The Virgin Blue

6 – THE BIBLE

Either the smoke or the cold air from the open window woke me. When I opened my eyes I saw the orange button of a lit cigarette, then the hand holding it, draped over the steering wheel. Without moving my head I followed the arm up to the shoulders and then to his profile. He was looking out over the steering wheel as if he were still driving, but the car was stationary, the engine dead, not even ticking the way it does when it's first switched off. I had no idea how long we'd been sitting there.

I was curled sideways in the passenger seat, facing him, my cheek crushed against the coarse weave of the headrest; my hair had fallen over my face and stuck to my mouth. I glanced between the gap in the seats; the Bible was on the back seat, wrapped in a plastic bag.

Though I hadn't moved or spoken, Jean-Paul turned his head and looked at me. We held each other's gaze for a long time without saying anything. The silence was comfortable, though I couldn't tell what he was thinking: his face wasn't blank, but it wasn't open either.

How long does it take to overcome two years of marriage, two more of a relationship? I had never been tempted before; once I'd found Rick I'd considered the search over. I had listened to my friends' stories about their quest for the right man, their disastrous dates, their heartbreaks, and never put myself in their place. It was like watching a travel show about a place you knew you'd never go to, Albania or Finland or Panama. Yet now I seemed to have a plane ticket to Helsinki in my hand.

I reached over and placed my hand on his arm. His skin was warm. I moved my hand up over the crease of his elbow and the ring of cloth where the sleeve was rolled up. When I was halfway along his upper arm and not sure what to do next, he reached over and covered my hand with his, stopping it on the curve of his biceps.

Keeping a firm grip on his arm, I sat up in my seat and brushed the hair from my face. My mouth tasted of olives from the martinis Mathilde had ordered for me earlier in the evening. Jean-Paul's black jacket was draped around my shoulders; it was soft and smelled of cigarettes, leaves and warm skin. I never wore Rick's jackets: he was so much taller and broader than me that his jackets made me look like a box and the sleeves immobilized my arms. Now I felt I was wearing something that had been mine for years.

Earlier, when we were with the others at the bar, Jean-Paul and I had spoken to each other in French the whole evening, and I'd vowed to continue to do so. Now I said, ‘Nous sommes arrivés chez nous? ’ and immediately regretted it. What I had said was grammatically correct, but the chez nous made it sound like we lived together. As was so often the case with my French, I was only in control of the literal meaning, not the words' connotations.

If Jean-Paul sensed this implication in the grammar, he didn't let on. ‘Non, le Fina,’ he said.

‘Thank you for driving,’ I continued in French.

‘It's nothing. You can drive now?’

‘Yes.’ I felt sober all of a sudden, and focused on the pressure of his hand on mine. ‘Jean-Paul,’ I began, wanting to say something, not knowing what else to say.

He didn't respond for a moment. Then he said, ‘You never wear bright colours.’

I cleared my throat. ‘No, I guess not. Not since I was a teenager.’

‘Ah. Goethe said only children and simple people like bright colours.’

‘Is that supposed to be a compliment? I just like natural cloth, that's all. Cotton and wool and especially – what's this called in French?’ I gestured at my sleeve; Jean-Paul took his hand off mine to rub the cloth between his finger and thumb, his other fingers brushing my bare skin.

‘Le lin. And in English?’

‘Linen. I've always worn linen, especially in the summer. It looks better in natural colours, white and brown and -’ I trailed off. The vocabulary of clothes colours was way beyond my French; what were the words for pumice, caramel, rust, ecru, sepia, ochre?

Jean-Paul let go of my sleeve and rested his hand on the steering wheel. I looked at my own hand adrift on his arm, having overcome so many inhibitions to get there, and felt like weeping. Reluctantly I lifted it off and tucked it under my arm, shrugging Jean-Paul's jacket over my shoulders and turning to face forwards. Why were we sitting here talking about my clothes? I was cold; I wanted to go home.

‘Goethe,’ I snorted, digging my heels into the floor and pushing my back impatiently against the seat.

‘What about Goethe?’

I lapsed into English. ‘You would bring up someone like Goethe right now.’

Jean-Paul flicked the stub of his cigarette outside and rolled up the window. He opened the door, climbed out of the car and shook the stiffness from his legs. I handed him his jacket and climbed into the driver's seat. He slipped on the jacket, then leaned into the car, one hand on the top of the door, the other on the roof. He looked at me, shook his head and sighed, an exasperated hiss through gritted teeth.

‘I do not like to break into a couple,’ he muttered in English. ‘Not even if I can't stop looking at her and she argues with me always and makes me angry and wanting her at both the same time.’ He leaned in and kissed me brusquely on both cheeks. He began to straighten up when my hand, my bold, treacherous hand, darted up, hooked around his neck, and pulled his face down to mine.

It had been years since I'd kissed anyone besides Rick. I'd forgotten how different each person can be. Jean-Paul's lips were soft but firm, giving only an indication of what lay beyond them. His smell was intoxicating; I pulled away from his mouth, rubbed my cheek along the sandpaper of his jaw, buried my nose in the base of his neck and inhaled. He knelt down and pulled my head back, running his fingers through my hair like combs. He smiled at me. ‘You look more French with your red hair, Ella Tournier.’

‘I haven't dyed it, really.’

‘I never say you did.’

‘It was Ri -’ We both stiffened; Jean-Paul stopped his fingers.

‘I'm sorry,’ I said. ‘I didn't mean to -’ I sighed and plunged ahead. ‘You know, I never thought I was unhappy with Rick, but now it feels like something isn't – like we were a jigsaw puzzle with every piece in place, but the puzzle frames the wrong picture.’ My throat began to tighten and I stopped.

Jean-Paul dropped his hands from my hair. ‘Ella, we have a kiss. That does not mean your marriage falls apart.’

‘No, but -’ I stopped. If I had doubts about me and Rick I should be voicing them to Rick.

‘I want to keep seeing you,’ I said. ‘Can I still see you?’

‘At the library, yes. Not at the Fina station.’ He raised my hand and kissed its palm. ‘Au revoir, Ella Tournier. Bonne nuit.’

‘Bonne nuit.’

He stood up. I shut the door and watched him walk over to his tin-can car and get in. He started it, beeped the horn lightly and drove away. I was relieved he didn't insist on waiting until I left first. I watched till his tail-lights winked out of sight at the end of the long tree-lined road. Then I let out a long breath, reached to the back seat for the Tournier Bible and sat with it in my lap, staring up the road.

