Lara loved these visits. When she’d see an old truck sitting in Cecile’s driveway, she’d run through the field at a clip to see who had come. Sitting on the porch, they talked while Lara played with her Barbies or Legos, pretending not to listen, but she never missed a tale. Circus people were great storytellers. One tall, gangly man of the gin-and-tonic set cried to Cecile about the loss of his beloved show horse from colic. Lara knew from her short experience with horses that they were mysterious, fragile creatures. The man was so distraught Lara presented him with her plastic butter-colored Johnny West horse, Thunderbolt.

“You can have my horse.” Lara remembered loving the toy dearly and holding it by its legs, making sure she’d secured the little brown vinyl saddle tightly as though it would be a selling point.

The man refused the toy with a smile of gratitude and took a hankie from his back pocket and wiped his face.

After the man left, Cecile knelt down and sat next to Lara on the floor, and Lara could smell the L’Air du Temps perfume in the air. Cecile—still tan like a raisin with her cropped silver hair and heart-shaped face—was the only woman she knew who wore bright-red lipstick, but it was now faded from an afternoon of entertaining.

“That was a lovely thing to do, Lara. It was very touching.” Cecile still had a strong French accent, and Lara found herself counting un, deux, trois or saying n’est-ce pas.

Lara shrugged, making Thunderbolt gallop. “It was nothing. I just needed to take care of him.”

“What a curious thing to say.” With her accent, there was a musicality to Cecile’s voice.

“He said the circus is my destiny.”

“Who said?”

Lara looked up. She hadn’t meant to talk about him.

“Lara?” Cecile pressed; there was alarm in her voice.

“The man in the field.” Lara looked down at the floor.

“What man in the field?” Cecile’s voice rose.

She shrugged. “Just the man. Sometimes the woman is with him. Margot.”

Cecile’s face looked stricken. “Where did you see him?”

Lara pointed over to the field. “The last time was when we had the tent up.”

“Tell me exactly what he said.” She spun Lara toward her and drew close to her face. Something on Cecile’s breath smelled like Christmas trees.

Lara told Cecile every detail, and her great-grandmother’s face fell as she explained about the spinning carousel. The alarm in her voice was evident. She peppered Lara with questions as if she’d done something wrong. “You must not say anything about this. Never speak of it to anyone, do you hear me? Forget him.”

Lara nodded, fearing Cecile was angry at her. “Did I do something wrong?”

Cecile was slow to smile, but when she did, she beamed at the little girl. “No, my dear. You are absolutely perfect.”