by Nell Goddin
One thing she loved about Sundays in Castillac: there was common agreement that it was a day for family and friends, for a big meal in the middle of the day, and that was about it. You could put whatever ambitions you had about pretty much anything aside for that one day. It didn’t matter whether you were religious or not, it was a day of rest for the body and soul.
Not so back in Boston, where Molly’s Sundays had been spent frantically trying to get ahead on housework and errands before the workweek started up again. As she sat drinking coffee (and wondering how in the world she was out of pastry) she looked back at herself in those days with a bit of sadness. Perhaps Boston was not the problem—it was me, she thought. But whatever, she was in Castillac now, and very grateful for it.
She was so deep into remembering that when someone knocked on the front door, she jumped up as though she’d been caught doing something wrong. Shaking her head, she went to open the door, Bobo at her heels.
“Boris! Bonjour!”
The truck driver from the day before stood on the step, holding a clipboard. “Your contractor, Monsieur Gradin, asked me to finalize this list of materials. Can I have your signature, please?” He held out the clipboard and a pen.
“It’s Sunday.”
“Yes. Monsieur Gradin intends to begin work tomorrow morning, and in order for that to happen, I’m going to have to get the truck loaded this afternoon so it will be ready to drive over first thing.”
“Do you generally work Sundays? I didn’t think anyone…” she trailed off, not sure whether it was worth it to argue. “And…I’m not clear on why I am signing for a list of materials. Monsieur Gradin knows what he needs, not me. I have no idea what should be on that list. Shouldn’t he be the one signing for it?”
“That would make sense,” Boris agreed. “But you are the one paying. So.” He held out the clipboard again.
The fact that only seconds earlier Molly had been reveling in the French tradition of relaxing Sundays made this nonsensical intrusion very annoying. “Okay, Boris,” she said with a sigh, just wanting to be done with it. She signed and said goodbye. It had been a vexatious couple of days for no reason at all. Maybe she could convince Ben to go to Chez Papa for dinner; she felt like she could use some cheering up, despite nothing having gone very wrong.
Molly had just settled back in the armchair with a gardening magazine, coffee freshened, when she heard shouting. Bobo instantly ran out through the terrace door, barking, followed by Molly.
The Jenkinses ran up from the pigeonnier and looked at Molly with wide eyes.
“Did you hear something?” Molly asked.
“Someone yelling,” said Billy Jenkins. Deana nodded.
Molly looked towards the cottage but so no sign of any movement that way. She walked around toward the annex just as the shouting broke out again.
“And I’ll thank you to stay out of my room and away from me altogether!”
Molly quickly went inside and into a large room that served as a sitting room for the two annex bedrooms. Arthur was standing in his doorway, his hair wild and standing up sort of comically, while Darek was in front of his wife Emilia, an arm out as though to protect her.
“What is the problem?” asked Molly, in what she hoped was a soothing voice.
“I caught her in my room, that’s the problem!” said Arthur, pointing at Emilia.
Emilia shook her head. “Yes, yes, I was in his room, but I was only opening a window so we can get some air.” She was tall and lanky, with a prominent nose and a dismissive air.
“You can open your own window if you want air! Don’t go into other people’s rooms without an invitation. All right?”
“Do not get rough with my wife,” Darek said, taking a step towards Arthur, who was half his size.
“Everyone, please,” said Molly. “I will have a word with Emilia,” she said to Arthur, hoping he would go in his room and close the door, which would hopefully calm the others down.
Instead, Arthur closed and locked his door and turned to Molly. “Do you have a safe? I have some valuables with me and I see now that I cannot take the privacy of my room for granted. I am very upset, Miss Sutton, as you can well understand.”
“She told you it was just to get air,” said Darek. “Nobody’s after any of your crappy ‘valuables’.”
Oh dear, thought Molly. “Okay. Emilia, would a fan help? It is warmer than usual this week, and I can easily bring a fan over.”
Emilia grudgingly nodded.
