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really been looking forward to having you here. I’ll let you get settled in.”
    I walked her out. She climbed onto her bike and turned toward me.
    â€œCome and have a coffee with us. We’re on the other end of Mulranny; you have my address. You’ll meet Jack.”
    On my first night, as a welcome gesture, a storm broke out. The wind raged, rain lashed against the windows, the roof creaked. Impossible to get to sleep in spite of my weariness and the comfortable bed. I thought back about the day I’d had.
    Emptying my car was even more of a task than loading it up; my suitcases were scattered all over the living room. I’d been this close to giving up when I’d realized I had nothing to eat. I hurried into the little kitchen. The cabinets and fridge were full to bursting. Abby surely must have told me and I hadn’t thanked her. Shameful. How rude of me. I’d certainly run into her some day to apologize. As she’d said,Mulranny was a really small place: one main street, a mini-market, a gas station, and a pub. There was no chance I’d get lost or burn out my credit card in the boutiques.
    The welcome I’d received from my landlady left me puzzled. She seemed to expect some kind of close relationship, which wasn’t at all what I had envisaged. I would put off accepting her invitation as long as I could; I wasn’t here to keep an old couple company and I didn’t want to get to know anyone.
    I held out for a week without leaving the cottage; Abby’s supplies and the cartons of cigarettes I’d brought had kept me going. It had also taken all that time to unpack everything. It was difficult to feel at home, nothing reminded me of my former life. Streetlamps didn’t light up the night and there were none of the noises you hear in the city. When the wind died down, the silence became oppressive. I wished that my neighbors (still away) would hold a big party so the sound would lull me to sleep. The heady aroma of the potpourri was totally different from the smell of the polished parquet floor in our apartment, and the anonymity of the Parisian shopkeepers was definitely very far away.
    I was beginning to regret not having gone out earlier; perhaps I would have avoided everyone staring at me when I went into the mini-market. No need to try to work out what people were saying. Everyone was talking about me—the stranger, the foreigner. The customers turned toward me as I walked past, smiling and nodding at me. A few of them spoke to me. I mumbled some reply. It wasn’t part of my routine to say hello to people I came across in the stores. I slowly walked around the aisles. There was a bit of everything, food, clothes, even souvenirs for tourists. Though I must have been the only madwoman to risk coming here. One thing was a permanent feature: there was stewing mutton on the butcher’s shelves and sheep everywhere, on china cups and in the knitted sweaters and scarves, of course. Here, they raised these little animals for food and clothing. Like they did with mammoths in prehistoric times.
    A hand fell on my arm. “Diane. I’m so happy to run into you,” said Abby. I hadn’t seen her come in.
    I was startled, then said “Hello.”
    â€œI was thinking of stopping by today. Is everything all right?”
    â€œYes, thank you.”
    â€œHave you found everything you need?”
    â€œNot really, they don’t have everything I’m looking for.”
    â€œYou mean your baguette and cheese?”
    â€œUh . . . I . . .”
    â€œHey, I’m just teasing you. Are you done now?”
    â€œI think so.”
    â€œCome with me; I’ll introduce you.”
    With a dazzling smile on her face, she grabbed hold of my arm and took me to meet everyone. I hadn’t spoken to so many people in months. Their kindness was almost disturbing. After half an hour of small talk, I finally managed to make my way to the register.