La Halée

On the Saturday, Lucie came to pick me up at ten.

“You're getting some fresh air,” she decreed on the doorstep, the keys of the Fiat in her hand. “Doctor's orders. Well, a doctor's. Well, mine. You can't spend your convalescence watching strawberries grow, you'll end up talking to them.”

Antoine was in the greenhouse. He had left before dawn and hadn't come back up. Since the night of the storm, he hadn't said a word to me about the kiss, and I hadn't either. He had left a two-line note on the table, next to the coffee maker, about the generator. Not a word about the night before.

I left a note on the oak table: Gone out with Lucie. Namur. Back for dinner. I wedged it under the red tea caddy.