shocked to learn her mother chose not to tell anyone about Clothilde’s burial and instead let everyone believe her body had been stolen would be something of an understatement. Still, she handles the situation incredibly well.
We spend a couple of awkward minutes with Pradel while his wife runs upstairs to pack a suitcase and Evian jots down the contact information for both Jean-Marie Blanchard and Delphine Redon. Pradel is subdued enough to not even comment on the fact that the police officers are waiting for his wife as if they’re afraid he would harm her if they weren’t present.
It’s not for her physical safety that they stay. It’s to make sure her mental state is sufficient to get her where she needs to go tonight and then take care of herself. The first shock needs to wear off.
Evian offers to drive Joséphine to her mother’s house and Joséphine accepts. With a surprisingly small suitcase in the trunk, Doubira drives past fields and through villages, until we reach what I assume was Clothilde’s childhood home.
During the entire drive, Clothilde sits almost on her sister’s lap in the back seat, never taking her eyes off the older woman’s face. I think she’s worried she’ll never see her again—and it is a real possibility, so I let her connect as much as she can with her sister while she has the chance.
She whispers soothing words in Joséphine’s ear, tells her she loves her, that she’s a strong, independent woman who doesn’t need a husband to be happy, that she’s proud of what she did.
And that it’s okay she never visited her grave in the cemetery.
This is when a tear streaks down Joséphine’s cheek.
I can’t form a real opinion of Clothilde’s childhood home, other than to say it looks like a decent place to raise a family. It’s in the same village where our old cemetery lies—and doesn’t that make the fact Clothilde never had any visitors sting—one of five almost identical three-or-four bedroom houses at the end of a cul-de-sac. The house itself seems well-maintained even though the garden has clearly been left to run wild since her mother passed away some months ago, possibly a little longer.
Joséphine doesn’t invite the officers inside and Evian doesn’t even exit the car. Doubira gets out to help with the suitcase. It’s closing in on eight o’clock at night and everyone’s had a long day. Evian also received a text message while Doubira was driving and she keeps turning her phone back on to re-read it.
I’d be worried it was bad news from the police station, but I don’t think that would make the captain blush. It’s probably personal, so I refrain from leaning forward to read over her shoulder.
Doubira offers to take the car back to the police station and drops Evian off in front of her building on the way. I can tell she’s exhausted and grateful to her colleague for this little kindness.
She stands on the sidewalk and tips her head back to look up at her balcony with a sigh. With another glance at her phone, she seems to steel herself and pushes the front door open.
“Is she not happy to be home?” Clothilde says as we quickly slide inside after Evian, to avoid being sucked through the door once it closes.
These are the first words she’s uttered since we waved goodbye to Joséphine. I think she might be feeling a little emotional, which is a very un-Clothilde way to feel, so I don’t pry. If she needs to talk about it, she knows she can come to me. If she wants to pretend everything is normal, that’s fine with me too.
“I don’t think her day is quite over yet,” I reply while we follow Evian up the stairs. Even when she seems too tired to stay on her feet, she chooses the stairs over the elevator. Our captain has a problem with small, closes spaces for some reason.
My suspicions are confirmed when Evian steps past her own door and knocks on her neighbor Amina’s door instead. Three rapid taps and she takes a step back, clasps her hands behind her back and seems to take a calming breath.
Clothilde slides close to Evian, her head cocked and her brows drawn together. She’s about to say something when Amina tears open the door with a bang, making all three of us jump.
“Hi!” Amina all but yells. “You got my message. Sorry about the abrupt door opening, I’m in the middle of cooking.” Without waiting for any kind of reply from Evian, she darts back into her apartment, and leaves the door open for Evian to follow.
Evian lets out a breath it seems she’s been holding for a while, briefly closes her eyes, and steps through the door.
Clothilde’s curiosity seems completely piqued—I’m wondering how long it’s going to take her to catch on.
At least it keeps her mind off her sister.
The layout of Amina’s apartment is the mirror of Evian’s. And that’s where the similarities end. Where Evian’s place is stark and empty, Amina’s is shot through with color and lots of shelves filled with books and various decorations. Tonight, the kitchen doesn’t have a single empty surface, with pots and pans and salad bowls occupying every available space. Even the pots are red, and the salad bowl green.
Evian stops just inside the living room door, taking in the loudness of the room and its occupants.