“Okay good. Badowskis, if you’d like to cool off more, why not take a swim? The pool is on the edge of the meadow as you walk towards the pigeonnier. Arthur, why don’t you come with me and we can work out a solution for the safety of your valuables. Come on, Bobo! Hope the rest of your Sunday goes well, Badowskis.”
She took Arthur by the arm and led him outside and into her part of the house by the terrace door. “I’m so sorry. Nothing like that has ever happened before. I would like to brush it off and hope that her excuse is legitimate, but to be honest, we don’t really know that, do we?”
“No,” said Arthur darkly.
“Do you have any reason to think she was in your room for another reason?”
“I have no proof. If I had to guess, I’d say she was snooping. Maybe trying to see if I have anything worth stealing. I don’t really care what her reason was—maybe in retrospect it doesn’t seem like a big deal, but I’ll tell you, when I came back from a short stroll in the meadow to find her in my room like that, it—it shocked me!”
“No, don’t worry, I do understand. She had absolutely no business being in there. Now let’s see about your valuables. What size are they? I do have a small safe, but anything very large or even medium-sized is not going to fit.”
“I have some papers that are very important to me. It would be helpful if I could leave them in your safe while I am out during the day, so that I don’t have to carry them with me.”
“Certainly, I’d be glad to do that,” said Molly, very relieved that at least one small problem had been dealt with neatly.
Arthur thanked Molly and went back to his room.
“Bobo?” said Molly, and Bobo sat and wagged her tail, ears perked up. “Let’s go find some rabbits. I have a feeling some other things are going to go wrong and I’d like to be out of the house when they do.”
It was such a lovely evening that Molly and Ben decided to walk to Chez Papa for dinner.
“You know how sometimes you can’t stand someone the first instant you meet them?”
“I do.”
“That was Petit. He’s horrible. But I shouldn’t complain, at least he’s a paying client, and they’ve been a little thin on the ground lately.”
“Well, they always have been, to be honest.”
“Why are you laughing?” Seeing Molly laugh made Ben smile for no reason.
“I don’t know! Because it’s such a gorgeous September night? Because I’ve been in a bit of a foul mood for two days, even though nothing bad has happened? It feels like a big cloud just lifted, or got swept away by this lovely breeze.”
Ben took Molly’s hand and squeezed it.
“So,” said Molly, “you swear you knew nothing about Maron’s leaving?”
“Nothing. Why would I? It’s not like the gendarmerie is interested in my opinion about anything. And no, I have no idea who replaced him. Odds are I won’t know the person anyway.”
They walked in silence past the cemetery, both trying to imagine the new chief and praying they were going to like whoever it was…or failing that, be able to work effectively with whoever ended up in the job.
Ben sighed and pushed that subject from his mind. “Hey Molly, it’s been months now. How about we tell everyone about our engagement tonight?”
“No!”
Ben laughed. “A less confident man might get the wrong idea from that.”
Molly gave him a light shove. “It’s only that it’s been so fun having this secret, just between t
he two of us. Not that it’s that big a deal to anyone else, I don’t mean that. But…let’s keep it only between us a little longer?”
“Whatever you want, chérie. No pressure from over here.” This time Molly squeezed Ben’s hand.
When the twinkling lights of Chez Papa came into view, she pulled Ben in front of her and kissed him, more than a peck but not so hard that anyone peering out of a window would have been scandalized.
“Bonsoir Molly, bonsoir Ben!” shouted a chorus when they finally made it inside the restaurant. The place was packed with friends—Frances, back from her honeymoon with Nico, who was behind the bar in his old place. Lawrence was perched on his usual stool, Lapin and his newish wife Anne-Marie sat at a table, even Rémy, the organic farmer was there, unusual since he went to bed before it got dark. Molly and Ben made the rounds, kissing cheeks and saying hello, finally ending at the bar next to Lawrence.
“You’ve been scandalously scarce lately,” he said to Molly. “I’m right on the verge of having my feelings hurt.”
