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  “What is correct on your farm may not be correct in this house. While you work here, all you need to remember is that what monsieur and I say is correct. And I’m tired of sitting around and doing nothing, Madame Besset, and you will make me very happy if you move to one side so that I can work with you.”

  It was the most authoritative speech Stephanie had made, and Madame Besset’s eyes were wide with surprise. Until now she had felt she worked for the husband, since he was the only one who gave orders. Now she saw that there would be two people to please: a man of strong opinions and a woman who changed with the rain and wind. But the position was good and paid well and so of course Madame Besset would adapt; she came from a line of French farmers and vintners who had learned, through the bloody centuries of Provence’s history, to adapt and adapt again, and survive. She smiled. “You are recovered, Madame Sabrina. I am pleased to see it. And I would find it pleasant to share this task.”

  Madame Besset hummed a folk tune as they emptied the large woven baskets she carried to the market three times a week. The kitchen was cozy and cheerful, with a white tiled floor and white cabinets. The countertops were tiled in red, and so was the large island with a built-in grill, and Stephanie took pleasure in the colors as she and Madame Besset piled up the food they took from the baskets: shiny purple eggplants, oranges, lemons, leeks, russet potatoes, red cabbage, wrinkled black marinated olives, pale green endive, and dark green spinach and chard. All the lights were on, and the food and the copper-bottomed utensils and the jars of jam and vinegar shone brightly against the leaden windows streaming with rain. Stephanie felt a long, slow sense of comfort fill her as she and Madame Besset worked together. I wonder if I had many women friends, she thought as she put away green-gold olive oil and goat cheese wrapped in chestnut leaves. I’m sure I did. I’m sure I had a very close woman friend. Sometimes that’s the best thing of all.

  “Madame will have chicken stew for dinner,” Madame Besset pronounced as she closely examined two pale chickens spread-eagled on the counter, searching for feathers the butcher had overlooked. “And endive salad. Is there anything else madame would like?”

  Stephanie was piling tiny white potatoes in a basket. “I would like it if you would stop calling me madame.”

  “But then what would I call you, madame?”

  “I have a name.”

  “Call you by your given name? Oh, madame, that would be very wrong. It is as I said: I was taught what is correct and what is not correct, and that is most definitely not correct. Your name would be a piece of glue on my tongue. No, madame, it is not possible.”

  Stephanie sighed. “So many rules, so much formality . . .” Two of the potatoes fell to the floor and she bent to retrieve them. “You and Mrs. Thirkell, you’re just the same: so strict with formality . . .”

  “Who, madame?”

  Stephanie stood up. Her eyes were bright. “Mrs. Thirkell,” she repeated.

  “And who is that, madame?”

  “Oh . . . someone I once knew.” She spoke casually, but inwardly she was filled with excitement. Mrs. Thirkell. She must have been a housekeeper, like Madame Besset. Where was that? I don’t know, but it doesn’t matter for now, because I’m remembering. I’m remembering.

  “It does not sound like a French name,” Madame Besset said dismissively. She found a feather and plucked it vehemently. “One cannot trust a butcher these days.”

  Stephanie watched her. “I want to learn to drive,” she said.

  Madame Besset looked up. “Yes, madame.”

  “And I would like you to teach me.”

  “Oh, madame, Monsieur Lacoste would be angry. He would say that that is his responsibility, not mine.”

  Stephanie piled more potatoes into the basket. Max did not want her to leave the house. He found reasons for her to stay at home whenever she suggested an excursion to Cavaillon or the surrounding countryside or even to the Auberge de la Colline, the small café at the far end of their street.

  They had been there once for dinner, seated near the huge open fireplace with its grill jutting over the raised brick hearth, but that was all, only once. But Robert had said it was possible that she would remember more if she saw more. I need to see and hear, Stephanie thought; anything to jog my memory. I’ve got to see more than this house and these gardens; I’ve got to be part of the world. Then the world will come back to me. I’ve got to get away from here. So I have to be able to drive.

