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luminous, covered everything with a wash of silver. I could almost see my shadow as I strolled past the stone table under the olives and crossed the lawn. The silence was profound, almost eerie, and the air had a faint herbal smell.
    I reached the end of the wall and looked back at Mas Rose. Light shone from the open kitchen door and upstairs windows, and it looked like the calm haven I wanted it to be and suspected it was not.
    On my way back I saw the glow of a lighted cigarette and made out Marcelle, sitting at the stone table, smoking. I sat down across from her. “Finished for the night?”
    “Almost. I came out for a cigarette. They don’t like me to smoke in their part of the house.”
    I couldn’t see the expression on her face, but could tell she thought this another piece of American lunacy. “You live here in the house?”
    She nodded. “On the other side. Antoine and I.”
    “Antoine is your husband?”
    “Yes. He’s a mason. He’s away on a job right now. We both look after the place.”
    We sat in companionable silence, which I finally broke by saying, “You’re a wonderful cook.”
    “Thank you. My grandmother taught me.” She sounded gratified.
    “It’s too bad Madame Howard was ill and had to miss dinner.”
    “Ill!” The word was accompanied by a sniff. Her face was in shadow.
    “I understood she had a terrible headache,” I said carefully.
    “I suppose she’s much better now,” said Marcelle sarcastically. “And that’s why she could eat the ham sandwich, potato chips, and Diet Coca-Cola Monsieur Pedro prepared for her on a tray. She ate every morsel. I picked up the tray myself. Only a crust of bread was left, and Madame Howard was sitting up on her bed with magazines all around her, painting her toenails!” She took an angry drag and expelled smoke sharply.
    Vivien didn’t sound like a person wasted with migraine. She must’ve been determined to miss Marcelle’s larks. Or was she? Wasn’t it equally likely she’d been evading me?
    I told Marcelle that Madame Howard had probably made a miraculous recovery but had not wanted to risk another headache by coming down for dinner. For all I knew, it was true. As I bid her goodnight, Pedro came out. He nodded to us and walked to the edge of the bluff. I saw a flame flicker, and in a moment the poisonous smell of cigar smoke drifted our way. The house no-smoking ban obviously included him, too.
    I climbed up to my room, feeling every narrow and uneven step of the winding staircase. In the hall I heard troubadour music, but faintly. I got in bed as fast as I could and, against all odds, fell immediately asleep.

VIVIEN
    I saw Vivien for the first time from my window early the next morning. She was standing at the edge of the bluff, looking out toward Mount Ventoux. Her dark hair was pulled back in the chignon familiar from her photographs, and she wore a loose black dress that stirred in the breeze. All around her, fist-sized irises nodded and swayed.
    The scene was pretty and peaceful. Vivien wasn’t clutching her head, so I couldn’t tell if real or pretend migraines were imminent.
    Idly watching, I saw Ross approach her from the direction of the house. Over his arm was a piece of fringed, loosely woven material, cream-colored, very likely a shawl. Standing behind Vivien, he said something. She shook her head without turning. He spoke again, and when she didn’t move he placed the shawl around her shoulders.
    It was as if he had pressed the switch animating a mechanical toy. She snatched off the shawl and flung it down the hillside. It wheeled, spread, collapsed, and landed on a flowering broom, where it fluttered like a flag. She didn’t look at Ross, or speak to him as far as I could tell. He stood motionless behind her.
    Then he turned and started back to the house. I couldn’t see the expression on his face.
    The pantomime energized me. I wasn’t going to sit around another day while Vivien stayed in her room eating ham