Two Summers

“Bonjour, Summer!”

Bernice, the silver-haired, flour-dusted woman behind the counter, greets me with a smile as I step inside the bakery. The bell over the door chimes.

“Bonjour, Bernice,” I reply, breathing in the sweet smell of rising dough.

Without having to ask, Bernice promptly reaches into the glass display case and takes out a fresh golden-brown pain au chocolat for me.

Why does this kindly French bakery lady know my name, and my order? Because for the past week, I have followed an unshakable morning routine:

Wake up stiff-necked after a night of restless sleep (I haven’t yet adjusted to the time difference, or the narrow twin bed). Steal downstairs, praying not to bump into Eloise (who is usually still sleeping). Pass through the kitchen, where I exchange bonjours with Vivienne (who is usually getting ready to go paint in the barn). Then, cross the street to the bakery, where I purchase what has become my favorite new breakfast.

Now Bernice hands over the pain au chocolat in its white paper sleeve.

“Ça va?” she asks me brightly as I fish in my shorts pocket for euros.

Though I haven’t exactly mastered the language, I have, thanks in part to Bernice, learned a few useful French phrases. I know that “Ça va?” means “How’s it going?” and that the appropriate answer, funnily enough, is “Ça va,” which means “All is well.”

“Ça va,” I echo, giving Bernice a weak smile, along with the euros. There’s no need for her to know that, in fact, not all is well.

It’s been a long, lonely stretch of days since I’ve arrived in Les Deux Chemins. Dad is still in Berlin, and I feel like I’ve been holding my breath, waiting for his return. His house, while charming, has a coldness, almost a creepiness, to it. Maybe because of the people who are staying there.

Eloise, when she’s not sleeping, crying in the shower (I’ve heard her doing that twice now), or dashing off to her art class and dinners with friends, continues to be the worst. She stalks around in her stylish sundresses, slamming doors, huffing, and eyeing me with the disgust usually reserved for rodents. Sometimes, if I’m, say, eating in the kitchen and she’ll walk by, I’ll catch her staring at me—in an intense, scrutinizing way that’s unnerving. If I meet her gaze, she’ll look away.

Vivienne is worlds nicer than her daughter (granted, that’s a pretty low bar). She seems sympathetic to my sorry situation, and asks me every morning how I’m doing: am I sleeping well? (no); am I eating well? (yes). It’s Vivienne, I know, who keeps the fridge and pantry well-stocked: I’m always able to find tasty cheeses and little jars of yogurt, cans of sardines, and fresh sliced fruit. Last night, I came upon a small glass tub of something called “tapenade” that turned out to be a delicious paste made of crushed olives. I’d spread it onto a hunk of bread and called that dinner.

I’d been hoping that Vivienne and I might have a meal together—or at least another hot-cocoa chat. But, for all Vivienne’s politeness, I sense an aloofness from her. She’s forever going out to eat, or dashing off to paint in the barn, or whispering on the phone in the living room. So I’ll eat my lunch and dinner quickly, and alone, at the old oak table. Which has made me feel pretty invisible. Almost like a ghost.

I’ve taken to holing up in my medieval chamber, wishing my phone worked and reading my South of France guidebook, underlining the places I want to visit. Like the Riviera: a string of glamorous beaches not far from here. And most of all, Galerie de Provence, the gallery outside of town where Dad’s portrait of me hangs. But I don’t actually go anywhere, except for the barn studio and, occasionally, Boulevard du Temps. And, of course, the bakery.

“Merci,” I tell Bernice, opening the door with my pain au chocolat in hand. The bell chimes again. “Au revoir!”

“Au revoir, Summer!” she calls back, and I can tell she gets a kick out of the novelty of my name.

I think of Cute Waiter Jacques—how he, too, found my name amusing—and my heartbeat quickens as I step out into the sunshine. Jacques’s note is still buried in my tote bag; I haven’t dared call the number he left me. On my rare trips to Boulevard du Temps, I have dared to stroll past Café des Roses, my pulse pounding while I tried hard to look nonchalant. But I never once spotted Jacques there, waiting tables. Maybe his parents banished him to dishwashing for good. Or maybe I dreamed him up completely.