  “Ask him, madame,” said Madame Besset gently. “All women drive now. Even the most backward men get used to it.”

  Stephanie laughed. “I will ask him. But he’s not here, and I don’t know for sure how long he’ll be gone, and I’m anxious to start. I want this very much,” she said strongly.

  “Well. It is of course very difficult, living here, so far from town. One does need a car. Well, madame.” She pondered it. “We could begin, and then monsieur, as soon as he returns, would continue. You never drove, madame? At all?”

  I must have driven a car; I must have cooked. Women do those things. But I don’t remember . . . Oh, God, if I could only remember . . . “No,” she said to Madame Besset. “I never learned. But I want to. Right away. This afternoon.”

  “But the rain, madame! It is not the best—”

  “We’ll go slowly. Just up here. Please; it’s very important to me. We won’t drive into Cavaillon today.”

  “I should hope not,” Madame Besset said under her breath. She shrugged. “Well, then, if you will wait just a moment . . .” She dropped the chickens into an iron pot with chopped vegetables and water, threw in a handful of herbs, propped a lid halfway over the pot, and turned on a low flame beneath it. “Now, madame. The chickens cook and we drive.”

  Max had taken the large Renault, leaving a small low-slung Alfa Romeo in the garage. Madame Besset shook her head as she and Stephanie walked past it. “Most definitely not that one.” She opened the garage door and the two of them, wearing slick raincoats and hoods, ran the few steps to Madame Besset’s small Citroën.

  Stephanie sat behind the wheel. “Now, madame,” said Madame Besset, and visibly began to swell with the importance of what she was doing. She sat straighter, her fingers emphatically jabbing. “The key. The clutch. The brake. The gas pedal. The gearshift. The radio. Ignore the radio, madame; you must not be distracted.” She named all the parts of the car, pointed out the five positions for the gearshift, then told Stephanie to turn the key. “Fortunately, I have backed into the driveway, so you have only to drive forward.”

  For the next hour, in the pounding rain, the small Citroen lurched along the main street that circled the plateau above Cavaillon. Stephanie sat rigidly, her hands gripping the wheel, her face set with concentration, lifting her foot too fast or not fast enough, pressing too lightly or slamming the brake or releasing the clutch with a jerk that caused Madame Besset to cry out, turning too sharply on the curves or not sharply enough, yanking the steering wheel to left or right when a tree loomed ahead. But soon the drive became smoother, Stephanie’s movements grew more sure, her body began to relax.

  “Very good, madame,” said Madame Besset. “One would think you had done this before, you learn so quickly.”

  “Yes,” Stephanie murmured, “it feels very comfortable.” In fact, it felt wonderful. The bulk of the car, its steady hum and enclosed warmth in the pouring rain made her feel strong and powerful, and exhilaration filled her as the Citroen obeyed her commands, spurting forward, stopping, turning to left or right or forging straight ahead. She sat tall and looked straight ahead. She was going ten miles an hour; the drenched stone walls and iron gates guarding stone houses, the sodden gardens, heavy bushes and tall trees moved past in dignified slow motion, but Stephanie felt she was flying. I can go anywhere, she thought. To Cavaillon and all the other places Max and Madame Besset and Robert talk about: Aix-en-Provence, Roussillon, Aries, Saint-Rémy, Gordes, Avignon. I can go anywhere. I’m free.

  She drove one more smooth circ
uit, then came to a gentle stop at the driveway of the Auberge de la Colline. “Well done, madame,” said Madame Besset. “A good, smooth stop. But we are not home yet.”

  “We’re not ready to go home,” Stephanie replied firmly. She contemplated the driveway, gauging its width between two stone pillars, then took a deep breath and drove between the pillars into the parking area. There were only a few cars at this time of day, but Stephanie had not considered maneuvering into a parking place, and while she tried to consider it now, the car kept moving forward.

  “Madame!” Madame Besset said, alarmed, and Stephanie turned to ask her a question, but there was no time: the car reached a row of bushes at the far end of the lot and came to an abrupt stop with its headlights in the branches.

