“Yeah, my cell phone’s out of juice. Anyway, Jens did get hold of me. I’ve just come from seeing him.”

Vanessa does not seem satisfied. “He sounded pretty pissed,” she persists. “He said there was some problem with a renter, and he couldn’t find you anywhere. What was wrong?”

Jens is Thierry’s boss. He and his wife are Danish; they have a restored farmhouse above Brix where they spend half the year. Jens is retired, but he’s the kind of retired person who likes to keep busy. It just so happens that Jens’s hobbies are more lucrative than most people’s jobs. He can’t help it, he has a golden thumb, as Vanessa puts it. Over the last decade, Jens has been buying up houses in the hill towns above Brix—little village houses, nothing fancy. Jens’s wife, who is a decorator, then does them up very rustic in that style foreigners think of as French country, and they rent them out to vacationers.

For almost a year now, Thierry’s been working for Jens as caretaker and general handyman. It’s the perfect job for Thierry: he’s handy; he can be charming, if he chooses; his English is good. There’s even a little studio apartment over Jens’s garage where Thierry can stay during the busy season, so he doesn’t have to be constantly ferrying back and forth between Saint Féliu and Brix.

Sweet setup. All it requires is Thierry’s being on call, in case a guest locks himself out of the house or the toilet backs up. Not much to ask, to Vanessa’s way of thinking, especially when it’s Vanessa who wangled him the job.

Vanessa is still looking at Thierry funny. “So what happened?” she inquires.

“What happened?” Thierry mimics. “What happened, apparently, is you decided to have a party without me. While the cat’s away, huh?” He mock-bows to Jérôme, then sits down, heavily. “Aren’t you going to offer me a piece of cake?” Leans over and harpoons himself a piece, scattering gobbets across the table.

“I thought you were staying at Brix tonight,” says Vanessa.

“Would you rather I did? Sit, Vesuvio. Sit.”

Vanessa gets up and pointedly shuts the front door he’s left ajar.

“Do you mind?’ he snarls. “I was just going to …”

He brings in a bag of groceries from the car. Unloads on the table a sack of dog food, a crumpled ketchup-smeared paper bag containing the remains of his dinner, a packet of cigarettes, a bag of peanuts.

Vanessa examines the cigarettes critically. “You got these from the gas station? Didn’t I tell you Cristel was going to La Jonquera this weekend? You could have got a whole carton for the same price.”

Thierry ignores her. “I didn’t know you were having a party,” he repeats, once again making a half-bow towards Jérôme. And then, “Hey, Momo, mon brave.” He has this soft wheedling croon he assumes with Morgan, talking to the boy as if he were still a toddler. “You’re very silent tonight. Don’t you even come kiss me hello anymore? Come give Tonton Thierry a bise.” Beckons, pointing to the spot on his cheek where he expects the kiss.