At the Edge of Summer

As though she hadn’t heard me, she said, “Maud.” The lamp in her hand began to tremble. “How have you returned?”

I reached up to touch my own face. Over the years, without me having any kind of a say in it, it had grown into my mother’s. “Clare, Madame Crépet. It’s your mademoiselle, your guest, Clare Ross.”

She inhaled. “You’re the very image of Maud.”

Suddenly, standing in the doorway of Mille Mots, hearing my mother’s name, I was brought back to that day all of those years ago, when I’d arrived, sad and scared and wishing for a friend.

Madame nodded. She must have seen that all slip across my face. “Chère Clare. I’m…oh, I’m so sorry.”

It was then that I noticed her plain black dress.

“Oh!” My hand covered my mouth. I knew it couldn’t be Luc. “Monsieur…”

She waved her hand, suddenly looking like the brisk Madame I remember. “He’s back in the kitchen, cooking me an omelette. My dear child, he’s quite all right.”

“Then…”

“Child, I mourn for France.”

—

The Crépets had been living in a corner of the west wing of the château, just the library, a converted bedroom next to it, and the kitchen.

“There’s been no electricity for years and, these days, not enough coal to heat the whole château.”

Monsieur Crépet looked up from the pan on the stove. “And that wall in the east hallway. We do not have that either.”

“Ah, yes.” Madame filled a cracked mug with vin chaud. “I’m sorry, there’s no sugar. But I can grate some cinnamon.”

“It’s fine, thank you.” I settled onto a stool at the table.

“And in two minutes, mademoiselle, an omelette.” Monsieur tossed on a handful of crumbled cheese, looking as sure as he ever did with color and canvas. “I can work with pan as well as palette, eh?”

Madame touched his cheek.

The kitchen was dim and cluttered. It had none of the haphazard order it once had. Also, the line of birdcages was missing. “Marthe?”

“She’s well. She’s gone to stay with her sister in Brittany.” Madame dipped her head to the pan and inhaled the egg and garlic and tang of cheese. “Ah, but even without her, we eat like kings!”

Monsieur quickly kissed her cheek, earning a blush. “Ma minette, I will take care of you.”

I cradled the mug of hot wine. “Madame, Monsieur, I came here today to talk about Luc.”

The air in the room turned brittle. “Luc?” she repeated in a thin voice. “Oh, he’s fine. He was lucky, really.” She busied herself wiping out two more mugs. “Did you know he’s living in Paris, the way he always wanted?”

Monsieur silently slid a plate with a wedge of omelette in front of me.

“I do know.” I inhaled. “I saw him.”

She froze. “You did?” She set the mugs on the table, suddenly animated. “Please, where is he? Where is my boy?”

“He doesn’t write to you?” I asked. He always had before, every day he was in Paris as a student. Maman, I ate ratatouille. Maman, I read Tacitus. I thought of you, Maman, at the pink sunrise. She’d read them aloud to me at the breakfast table.

She shook her head. Monsieur Crépet came up behind with a handkerchief, which she took. He sat across from me. “Every once in a while a package will arrive with bread or salt or tinned oysters—something we can’t get here,” he said. “Once it had a bottle of La Rose Jacqueminot wrapped in sheets of Le Figaro.” He reached behind for his wife’s wrist. It was always her scent.

“And once in the package?” Madame said. “My old sculpting tools that he carried with him into war.” She leaned against her husband’s chair. “We know he’s alive and in Paris. Anything beyond that, he doesn’t want us to know.”

I took a swallow of my wine. No sugar, but there was a swirl of honey. “He was wounded. Did you know?”

Madame hesitated. “Yes.”

From his seat, Monsieur closed his eyes.

“I told him it doesn’t matter,” she said. “I saw him after he was discharged a few years ago. I told him none of it mattered. I just wanted him to come home.”

“Madame, I want that too. I came to ask for your help.”

Monsieur stood and took her arm. “Rowena.” He pulled her into his chair. “Clare, please eat.”

They watched while I took a sip of wine, while I cut my omelette. Monsieur nodded encouragingly as he served up the rest. Madame bit her lip. After I’d eaten half—the cheese cooling, the edges going limp—he finally said, “Tell us.”

“I work in a studio on the Rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs,” I said. “We make masks for mutilés.” At the word, Madame flinched. “He needs help, please. I want him to come in, for a mask, for our other resources.” I took a deep breath. “I want to help him the way he once helped me.”

“And you want us to convince Luc that he should come to your studio,” Monsieur said, setting down his own fork.

Madame had a forefinger pressed to her mouth. Eyes distant, she shook her head. “No.”

“Madame?” I sat up.