The next morning outside the boulangerie Nina ran into Evangelique LeBrun, the mayor’s wife. Evangelique said in her rather good English, “I understand you have gotten your aspirateur back, Nina. Even though you had to go to St. Georges to get it.” And she laughed, not unkindly. She was blond and pretty and the same height as Nina. Nina always wondered how some of these French women in the provinces managed to stay so trim and chic. Elle magazine probably. And France is a smallish country. Nowhere is that far from Paris, the capital of “chic” in the whole world.
“How did you know that?” Nina said.
“Oh, my cousin Eleonore lives in St. Georges, and she is very friendly with Anne Marie de Maintenon, who lives next door to Emmeline Wainwright.” She pronounced the “right” of Wainwright as though it were “rich.” Wainrich. The French always have a hard time with the “gh,” Nina thought.
“Yes, somehow my vacuum cleaner wandered all the way to St. Georges. I’d never met Madame Wainwright before. She seems very nice. Very correct. I invited her husband and her to come over one day soon.” Nina felt that was the least she could do for Emmeline Wainwright’s reputation locally.
Without making any kind of conversational connection whatsoever, Madame LeBrun said, “I don’t suppose you have any work for Cass Brewster?” Nina looked appraisingly and said nothing. Madame LeBrun shifted her basket on her arm. “I thought perhaps with the new baby coming you might be redoing some rooms.” They don’t miss a thing, Nina thought.
“Or perhaps Monsieur Muller needs some work on his house.”
Nina said, “I wouldn’t recommend Cass Brewster to my worst enemy. Actually, I could recommend him to Cranston Muller. Cass probably isn’t going to want to sleep with Cranston Muller.” She could see this was all going completely over Madame LeBrun’s head. Not recommending someone to your worst enemy was an idea a French person could never understand. Irony is impossible in French. Madame LeBrun is probably pondering why would anyone recommend anything to their worst enemy? The French are supposed to be so witty, but actually they aren’t. Very literal. French is a very literal language.
As Madame LeBrun stared at her she said, “I’ll see if Mr. Muller needs some help. And why would you care anyway, Evangelique?” She realized exactly why as the words came out of her mouth, Stupid Americaine that I am, she thought.
“I’ll tell you someday,” Evangelique LeBrun said and turned away.
What is going on here? Nina thought. About half an hour earlier she had closed the door on Evangelique LeBrun, who had rung the ting-a-ling bell above her door. She had the same basket on her arm that she had had the previous week when Nina and she had spoken on the street in front of the grocer’s. She might have been wearing the same dress. All Evangelique’s clothes looked very much alike to Nina.
Evangelique didn’t want a cup of tea or a glass of water. She perched on the violet velvet sofa and said, “I stopped by to thank you for helping get Cass . . . Cass Brewster . . . that job with Cranston Muller. That was very nice of you when I know you disrespect Cass.”
Nina said, “I just happened to hear Cranston say he wanted to redo the attic of his house, and I thought it was just mean-spirited of me not to mention Cass. He does do excellent work. And it’s unlikely that he will depart half-finished as Cranston is not a woman.”
“Poor Emmeline Wainwright,” Evangelique murmured. She pronounced it “Wainrich,” of course. Nina said nothing. “I have a special reason to be interested in Cass,” Mme. LeBrun went on.
Again, Nina said nothing. “It is what you suspect. And then again, it is not what you suspect. I had a little affaire with Cass several years ago, and who hasn’t around Cornichons?”
“I haven’t,” Nina said.
“But, of course, you have that husband. Si beau. Magnifique.” Evangelique’s eyes glazed over slightly. Nina thought that Monsieur LeBrun must be really wretched in bed.
Madame LeBrun went on, her eyes lowered toward her basket. Chicken today, Nina thought. “I had the very poor judgment to let Cass take some photos of the two of us together. He had this new kind of camera. I am perhaps too proud of my body. At any rate, Monsieur LeBrun would not be at all happy to see these pictures. He would not divorce me. This is France. But he would be concerned that others would see them. I’m sure you understand.”
“Very well. Cass probably has quite a nice collection. Stuck up around his bathroom mirror. And nobody is going to sue him for not finishing his work with his little collection.”
“You are quick. American women usually do not understand these things. And they are so quick to divorce.”
Nina came over to the sofa and hugged Evangelique, who did not respond particularly but who stood up, shook her skirts out, and moved toward the door. “I thought we should know each other that much better,” she said. And left.
And now Nina was standing beside Cass at a cocktail party being held for Cranston Muller by the village of Cornichons at the hotel. Mme. LeBrun had been radiant in a pale blue silk dress at the door, standing beside her husband, the mayor. Short and in brown. No one looks good in brown Nina noted as she entered with Graham, Hugo, and Steve. “Three!” Madame LeBrun had exclaimed as they entered. “Three handsome men! How lucky you are.”
“I’m not sleeping with all of them,” Nina said.
“Let me guess which one,” Madame said, which Nina thought was very quick for a French person. Once they entered they were soon swirled away in separate directions. Cass looked quite handsome in a white linen jacket and a deep tan. He said to Nina without even saying hello, “I’ve always wanted to fuck you.”
Nina said very evenly, “I don’t suppose there are many women here this evening you could say that to.”
Cass looked around. “Nope, you are by far the most attractive.”
“I meant that most of them you already have.”
“Tu exagere,” Cass said in French. “You exaggerate. I was thinking that if you weren’t interested in adultery perhaps we could make it a threesome with your husband. I understand that he’s used to that kind of thing.”
“From whom do you understand that?” Nina asked. She took some stuffed egg and a bit of salmon on toast from a tray that was passing under her nose.
“Not from whom, from what,” Cass said, helping himself to the same tray. “I ran across some videos the other day. From the United States. Your husband has had some interesting jobs.”
“I’d have to see some proof of that,” Nina said, turning away.
“I could bring them around some evening. If you’re interested.”
“Oh, I’m very interested. Perhaps we could invite Emmeline Wainwright and her husband, too, and make it a fivesome.”