MAS HIVERT, FERRALS-LES-CORBIÈRES—TWO DAYS LATER
Lia coasted down the drive to Rose and Domènec’s house, sighing when she saw it already crowded with cars. She’d avoided large gatherings, preferring the isolation of Le Pèlerin, the anonymity of wandering alone in cities and citadels, or the comfort of Rose’s company, where nothing had to be explained to be understood.
She’d almost canceled today. The ordeal in Carcassonne had exhausted her courage. Lia had spent the next day bundled in a sweater and sweats, curled under blankets on the sofa before the fire, hands wrapped around a mug of tea; she couldn’t get warm or breathe deeply enough. She replayed the scene in the basilica over and over, bewildered that she hadn’t fought back, unable to make sense of the conflicting emotions of panic at being trapped and trust in the stranger who’d held her.
But this was the Hiverts’ annual midwinter fete, their last chance to relax and unwind with friends and family before the round of obligatory wine conventions, followed by spring’s intense work in the vineyard, consumed their days until summer. There was no question but that she would be there—she was family.
Winter had returned overnight. There was a silvery tinge to the sky, and the air shimmered with frost. As she walked around the house to the kitchen door, the first cool feathers of snow floated down. Her heart soared, and despite her urge to run from the gathering, Lia felt festive and hopeful.
The kitchen was warm and alive with cooking and children. A roasted goose rested on top of the stove, the golden-brown skin of one leg poking from underneath the loose cover of foil. Etta James crooned from speakers mounted high in the wall. A young woman Lia didn’t recognize sat in the corner nook coloring with Joël, Esmé, and two other toddlers.
“Did you see that?” Lia set a basket on the counter filled with her homemade chocolate chip cookies, a bag of Italian-roast coffee beans, a bouquet of hothouse flowers, and a bottle of single malt Scotch.
“See what?” Rose was pitting a bowl of Lucques olives, but she tilted a cheek to receive Lia’s kiss.
“Snow!” Lia said the magic word, and the children popped up in their seats to peer out the windows into the frosty yard.
“Snow!” they squealed in unison, clapping their hands and bouncing on their sturdy, squat legs.
“Where is everyone?” Lia opened the glass door of an antique cherry cupboard and retrieved a vase from within.
“The men are out hunting,” Rose said. “They stayed up until the wee hours drinking, but they were up before dawn to scare away pheasants and wild turkeys with their hangovers. I predict within an hour of dinner, they’ll all be snoring on sofas.”
Lia set the vase—now full of salmon-pink, crimson-red, and cream Gerbera daisies—in the center of the kitchen table and opened her arms to the children’s warm bodies. Esmé curled her tiny limbs around Lia’s, sinking into her hip, while Joël stood on the seat of his chair and clasped her free arm, eager to show off his coloring book.
“Hello, I’m Lia,” she said to the young woman whose arms were full of two toddlers begging to go outside to play in the falling snow.
“Hello,” the teen replied, disentangling a small fist from her hair. “Do you remember me? I’m Céline Hivert, Domènec’s niece. This is my brother, Jack.” She tugged her braid free from the small boy’s clutch and smoothed the silky brown hair of a cherub-cheeked girl beside her. “And our cousin, Charlotte.”
“Céline?” Lia had last seen her two years before, when Céline was a shy adolescent. She’d blossomed into a lithe teenager in the way that French girls seemed to enter adulthood: wise to the world, already confident in their beauty and charm. Her and Jack’s father was Domènec’s brother, Jean-Luc. And baby Charlotte was the daughter of Domènec’s sister, Marie.
Seeing this small tribe of children and the gracious Céline tore at Lia’s heart. Here was a family, complete—siblings and cousins, fostered by loving aunts and uncles and grandparents. It was a joy she and Gabriel had once hoped for.
“Céline is our angel.” Rose broke her pensive moment with a slam of the oven door. “The kids adore her, and thank God, they obey her.”
Céline stood to give Lia a kiss hello, but further conversation was impossible in the din of the children’s voices. Lia helped her dress the squirming brood in parkas, hats, gloves, and tiny Wellington boots and watched as they ran shrieking outside and snatched at the falling snow, Céline close behind.
Once the kitchen was empty of joyful noise, Rose sighed and slipped into English. “We’ve got a full house.”