I was shocked at how easy it was to lie to Rick. I had always thought he would know right away if I cheated on him, that I could never hide my guilt, that he knew me too well. But people see what they look for; Rick expected me to be a certain way, so that was how I was to him. When I walked in with the Bible under my arm, having been with Jean-Paul only half an hour before, Rick glanced up from his newspaper, said cheerfully, ‘Hey, babe,’ and it was as if nothing had happened. That was how it felt, at home with Rick clean and golden under the light of the reading lamp, far away from the dark car, the smoke, Jean-Paul's jacket. His face was open and guileless; he hid nothing from me. Yes, I could almost say it hadn't happened. Life could be surprisingly compartmentalized.

This would be so much easier if Rick were a jerk, I thought. But then I'd never have married a jerk. I kissed his forehead. ‘I have something to show you,’ I said.

He threw his newspaper down and sat up. I knelt beside him, pulled the Bible out of the bag and dropped it in his lap.

‘Hey, now. This is something,’ he said, running his hand down the front cover. ‘Where'd you get it? You weren't clear on the phone about where you were going.’

‘The old man who helped me in Le Pont de Montvert, Monsieur Jourdain, found it in the archives. He gave it to me.’

‘It's yours?’

‘Yeah. Look at the front page. See? My ancestors. That's them.’

Rick glanced down the list, nodded and smiled at me.

‘You did it. You found them!’

‘Yes. With a lot of help and luck. But yes.’ I couldn't help noticing that he didn't inspect the Bible as closely and lovingly as Jean-Paul had. The thought made my stomach knot with guilt: these comparisons were completely unfair. No more of this, I thought sternly. No more of this with Jean-Paul. That's it.

‘You know this is worth a lot of money,’ Rick said. ‘Are you sure he gave it to you? Did you ask for a receipt?’

I stared at him, incredulous. ‘No, I didn't ask for a receipt! Do you ask for a receipt every time I give you a present?’

‘C'mon, Ella, I'm just trying to be helpful. You don't want him changing his mind and asking for it back. You get it in writing, you won't have that problem. Now, we should put this in a safe deposit box. Probably in Toulouse. I doubt the bank here has one.’

‘I'm not putting it in a safe deposit box! I'm keeping it here, with me!’ I glared at him. Then it happened: like one of those one-cell creatures under the microscope that for no apparent reason suddenly divides into two, I felt us pulling apart into distinct entities with separate perspectives. It was strange: I hadn't realized how together we'd been until we were far apart.

Rick didn't seem to notice the change. I stared at him until he frowned. ‘What's the matter?’ he asked.

‘I – well, I'm not going to put it in a safe deposit box, that's for sure. It's too valuable for that.’ I picked it up and hugged it to me.

To my relief Rick had to go on his German trip the next day. I was so shaken by the new space between us that I needed some time alone. He kissed me goodbye, oblivious to my inner turmoil, and I wondered if I was as blind to his internal life as he seemed to be to mine.

It was a Wednesday and I badly wanted to go over to the café by the river to see Jean-Paul. Head won over heart: I knew it would be better to leave things awhile. I deliberately waited until I knew he'd be safely buried in his paper at the café before I left the house on my daily rounds. A chance encounter on the street around so many people fascinated with our every move was distinctly unappealing. I had no intention of playing out this drama in front of the town. As I approached the central square Jean-Paul's depiction of Lisle and what it thought of me came flooding back; it was almost enough to make me run back to the privacy of my house, and even use the shutters.

I made myself keep going. When I bought the Herald Tribune and Le Monde, the woman who sold them was perfectly pleasant, giving me no strange looks, even remarking on the weather. She didn't seem to be thinking about my washing machine, shutters or sleeveless dresses.

The real test was Madame. I headed resolutely to the boulangerie. ‘Bonjour, Madame! ’ I sang out as I entered. She was in the middle of talking to someone and frowned slightly. I glanced at her audience and found myself face to face with Jean-Paul. He hid his surprise, but not quickly enough for Madame, who eyed us with triumphant disgust and glee.

Oh, for Christ's sake, I thought, enough's enough. ‘Bonjour, Monsieur,’ I said in a bright voice.

‘Bonjour, Madame,’ he replied. Though his face didn't move his voice sounded as if he had raised his eyebrows.

I turned to Madame. ‘Madame, I would like twenty of your quiches, please. You know, I adore them. I eat them every day, breakfast, lunch, dinner.’

‘Twenty quiches,’ she repeated, leaving her mouth ajar.

‘Yes, please.’

Madame snapped her mouth shut, pressing her lips together so hard they disappeared, and, eyes on me, reached behind her for a paper bag. I heard Jean-Paul quietly clear his throat. When Madame bent down to shovel the quiches in the bag I glanced at him. He was staring into the corner at a display of sugared almonds. His mouth had tightened and he was rubbing his jaw with his index finger and thumb. I looked back at Madame and smiled. She straightened up from the glass case and twisted the corners of the bag shut. ‘There are only fifteen,’ she muttered, glaring at me.

‘Oh, that's too bad. I'll have to go to the pâtisserie to see if they have any.’ I suspected Madame wouldn't like the pâtisserie; what they sold would seem too frivolous to her, a serious bread woman. I was right: her eyes widened and she sucked in her breath, shook her head, and made a rude noise. ‘They don't have quiches!’ she exclaimed. ‘I'm the only one who makes quiches in Lisle-sur-Tarn!’

‘Ah,’ I replied. ‘Well, maybe at the Intermarché.’

At this Jean-Paul made a garbled sound and Madame nearly dropped the bag of quiches. I'd committed the sin of mentioning her arch rival and the worst threat to her business: the supermarket on the edge of town, with no history, no dignity, no finesse. Kind of like me. I smiled. ‘What do I owe you?’ I asked.

Madame didn't answer for a moment; she looked like she needed to sit down. Jean-Paul took this opportunity to murmur ‘Au revoir, Mesdames’ and slip away.

The moment he was gone I lost interest in struggling with her. When she demanded what seemed an outrageous sum, I handed it over meekly. It was worth it.

Outside Jean-Paul fell in step with me.

‘You are very wicked, Ella Tournier,’ he murmured in French.

‘Would you like some of these quiches?’ We laughed.

‘I thought we mustn't see each other in public. This -’ I waved my hand around the square – ‘is very public.’

‘Ah, but I have a professional reason to talk to you. Tell me, have you looked carefully at your Bible?’