Crossing Rue du Pain, I pluck the pain au chocolat from its paper sleeve and take a bite. Buttery flakes of pastry and hunks of dark chocolate fill my mouth. Mmmm. If I were in Hudsonville, I’d be having dry Cheerios right now.

Well, no—not now, I remind myself. It’s six hours earlier in Hudsonville. I imagine the peach pre-dawn sky stretching over the hushed houses and the gray river. I picture Ruby in her room, sleeping beneath her colorful tapestries. Then I feel a pang of disquiet, thinking of Ruby’s email from last night.

I push the thought aside and push open the gate that leads into Dad’s garden. The lemon trees cast shade over the stone benches, and the rows of lilacs emit their fragrant scent. The overgrown grass tickles my calves as I walk past the pool.

My second day here, I eagerly put on my bathing suit and hurried into the garden, only to have my hopes crash. The pool’s shiny blue surface is a trick—its bottom tiles are all scummy. Mom would roll her eyes and say that was just like Dad, to have a pool for status but never keep it clean enough to swim in.

Not that I’ve told Mom about the pool. Or, you know, about Dad’s absence. A surge of anxiety tightens my throat, and I half choke on a piece of pain au chocolat. Mom has been emailing me every day, asking if I’m okay and also if Dad would please call her already. She must sense that something is up. I’ve written back to assure her that all is well (“Ça va!”) and that Dad and I are busy. But the lying is starting to make me feel sick and knotted-up inside. I’m not sure how much longer I can go without breaking.

“Non!”

The annoyed shout comes from inside the house. I stop in the middle of the garden and peer up at the green shutters. I can’t see anything, but I do hear another raised, female voice, speaking in French. Eloise and Vivienne, I realize. They’re fighting. They must be in Vivienne’s room, which is at the end of the second floor, and, like mine, faces the garden. Vivienne always keeps her door shut, and her curtains are drawn now, too.

I stand still, listening, wondering what the fight is about. After a moment, though, the voices die down, so I resume walking.

I pass the rosebushes, and the sunflowers, and finally arrive at the red barn. I swallow the last of my pain au chocolat and wipe the crumbs off my mouth before opening the creaky door.

Dad’s studio is spacious and airy, with rough-hewn wood floors and sunbeams slanting in through the skylight. It smells strongly of paint and turpentine, which is how Dad’s clothes always smelled. I smile at the memory, as I do every time I come in here.

There are easels set up around the room, and stacks of sketch pads, and containers full of paintbrushes and charcoals. It feels like an artist’s haven, and I guess it is; in addition to Vivienne, various paint-stained women and men pop in regularly, claiming an easel and wordlessly working. Today, though, only Monsieur Pascal is here, wielding his paintbrush and studying his canvas.

Monsieur Pascal is approximately ninety-nine years old, and very cranky. Vivienne explained to me that he’s a famous artist who lives in Les Deux Chemins, though she didn’t introduce us, which I didn’t mind. I did, however, realize that Monsieur Pascal is the elderly man standing with the rosebushes in Dad’s painting, the one that hangs in the living room here. I recognized his gray beard and straw hat.

I keep quiet as I walk past Monsieur Pascal toward the far corner of the barn, where there is a small desk alongside several big cardboard boxes. This is where I work, although I’m not doing any painting or drawing, of course. I am fulfilling my duties as Dad’s “summer assistant.”

Over the weekend, Dad emailed me from Berlin to apologize (for the millionth time) and to say that, since I was asking, and if I really wanted to, I could start organizing his papers and sketches in his studio. So, for the past few days, I have been doing just that. It’s no easy task—Dad’s desk was strewn with receipts, email printouts, old tubes of paint, notes scribbled on index cards. And his sketches are all stuffed haphazardly into the boxes. I guess I inherited my messy tendencies from Dad.

But to my surprise, I have found it satisfying to turn his chaos into order. I cleared off his desk, wiped the dust with a rag, made labels for the file folders inside the desk drawers, filed the loose papers.

Who am I? I think now as I survey the spotless desk. It’s like another Summer has taken over.