“I’ve been preparing myself for the onslaught,” said Lia. “But I’m not certain I’m ready for this.”
“If you need a break, you know you can walk away. Your room is ready.”
“Just keep me busy.” She squeezed Rose’s arm in gratitude. “What can I do?”
Rose showed her a mound of bread dough resting on the counter. “Do you mind tackling the knead? I assembled the dough but realized I need to make the gravy.”
“I’m your girl,” Lia replied, relieved to have a task to busy her hands and quiet the nervous chatter in her mind. “Remind me again who will be here,” she said as she washed her hands.
“Well, you know Jean-Luc and Jacqueline and the kids. Marie wasn’t certain if Paul would come—things have been touchy for them lately. I think he’s really trying, but it’s tense. Poor little Charlotte, she wants to please them both.” Rose paused and snipped off a trio of bay leaves from a tiny potted plant on the counter. “Domènec’s parents…where are they? Napping, probably. Greta and Nicolas from the village. Do you remember them from the party we had two summers ago—” She stopped and looked up with a stricken face. That summer’s night was the last time they’d all been together before Gabriel died.
“Rose. You don’t have to watch what you say around me. Any memory of Gabriel is a good one.”
Rose nodded, but her eyes shone with tears.
Lia kept the conversation going. “I remember Nicolas was besotted with a blond Danish goddess who towered over him by at least a foot. They’re still together?” Tacky bread dough coated her hands. She continued to gather the pile in a heap, beginning the process of transforming the sticky mess into a silken ball.
“Yes, and getting married in the summer, despite our best efforts to change his mind. She hates getting dirty, for Chrissake. Marrying a farmer.”
Lia pressed the heel of her hand into the dough and pushed away. “So that’s everyone?” she asked, trying to sound nonchalant. And failing.
“No, honey,” Rose replied. “Raoul came out this morning to join the hunting crew.” She glanced at Lia, watching for a reaction.
Shaking her head, Lia heaved an exaggerated sigh and winked at Rose. They fell silent, lost in their tasks and thoughts. Nina Simone began singing “O-o-h Child,” and they sang along, Rose’s contralto harmony sliding beneath Lia’s soprano melody.
Lia’s hands fell into that familiar, ancient rhythm of knead, gather, quarter turn, knead. She thrust the heel of her hand forward, over and over, sweat collecting around her hairline. Shaking out her arm, she switched sides and began again. She caressed the dough into a ball and set it inside a large ceramic bowl, rolling it gently in the olive oil that had pooled at the bottom. As Lia placed a linen towel over the top, commotion erupted outside the kitchen door.
Laughter and shouting preceded the hunting party’s entrance. Thumps and thuds followed as they removed their muddy boots, heavy flannels, and down jackets in the outer room. Domènec entered the kitchen with a brace of pheasants in his hand and a triumphant smile on his windburned face.
“The men have returned. We will not starve,” he announced.
Jean-Luc and Nicolas followed, shaking snow from their hair and rubbing their chilled hands. They greeted the women with kisses and apologies for their muddy clothes, now steaming in the warmth of the kitchen, releasing aromas of tobacco, burning leaves, sweat, and a hint of Cognac. Being surrounded by these men who were so vibrant with life stung Lia with acute loneliness.
“You are not cleaning those in here.” Rose stood with arms akimbo. Domènec, holding the birds behind his back, leaned in and kissed her full on the mouth. “Arrête—stop!” She melted into a smile.
Jean-Luc took the pheasants, insisting he was the only one who could clean them correctly. He collided with two more men on his way out the door. From the tangle of tired limbs emerged Domènec’s brother-in-law, Paul.
Behind Paul stood a man with his head tipped back in easy, full laughter. The kitchen’s bright light revealed a scar, partially covered by a shadow of stubble, that ran from his hairline to the corner of his mouth. This was the scarred face that had flared like a candle flame in her window on winter solstice. This was the man who had led Lia through her own personal hell in Carcassonne’s basilica and then disappeared.
Lia watched the scene before her as if from a distance—voices faded, motion slowed. “My God. It’s you.”
In the commotion, no one heard her whisper.
Then the man’s brown eyes met hers and widened, and the laughter emptied from his voice and face.