‘Not yet. Look, don't you ever stop? Don't you sleep?’

He smiled. ‘I have never needed much sleep. Bring the Bible over to the library tomorrow. I've discovered some interesting things about your family.’

The Bible was an odd size, long and unexpectedly narrow. But it wasn't too heavy and it felt comfortable in my arms. The cover was made of worn, cracked leather, rubbed dull and soft and mottled in shades of chestnut brown. The leather was cracked and wrinkled, and an insect had bored tiny holes in several places. The back cover was blackened and burned half away, but on the front an intricate design of lines and leaves and dots stamped in gold was intact. Gold flowers had been stamped down the spine, and a modified pattern of the design had been tapped with a hammer and a pin into the sides of the pages.

I turned to the beginning of Genesis: ‘Diev crea av commencement le ciel & la terre.’ The text was in two columns, the typeface clear, and though the spelling was peculiar I could understand the French – what was left of it. The back of the book had been burned away, the middle pages scorched beyond recognition.

At Crazy Joe's Bar Mathilde and Monsieur Jourdain had a long discussion about the Bible's origins, Jean-Paul chipping in now and then. I could only partly follow what they said because Monsieur Jourdain's accent was so hard to decipher and Mathilde's delivery so fast. It was always harder to follow a conversation in French when people weren't speaking directly to me. From what I could gather they agreed that it had probably been published in Geneva, and possibly translated by someone named Lefèvre d'Etaples. Monsieur Jourdain was particularly emphatic about the name.

‘Who was he?’ I asked hesitantly.

Monsieur Jourdain began to chuckle. ‘La Rousse wants to know who Lefèvre was,’ he kept repeating, shaking his head. By then he'd downed three highballs. I nodded patiently, letting him have his little joke; the martinis had made me more tolerant about being teased.

Eventually he explained that Lefèvre d'Etaples had been the first to translate the Bible from Latin into the French vernacular so that people other than priests could read it. ‘That was the beginning,’ he declared. ‘That was the beginning of everything. The world split apart!’ With that pronouncement he pitched forward on his stool and landed halfway across the bar.

I tried not to grin, but Mathilde covered her mouth with her hand, Sylvie laughed outright and Jean-Paul smiled as he leafed through the Bible. Now I remembered that he had studied the page with the Tourniers on it for a long time and scribbled something on the back of an envelope. I'd been too tipsy to ask what he was doing.

To Mathilde's disgust and my disappointment, Monsieur Jourdain had not been able to remember exactly who turned in the Bible to him. ‘It's for this that you must keep records!’ she scolded. ‘Important questions, for someone like Ella!’ Monsieur looked suitably hangdoggish and wrote down the names of all the family members listed in the Bible, promising to see if he could find out anything about them, including those with last names other than Tournier.

I was assuming the Bible had come from around Le Pont de Montvert, but I knew it could have been brought from anywhere, with people moving to the area and bringing things with them. When I suggested this, however, Mathilde and Monsieur Jourdain both shook their heads.

‘They would not have brought it to the mairie if they were outsiders,’ Mathilde explained. ‘Only a true Cevenol family would have given it to Monsieur Jourdain. There is a strong sense of history here, and family things like this Bible don't leave the Cévennes.’

‘But families leave. My family left.’

‘That was religion,’ she replied with a dismissive wave of her hand. ‘Of course they left then, and many more families after 1685. You know, it's funny that your family left when it did. It was much worse for Cevenol Protestants 100 years later. The Massacre of Saint Bartholomew was a -’ She stopped and shrugged, then waved a hand at Jean-Paul. ‘You explain, Jean-Paul.’ She was wearing a pink leotard and plaid miniskirt.

‘A bourgeois event, more or less,’ he continued smoothly, smiling at her. ‘It destroyed the Protestant nobility. But the Cevenol Huguenots were peasants and the Cévennes too isolated to be threatened. There could have been tensions with the few local Catholics, I suppose. The cathedral in Mende remained Catholic, for example. They could have decided to go terrorize a few Huguenots. What do you think, Mademoiselle?’ he addressed Sylvie. She regarded him with a level gaze, then stuck her legs out, wiggled her toes and said, ‘Look, Maman painted my toenails white!’

Now I turned back to the list of Tourniers and studied it. Here was the family that must have ended up in Moutier: Etienne Tournier, Isabelle du Moulin and their children Jean, Jacob and Marie. According to my cousin's note, Etienne had been on a military list in 1576 and Jean married in 1590. I checked the dates; they made sense. And this Jacob was one of the Jacobs in the long line that ended with my cousin. He should know about this, I thought. I'll write and tell him.

My eye was drawn to writing on the inside cover that no one had noticed before. It was dirty and faint, but I managed to make out ‘Mas de la Baume du Monsieur’. Farm of the Balm of the Gentleman, clumsily translated. I got out the detailed map I'd bought of the area around Le Pont de Montvert and began looking. I searched in concentric rings out from the village for a similar name. After only five minutes I found it, about two kilometres northeast of Le Pont de Montvert. It was a hill just north of the Tarn, half covered with forest. I nodded. Here was something for Jean-Paul.

But he couldn't have seen the name of the farm the night before or he would have pointed it out. What was he talking about when he said he knew something about my family? I stared at the names and dates, but could only find two things unusual about the list: a Tournier had married a Tournier, and one of the Jeans had been born on New Year's Day.

When I arrived at the library the next afternoon with the Bible in a carrier bag, Jean-Paul made a show of presenting me to the other librarian. Once she clapped eyes on the Bible she stopped looking suspicious.

‘Monsieur Piquemal is an expert in old books, in history,’ she said in a singsong voice. ‘That's his domain. But I know more about novels, romance, things like that. The more popular books.’

I sensed a dig at Jean-Paul, but I simply nodded and smiled. Jean-Paul waited for us to finish, then led me to a table in the other room. I opened the Bible while he pulled out his scrap of envelope.

‘So,’ he said expectantly. ‘What did you discover?’

‘Your last name is Piquemal.’

‘So?’

‘ “Bad sting.” Perfect.’ I grinned at him and he frowned.

‘Pique can also mean lance,’ he muttered.

‘Even better!’

‘So,’ he repeated. ‘What did you find?’

I pointed to the name of the farm on the inside cover, then spread out my map and pinpointed the spot. Jean-Paul nodded. ‘Good,’ he said, scrutinizing the map. ‘No buildings there now, but at least we are sure that the Bible is from the area. What else?’

