“They’re mesmerizing,” Camille said to Queenie. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Queenie’s young assistant shamelessly flirting with Billy, which was no surprise. He was the kind of good-looking that made a bow tie and horn-rimmed glasses sexy, and women went nuts for him. “I’m not the only one being mesmerized.”

“He’s quite a catch. Your mother and I often wonder why the two of you never—”

“I’d like to meet the artist,” Camille broke in.

“Of course,” said Queenie. “I was hoping you’d stop by tonight. You and Gaston have something in common.”

“Gaston. He’s French?”

“From Saint-Malo. You’re going to love him.” Taking Camille by the hand, she towed her through the milling crowd to a slender, sandy-haired guy in a striped T-shirt and thin neck scarf. “Gaston,” said Queenie. “This is Camille, my best friend’s daughter.”

He looked up, and when he saw her, his eyes flared wide, making her glad she’d decided to shower and put on makeup before coming out tonight. “Hi,” he said, extending his hand. “Very happy to meet you.”

Camille could tell he was struggling with his English, so she answered him in French. “Your pictures are truly beautiful,” she said. “Congratulations on this amazing show.”

A smile lit his face. “You’re French, too?”

“My father is. He raised me to speak his native language.”

“He must be from the south,” Gaston said. “Provence? I can hear it in every word you speak.”

The southern part of France had a dialect and cadence all its own, comparable to the unique sound of people from the Chesapeake region, a blend of accents and archaic terms.

“All right, you two. Stop being so foreign and cliquish,” Queenie said.

“We are foreign,” Gaston said with a wink.

“Camille works in photography, too,” Queenie said. “Did she tell you?”

Camille could smell matchmaking a mile off. Her mom and friends and half sisters abhorred a single woman’s status the way nature abhorred a vacuum. Sometimes it seemed her mother had recruited the whole town to find her a boyfriend. For no reason she could fathom, her thoughts strayed to Malcolm Finnemore. The ticked-off client. Not boyfriend material.

“Sorry,” she told Gaston in French. “She always tries to throw me together with random men.”

“Not to worry,” he said, also in French. “I’m an artist. Everybody knows it’s dangerous to hook up with an artist.” He grinned and reverted to English. “So. You like photography.”

“Yes.”

“She specializes in old film and prints,” Queenie said. “I keep trying to get her to do a show here at the Beholder.”

One of Queenie’s assistants came over. “Sorry to interrupt,” she said. “We’ve got a buyer for the big landscape.”

Queenie went straight into action. She pressed her hand against Gaston’s elbow and steered him to the large piece that dominated what had once been the mantel over the hearth.

Camille took the opportunity to pull Billy away from the puppy-eyed shopgirl, and they went back out into the street.