I sit cross-legged on the cool wood floor and turn my attention to one of the big boxes of sketches. Dad told me that he had all his old sketches shipped here from Paris for the summer, to use as inspiration.

As Monsieur Pascal’s paintbrush makes soothing swish-swish sounds, I lean forward and flip through the large sheaves of drawing paper. Some sketches are only smudged charcoal silhouettes; they remind me of a photograph that comes out blurry on the first try. Others, like a woman standing in the distance on a beach, are a bit more detailed.

Then I come upon a sketch that looks familiar: a mailman pushing his cart down a tree-lined city street. It takes me a minute to realize that the colorful, painted version of this sketch hangs in the Whitney Museum in New York City. Ruby and I went there over winter break, and I’d felt immensely proud, seeing Dad’s painting on the wall and the official placard beside it: THE DELIVERER, BY NED EVERETT, OIL ON CANVAS.

It looks like there’s something written on the back of the sketch, so I turn the paper over. Afternoon Mailman, 53rd Street, Manhattan, Dad has scrawled there, along with the date: seven years ago, when I was nine. Pre-divorce. I picture Dad back then, taking the train down to New York City and sketching various passersby. I guess he eventually decided The Deliverer sounded more artsy than Afternoon Mailman.

I continue flipping through the sketches, and find one that makes me smile. It’s a charcoal rendering of an old man in a straw hat standing between two rosebushes: the sketch version of the Monsieur Pascal painting. On the back, Dad wrote: Claude Pascal, Les Deux Chemins. The date is from last summer.

I realize that the rosebushes are from the garden here. I glance across the studio at the real Claude Pascal, and then back down at Dad’s handwriting. It’s so cool to get a glimpse of how my father works, to learn that he draws a sketch first, and then creates his painting based off that. It feels, in some modest way, like I’m growing closer to him, even though he is still far away.

Creeaaak.

The noise startles me, and I look up to see the barn door opening. Vivienne storms inside, her face flushed, clutching her paintbrush. She’s wearing a silky white blouse with paint-spattered cuffs, and her reddish hair is in its usual low ponytail. She doesn’t acknowledge Monsieur Pascal, or me. She probably doesn’t even see me; I am sitting obscured by the boxes.

A second later, someone else storms through the door—Eloise. It’s clear that she’s followed her mother in here, and that neither of them is very happy. In fact, Eloise is crying—tears glisten on her cheeks and her mouth quivers. It’s super irritating that she looks pretty even now. From behind the boxes, I watch as she and Vivienne stand facing each other. I remember how I heard their raised voices earlier.

“Maman!” Eloise spits out in a rage, her hands making fists at her sides. “Ne marche pas—loin de—moi.” She’s sobbing, trying to catch a breath between her words. “J’en peux plus! Elle—”

“Arrête!” Vivienne snaps. She shuts her eyes and rests her fingertips against her forehead. “Il n’y a rien que je peux faire,” she adds, sounding drained and exhausted.

I try to remain motionless in my hiding spot. Even with my newly acquired French skills, I have no idea what Vivienne and Eloise are saying. But it’s fairly obvious that they’re having a major argument. Again, I recall fighting with Mom before I left home. I wonder if we looked the same—frustrated mother, daughter in tears.

Eloise lets out another sob and starts to say something else, when Monsieur Pascal turns away from his easel. He scowls at Eloise and Vivienne, as if they should know better than to disturb the master at work.

Looking embarrassed, Vivienne walks over to him and says “Pardon!” plus more French words that must be apologies. Meanwhile, Eloise stands still, sniffling and wiping her wet cheeks with the heels of her hands.

What were they fighting about? I’m so curious, and I don’t even know why I’m so curious. I guess I don’t have a lot going on in my own life right now, so it’s interesting to peek in on someone else’s.

As Vivienne talks to Monsieur Pascal by his easel, Eloise gazes forlornly around the studio. I feel a reluctant twinge of sympathy toward her, and then—

She looks right at me, her eyes widening.

I freeze.

She can see me? I thought I was hidden by the boxes! Not for the first time, I have the sense that Eloise is sort of otherworldly. Spooky.