‘Two Tourniers married each other.’

‘Yes, probably cousins. It was not so uncommon then. What else?’

‘Um, one of them was born on New Year's Day.’

He raised his eyebrows; I wished I hadn't said anything. ‘Anything else?’ he persisted.

‘No.’ He was being irritating again, yet I found it hard to sit next to him and talk as if nothing had happened the other night. His arm was so near mine on the table that I could easily brush against it. This is the closest we're going to get, I thought. This is as far as it goes. Sitting next to him seemed a sad, futile act.

‘You found nothing else interesting?’ Jean-Paul snorted. ‘Bah, American education. You would make a bad detective, Ella Tournier.’ When he saw my face he stopped and looked embarrassed. ‘I'm sorry,’ he said, switching to English as if that would soothe me. ‘You do not like my teasing.’

I shook my head and kept my eyes on the Bible. ‘It's not that. If I didn't want you to tease me I could never talk to you. No, it's just -’ I waved my hand as if to chase the subject away – ‘the other night,’ I explained quietly. ‘It's hard to sit here like this.’

‘Ah.’ We sat side by side, staring at the family list, very aware of each other.

‘Funny,’ I broke the silence. ‘I've just noticed. Etienne and Isabelle married the day before his birthday. May 28th, May 29th.’

‘Yes.’ Jean-Paul tapped a finger lightly against my hand. ‘Yes. That is what I noticed first. Strange. So I asked was it a coincidence? Then I saw how old he was. He had twenty-five the next day after his marriage.’

‘He turned twenty-five.’

‘Yes. Now, among the Huguenots then, when a man turned twenty-five he did not any longer need permission from his parents to marry.’

‘But he was twenty-four when he married, so he must have had their permission.’

‘Yes, but it seemed strange to marry so close to twenty-five. To give anyone doubt about what his parents thought. Then I looked more.’ He gestured at the page. ‘Look at the birth date of their first son.’

‘Yes, New Year's Day, like I said. So what?’

He frowned at me. ‘Look again, Ella Tournier. Use the brain.’

I stared at the page. When I figured out what he meant I couldn't believe I hadn't noticed it before, me of all people. I began to calculate rapidly, counting back on my fingers.

‘You understand now.’

I nodded, working out the final days, and announced, ‘She would've conceived around April 10th, more or less.’

Jean-Paul looked amused. ‘April 10th, eh? What is all this?’ He pretend-counted on his fingers.

‘Birth is calculated at roughly 266 days from conception. More or less. Gestation varies from woman to woman, of course, and it was probably a little different back then. Different diet, different physique. But in April, anyway. A good seven weeks before they married.’

‘And how do you know this 266 days, Ella Tournier? You have no children, no? Have you hidden them somewhere?’

‘I'm a midwife.’

He looked puzzled, so I said it in French. ‘Une sage-femme. Je suis une sage-femme.’

‘Toi? Une sage-femme? ’

‘Yes. You never even asked what I did for a living.’

He looked crestfallen, an unusual expression for him, and I felt triumphant; for once I'd gained the upper hand.

‘You always surprise me, Ella,’ he said, shaking his head and smiling.

‘Come, come, no flirting or your colleague will tell the whole town.’

We both instinctively glanced at the doorway and sat up straighter. I leaned away from him.

‘So it was a shotgun wedding,’ I declared to get us back on track.

‘A gun wedding?’

‘Shot gun. It's like a rifle. Her parents forced him to marry her once they found out she was pregnant. In the States there's this stereotypical image of the father holding a shotgun to the man to get him to the altar.’

Jean-Paul thought for a moment. ‘Maybe that is what happened.’ He didn't sound convinced.

‘But?’

‘But that – a rifle wedding, you say – does not explain why they married so close to his birthday.’

‘Well, so it was a coincidence that they married the day before his birthday. So what?’

‘You and your coincidences, Ella Tournier. You choose which ones you want to believe are more than coincidences. So this is a coincidence and Nicolas Tournier is not.’

I tensed up. We hadn't discussed the painter since disagreeing so strongly about him.

‘I could say the same thing about you!’ I retorted. ‘We just choose different coincidences to be interested in, that's all.’

‘I was interested in Nicolas Tournier, until I found out he was not your relative. I gave him a chance. And I give this coincidence a chance too.’

‘OK, so why is this more than a coincidence?’

‘It's the date and the day of the wedding. Both are bad.’

‘What do you mean, bad?’

‘There was a belief in the Languedoc, never to marry in May or November.’

‘Why not?’

‘May is the month of rain, of tears, November the month of the dead.’

‘But that's just superstition. I thought Huguenots were trying not to be superstitious. That was supposed to be a Catholic vice.’

That stopped him for a moment. He wasn't the only one who'd been reading books.

‘Nevertheless it is true there were fewer weddings in those months. And then the 28th of May 1563 was a Monday, and most weddings were on Tuesday or Saturday. They were the favourite days.’

‘Wait a minute. How could you possibly know it was a Monday?’

‘I found a calendar on the Internet.’

The most unlikely nerd. I sighed. ‘So you obviously have a theory about what happened. I don't know why I bother to think I have any say in all this.’

He looked at me. ‘Pardon. I've stolen your search from you, yes?’

‘Yes. Look, I appreciate your help, but I feel like when you do it, it's all in the head, not the heart. Do you understand that?’

He pushed his lips out in a kind of pout and nodded.

‘Still, I'd like to hear your theory. But it's just a theory, right? I can still keep my idea that it was a shotgun wedding.’

‘Yes. So, maybe his parents were opposed to the marriage until they found out about the child. Then they hurried with the marriage so their neighbours would believe the parents had always consented.’

‘But wouldn't people have suspected that, given the dates?’ I could easily imagine a sixteenth-century version of Madame working that one out.

‘Maybe, but it would still be better to be seen to consent.’

‘For appearance's sake.’

‘Yes.’

‘So nothing's changed much over 400 years, really.’

‘Did you expect it to?’

The other librarian appeared in the doorway. We must have looked deep in consultation, for she just smiled at us and disappeared again.

‘There is one thing more,’ Jean-Paul said. ‘Just a little thing. The name Marie. That's a strange name for a Huguenot family to give to a child.’

‘Why?’

‘Calvin wanted people to stop worshipping the Virgin Mary. He believed in direct contact with God rather than through a figure like her. She was seen as a distraction from God. And she is a part of Catholicism. It is odd that they named her after the Virgin.’

