package of heavy-duty bandages.
I stare at the sunscreen.
Then at the bandages.
Then in the direction of the crumbled section of wall between our properties.
He saw me outside for maybe ten minutes, and from that brief encounter, he has somehow compiled an entire list of ways I’m incapable of caring for myself.
There are gardening gloves tucked along one side of the basket, thick enough to protect my hands from thorns, along with a compact flashlight, a box of matches, and three tall, skinny candles.
Practical things.
Things a person might need in an old cottage with unreliable electricity and a garden intent on swallowing it whole.
I glance up at the dark porch light.
“How much do you know about this place?” I mutter.
The basket, unsurprisingly, no, thankfully, does not answer. That would have had me shitting my pants and nopeing out of the country.
There is something a tiny bit unsettling about the care with which everything in my neighbor’s basket has been chosen. Nothing feels random or decorative. Camille hasn’t sent flowers, chocolates, or… I’m realizing I don’t know what’s normal to give new neighbors as a gift.
He has sent things I need. Things I either forgot to buy or didn’t realize I needed until this exact moment.
Things that suggest he has spent time considering me.
That should not make warmth spread low through my stomach.
It’s probably the heat.
Or dehydration.
Or the fact that Camille Moreau is objectively one of the most beautiful men I’ve ever seen, and my body has decided to betray me despite every alarm bell currently ringing inside my head.
I reach for the basket’s handles, testing the weight before lifting it. It is heavier than it looks because, apparently, Camille believes a proper welcome requires enough food and emergency supplies to survive a minor siege.
After opening the door, I carry it into the cottage and set it on the kitchen table, which wobbles under the weight. I wedge a folded scrap of cardboard under one leg before going back outside for my purchases.
It takes three trips to bring everything in.
On the last one, I pause in the doorway and look toward the neighboring property.
From this side of the wall, I can see little more than trees and the corner of the pale stone structure rising beyond them. Camille’s house sits farther back from the road than the cottage, concealed behind mature cypress and broad-limbed trees whose leaves shimmer silver-green in the light.
For a moment, I think I see movement between the trunks.
A tall figure in a white shirt.
I blink, raising one hand to shade my eyes, but there is nothing there except shadow and sunlight shifting across the leaves.
Great.
Now I’m imagining my gorgeous, creepy neighbor standing in the woods watching me.
That’s healthy.
I shut the door and lock it behind me, though the old mechanism looks like it could be defeated easily.
The cottage feels slightly less hostile once I unpack everything.
I cover the bare mattress with the sheets I bought, shove the pillow into its case, and arrange the food in the kitchen.
The refrigerator hums to life when I plug it in, emitting a concerning rattle before settling into a low vibration.
I place Camille’s cheese, grapes, and wine on the shelves alongside my groceries, then stand back to inspect the result.
Wow. It almost looks like someone lives here.
I wash one of the peaches in the sink and bite into it while leaning against the counter. Juice runs over my thumb, sweet enough to make me close my eyes for a second.
Maybe I’m only hungry, but it is the best peach I have ever eaten.
The bread is still warm in the center when I tear off a piece, which means Camille must have brought it over shortly before I returned.
While I was in the village, being stared at.
The thought circles back to the market, to the clerk’s expression when she said Legrand, and my appetite dulls.
I place the rest of the bread on the counter.
The cottage settles around me with a series of faint pops and creaks, wood responding to the afternoon heat. Somewhere overhead, something scratches briefly inside the ceiling before going still.
I look toward the cracked kitchen tiles.
The loose one waits near the wall, unremarkable among the rest except for the knowledge that it shifts beneath my hand and sounds hollow underneath.
I should leave it alone.
At least until I know whether moving it will release a ghost, expose a corpse, or cause half the cottage to collapse into an underground cavern.
Maybe I should call the solicitor and ask what exactly she knows about this property. Maybe I should look up Alberte Legrand online, though I had tried before coming and found almost nothing beyond a few public records and an old business registration that told me absolutely nothing useful.
My gaze drifts back to Camille’s basket.
I guess I should thank him for it.