Amina isn’t cooking alone. While the pretty and ever-smiling neighbor leans over to smell whatever sauce she’s cooking, my mother is at the cutting board, slicing tomatoes into precise, thin pieces. They are clearly going into the green salad bowl with the mozzarella cheese and I can see the dressing is ready to be poured over it.
I’m hit with such a strong feeling of nostalgia, for a moment I don’t know what to do with myself.
This was my mom’s signature starter. If she didn’t have anything else to whip up, she always had a stash of tomatoes and mozzarella somewhere to save her from the horror of serving dinner without starters. I must have eaten that dish thousands of times growing up.
“This was my son’s favorite,” my mom says to Evian by way of greeting. “He was always the one to finish the bowl on this one. Would have licked it clean if I’d let him. I could always tell when he’d had a bad day and needed his comfort food.”
She sends Evian a smile that hits me right in the gut because it’s the one she used to wear when she closed the door to my room as she said good night when I was a boy. “I was feeling nostalgic and Mademoiselle was generous enough to allow me into her kitchen.”
Clothilde is looking at me but I can’t tear my eyes away from my mother to make out her expression. I don’t really care what she thinks about this anyway.
She made the tomato and mozzarella salad for me? It wasn’t just the easy solution on difficult days?
Suddenly, I’m wondering if I’d projected my bad days onto her, and assumed her choice of dish was based on her own needs, and not mine.
I don’t really know what to do with this information so I simply walk over and kiss my mother on the cheek. “Thanks, Maman. I appreciate it.”
And now I really wish I could eat real food. Watching the living people eat my favorite comfort food is going to be rough.
Evian is still hovering in the doorway, as awkward as I’ve ever seen her. My mother’s words seem to ground her somewhat, though, probably because it allows her to focus on something other than her pretty neighbor.
“I’m sure your son would appreciate it, Madame,” she says sincerely. “It’s a nice gesture.” She glances around the room. “I take it the two of you got along well enough today?”
“Oh, we’ve had a grand time!” Amina gushes from her spot by the stove, making Evian’s blush flare back up.
“I had to go to work this morning, of course,” she says and waves her wooden spoon in what I assume is the direction of her workplace. “But I got back for lunch, and Madame Villemur showed me her recipe for home-made pie crust.” She winks at Evian. “There’s going to be apricot pie for dessert.”
Evian, poor thing, doesn’t know how to react to the wink. She’s frozen in place, her arms clearly itching to assume their parade rest position behind her back, and the gulp from her swallowing would have been audible to the other living people in the room if it wasn’t for the kitchen fan running on full blast.
Clothilde seems to finally be catching on. She looks from Evian, to Amina, and back again. She sees Evian’s nervousness, the blush she’s unable to keep off her cheeks, and possibly the rapidly beating pulse on her neck.
“Really?” she says, leaning in to study Evian with unrestrained curiosity.
“Why not?” I say, keeping an eye on Evian, hoping Clothilde isn’t adding to her nervousness. Being poked at by a ghost might not be ideal when you’re nervously talking with your crush.
Eyes still on Evian, Clothilde straightens. She seems to be reevaluating her thoughts about the woman, but from her expression I’d say it’s all in Evian’s favor.
“Why not, indeed,” she finally says. With a grinning glance at Amina, she leans in to whisper into Evian’s ear. “Excellent choice, Emeline. But now you need to step up your game. Let me know if you want help.”
Oh, God. “Don’t ‘help’ her, Clothilde. That’s never going to be a good idea.”
Grinning from ear to ear, Clothilde throws herself onto Amina’s red couch. “We’ll see.”
Evian seems to decide to ignore the wink—which is probably a good idea, I get the feeling Amina is naturally this expressive, although that doesn’t mean she isn’t interested in our favorite captain—and falls back on good manners.
“Is there any way I can help? Perhaps set the table?”
“That would be great, thank you!” Amina practically bubbles over with enthusiasm and even I would have blushed if I’d still had a body with blood running through it if I’d had that megawatt smile directed my way. It makes her green eyes light up in the most distracting way.
Amina shows Evian where the various dishes are and Evian sets to work.
Clothilde follows every movement from her spot on the couch, and the glint in her eyes doesn’t bode well for Evian’s evening.
Matchmaking Clothilde. Now there’s something I’ve never seen before.
God save us all.