‘Marie,’ I repeated.

Jean-Paul closed the Bible. I watched him touch the cover, trace the gold leaf.

‘Jean-Paul.’

He turned to me, his eyes bright.

‘Come home with me.’ I hadn't even realized I was going to say it.

Outwardly his face didn't change, but the shift between us was like the wind switching direction.

‘Ella. I'm working.’

‘After work.’

‘What about your husband?’

‘He's away.’ I was beginning to feel humiliated. ‘Forget it,’ I muttered. ‘Forget I even asked.’ I started to get up, but he put his hand on mine and stopped me. As I sank back into my seat, he glanced at the doorway and removed his hand.

‘Will you come somewhere tonight?’ he asked.

‘Where?’

Jean-Paul wrote something on a scrap of paper. ‘It is a good time to come around eleven.’

‘But what is it?’

He shook his head. ‘A surprise. Just come. You'll see.’

I took a shower and spent more time on my appearance than I had in a long while, even though I had no idea where I was going: Jean-Paul had simply scribbled down an address in Lavaur, a town about twelve miles away. It could be a restaurant or a friend's house or a bowling alley, for all I knew.

His comment the night before about my clothes had lingered in my mind. Though I wasn't sure he meant it as a criticism, I looked through my wardrobe for something with colour in it. In the end I wore the pale yellow sleeveless dress again, the closest I could get to a bright colour. At least I felt comfortable in it, and with brown slingbacks and a little lipstick I didn't look too bad. I couldn't begin to compete with French women, who looked stylish wearing just jeans and a T-shirt, but I would pass.

I had just shut the front door behind me when the phone rang. I had to scramble to get to it before the answering machine did.

‘Hey, Ella, did I get you out of bed?’

‘Rick. No, actually I was, just, uh, going for a walk. Out to the bridge.’

‘A walk at eleven at night?’

‘Yeah, it's hot and I was bored. Where are you?’

‘At the hotel.’

I tried to remember: was it Hamburg or Frankfurt? ‘Did the meeting go well?’

‘Great!’ He told me about his day, giving me time to compose myself. When he asked me what I'd been up to, though, I couldn't think of a thing to say that he would want to hear.

‘Not much,’ I answered hurriedly. ‘So when are you coming back?’

‘Sunday. I have to stop in Paris first on my way back. Hey, babe, what are you wearing?’ This was an old game we used to play on the phone: one of us described what we were wearing and the other described stripping it off. I looked down at my dress and shoes. I couldn't tell him what I was wearing, or why I didn't want to play.

Luckily I was saved by Rick himself, who said, ‘Hang on, I have a call waiting. I'd better take it.’

‘Sure. See you in a few days.’

‘Love you, Ella.’ He hung up.

I waited a few minutes, feeling sick, to make sure he didn't call back.

In the car I kept saying to myself every few minutes, You can turn back, Ella. You don't have to do this. You can drive all the way there, park, get to the door of wherever and turn back. You can even see him and spend time with him and it'll be perfectly innocent and you can come back pure and unadulterated. Literally.

Lavaur was a cathedral town about three times the size of Lisle-sur-Tarn, with an old quarter and some semblance of nightlife: a cinema, a choice of restaurants, a couple of bars. I checked a map, parked next to the cathedral, a lumbering brick building with an octagonal tower, and walked into the old town. Even with tantalizing night-time activities there was no one around; every shutter was shut, every light dark.

I found the address easily: it was hard to miss, marked by a startling neon sign announcing a tavern. The entrance was in a side alley, the shutters of the window next to the door painted with what looked like faceless soldiers guarding a woman in a long robe. I stopped and studied the shutters. The image unnerved me; I hurried inside.

The contrast between outside and inside couldn't have been greater. It was a small bar, dimly lit, loud and crowded and smoky. The few bars I'd been to in small French towns were generally grim affairs, male and unwelcoming. This was like a chink of light in the middle of darkness. It was so unexpected that I stood in the doorway and stared.

Directly in front of me a striking woman wearing jeans and a maroon silk blouse was singing ‘Every Time We Say Goodbye’ in a heavy French accent. And though his back was to me, I knew immediately that it was Jean-Paul hunched over the white upright, wearing his soft blue shirt. He kept his eyes on his hands, occasionally glancing at the singer, his expression concentrated but also serene.

People came in behind me and I was forced to slip into the crowd. I couldn't take my eyes off Jean-Paul. When they finished the song there were shouts and prolonged clapping. Jean-Paul looked around, noticed me and smiled. A man to my right patted my shoulder. ‘Better watch out – that's a wolf, that one!’ he shouted, laughing and nodding toward the piano. I turned red and moved away. When Jean-Paul and the woman began another song, I squeezed my way to the bar and miraculously found a stool free.

The singer's olive skin seemed to be lit from within, her dark eyebrows perfectly shaped. Her long brown hair was wavy and dishevelled, and she drew attention to it as she sang, pulling her fingers through it, tossing her head, holding her wrists to her temples when she hit a high note. Jean-Paul was less flamboyant, his calm presence balancing her theatrics, his playing underlining her sparkling voice. They were very good together – relaxed, confident enough to play around and tease each other. I felt a pang of jealousy.

Two songs later they took a break and Jean-Paul started toward me, stopping first to speak to every second person. I pulled nervously at my dress, wishing now that it covered my knees.

When he arrived at my side he said, ‘Salut, Ella,’ and kissed my cheeks the way he had ten other people. I grew calmer, relieved but vaguely disconcerted that I wasn't given special attention. What do you want, Ella? I asked myself furiously. Jean-Paul must have seen the confusion in my face. ‘Come, I'll introduce you to some friends,’ he said simply.

I slid off the stool and picked up my beer, then waited while he got a whisky from the barman. He gestured toward a table across the room and put his hand on the middle of my back to guide me, keeping his hand there as we pushed through the crowd, dropping it when we reached his friends.

Six people, including the singer, were sitting on benches on either side of a long table. They squeezed together to make room for us. I ended up next to the singer with Jean-Paul across from me, our knees touching in the cramped space. I looked down at the table, littered with beer bottles and glasses of wine, and smiled to myself.

The group was discussing music, naming French singers I'd never heard of, laughing uproariously at cultural references that meant nothing to me. It was so loud and they spoke so fast that after a while I gave up listening. Jean-Paul lit a cigarette and chuckled at jokes, but otherwise was quiet. I could feel his eyes rest on me occasionally; once when I returned his gaze he said, ‘Ça va? ’

I nodded. Janine the singer turned to me and said, ‘So, do you prefer Ella Fitzgerald or Billie Holiday?’