She glares at me, her face chalk-white and her lips in a line. I watch in horror as she starts marching toward me. The sunlight shines on her golden curls and her lace-edged white dress, making her look deceptively angelic. I hug my knees to my chest and try to shrink into myself. Disappear.

“What are you doing here?” Eloise demands, towering over me. In spite of my fear, I notice how seamlessly she is able to switch from French to perfect English. I’m a little jealous. “Were you listening?” she presses, her eyes bugging out of her head. “Were you spying on us?”

Okay, I guess I was sort of spying, but not intentionally. And, I realize as I peer up into Eloise’s frantic face, I have every right to be here. I feel a flash of righteous anger. This is my father’s house! I may be adrift and disoriented, my only friend in this country may be Bernice the bakery lady, but that doesn’t mean some random bully can steamroll over me. Right?

I lift my chin, twisting the woven bracelets on my wrist, thinking of Ruby. Then I think of Skye Oliveira, and that gives me enough fuel to get to my feet and rise up to my full height, which is a couple inches taller than Eloise.

“I was here first,” I tell her, surprised by the strength in my own voice. I gesture down to the boxes. “Going through my dad’s sketches. You came in from nowhere with all the drama about who knows what.” My hands are trembling, so I clasp them together.

Eloise’s cheeks turn scarlet, and she jerks her head down to look at the boxes. Then she glances up at me, and for no discernible reason, her eyes fill with tears again. I wonder if she’s one of those cruel people who are incongruously thin-skinned: the very definition of being able to dish it out but not take it.

“You’re wrong,” she snaps at me. “You have it backward.”

I frown at her, confused. I can feel that my own face is flushed, and that my throat is tight. But I’m more annoyed than hurt. It’s all frothing up inside me: the burden of lying to Mom, the recent weirdness with Ruby, the loneliness of the past week …

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I blurt. “And I don’t know what you have against me.” Eloise blinks, and I’m shocked myself. I’m not used to speaking so plainly to anyone. But I keep going, wondering if this is a new Summer, like the one who cleaned Dad’s desk. “From the day I arrived,” I hear myself saying, “you have been nothing but rude to me, and I never did anything to you.”

I clasp my hands together even tighter. Eloise’s mouth opens slightly, and now I can’t read her expression—is she surprised? Angry? Regretful? Maybe some combination of all three? The notion of her apologizing seems impossible.

Before Eloise can speak, though, Vivienne is hurrying over to us, flapping her hands like she wants to wipe away any negativity.

“Pardon—I am sorry, Summer,” she says, looking worriedly from me to Eloise and back again. “I did not realize that you were in the studio. What—what are you two talking about?” Her voice is tight and she is gripping her paintbrush hard.

“Actually, I was just leaving,” I say, which isn’t true, but I’m trembling again and I want to get away from Eloise before I crack and lose any of the composure I’d magically gained moments before. “Excuse me,” I mutter, stepping around the boxes. I head for the barn door with my heart in my throat. Monsieur Pascal has gone back to painting, as if nothing happened.

I rush out into the garden and exhale once more. My hair is getting into my eyes, and I brush it back carelessly. I can hear Vivienne and Eloise inside the barn, speaking to each other, their voices hushed and strained. I hope they’re not planning to stay at Dad’s much longer this summer. Even though the house would be eerie empty, I’d prefer that to the specter of their mysterious issues.

Sighing, I cross through the garden and open the gate. I’ve stopped shaking, but my head is still spinning from my rare moment of bravery. I wipe my sweaty palms against my purple tank top—another Ruby hand-me-down.

I pause next to Dad’s front door, and consider going inside to email Ruby. I could fill her in on what just happened in the barn. But that would also mean responding to her message from last night, and I don’t quite know how to do that. I frown and kick at a pebble beneath my flip-flop.

Ruby’s latest email was an explosion of exclamation marks and all caps, letting me know that she and AUSTIN WHEELER were now DATING.

We went to the movies on Monday and when the spaceship was landing on Earth 2.0, he leaned over the popcorn bag and totally KISSED ME!!!! she’d written in one breathless stream. This is IT—SUMMER OF FALLING IN LOVE, baby!!!