“Oh, now,” said Molly. “You are not. And you are perfectly capable of coming over anytime, and you know it. I have all the ingredients for a Negroni so you can’t use that as an excuse, either.”
“Well, what in the world have you been doing with yourself? I thought you’d be in here the minute the new chief was announced.”
“Wait, there’s been an announcement?”
Ben shrugged. “Don’t look at me, I resigned over a year ago, remember?”
Lapin got up from the table, unable to resist being the center of attention. “I’ve met her,” he said, expanding his chest and pausing for the reaction.
“Her?” said about six people at once.
“Yes, her,” said Lapin. “I don’t know why you’re all in a state, haven’t you ever seen a policewoman before? Her name’s Charlot, Chantal Charlot I think. Sort of an elegant name for a crime-stopper, if you ask me. Sounds like she ought to be an actress or something, don’t you think?”
Molly ignored Lapin and turned to Lawrence. “Did you know about this? Do you know anything about her? Have you met her?”
“I’m afraid not. Yes, I knew she was coming, but that’s pretty much it. No details whatsoever.”
“Well, what good are you?”
“None at all,” Lawrence said cheerfully. “Though I have met the Valettes, if that’s of any interest.”
“Who?”
“The new family in town. They’ve bought the old manor on the edge of the village. Has a decent parcel of land with it, too. No idea what they’re doing in Castillac of all places. He was a big muckety-muck at Byatt Industries. Went to ENA and all that.”
“ENA?”
“You’re such a provincial darling, you know that? École Nationale d’Administration is the elite school in Paris where all the highest achievers go to university. You’re more or less guaranteed an excellent career if you make it that far. And to be fair, the education is by all accounts extremely rigorous, so they’re not coasting their way through. We don’t as a rule see many ENAs down this way,” he said, lowering his voice a bit.
“Interesting.”
“Indeed. I would guess—escaping from some sort of scandal? Something juicy that would make living anywhere ENAs frequent too horrible to bear.”
“Something worse than, say, embezzling.”
“Oh certainly. Embezzlers are a dime a dozen, even at that level. Something far nastier, I’d say.”
“You’re such pessimists!” said Ben, coming back with a kir for Molly and a glass of beer for himself. “Maybe they just got sick of the rat race, and haven’t done anything wrong at all.”
“Pollyanna,” said Molly.
“What?”
“Nico, what’s the French equivalent of Pollyanna?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Nico had lived in the States for several years, but although he was perfectly fluent, there were limits to his knowledge of cultural references.
“How do you think I feel?” Frances piped up. “You people jibber jabber in French all the live-long day, and as I believe I have gotten across, I do not happen to speak that particular language.”
Nico laughed. “I hate to tell you,” he said, in French, “but I happen to know that you understand French quite well.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Frances, whipping her straight dark hair out of her face and looking away, but unable to stop a small smile from creeping up.
“They’re probably perfectly nice,” Ben continued. “You said you’ve met them? What are they like?”
Lawrence stared at the ceiling, thinking. “Well, I’d say they appear outwardly to be rather…normal. The husband is quite charming and friendly. Not at all arrogant as one might expect.”
“And his wife?”
Lawrence shrugged. Suddenly, and somewhat out of character, he did not wish to speak ill of a woman he had only just met. “They have two young daughters. Cute. One, the older, was terribly shy and I could tell having to say polite things to me was killing her. The younger was brash. Skipping about and pretending she had on toe shoes, pirouetting and knocking into her mother. Oh, and I shouldn’t forget the nanny.”
“Nanny?” said Molly. “How old are these children?”
“I’m not good with that kind of thing at all. Older than toddlers but pre-pubescent, that’s the best I can do. The nanny looks, well, like a capable sort. Fresh-faced and all that, like she probably leads the girls out on hikes and other healthful pursuits.” Lawrence said this with an air of disapproval, as though he found the prospect of outdoor exertion extremely distasteful.