‘Oh, I don't listen to either very much.’ This sounded ungracious; she was after all giving me an opening to the conversation. I also wanted to convince myself that I wasn't jealous of her, her beauty and effortless style, her link to Jean-Paul. ‘I like Frank Sinatra,’ I added quickly.

A balding man with a baby face and two-day stubble sitting next to Jean-Paul snorted. ‘Too sentimental. Too much “show-biz”. He used the English phrase and fluttered his hands next to his ears while putting on a cheesy smile. ‘Now, Nat King Cole, that's different!’

‘Yes, but -’ I began. The table looked at me expectantly. I was remembering something my father had said about Sinatra's technique and trying desperately to translate it quickly in my head: exactly what Madame Sentier had told me never to do.

‘Frank Sinatra sings without breathing,’ I said, and stopped. That wasn't what I meant: I was trying to say he sang so smoothly that you couldn't hear him breathe, but my French failed me. ‘His -’

But the conversation had gone on; I hadn't been fast enough. I frowned and shook my head slightly, annoyed at myself and embarrassed the way you are when you start telling a story and realize no one's listening.

Jean-Paul reached over and touched my hand. ‘You remind me of being in New York,’ he said in English. ‘Sometimes in a bar I could hear nothing and everyone yelled and used words I didn't know.’

‘I can't think quickly enough in French yet. Not complicated thoughts.’

‘You will. If you stay here long enough you will.’

The baby-faced man heard our English and looked me up and down. ‘Tu es américaine?’ he demanded.

‘Oui.’

My response had a strange effect: it was like an electric current raced around the table. Everyone sat up and glanced from me to Jean-Paul. I looked at him too, puzzled by the reaction. Jean-Paul reached for his glass and with a jerk of his wrist finished the whisky, a gesture laced with defiance.

The man smiled sarcastically. ‘Ah, but you're not fat. Why aren't you like every other American?’ He puffed out his cheeks and cupped his hands around an imaginary paunch.

One thing I discovered about my French – when I was mad it came out like a jet stream. ‘There are fat Americans but at least they don't have huge mouths like the French!’

The table erupted in laughter, even the man. In fact he looked ready for more. Dammit, I thought. I've taken the bait and now he'll get at me for hours.

He leaned forward.

C'mon, Ella, the best defence is offence. It was Rick's favourite phrase; I could almost hear him saying it.

I interrupted him before he could get a sentence out. ‘Now, America. Of course you will mention, wait, I must get the order right. Vietnam. No, maybe first American films and television, Hollywood, McDonald's on the Champs-Elysées.’ I ticked off my fingers. ‘Then Vietnam. And violence and guns. And the CIA, yes, you must mention the CIA several times. And maybe, if you are a Communist – are you a Communist, Monsieur? – maybe you will mention Cuba. But finally you will mention World War II, that the Americans entered late and were never occupied by the Germans like the poor French. That is the pièce de résistance, n'est-ce pas? ’

Five people were grinning at me while the man pouted and Jean-Paul brought his empty glass to his mouth to hide his laughter.

‘Now,’ I continued. ‘Since you are French, maybe I should ask you if the French treated the Vietnamese better as colonizers. And are you proud of what happened in Algeria? And the racism here against North Africans? And the nuclear testing in the Pacific? You see, you are French, so of course you are a representation of your government, you agree with everything it does, don't you? You little shit,’ I added under my breath in English. Only Jean-Paul caught it; he looked at me in astonishment. I smiled. Not so ladylike, then.

The man put his fingertips to his chest and flung them outwards in a gesture of defeat.

‘Now, we were discussing Frank Sinatra and Nat King Cole. You must excuse my French, sometimes it takes me a little while to say what I mean. What I wanted to say was that one cannot hear his – what do you call it?’ I put my hand on my chest and breathed in.

‘Respiration,’ Janine suggested.

‘Yes. It is impossible to hear it when he sings.’

‘They say that's because of a technique of circular breathing he learned from -’ A man at the other end of the table was off and running, to my relief.

Jean-Paul stood up. ‘I must play now,’ he said quietly to me. ‘You will stay?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. You are good at fighting your angle, yes?’

‘What?’

‘You know, fighting your -’ He pointed to the back of the room.

‘Starting a bar-room brawl?’

‘No, no.’ He ran his finger round a corner edge of the table.

‘Oh, fighting my corner. Yes, I'll be OK. I'll be fine.’

And it was fine. No one brought up other American stereotypes, I managed to contribute occasionally, and when I couldn't understand what they were talking about I just listened to the music.

Jean-Paul played some honky-tonk; then Janine joined him. They ran through a range of songs: Gershwin, Cole Porter, several French songs. At one point they briefly conferred; then with a glance at me Janine began singing Gershwin's ‘Let's Call The Whole Thing Off’, while Jean-Paul smiled into his keys.

Later the crowd thinned and Janine came to sit across from me. There were only three of us left at the table and we'd fallen into that late-night comfortable silence when everything has been said. Even the balding man was quiet.

Jean-Paul continued to play – quiet, contemplative music, a few chords underlying simple lines of melody. It veered between classical and jazz, a combination of Erik Satie and Keith Jarrett.

I leaned across to Janine. ‘What's he playing?’

She smiled. ‘It's his own music. He composes it himself.’

‘It's beautiful.’

‘Yes. He only plays it when it is late.’

‘What time is it?’

She looked at her watch. It was almost two.

‘I didn't know that it was so late!’

‘You have no watch?’

I held out my wrists. ‘I left it at home.’ Our eyes lit on my wedding ring at the same time; instinctively I drew my hands in. It was so much a part of me that I'd forgotten all about it. If I had remembered it I probably still wouldn't have taken it off: that would have been too calculated.

I met her eyes and blushed, making things even worse. For a moment I considered going to the bathroom and removing the ring, but I knew she would notice, so I hid my hands in my lap and changed the subject, pointedly asking her where she got her blouse. She took the hint.

A few minutes later the rest of the table got up to go. To my surprise Janine left with the balding man. They waved cheerily at me, Janine blew a kiss at Jean-Paul and they were gone with the last of the crowd. We were alone except for the barman, who was collecting glasses and wiping down tables.