I’d stared at the screen, feeling hollow. I knew I was supposed to write back with exclamation marks of my own, and expressions of excitement and joy. I couldn’t. I’d been the one to leave Hudsonville and yet here was Ruby, leaving me behind again. Falling in love. This was supposed to be my “best summer ever”—the summer I turned sixteen. Once, I’d heard the phrase Sweet sixteen and never been kissed and it had stuck in my head like a drumbeat. Not only had I never been kissed, I’d never had a boy like me. I couldn’t even talk to Hugh Tyson.

As I’d reread Ruby’s email, it struck me that time didn’t care whether or not you were a late bloomer—it continued along at its regular pace, aging you, while you went on unkissed. And others, like your best friend, hurried ahead, right on schedule with their rites of passage.

I turn away from Dad’s house, my chest heavy. The fact that Ruby’s summer love is Austin Wheeler makes the whole situation even worse. Austin is bland and blond—another cog in the popularity machine. He’s buddies with Skye Oliveira, and I can’t help but fear that Ruby is headed in that same direction. Although Ruby hasn’t mentioned Skye in any of her emails, I’ve seen upsetting evidence on Instagram.

Like the photograph Skye posted from her Fourth of July party, of herself and some of her clones posing in her fancy backyard. And there, in the background, wearing a striped dress and chatting with Austin, was a beaming Ruby. It had felt like a stomach punch, seeing that picture.

A few days later, Austin posted a photo of himself, Skye, and Ruby all squished into a booth in Better Latte Than Never—Ruby in her barista’s apron and Skye and Austin drinking iced coffees, everyone grinning like BFFs. Stomach punch number two.

Meanwhile, Ruby and I have been trading benign emails. I’ll tell her about life in Les Deux Chemins, and she’ll tell me about visiting her dad in Connecticut. In typical Ruby fashion, she’ll urge me to not only call up Cute Waiter Jacques (Do it!) but to take photos of him to send to her (Pics or it didn’t happen!). We still sign every email with Love you times two. But something feels different.

I trudge down Rue du Pain, my hands in the back pockets of my shorts. I hate feeling distanced from Ruby. From home. I’m certain that if I were in Hudsonville, everything would be normal. Ruby and I would be honest with each other, like we’ve always been. I’d know all the secrets, have all the answers.

Here, I’ve had to rely on Instagram for answers. It’s not just Ruby, Skye, and Austin I stalk on there. Alice has been posting pictures of her trip to California to visit Inez; they’ve looked relaxed and happy on the beach, as two best friends should. Hugh Tyson—who is not very active on Instagram, but when he does post, it still makes my heart jump a little—posted a photograph of a Nikon DSLR camera, similar to the one Aunt Lydia gave me. His caption read: Summer photography course for the win! I wonder if he’s taking that course in New York City.

I’ve been using my Nikon every day, taking photographs of the lemon trees in Dad’s garden, of the breads and pastries fresh out of the oven at the bakery, of the cupid fountain on the corner. Now, as I turn onto Boulevard du Temps, passing by the fountain, I’m a little sad that I didn’t bring my camera along.

I could have taken a picture of the white stone cathedral, framed against the vivid blue sky. Or the two elderly women sitting on the cathedral steps, sharing a baguette while pigeons peck around their feet. The red sign of the tabac. Café Cézanne, its outdoor tables crowded with people eating lunch in the sun. The clothing boutique, with its display of sherbet-colored ballet flats in the window …

I hesitate in front of the boutique, and something compels me to step inside. I haven’t been shopping since I went to the mall with Ruby in May, to get new flip-flops for my trip. This boutique has polka-dot wallpaper, vintage bags on shelves, perfume bottles on trays, and stylish little dresses hanging on hooks. It would seem out of place at the mall back home, but it feels right for Les Deux Chemins. It also feels right for me to select a filmy, short-sleeved blouse printed with small red flowers—they look kind of like poppies. I take the blouse into a fitting room, where I shed Ruby’s purple tank top.

“Très jolie,” the saleswoman tells me when I emerge to study myself in the full-length mirror.

