Jeannette was leaning against the wall near the door. Brett Holliday stood next to her. Jeannette looked miserable and Brett wore the same unreadable expression he always did. Katherine felt guilty for her sharp words to the girl. She made her way toward them, thinking she would try to make it right, but she had barely reached them when J.B.’s voice rang in her ear.
“Well, well, the younger generation has decided to join us. Want a beer, boy? And you, young lady? You probably grew up drinking vino. I read somewhere”—he turned to Katherine with another wink—“French babies are weaned on the stuff.”
Before Katherine could argue, he said, “Just kidding. A soda for the young lady, coming up.”
Jeannette refused to meet Katherine’s gaze, looking down and picking at her nail polish, pink with sparkles tonight, and Katherine couldn’t say anything about her anonymous note with Brett standing there. “Jeannette, I’m thinking of starting the painting of a nymph by a stream, the one where you’d wear that puffy skirt. I’ll pay you, of course,” she added quickly, unwilling to get tangled in Jean’s argument again. When Jeannette looked up, it was at someone else approaching their little group, her father, and his first words made it clear he was in a foul mood.
“Madame,” he said, slurring his words, “I said you leave my girl alone, non?” Of course, he spoke in French, which, along with the volume of his words, meant everyone in the café could hear him now that there was no music. “You think you can ignore a father’s protecting his daughter?”
Brett looked startled and his cheeks got pink. Katherine noticed but was caught up in her own embarrassment at being called out here, with Mme Pomfort and the rest of Reigny as witnesses.
Jean would have said more except that J.B. rejoined the group, holding a couple of bottles in one beefy hand. Katherine realized he had no idea what Jean was saying, but could certainly pick up the tone.
“What’s this now?” he said, thrusting the bottles at his son and Jeannette. “Let’s watch our manners, fella.” He put his hand on Jean’s arm, a mistake. Jean turned around and attempted to punch J.B. in the stomach. Between his off-balance movement and J.B.’s ample padding, it had no practical effect. But it drew every eye to them and caused the Polish contingent to jump up and crowd over to the space by the door, eager to see whatever might happen next.
Mme Pomfort and her friend rose from their seats in unison and hurried past the troublemakers and out the door with their chins high in the air. Katherine flinched at Mme Pomfort’s meaningful look in her direction. There, the town’s social judge seemed to say, you see why we can’t possibly accept you as one of us? You insist on including that family in your circle of acquaintances.
To her surprise, J.B. didn’t seem angry at Jean’s attack. Instead, he roared with laughter, patted Jean on the back a few times, and turned to the bridge construction crew. “Nothing to see here, boys.” They looked confused for a minute. “Drinks all around, on me,” J.B. shouted to the bartender-farmer, whose English improved on the spot. With lots of hand-waving and calling back and forth in several languages, the room settled down and good cheer returned. Penny and Yves took the stage and began their a cappella version of “Will You Love Me Tomorrow,” which was good enough to claim the audience’s attention.
J.B. turned back to the group by the door, which now included Jean, who held on to a fresh glass of something that caught and refracted the light. Brett spoke for the first time. “Dad, I’m ready to go. Are you and Mom finished?”
“Son, the evening is just getting started. Am I right, sweetheart?” he said, talking directly to Jeannette and putting one finger on her forearm. She pushed her curls away from her face and glanced uncertainly at him and then down again.
“Mister,” J.B. said, turning to Jean with a big smile, “you have one lovely young lady here, a real knockout.”
Jean, who wasn’t sure enough of his limited vocabulary to know what the word meant but worried it had something to do with their previous scuffle, said, “Non, non, monsieur. Un malentendu, seulement.”
J.B. rode over his words. “Yes, indeed, a heartbreaker, right, Brett? I know the type.” He turned to Katherine with a chuckle. “Fell for a few of these oh-so-innocent little girls myself back in the day, before my Betty Lou.”
