At the Edge of Summer Read Free Page B

omitted all the good details, it seems.”
    “They were all friends, I think. Our mothers, our fathers.” He wiped the knife on his towel. “I’ve seen some of Papa’s studies from that time. Boisterous dinner parties, cafés, picnics, rowing on the Clyde.”
    Mother always spoke of art school longingly, but never of her life in Glasgow. Had she once worn Gypsy earrings like Madame Crépet? Drunk black coffee and argued socialism in smoky cafés?
    Father had been part of that life. For a brief time he’d stepped outside of his architecture apprenticeship long enough for night classes at the School of Art, long enough to fall for a redheaded art student named Maud. I’d always wondered what had brought them together. I wished I’d asked him about it when I had the chance. I wished I’d asked him about a lot of things.
    “And then they married and left all that behind,” I said. “The rowing, the parties, the school.”
    “They stayed friends, though. Even when my parents left Glasgow for France.” He uncovered a dish and, with a corner of bread, scooped something pale brown and creamy. “Here, this is garlic pâté.”
    I took the bread but didn’t eat. “They couldn’t have been as close. They lived in different countries, they had different lives. They only saw each other once a year.” I ran a finger through the pâté and put it in my mouth. It tasted like garlic and herbs, like autumn in the woods.
    “I suppose I’ve never had a friend to grow apart from,” he said.
    Neither had I. After Mother left, Father kept me close. Maybe he was lonely. Maybe he was worried I’d disappear next. “One must always begin somewhere,” I said, the taste of pâté still on my tongue. For the first time in a long while, I let myself smile.

C lare Ross wasn’t the first stray that Maman had brought to Mille Mots. She was forever carrying in some wretched creature, a sore paw or a broken wing tied up with her pocket handkerchief. Apart from Marthe’s parakeets, we’d housed numerous dogs, several scrawny cats, a handful of birds, a baby mouse, and, on one occasion, a three-legged squirrel. To me, a teenage girl was as mystifying as a pet squirrel.
    It must have been just as mystifying for Maman. She wrote me from Calais to say she was bringing home a visitor, her old friend Maud’s daughter.
Will you come home at the weekend, Luc? Your papa is working on that frieze, the one with the serpents and the swans, and is in Reims most days. I’m sure Clare doesn’t want to be stuck here with no one but me.
    And though I had lessons and work and tennis games I’d rather be playing, I didn’t argue. There was a note of desperation hidden in Maman’s note. I pinched the inside of my wrist, the way Maman always had when I was a boy and swung my legs during church. A good Crépet.
I’ll be there Saturday night,
I wrote back.
    I didn’t want to play nursemaid. I expected black crepe and tears, stiff-necked Britishness. I expected dreary hours of being polite. Instead I found a girl, hesitant in the front hall of the château, with a halo of Titian hair and a wispy dress the color of summer leaves. She might have been one of Papa’s fairy queens. Her face was shuttered, yet her eyes were intense and curious, flicking from one thing to the next. I wondered how she saw Mille Mots.
    Though I tried to study on the train ride back to Paris, my thoughts kept going to Clare Ross and her single, careful smile. I sensed that she didn’t offer them often. Though I hadn’t planned on it, I knew I’d be back soon.
    When I returned the next Saturday, Mademoiselle Ross wasn’t in the château. I found her out under the old chestnut tree with a sketchbook resting against her knees. She still wore that leaf-green dress. Two of the dogs stretched out on the grass beside her, one snoring, the other watching my approach with rapt attention and wagging tail.
    “There you are.” She pushed her straw hat back from her face. “I