I understand that she’s saying the top is “very pretty,” and I know it’s her job to say those things. But as I look in the mirror, and pile my untamable hair on top of my head, I have to admit the blouse … is nice. The color brings out the pink in my cheeks, and I like the loose, flowy shape paired with my denim shorts. It’s not something Ruby would wear—she prefers more fitted tops—but maybe that’s okay. Maybe that’s good.

I feel a kind of recklessness, similar to what I felt back in the barn when I stood up to Eloise. In a stammering mix of French and English, I tell the saleswoman I will buy the blouse—I have enough euros in my pocket—and ask her to cut off the tags. A few minutes later, I am outside, wearing the very pretty new blouse and holding Ruby’s tank top balled up in my hand.

The warm afternoon breeze makes the back of the blouse billow. I smile, feeling weightless, floating along the cobblestones. The boulevard is bustling, and as I’m passing Café des Jumelles, I bump against a passerby’s shoulder.

“Excusez-moi,” I say, proud that I went automatically to French.

The passerby is a teenage boy, a couple heads shorter than me, with a mop of curly brown hair and brown eyes. I’m confused when he stops and smiles slowly.

“Bonjour, mademoiselle,” he says to me, an invitation in his voice. “Ça va?”

Wait. My face flames. Can it be that this guy—is he, like, hitting on me?

I think again of the mall back home, how random guys would sometimes say hi to Ruby, grinning at her, as she and I walked between stores. If the guy was cute, Ruby would say hi back, and occasionally they’d exchange numbers. I always stayed silent, the unseen sidekick. No one ever grinned at me or spoke to me, and I was accustomed to that.

I am not accustomed to this.

The brown-eyed boy seems to be waiting for a response. But I’m far too flustered to say “Ça va”—or anything—back to him. So I spin away and continue down the boulevard, my pulse quickening. I do sneak a glance over my shoulder and the boy is still watching me, still smiling. Then he shrugs gamely and walks on.

My heart thuds beneath my new blouse. I don’t get it. Was it the blouse itself that cast some sort of spell, causing a boy to notice me? Maybe it’s something about France, or French boys. After all, there was that interaction I had with Jacques at the café, even if it seems unreal now, and never to be repeated.

Distracted, I find myself turning into the sunlit plaza that hosts the daily farmers’ market. Stalls overflow with cheeses and vegetables, fruits and flowers. Whole fish lie glistening on beds of ice, and bottles of lavender oil and packets of herbs are arrayed on tables. I pause to touch bundles of thyme tied with twigs, wondering if these would be good souvenirs to bring home in August. Not that Mom would necessarily want a reminder of France, and Dad. Not that Ruby would have much use for thyme. I glance down at her tank top in my hand.

I wander through the crowds. Men and women stand haggling with the different sellers, and there’s a pleasant buzz of business all around. I stop at a vegetable stall, admiring a mound of ripe red tomatoes. Maybe I’ll buy one for lunch, along with a wedge of Brie from the cheese stall. I’m reaching into my pocket to see if I have any euros left when I hear a familiar voice behind me.

A boy’s voice.

My heartbeat accelerates again and I turn around.

There, standing by the barrels of olives, talking with the man selling them, is Cute Waiter Jacques. I feel my breath catch as I take in his profile: his high cheekbones and strong nose, his shock of black hair. He’s here. It’s like I conjured him with my thoughts.

I hesitate beside the tomatoes, my heart and mind racing in tandem. I could surrender to my standard shyness and scurry away. Or …

I think of the boy saying Ça va? to me on the street. I remember Ruby’s email about falling in love. I picture Hugh Tyson, off on his photography course, living his life. My new shirt is soft against my skin, and I can smell the herbs and the flowers in the air. Everything conspires in me, and that feeling of recklessness from earlier returns. And before I can continue my inner dance of indecision, I walk right up to Jacques.

“Ça va?” I venture, which seems appropriate.

Jacques glances away from the olives and his dark-blue eyes widen at the sight of me. Butterflies form a colony in my stomach. What am I doing? I ask myself, but it’s too late, I’m already doing it, it’s already happening right now.

“Summer!” Jacques exclaims, his wolfish smile spreading across his face.

He remembers me? He remembers me!