  “Oh, no! Oh, how could I—” Stephanie’s shoulders slumped as she looked at the bushes embracing the front end of the car. “I’m so sorry, Madame Besset; look what I’ve done to your car. I’m so sorry—”

  “Please, madame, do not be upset. You did so well—”

  “But look what I’ve done. Why didn’t I step on the brake? I just forgot about it.” Her voice rose. “Forgot, forgot, can’t remember . . . that’s what’s wrong with me!”

  “Madame, please!”

  “We’ll buy you a new car, I’m so sorry, I should have known I couldn’t drive—”

  “Madame.”

  Stephanie turned and Madame Besset put a hand on her arm.

  “You drove very well. You did excellently for one who has never driven. I am sure you have not destroyed my car; it perhaps will need some new paint. It does not worry me, and it must not worry you, either. It is a small matter and all will be well.”

  In a minute, Stephanie gave a small smile. “Thank you. I think I’d better back out of here.”

  “Ah, no, madame; do not attempt any more right now. We have not practiced driving in reverse. I will get us out of here and then perhaps I should drive home.”

  Stephanie shook her head. I did do well, she thought, I did excellently, and I’m not going to give up. “I’ll get us out of here and I’ll drive home. But not right away. First we’re going to have a glass of wine. We’ve earned it. Poor Madame Besset; were you afraid for your life?”

  Madame Besset opened her mouth to object, then closed it. They were in her car and it certainly was not proper for her to drink wine with madame in a café—or anywhere!—but she worked for madame and madame had become very stubborn suddenly, and more sure of herself, and it seemed unlikely that madame would change her mind about the wine, or perhaps about anything, just because Madame Besset objected.

  The café was almost empty, the tables neatly set with pink patterned tablecloths and napkins, the ladder-back chairs pushed in, the stone floor swept clean, poised for the dinner crowd. Stephanie and Madame Besset sat near the fireplace, the flames rising inside a tepee of logs, plates warming on the brick hearth. “Red wine,” Stephanie said and looked at Madame Besset, who, after a moment, nodded. They were silent, gazing at the fire, Madame Besset with her mouth in a thin line of resignation, Stephanie smiling to herself, once again feeling wonderful.

  The owner of the café brought the wine and two slices of pear tatin—“to fortify two lovely ladies on a very wet day, with my compliments.”

  Stephanie watched him walk away. “What a nice thing to do.”

  “He most likely remembers madame from her dinner here with monsieur and is looking for more visits,” said Madame Besset, knowing that there was only one lovely lady at the table.

  “Oh, how hard you are. I think he was just feeling generous and wanted to brighten a rainy day.” Stephanie tasted the wine. “This is very good. Well, we will come back. I like this room and I like the owner and this wine is excellent.” She took a bite of the pear tatin. “Everything is excellent. I think we’ll come here often for dinner, certainly on your days off, Madame Besset.”

  The room was quiet. Two men sat at a table in the back, reading Provencal newspapers; two men nearby were playing chess while a third watched; in a corner a man sat alone with a carafe of wine and a small dish of walnuts. The clatter of dishes and pots and pans could be heard from the kitchen. Stephanie saw herself and Madame Besset sitting at their small table, two women sharing a glass of wine on a winter afternoon, the warmth of the fire curling around them, their rain slickers and hats dripping from a nearby coat tree, and she felt a rush of affection for Madame Besset. This is how women become friends, she thought, and asked, “Madame Besset, are you married?”

  “Yes, madame.”

  “And? Do you have children?”

  “Yes, madame.”

  “Are they young? Do they still live at home?”

  “No, madame.”

  “Oh, I will not have this!” Stephanie exclaimed. “I want a conversation, not questions and answers as if you’re a student taking a test. Surely we can talk to each other as two women; what would be wrong with that? I promise to ignore you when we’re at home, if that’s what you would like. I could even order you around quite haughtily, if that is what you were taught to think of as correct.”

