The passenger door opened on the other side of the Mercedes. Vaugeois said, “I think it’s going to rain, Maria.”

A voice chirped rhythmically, “It’s what they said on television this morning, madame. Rain in the afternoon.”

“Good for the garden, bad for the spirit,” said Madame Vaugeois.

I had remained silent for long enough. To observe further would be intrusive. I coughed and stepped towards the entrance. She didn’t notice, so I coughed again. “Bonjour, Madame.”

She turned abruptly, disoriented. She noticed me. Took down her sunglasses. I regretted not coming out faster, but I had been deep in the terrace. She instantly assumed a formal, questioning tone. “Monsieur? Bonjour.”

She struck out towards me. Chin jutting forwards. Called over her shoulder to Maria. “Maria, put the tart in the kitchen. And don’t forget the potatoes.”

“Yes, Madame.” I could only see the top of Maria’s head past the car. Apparently she was petite.

We met in the middle of the steps. Madame Vaugeois had her hand extended in the French manner and I took it. Hers was dry and cold. I could feel bones moving around inside loose skin. A gold chain hung on her wrist. Two rings were snug around long fingers. A diamond-studded wedding band and a solid gold family crest on the pinky. Her nails were burgundy and freshly painted. She looked at me questioningly. As if my presence must have had a quick and uncomplicated explanation.

But family is complicated.

I said, “I am sorry to surprise you unannounced. I am Delphine Vaugeois’ son. Tom Keeler.”

Simone Vaugeois’s eyes were blue and watery. She wore copious amounts of eye-liner, shadow, and mascara. I thought it strange that she would get herself dolled up like this for a trip to town. She glanced about her. Maria carried a flat package from the patisserie towards the side of the house. She appraised me. “You said, Delphine?”

Vaugeois pronounced my mother’s name differently than I had ever heard it. In French it sounded lighter, more airy than I was used to. To me, my mother’s name had always been business-like and tough. Feminine, but hard-edged. Delphine on Vaugeois’ lips made it elegant and soft.

“Yes. I’m Tom Keeler.” I grinned at her, hoping to lower her defenses. “I’m sorry to barge in on you like this, ma’am. I was traveling through the region and thought I’d stop for a few hours. My mother told me so much about Alencourt.”

“Your mother told you about us?”

Strictly speaking, my mother had never spoken specifically about anyone. So I said, “Mom had good memories of her summers in Alencourt.”

“It is beautiful here.” She had a low voice. Gravelly. She had smoked many cigarettes in her time. She was distracted, looked over my shoulder, and said, “Did you meet Daniel?”