He leans forward, so close to me that I can smell the cologne on his neck, and he kisses me quickly on each cheek. I feel myself blush a deeper red than the flowers on my shirt, than the tomatoes behind me. Suddenly, this cheek-kiss custom doesn’t seem so bad. I stand still in the middle of the busy market, the butterflies frantic in my belly.

Jacques draws back. “One moment, s’il te plaît?” he asks me, and I nod. Now that I’ve taken this initial step, I can wait a moment, an hour, a day, all summer …

I watch as Jacques turns to the olive seller and begins speaking in fast French, gesturing with his hands. I try to breathe normally. The seller scoops a bunch of glossy green olives into a big container and hands it to Jacques.

When the transaction is done, Jacques flashes me a grin. “My parents, they were missing some ingredients at the café,” he explains, “so they sent me here, you see.”

I notice that he is wearing his waiter uniform, but his white shirt is untucked and rumpled, and his black necktie hangs undone around his collar. Somehow, this makes him look even handsomer than the last time we met.

“I see,” I manage to say.

Jacques chuckles. “Alors, Summer,” he says as we walk away from the olive stall, side by side. Our arms brush, and I feel a zap of electricity. “You did not ever call me for French lessons.” His tone is teasing, and his eyes sparkle. “Where have you been?”

My pulse flutters at my throat. “I—” I’m reluctant to explain that I’ve never actually called a boy before. “I don’t have my own phone,” I finally offer, lamely. I explain how my cell doesn’t work here, and Jacques tells me that I can purchase a temporary mobile and a phone card at the tabac. I thank him for the tip, even though, in some ways, it’s been sort of refreshing to be without my phone (once I got past the initial withdrawal).

“Where have you been?” I volley back as we stroll past a stall selling sunflowers. Then I bite my lip, hoping this question hasn’t revealed the fact that I’ve been taking occasional strolls past Café des Roses, on the lookout for him.

Jacques laughs, pushing a hand through his tousled black hair. “Ah. My family and I, we were out of town for a few days,” he replies. “We went to Antibes, on the Côte d’Azur—the Riviera. You know this place?”

“I do!” I exclaim, recalling my South of France guidebook. “I mean, um, I don’t know-know it,” I amend, blushing again. Jacques looks amused. “I’ve never been. But I’ve read about the Riviera. I’d like to go there someday.”

“Oui?” Jacques raises one eyebrow. I’m seized by the terror that he thinks I’m suggesting he take me there. The idea of being on a beach with Jacques, in my swimsuit, makes me want to crawl under the stall of eggplants we are passing now.

“I’d like to go to lots of places,” I babble on, picturing the underlined passages in my guidebook. “There’s Avignon, which has the Palace of the Popes. And the Camargue, where you can see wild horses … ” I’m starting to sound like a guidebook myself. “Oh, and most of all, Galerie de Provence, which is pretty close to here, right?”

“Yes, it is not far,” Jacques says as we maneuver around a family of four who are sampling slices of salami at the meat stall. Jacques glances at me, a smile playing on his lips. “Pourquoi? Why ‘most of all’?” he inquires.

I wonder if I should simply say that I like art, and that it seems a shame to come to France and not visit a museum. Which is all technically true. But the deeper, realer truth, about my portrait and Dad—would that sound like I was boasting?

I settle on something in between. “There’s a painting there I really want to see,” I explain, my eyes on my flip-flops. “By, um, my father. He’s a painter,” I explain.

Jacques looks impressed. “Vraiment, a painter? That is cool,” he says, his accent making the o’s extend in a very cute way. “He is French, your father?”

I shake my head, passing by a stall that’s selling herbed goat cheese. “He’s American, but he lives in Paris, and spends the summers in Les Deux Chemins.” It occurs to me then that maybe Jacques has heard of Dad, or knows him from the town. “His name is Ned Everett?” I venture.

Jacques smiles, giving me an amiable shrug. “I am afraid I am not familiar with any painters of today. But there are always artists living here in Provence. I think perhaps it is because of the beautiful light.” He holds aloft his container of olives; the mellow sunlight turns them golden.

I nod, wishing again that I had my camera. “Like Paul Cézanne, and Vincent van Gogh,” I say. I’m no longer as nervous as I was a few minutes ago. Especially because I’m on familiar ground now; I know artists.