“Really,” Katherine said. “She’s hardly more than a child.” Even as she said it, though, Katherine noticed that Jeannette was wearing a bra you could see through the fabric of her top, pink lip gloss, and a midriff-baring camisole of synthetic lace, perhaps chosen to please Brett. She did look more like a contemporary teenager tonight and less like the unself-conscious free spirit whose open face and mobile expressions delighted Katherine when the girl posed for her.
Suddenly, the sprite pushed away from the wall and, tossing her hair back, said to Katherine, “I am no child, and you do not speak for me. I will not model for you, I don’t care how much you pay. Modeling is boring for me.” She spoke in English, but her tone and the look she gave Katherine were enough to wake her father from his increasing stupor. He muttered to Katherine that she should go away and mind her business.
Her eyes swept the room in embarrassment and she saw Pippa’s expression of keen interest before the young woman averted her eyes. Great, she thought, next thing I know I’ll be a character in a crime novel.
Yves and Penny finished their ballad and there was general applause plus a loud “bravo” from Betty Lou. As they exited stage left, Emile bounded up stage right, accordion pressed to his chest. He began to play a familiar French cabaret song, and many in the room sang along with him, stamping their glasses gently on the tables in rhythm.
J.B. was still touching Jeannette lightly on the arm, looking into her face. Brett was flushed and he obviously didn’t like whatever was happening. He turned abruptly and slammed out of the café door.
This is ridiculous, Katherine thought. J.B. is coming on like a lecher, the girl’s father hasn’t got a clue, and Jeannette is so angry at me that she’s oblivious. Her first impulse was to insist on walking the girl home, but Jeannette only stuck her lower lip out when Katherine tried to get her attention.
Hell with them all, she thought, blood rushing to her head and making her temples pound. She turned and went back to meet Michael. “I’m ready to go,” she said, and he nodded.
No one turned to wish them a good evening as they left except Betty Lou, who waved with her usual absentminded good humor, and J.B., who cocked his head and winked as they passed. “If that man winks at me one more time…” Katherine let her sentence trail off as she and Michael started up the hill in the quiet and dark.
“Give it a break, Kay,” Michael said, tension in his voice. “Let this ride until I’ve finished the recording and the tour, okay? Then, if you don’t like him, you don’t have to see him. I promise.”
“Michael,” she began tentatively, “I know this is a terrible thought, but I can’t help but wonder if J.B. is a little too interested in Jeannette. He talks about her like she’s sexually active, and I’m quite sure she’s not … yet.”
“No way. I’ve known a lot like him, sleazy talk but nothing more. He’s harmless, especially in this tight little community and with that guard dog of a father.”
“Maybe,” she said, “but Jean’s interest in protecting her is more about seeing if she’s worth money to us rich Americans.”
“You don’t mean he’s pimping her?” Michael sounded dubious. She told him about the modeling tempest at the river. “See, that’s what I mean. I doubt he would go further.”
She wasn’t as sure and might have said more, but there was a crackling in the shrubbery in front of Mme Robilier’s house, and Katherine turned to look. Nothing. But there it was again. “Brett?” No answer. Maybe she had imagined it. She was tired and her head hurt. All she wanted was home. If Brett was hiding, it was probably because he was hoping to catch Jeannette for a quick kiss later, or at least that’s what Katherine hoped. Jeannette didn’t want her help or advice. No one did. Fine. She’d paint the scene without a model; she had plenty of experience working from figures in art books if need be.
The dogs stirred themselves, bumping into each other and their humans as Katherine called in the cat and Michael locked up. They had almost fallen asleep when the sounds of a wailing electric guitar reached them, wafting up from the café. “Life in a picturesque little French town,” Michael said into his pillow. Katherine, soothed with a prescription sleeping pill she rarely needed, only made a comforting noise, then fell into sleep.
She needed to get a decent night’s sleep. The vernissage was tomorrow. She had barely finished the last painting in time and was sure the whole affair would be a massive flop. If Penny wasn’t coming, would there be anyone there other than herself and Michael?