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Back Blame It on Paris
Chapters (45)
  1. Cover
  2. Blame Iton Paris
  3. Copyright Notice
  4. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  5. Book One
  6. One
  7. Two
  8. Three
  9. Four
  10. Five
  11. Six
  12. Seven
  13. Eight
  14. Nine
  15. Ten
  16. Eleven
  17. Twelve
  18. Thirteen
  19. Fourteen
  20. Fifteen
  21. Sixteen
  22. Seventeen
  23. Eighteen
  24. Nineteen
  25. Twenty
  26. Twenty-one
  27. Book Two
  28. Twenty-two
  29. Twenty-three
  30. Twenty-four
  31. Twenty-five
  32. Twenty-six
  33. Twenty-seven
  34. Twenty-eight
  35. Twenty-nine
  36. Thirty
  37. Thirty-one
  38. Thirty-two
  39. Thirty-three
  40. Thirty-four
  41. Thirty-five
  42. Thirty-six
  43. Thirty-seven
  44. Thirty-eight
  45. Thirty-nine

“I knew you’d like it,” Claudine beamed. An orange butterfly circled around her head and headed back to join the throngs around the lush purple arbre à papillons, or butterfly tree, that half shaded the table. “It reminded me of you. It looks so cheerful.” She handed the sack across to me. “Now all you have to do is figure out how to make it all look pretty. I’ve got the wheat sheaves in the house, and you can experiment with everything in your spare time.”

I looked at the material in alarm. Most people don’t trust me with aesthetic decisions, and handing me wheat sheaves wasn’t a good place to start. “We’ll have to do it together,” I said. “I’m sure you’ve got better decorating ideas than I do. You’ve got a much better sense of style.”

I escaped to get the first course, zucchini straight from the garden that morning, sliced very fine and drizzled with olive oil and minced garlic. A grill smoked on the old, pockmarked patio, waiting for the second course of chicken.

“Okay, I’ve got my list ready.” I uncapped my pen. “What needs to be done?”

“We need to make decorations and wedding favors,” Claudine started.

“Wheat sheaves,” I noted. “Right.”

“We have to finish the upstairs of the farmhouse,” Bruno added to Jean-Charles. We expected thirty or more people to crowd the communal guest room the night after the wedding, and Bruno and Jean-Charles had been working hard every weekend to prepare. We had already marveled at the spotless new bathroom and toilet room and the fresh whitewash on the walls, but the floor still needed to be tiled.

“And the cars polished,” Jean-Charles said. “Plus, I’ll have to make sure they’re in working order.” Jean-Charles had not been able to bring the Torpedo up from Provence for the wedding and had returned instead with a car suitable for a gangster, an opulent blue and burgundy 1928 Citroen C6. The men were delighted when I let them have that one and chose for the bride’s car the more discreet brown and beige C4. I liked the memory of Sébastien’s grandfather riding in it beside me, welcoming me into the family. The men, who didn’t have that memory, liked pretending to be Al Capone.