“When can we hear you play?” Julie asked.

“We’re doing the Saturday market in Cassis, down at the harbor. You should come,” said André. He was the youngest of the three, and the cutest, Julie thought. He was totally cool, in slouchy shorts and a T-shirt with nonsense English—COMPTON SKATE TEAM 1982 CLASSIC—and shaggy, light brown hair.

The tomatoes needed to be trellised, a job she didn’t mind, securing the plants to a frame made of old grapevines. André hovered nearby, and a couple of times she caught him watching her.

“You’re a good worker,” he said.

“This is not my first rodeo,” she replied in English. Then she explained its meaning in French.

“This is not my first rodeo,” he repeated, his tortured accent making them both laugh.

“I help Papi in his garden at home,” she said.

“That’s so cool, you’re from America.”

“Is it? I never thought so.”

“Everyone here thinks America is the coolest.”

“Ha. And in America, everyone thinks it’s cool to be from France.” Julie was amazed that he—or anybody—thought she was cool. “Do you live nearby?”

He nodded. “In the village. My parents have a clothing boutique, and we live in an apartment above my granduncle’s tailor shop.”

She remembered passing the shop. “Is your uncle named Michel Cabret?”

“Yes.” He looked surprised. “How did you know?”

“He was Papi’s friend when they were boys.”

Martine and Robert were at the far end of the row, grinning at each other as they worked on opposite sides of the trellis. “I think they’re . . .” Julie paused. “I don’t know the word for ‘flirting’ in French. Like this.” She batted her eyes at him and sighed romantically.

He laughed aloud. “You’re funny. The word is ‘flirter,’ same as English.”

“It sounds better in French. Everything sounds better in French.” She went back to work, but kept talking to him through the trellis. “Martine and I are taking the little ones to the beach later,” she said. “What’s that like?”

“Fantastic. I hope you don’t mind hiking over the Calanques.”

“Calanques?”

“Um . . . Very steep rocks that tower over the sea. You have to hike and climb to the best beaches. Clean water and sand, no crowds because they’re hard to get to. Are you a good swimmer?”

“Sure. Everyone from my town is. Our beach doesn’t have cliffs. It’s low and sandy, perfect for surfing.”

“You know how to surf?”

“I do okay.” After her dad died, her mom wouldn’t allow it. Too dangerous. But Julie and her friends—back when she had friends—had gone surfing anyway, practicing on borrowed surfboards, sitting out at the break and waiting for the right wave. She missed those days with her friends. She missed having friends.

She peeked through the trellis at André. “Maybe I’ll see you at the beach later,” she said.

“For sure. And at the Saturday market?”

“In Cassis,” she said. “Is it far?”

“There’s a regional bus you can take. Martine will show you.”