  A smile flickered on Madame Besset’s lips and the muscles in her face began to relax. She was aware of the warmth of the fire and the excellent red wine and pear tatin, and she liked—more today than before—this very beautiful and kind lady who was so strangely childlike one moment, seeming lost and bewildered, and so much a woman the next. And always lonely, Madame Besset thought, and found herself leaning forward. Two women having a conversation; there could be nothing wrong in that. In fact, it could be very pleasant. “Well, madame, I have seven children, three boys and four girls, born between the time I was sixteen and twenty-eight. Of course they are grown now, and four of them have families of their own, but still one thinks always of one’s children as children.”

  “And your husband? He owns the farm where you live?”

  “He and my father and uncle. It is large enough to support two families—my uncle’s and ours—”

  “Your mother is dead?”

  “For thirty years. Some tumor . . . no one knew what it was and she did not trust doctors. And then it was too late.”

  “So she was not with you to help with the children.”

  “No one helped me with the children. I am fortunate in that I have a large lap, madame, and much good humor. And I know what is correct, so I could teach my little ones and then they knew how to behave and they were no trouble.”

  Stephanie smiled. “It sounds so simple.”

  “It is simple, madame, if one is firm and has a loving heart.”

  “And do you—”

  “Pardon, madame, do you wish more wine?” The café owner had materialized beside their table, his balding head shining beneath the ceiling lights, his curved black brows raised in inquiry.

  “Not for me,” Stephanie said. “But Madame Besset . . . ?”

  “No, no, I am content, madame.”

  “You are, aren’t you?” Stephanie asked. “I mean, with your life and your family and your farm.”

  “Of course, madame; I am greatly blessed. I was born on my farm; I have traveled a little—”

  “Where?”

  “What, madame?”

  “How far have you traveled?”

  “Oh, I went once to the sea, to Nice and to Marseilles, but they were far too crowded; I like fields and hills and the sky without interruption. I have been to Orange and Vence, but nowhere was any better than right here; in fact, nowhere was as good. You see, madame, we all have a place that is right for us, with people who are right for us, and when we find it, and recognize it, it is foolish to waste time searching for something else. I know there may be many excitements in other places that I have never even dreamed of, and perhaps riches and perhaps sorrows, but I think I would lose myself if I were not in my own place, and then what would I be?”

  Tears stung Stephanie’s eyes and she looked away, staring at the fire.

  “Madame?” Madame Besset wa
s leaning forward. “I have said something wrong?”

  “No, of course not.” Stephanie turned back, and met Madame Besset’s worried frown. “I was just thinking that I envy you. Your life is so clear, to you and to your family; you all know yourselves: where you come from and where you’re going, where you belong and . . . who you are.”

  Madame Besset gave a slight shrug. “It is of no great difficulty; we are ourselves and we do not try to behave like others. We are comfortable together. As for me, I have a good husband and good children, a good position with you and monsieur, and good health. That is enough to make anyone content.”

  “But why do you work for us? Didn’t you say the farm takes care of your uncle’s family and yours?”

  “Indeed it does, but our sons and their families will want it soon for themselves; always the younger generation itches to pull free of the old. My uncle has no children, so our three boys will take the farm and we will retire to a house we have bought, with a large garden, in Saint-Saturnin-lès-Apt, perhaps thirty kilometers from here. So I put away the money monsieur pays me, for that future time. And you know, madame, I enjoy my work. It gives me pleasure to make a home—it is what I do best—and you and monsieur need me. So there you are.”

  “Why do we need you?” Stephanie asked curiously.

  “Because I think you have not found your place yet. Monsieur, perhaps, but you are still searching. So it seems that you do not know what to expect of each other, almost as if you are strangers, getting acquainted. And of course you do not—But forgive me; that is not to be spoken of.”

  “We do not sleep together. Is that what you were about to say?”

  “It is not for me to speak of that, madame.”

  “But surely there have been times in your married life when you did not sleep with your husband.”

  “Madame!”

  “Oh, I didn’t mean . . . I didn’t mean you were sleeping with someone else. I meant, you might have been ill, or your husband was, and one of you went to a different room, so the other could sleep.”