I blinked rapidly. René loved everybody. I didn’t know he loved me in particular, and I hadn’t known how much that would matter to me. “I would love to have him dance with me at my wedding, too,” I said, low. I could imagine it: René twirling me around on a wood dance floor like the one patched together in the center of the yard, his eyes glowing with joy. I could see him bouncing on his toes by a méchoui, being everywhere at once in Titi and Bruno’s vast garden, trying to make sure our wedding was beautiful and perfect for us. In my vision, he had all his hair and energy, as he had the day I met him at the Feast of Kings.

We all looked around at something other than what was in our heads. The hundred people gathered around us had to surpass the actual population of this dilapidated village, but everyone had invited friends and family from all over to come enjoy the fun. The day was beautiful, sunny and hot, and all but one person seemed to be having a wonderful time.

That one person, Jean-Charles, watched the rear corner of the stone building with feral alertness, rarely taking his eyes off the 1931 Citroen C4 that gleamed there. Jean-Charles had brought the beige and brown car over to show off at the festival but now acted like a miser who had displayed his gold in a weak moment. I can only imagine how insulted he would have been if the car hadn’t attracted attention, but there was no need to worry about that. The crowds were circling like vultures.

“They keep touching it,” he growled. “What’s the matter with people? Any minute now, someone’s going to open the door and take it for a drive.”

“Surely not.” I patted him on the arm.

“I’m not exaggerating! When I brought it up from Provence a few months ago, I actually came out of a restaurant once and found a kid behind the wheel. His parents had put him there and were taking pictures! Look at that!!” Jean-Charles half rose. “That man just ran his hand the whole length of it!”

Claudine grinned at him and caught my eyes. “He might bring the Torpedo up in the spring. He’s thinking of driving the old cars for weddings occasionally.”

Of all the cars Jean-Charles and his father had in their collection, the 1928 Torpedo remained my favorite, and that was saying a lot. “For . . . weddings?”

“Um-hmm.” She set her chin on her hand, smiling at me. “Wouldn’t that be wonderful, to ride to your wedding in one of those cars?”

Yes, it would. “Could I wear a twenties-style wedding dress?” I asked eagerly, seeing myself with a miraculously stick-shaped figure, berouged lips, a cloche hat, and a jade cigarette holder.