“I doubt she’s mixing them Negronis for lunch,” said Ben, laughing.
“Perhaps she should,” said Lawrence with a sniff, and taking a long sip of his drink.
“It does feel like a lot of change,” Molly said, “There’s a sort of timelessness about Castillac…it feels like how things are is how they will be forever. I know that’s not true, but maybe you understand what I mean?”
“It’s the old walls, the old stones,” said Lapin. “The people pass through quickly, but the cobblestones and old buildings…”
“Maybe we should have the Valettes over for an apéro,” Ben said to Molly.
“And invite Chantal Charlot while we’re at it?”
“Maybe not right off.”
“A little later. Well, much later. Nico, can I have a plate of frites?”
“Thought you’d never ask.”
It was a Sunday night in September, everything as ordinary as could be. But everyone at Chez Papa felt something in the air that night—maybe the new family and new chief would turn out to be only everyday changes, and village life would make a few slight adjustments and carry on. Or maybe it was more than that. In the meantime, the friends stayed late at the restaurant that night, eating and drinking more than was perhaps wise, but feeling however vaguely like those moments of friendship and camaraderie were to be cherished, and not hurried away from if at all possible.
5
On Monday morning, Paul-Henri Monsour, junior officer of the Castillac gendarmerie, checked in early at the station—early enough that Chief Charlot would not yet be there. He made sure his desk was neat, though since he never ever left it messy there was little to tidy. He did give the floor a quick sweep, having brought Madame Bonnay’s dog Yves back to the station the day before after finding him trotting down rue Picasso as though headed for Pâtisserie Bujold. Paul-Henri did not see the problem with a dog running loose; most of the dog owners of Castillac allowed it, and they all seemed to do just fine. But when Yves got out, Madame Bonnay was not to be consoled until that big Bleu de Gascogne was safely back home.
At any rate, the dog had tracked in sand, and one of the things Paul-Henri could not stand was the sensation of walking on grit. The slippery feeling under his shoes, along with the grinding sound as he pressed on the grains, set his teeth on edge. But once the floor was
swept there was nothing else to do, and he was not going to be caught sitting there twiddling his thumbs when the new chief showed up. He left the station and went down rue Malbec, alert and hoping to stumble upon a situation he could easily solve and thereby impress Chief Charlot.
He saw nothing out of the ordinary as he passed the former mayor’s house, which now had a For Sale sign attached to the front door. Down the sidewalk he noticed someone moving slowly, and he hurried to see if he could be of assistance.
“Bonjour, Madame Gervais. How are you this morning?”
“Bonjour, Paul-Henri. I’m as well as can be expected. You do know I’m a hundred and four?”
“Of course, Madame Gervais. Your age is famous throughout the Dordogne, and you give the rest of us hope for a long future ahead!”
“I’m afraid my own future will not be so very long,” she said, without a scrap of self-pity.
“Are you not feeling well? I’m very sorry to hear that.” Paul-Henri liked old people, especially old ladies, and he did not mind at all listening to long lists of complaints, but actually tried to draw them out on the subject.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” said Madame Gervais, who found that the less she thought about her aches and pains, the better. “I probably sound a bit morose because fall is upon us, and it’s my least favorite season. I much prefer spring, when the earth wakes up and comes alive.”
“It hardly feels like fall this year, does it? The air is so warm you’d think it was May.”
Paul-Henri and Madame Gervais continued to chat like this for several more minutes until Madame Gervais had had as much of the officer as she could take, and set off to finish her morning errands.
Feeling thirsty, Paul-Henri turned down a side street and headed for the épicerie, thinking he would buy a bottle of Perrier. He greeted the girl at the cash register and several customers before disappearing down an aisle of the cramped store to get his water, missing Chief Charlot who was coming up a different aisle on her way out of the store. She was dressed in uniform, a French blue suit with a skirt and a cap, her hair in a braid so tight it pulled the skin on the side of her face. She was small and trim, with a body like a gymnast.