Jacques nods back at me, his dark-blue eyes sparkling as he takes me in. “So you are here, then, visiting your father, Summer?”

His gaze makes my nervousness return. “Sort of,” I reply, hoping to avoid the whole Berlin issue. “I’m staying at his house, on Rue du Pain.” Agh. I cringe, wanting to disappear. What if Jacques thinks I’m inviting him to Dad’s house? Just when I was starting to relax and not feel like a complete freak in front of a boy …

“My parents’ café is closed this Friday,” Jacques says, stopping to survey a pile of peaches. I guess he’s changing the subject, which is a relief. “For le quatorze juillet—sorry, July fourteenth. Bastille Day. You know, France’s Independence Day? It is like your Fourth of July.”

“I know about Bastille Day,” I say with a smile. Thanks to my trusty guidebook.

“But Galerie de Provence, I believe it will be open then,” Jacques goes on, picking up a peach and examining it in the sunlight. “Perhaps we could—”

Oh my God, I think, the butterflies doubling in number, and then a girl calls out, “Jacques!”

I look around, my brain foggy. A tall, model-esque girl with dark skin and brown hair in a short, fashionable pouf, is coming our way, holding hands with a sandy-haired boy in a Phoenix band T-shirt. The boy has a bookbag on his shoulder, and the girl is carrying a large sketch pad under one arm.

I recognize them, but from where? Then it hits me: They’re the couple I saw kissing in front of the cupid fountain my first day here, and the couple I saw with Eloise at Café des Jumelles that first night. They are Eloise’s friends. And they know Jacques?

Tensing up, I whip around and pretend to be deeply absorbed in the peaches. I let my hair fall into my face, hoping it disguises me sufficiently.

I listen to Jacques greeting the couple—he cheek-kisses the girl, and slaps the guy on the back. He calls the girl “Colette”—that’s right; Colette!—and the guy “Tomas.” As the three of them exchange more pleasantries in French, I stare at the peaches, silently imploring Jacques not to introduce me. Thankfully, he doesn’t, and Colette and Tomas don’t linger long. I hear Tomas call “À bientôt!” which I know means “See you later.” Then, carefully, I turn around, gripping a peach in my free fist.

“Those are cool people I have met this summer,” Jacques explains cheerfully; over his shoulder, I see Colette and Tomas trotting away. “They have been coming to the café often, with some other friends from their art class.”

I know, I think, and something solidifies in my mind, something I hadn’t put together before. If Eloise and her art class besties, Colette and Tomas, always go to Café des Roses (when they’re not avoiding me), then Eloise and Jacques know each other.

My stomach falls. If Jacques knows Eloise, he’s surely noticed her beauty. And, as far as I can tell, Eloise, unlike Colette, doesn’t have a boyfriend. I squeeze the peach in my hand. This feeling of possessiveness is foolish; I have no claim on Jacques.

Then Jacques reaches out and gently takes the peach from my grasp. Our fingers touch. I feel my heart give a kick, and all thoughts of Eloise flee.

“Merci, Summer—thank you for choosing this one,” Jacques says, holding up the peach. “It is ripe enough for the dessert my father will make.” He pauses, and then adds, “So, I will pick you up on Friday, and we can go to the gallery on my moped?”

Hold on. What? I stare at Jacques, my blood thrumming in my ears.

“Galerie de Provence?” he prompts, grinning at me. “Shall we go?”

The full implication of his words makes my skin go hot with shock.

Is this a date? A date with a BOY?

Excitement and disbelief swell up in me. I don’t remember how to speak—my tongue is stuck to the roof of my mouth—but I muster up a nod.

I hear Jacques asking for my address, and his voice sounds fuzzy and far off. As I stand there in the middle of the farmers’ market, I realize that today has been full of impossibilities. It’s like I’m in an alternate world, where the regular rules don’t apply.

And, maybe I’m getting way ahead of myself, but I think I now have a response to Ruby’s email.

Hey, BFF, remember how you predicted a French boyfriend for me? Well, let’s just say you might not be the only one with a summer love story …