Jean-Paul finished the piece he was playing and sat silent for a moment. The barman whistled tunelessly as he stacked chairs on tables. ‘Eh, François, two whiskies here if you're not being cheap.’ François smirked but went behind the bar and poured out three glasses. He placed one before me with a brief bow and set another on top of the piano. Then he removed the cash register drawer and, balancing it in one hand and his glass in another, disappeared into a back room.

We raised our glasses and drank at the same time.

‘There is nice light on your head, Ella Tournier.’ I glanced up at the soft yellow spotlight above me: it was touching my hair with copper and gold. I looked back at him; he played a low soft chord.

‘Did you have classical training?’

‘Yes, when I was young.’

‘Do you know any Erik Satie?’

He set his glass down and began to play a piece I recognized, in five-four time with an even, stark melody. It fit the room, the light, the hour perfectly. While he played I rested my hands in my lap and removed my ring, dropping it into my dress pocket.

When he finished he left his hands on the keys for a moment, then picked up his glass and drained it. ‘We must go,’ he said, standing up. ‘François needs his sleep.’

Going outside was like re-entering the world after having had flu for a week: the world felt big and strange and I wasn't sure of my bearings. It was cooler now and there were stars overhead. We passed by the shutters with the painting of the woman and soldiers on them. ‘Who was she?’ I asked.

‘That's La Dame du Plô. She was a Cathar martyr in the thirteenth century. Soldiers raped her, then threw her down a well and filled it with stones.’

I shuddered and he put his arm around me. ‘Come,’ he said, ‘or you'll accuse me of talking about the wrong things at the wrong time.’

I laughed. ‘Like Goethe.’

‘Yes, like Goethe.’

Earlier I'd wondered if there would be a moment when we'd have to decide something, discuss it, analyse it. Now that the moment had arrived it was clear we had been silently negotiating all evening and a decision had already been made. It was a relief not to say anything, just to walk to his car and get in. In fact we hardly spoke on the drive back. When we passed Lavaur cathedral he noted my car alone in the parking lot. ‘Your car,’ he said, a statement rather than a question.

‘I'll take the train here tomorrow.’ That was it; no fuss.

When we reached the countryside I asked him to roll back the roof of the Deux Chevaux. He flipped it over without stopping. I rested my head on his shoulder; he put his arm around me and ran his hand up and down my bare arm while I leaned back and watched the sycamores whipping by overhead.

When we crossed the bridge over the Tarn into town I sat up. Even at three in the morning some decorum seemed necessary. Jean-Paul lived in an apartment on the other side of town from me, close to where the countryside began. Even so it was only a ten-minute walk from my house, a fact I was working hard to push from my mind.

We parked and got out, then snapped the roof back on together. The surrounding houses were dark and shuttered. I followed him up a set of stairs on the outside of a house to his door. I stood just inside while he switched on a lamp, illuminating a neat room lined with books.

He turned around and held his hand out to me. I swallowed; my throat was tight. When it came down to the final deciding moment, I was terrified.

At last I reached out, took his hand and pulled him to me, put my arms around him and clung to his back, my nose in his neck. Then the fear vanished.

The bedroom was spare but contained the largest bed I'd ever seen. A window looked out over fields; I stopped him from closing the shutters.

It felt like one long movement. There was no point when I thought, Now I'm doing this, now he's doing that. There was no thought, just two bodies recognizing each other, making themselves whole together.

We didn't sleep until the sun rose.

I woke to bright sunlight and an empty bed. I sat up and looked around. There were two bedside tables, one covered with books, a framed black and purple poster for a jazz piano concert on the wall over the bed, a coarse woven mat the colour of wheat on the floor. Outside the fields behind the house were bright green and extended far back to a row of sycamores and a road. It all had the same air of simplicity as Jean-Paul's clothes.

The door opened and Jean-Paul entered, dressed in black and white, carrying a small cup of black coffee. He set it down on the bedside table and sat on the edge of the bed next to me.

‘Thank you for the coffee.’

He nodded. ‘Ella, I must go to work now.’

‘Are you sure?’

He smiled in reply.

‘I feel like I didn't get any sleep,’ I said.

‘Three hours. You can sleep more here if you want.’

‘That would be strange, being in this bed without you.’

He ran a hand up and down my leg. ‘If you want you maybe wait until there are not so many people in the street.’

‘I guess so.’ For the first time I heard the shouts of children passing; it was like kicking down a barrier, the first intrusion of the outside world. With it came the unwelcome furtiveness, the need to be cautious. I wasn't sure I was ready for that yet, or to have him be so sensible.

Pre-empting my thoughts, he held my gaze and said, ‘It's you I think of. Not me. It's different for me. It's always different for a man here.’

It was sobering, such straight talk. It forced me to think.

‘This bed -’ I paused. ‘It's way too big for one person. And you wouldn't have two tables and lamps like this if it was just you sleeping here.’

Jean-Paul scanned my face. Then he shrugged; with that gesture we really did re-enter the world.

‘I lived with a woman for a while. She left about a year and a half ago. The bed was her idea.’

‘Were you married?’

‘No.’

I put my hand on his knee and squeezed it. ‘I'm sorry,’ I said in French. ‘I should not have mentioned it.’

He shrugged again, then looked at me and smiled. ‘You know, Ella Tournier, all that talk in French last night has made your mouth bigger. I am sure of it!’

He kissed me, his lashes glittering in the sun.

When the front door shut behind him everything seemed to change. I had never felt so strange being in someone else's house before. I sat up stiffly, sipped the coffee, set it down. I listened to the children outside, the cars passing, the occasional Vespa. I missed him terribly and wanted to leave as soon as possible, but felt trapped by the sounds outside.

Finally I got up and took a shower. My yellow dress was crumpled and smelled of smoke and sweat. When I put it on I felt like a tramp. I wanted to go home but forced myself to wait until the streets were quieter. While I waited I looked at his books in the living room. He had a lot on French history, many novels, a few books in English: John Updike, Virginia Woolf, Edgar Allan Poe. A strange combination. I was surprised that the books weren't in any order: fiction and non-fiction were mixed up and not even alphabetized. Apparently he didn't bring his work habits home with him.

Once I was sure the street was clear, I felt reluctant to leave, knowing that after I'd left I couldn't come back. I looked around the rooms once more. In the bedroom I went to the closet and got out the pale blue shirt Jean-Paul had worn the night before, rolled it into a ball and stuffed it in my bag.

