Tottering on her high heels, Manon flicked on her phone’s flashlight setting and headed down the narrow trail that hugged the coast as far as the Villa Eilenroc. She knew the area like the back of her hand; when she was a child, her father used to take her here to fish in the streams. Locals once called this area Smugglers’ Way; later, it appeared in guidebooks under the intriguing name of sentier de Tire-Poil—Hair-Pluck Lane. These days, it was known by the prosaic, anodyne term “the coastal path.”

After some fifty meters, Manon came to a barrier with a warning sign: DANGER—NO ENTRY. Earlier in the week, a powerful storm had lashed the coast, and the waves had caused landslides that had cut off certain sections of the path.

Manon hesitated for a moment, then scrambled over the barrier.

1992

Southernmost point, Cap d’Antibes, October 1

Vinca Rockwell blithely hopped and skipped as she passed La Joliette Beach. It was ten p.m. To get here from the high school, she had had to sweet-talk a friend from her class who owned a moped into driving her as far as the chemin de la Garoupe.

As she set off down Smugglers’ Way, she could feel butterflies fluttering in the pit of her stomach. She was going to meet Alexis. She was going to meet the love of her life!

A fierce gale was blowing, but the night was so beautiful, the sky so cloudless, she could see almost as well as in daylight. Vinca had always loved this place because it was so wild, so unlike the clichéd image of the French Riviera. When the sun shone, you were dazzled by the tawny-white glare of the limestone crags, the myriad shades of blue that bathed the narrow inlets. Once, while gazing out toward the Lérins Islands, she had seen a pod of dolphins.

On nights like tonight, when the wind howled, it was a very different place. The sheer rock face loomed dangerously; the olive and pine trees seemed to writhe in pain, as though trying to uproot themselves. Vinca did not care. She was going to meet Alexis. She was going to meet the love of her life!

2017

For fuck’s sake!

The heel of one of Manon’s pumps had snapped off. Jesus. She’d now have to stop off at her apartment before she went to the reunion, and the friend who’d lent her these shoes would rip her a new one tomorrow. She slipped them off, shoved them into her bag, and continued barefoot.

She was still following the narrow, paved path that overlooked the cliffs. The air was pure and invigorating. The mistral had cleared the night sky of clouds and scattered it with constellations.