still, the buzz of the cicadas crescendoing with the rising afternoon temperature.
“I have an international plan on my cellphone.” It would be almost cheaper to fly home to talk with her mother in person if they spent much time on the phone.
“Unnecessary,” he said promptly. “Marthe-Louise would have my head if I let you do that.”
“Hmmph.” She’d leave some money on the counter to pay for her bill.
Jack showed her how to dial internationally and kissed her forehead. She stared dreamily after him and then snapped to attention as her mother’s voice came on the line.
“Hello?”
“Mother? It’s Lily.”
“Lily. Are you well?” Her mother sounded pleased to hear from her.
“Yes, I’m fine. How are you?” For someone who attempted to make a living with her words, she was certainly falling short.
“Very good. I read your blog about how you’re in Provence now.”
Lily winced. She should have called her mother about her change in plans, but she’d sent her an email and was too used to doing things on her own. “Yes, and it’s beautiful here. I’m in the middle of the lavender harvest and got some great photos that I’ll post later as soon as I get the blog post written.”
“Sarah told me how to subscribe to your blog, so I’ve been reading all your posts. You met a man named Pierre in Paris?”
“Yes, well, that’s not his real name. I don’t mind the publicity, but he works for a government agency and doesn’t want his name splashed around the internet.”
“Oh, my.” Mother sounded amused. “Is he a French secret agent?”
Lily laughed. “No, he does relief work overseas and they go into dangerous regions sometimes. Publicity would put them at risk.”
“Well, as long as you know his real name. I assume he is with you in Provence?”
Lily squirmed. Her mother didn’t need to know all the details of her traveling—and sleeping—arrangements, so she settled for a bare-bones outline. “He comes from here, so we’re staying at a guesthouse that belongs to his friends. The housekeeper fixed us several kinds of spreads and crackers and then we had this Provençal version of pesto sauce and spaghetti.”
“Be sure to write down the recipes,” Mother reminded her. “Although the ingredients somehow taste different when they are grown somewhere else. Much like the homemade foie gras—I enjoyed your post about that.”
“Holy cow, was that good.”
“I think you mean ‘holy goose,’” her mother teased.
Lily was taken aback for a second but then joined in the laughter. Mother had never laughed or shown much of a sense of humor in years past. Stan the Chef (Stan her Stepdad, she reminded herself) was a jolly guy, and maybe he was helping her mother lighten up. “And how is Stan?” she asked.
“Fine, thank you for asking.” Her mother sounded pleased at her interest. “He’s at the market right now shopping for a dinner party tonight. Mrs. Wyndham is hosting one of the U.S. senators—he’s up for reelection next year and is working on his fundraising.”
Lily made a terrible grimace. “Good grief, Mother, those dinners are even more deadly than her usual parties.”
“That’s right, dear, you never did like that part of the job.”
“But, Mother, how can you stand doing that stuff after all these years?” Lily burst out. “Don’t you want to do something else before—?” she broke off her sentence.
“Before I get too old and feeble to work?” her mother replied. Fortunately she seemed more amused than offended. “Unfortunately I’m not even fifty yet, so retirement is a bit away.”
Lily winced. She always forgot how young her mother was, only twenty when Lily was born.
“Besides, I’m not like you, Lily. I don’t get bored easily and I enjoy routines and organization. For me, life is better when I know what’s happening next.”
“Gee, you sound like Jack. He’s very organized and a real homebody, too.”
“So your mystery Frenchman is named Jack?”
“Jacques, actually.”
“I assume he’s treating you well?” Mother’s voice took on a steely tone she reserved for rich, drunken letches and lazy housemaids.
“Very well, Mother. I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”
“Good.” Her tone softened. “I wish I had seen things differently when you were younger. I didn’t understand your situation at school.”
“Well, rich guys are pigs.”
“Lily!” her mother scolded her. “Those particular young men were pigs, but don’t be a reverse snob.”
She shifted on the desk chair, remembering how she had accused Jack of snobbery, and that had proven so untrue as to be laughable. “Sorry.” But he was just a regular guy anyway.
Mother was never one to harp on