When I stepped outside I felt like I was making a big stage entrance, though as far as I could see I had no audience. I ran down the stairs and walked quickly toward the centre of town, breathing a little easier when I reached the part I often walked in during the morning, but still feeling exposed. I was sure everyone was staring at me, at the wrinkles in my dress, the rings under my eyes. C'mon, Ella, they always stare at you, I tried to reassure myself. It's because you're still a stranger, not because you've just – I couldn't bring myself to finish the thought.

Only when I reached our street did it strike me that I didn't want to go home: I saw our house and a wave of nausea hit me. I stopped and leaned against my neighbour's house. When I go inside, I thought, I'll have to face my guilt.

I remained there for a long time. Then I turned around and headed toward the train station. At least I could get the car first; it gave me a concrete excuse to put off the rest of my life.

I sat on the train in a daze, half sweet, half sour, barely remembering to change at the next stop for the Lavaur train. Around me sat businessmen, women with their shopping, teenagers flirting. It seemed so strange to me that something extraordinary had happened, yet no one around me knew. ‘Do you have any idea what I've just done?’ I wanted to say to the grim woman knitting across from me. ‘Would you have done it too?’

But the events of my life made no difference to the train or the rest of the world. Bread was still being baked, gas pumped, quiches made, and the trains were running on time. Even Jean-Paul was at work, advising old ladies on romance novels. And Rick was at his German meetings in a state of ignorance. I drew in my breath sharply: it was only me who was out of step, who had nothing else to do but pick up a car and feel guilty.

I had an espresso at a café in Lavaur before returning to my car. As I was swinging the car door open I heard ‘Eh, l'américaine! ’ to my left and turned to find the balding man I'd fought with the night before coming toward me. He now had three-day stubble. I pulled the door open wide and leaned against it, a shield between him and me. ‘Salut,’ I said.

‘Salut, Madame.’ His use of Madame was not lost on me.

‘Je m'appelle Ella,’ I said coldly.

‘Claude.’ He held out his hand and we shook formally. I felt a little ridiculous. All the clues of what I'd just done were set out for him like a window display: the car still here, my rumpled dress from the night before, my tired face, would all lead him to one conclusion. The question was whether he'd have the tact not to mention it. Somehow I doubted it.

‘Would you like a coffee?’

‘No, thank you, I've had one already.’

He smiled. ‘Come, you will have a coffee with me.’ He made a gesture like he was rounding me up and began to walk away. I didn't move. He looked around, stopped and began to laugh. ‘Oh, you, you are difficult! Like a little cat with its claws like this -’ he mimed claws with stiff, bent fingers – ‘and its fur all ruffled. All right, you don't want a coffee. Look, come sit with me on this bench for a moment, OK? That's all. I have something to say to you.’

‘What?’

‘I want to help you. No, that's not right. I want to help Jean-Paul. So, sit. Just for a second.’ He sat on a nearby bench and looked at me expectantly. Finally I shut the car door, walked over and sat down next to him. I didn't look at him, but kept my eyes on the garden in front of us, where careful arrangements of flowers were just beginning to bloom.

‘What do you want to say?’ I made sure I used the formal address with him to counter his familiar tone with me. It had no effect.

‘You know, Jean-Paul, he is a good friend of Janine and me. Of all of us at La Taverne.’ He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered it to me. I shook my head; he lit one and sat back, crossing his legs at the ankle and stretching.

‘You know he lived with a woman for a year,’ he continued.

‘Yes. So?’

‘Did he tell you anything about her?’

‘No.’

‘She was American.’

I glanced at Claude to see what reaction he was expecting from me, but he was following the traffic with his eyes and gave away nothing.

‘And was she fat?’

Claude roared with laughter. ‘You!’ he shouted. ‘You are – I understand why Jean-Paul likes you. A little cat!’

‘Why did she leave?’

He shrugged, his laughter finally subsiding. ‘She missed her country and felt she didn't fit in here. She said people weren't friendly. She was alienated.’

‘Jesus,’ I muttered in English before I could stop myself. Claude leaned forward, his legs apart, elbows on his knees, hands dangling. I glanced at him. ‘Does he still love her?’

He shrugged. ‘She's married now.’

That's no answer – look at me, I thought, but didn't say it.

‘You see,’ he said, ‘we protect Jean-Paul a little. We meet a pretty American woman, with much spirit, like a little cat, with her eyes on Jean-Paul but married, and we think -’ he shrugged again – ‘maybe this is not so good for him, but we know he won't see that. Or he sees it but she is a temptation anyway.’

‘But -’ I couldn't argue back. If I countered that every American doesn't run home with her tail between her legs – not that I hadn't considered that option myself in my more alienated moments – Claude would just bring up my being married. I couldn't tell which he was emphasizing more; perhaps that was part of his strategy. I disliked him too much to probe.

What he was unarguably saying was that I wasn't good for Jean-Paul.

With that thought – combined with my lack of sleep and the absurdity of sitting on this bench with this man telling me things I already knew – I finally cracked. I leaned over, elbows on my knees, and cupped my hands around my eyes as if shielding them from strong sunlight. Then I began to cry silently.

Claude sat up straight. ‘I am sorry, Ella. I did not say these things to make you unhappy.’

‘How else did you expect me to respond?’ I replied sharply. He made the same gesture of defeat with his hands as he had the night before.

I wiped my damp hands on my dress and stood. ‘I have to go,’ I muttered, brushing my hair back from my face. I couldn't bring myself to thank him or say goodbye.

I cried all the way home.

The Bible sat like a reproach on my desk. I couldn't stand being in a room by myself, not that I had much choice. What I needed was to talk to a female friend; it was women who usually saw me through moments of crisis. But it was the middle of the night in the States; besides, it was never the same on the phone. Here I had no one I could confide in. The closest I'd come to a kindred spirit was Mathilde, but she had enjoyed flirting with Jean-Paul so much that she might not be too pleased to hear what had happened.

Late in the morning I remembered I had a French lesson in Toulouse in the afternoon. I called Madame Sentier and cancelled, telling her I was ill. When she asked, I said it was a summer fever.

‘Ah, you must get someone to take care of you!’ she cried. Her words made me think of my father, his concern that I'd be stranded out here without help. ‘Call Jacob Tournier if you have any problems,’ he'd said. ‘When there are problems it's good to have family close by.’

Jean-Paul -

I'm going to my family. It seemed the best thing to do. If I stayed here I would drown in my guilt.

I've taken your blue shirt.

Forgive me.

Ella

Rick didn't get a note; I called his secretary and left the briefest of messages.