If only she could talk to her grandmother, have her tell her what to do.

The sound of a small motorbike came climbing up the hill toward her. A soft phut-phut of exhaust as the engine began to slow.

“Ça va?”

Emily opened her eyes to see someone step off a white Lambretta. She waited as he removed the sunglasses from his face, hand frozen in the air for a few seconds before he smiled to reveal a gap between his two front teeth.

“Emily!” he cried, pulling her close with tears in his eyes and whispering her name over and over.

In any normal circumstances, being hugged by a stranger would make Emily rigid, uncomfortable, but there was something about this man which instead made her wrap her arms around him and hug him back. It was like something out of a corny love story, only he was old and gay and she was young(ish) and anything but beautiful.

“Let me look at you. Oh my,” Antoine said as he stepped back, one hand to his mouth, the other holding onto his bike. “Oh my,” he said again, tapping a code into the keypad on the wall, and the gates slowly hummed to life, opening wide to reveal what lay beyond. “Welcome to my humble abode,” he said, stepping aside to let Emily through.

Humble wasn’t exactly the word Emily would have used to describe Antoine’s home. Opulent, gigantic, a little bit ostentatious even, but it was fabulous. Palm trees lined the flagstone driveway, and the walls of the house were palest pink with terra-cotta tiles on the roof and olive green shutters on the windows.

The front door was opened by a woman dressed in a pale gray maid’s outfit, who took Antoine’s helmet and keys, then promptly disappeared. Inside, there was a crystal chandelier hanging from the double-height reception hall, with a staircase that wrapped around both sides, and in the middle was a view straight out to manicured gardens, an infinity pool, and the ocean beyond.

There was also a painting of Catriona Robinson, hanging on the wall right next to where Emily stood.

Emily became quiet and still, aware of the man next to her, watching her with a mixture of intrigue and excitement. She could tell by the way he kept stepping toward her, opening his mouth as if to say something, then thinking better of it and moving away again.

It stayed this way for several minutes, but Emily couldn’t break the silence. She couldn’t bring herself to look away from the portrait of her grandmother seated on a padded window seat, reading a copy of The Picture of Dorian Gray. Her hair was tied at the back of her neck, a few wayward curls finding their way loose as always. Her lips were parted gently, as if she were reading some of Wilde’s words to herself, and her face was at peace, content. It was a look Emily recognized, even on a face that had sagged and folded with age.