“Dad just told me.” he grinned. “It’s just wonderful the things a mother will do for her children.”

“Nobody got sick in the night and had to go to the hospital?” I checked.

“No, why?” Claudine asked, puzzled.

It was nice to know my salmonella lecture had had an impact. “You know, if we could unlock the secrets of French genes, we could revolutionize medicine.”

After the past week’s hectic pace, we practiced lazy bliss. As the sun crawled across the sky, we ate stray cream puffs, leftover tabouleh, plums, and merguez cooked over our grills. I finally got to throw out the salad of smoked haddock and melons, now on its third day of open-air exposure. Sébastien’s family had done the dishes as a group before we even got there. “Have I mentioned that I love your family?” I murmured to Sébastien. He smiled a tired, happy smile. The rest of the cleaning we accomplished in unhurried bits and pieces. There was a lot to do, but somehow, without anyone feeling he was working hard, it got done.

Bruno and Claudine appeared in the afternoon, advancing solemnly out from the back of the house. Bruno carried a gentlemanly walking stick and wore his gangster’s tux from the day before. Claudine had a florist’s moss wreath on her head, stuck with plastic flowers and dangling a long piece of tulle. She was laughing so hard she walked literally doubled over, as they attempted to imitate a bridal couple. That skit finished, Jean-Charles claimed Bruno’s place and nearly burst the gangster tux jacket as he tried to squeeze his broad shoulders into it, his efforts making people laugh so hard they collapsed on the ground. As one by one other couples tried the roles on for size, or even switched them, the men donning the veil and marrying their tuxedo-clad wives, somebody just had to open more champagne to celebrate all these weddings. Bruno, I believe, started the champagne battle, spewing Jean-Charles “completely by accident.”

I shielded my face and watched them, laughing. “Seriously, you don’t want to move back here?” I asked Sébastien. I had renewed my contract at my North Carolina university for another year so we could afford the weddings, but Sébastien and I had trouble deciding which country we wanted to live in after that.

Sébastien looked sulky. “Can’t we stay in the U.S. at least a couple more years? I’m having an adventure! Plus, it ups my reputation no end when dealing with French clients. ‘You live in the U.S.? Putain, you must be mad! So is it really like Friends?’”

“But if we lived here”—I ducked a geyser of champagne and caught it in my ponytail instead—“we could spend more weekends with your family! And going to fêtes villageoises and eating chocolate.” Champagne trickled down the nape of my neck, and I shuddered involuntarily.