“Okay, it’s also often pink when you’re not annoyed.” He grinned down at me sideways, that melting fondue look in his eyes. “Little pinky shrump,” he whispered.

I glowered and felt all excited inside.

Giverny was beautiful. It was stunning. It was like dancing under a shower of rose petals. The tulips were just fading, so there wasn’t a single rose yet blooming in Monet’s gardens, but it was like that still. It was sunny again and just at the cool limit of the balmy range. I couldn’t figure out if it was sunny so much these days because it was May, or because nature had a crush on Sébastien. The latter was entirely possible.

We took the train to Vernon, and the bus from Vernon to Giverny to join the crowds of people flocking into these gardens. Flowers were everywhere: pink, white, yellow, blue, purple, more flowers even than people. Monet’s prolific painting must have been a continual exercise in frustration, as the artist tried to capture what he gardened. Light played through the leaves and petals and dappled onto people and the water. Lilacs scented the air. Bees buzzed in the wisteria that curled around the Pont Japonais and dangled in thick clusters toward our faces. We sat on a bench under rhododendrons heavy with red-pink flowers until an older lady walked by and gave our bench an envious look. Sébastian leapt up to offer her our place. Long weeping branches of willow caught in my hair as we walked, and Sébastien caught the willow strands and eased them loose. The water reflected puffy white clouds and blue sky in a half-tarnished mirror. Azaleas of all colors surrounded us. A drunk and ecstatic yellow butterfly landed on the back of Sébastien’s hand as he leaned against the bridge railing. He froze, thrilled, grabbing my arm with his non-butterfly-sanctuary hand and then pointing at his prize to make sure I appreciated the beauty of this moment.

When we left, we got ice cream cones from the vendor just outside the entrance and climbed high up a hill above the gardens. Grass grew thick and green well past our knees. Sébastien waded into it, while I held back. “It’s warm enough for snakes to be out. Are you crazy or just from the city? Don’t be wading into knee-high grass.”

“There aren’t any poisonous snakes in France. Well, there’s one, but it’s very rare and mostly in the south. Come on.” He tugged on my hand. And for the first time in my life, I found myself wading through high grass without a dog to sniff snakes out and a stick to poke first. I felt as if I were in a book. People waded through high grass in books, but I always thought it was because the author was stupid, not because the books were set in Europe.