Faith wasn't sorry they'd brought Benjamin. He could have stayed with the Leblanc children and Paul's sister Michele, but as she watched her son, in his own long Bermudas, blue seersucker ones, and a white polo shirt, climbing the gnarled old apple trees near the wisteria-draped house with the garcons d'honneur, she knew he was having an experience she, if not he, would remember all his life. Besides, she wanted him near and she had a strong feeling he felt the same.
She had taken him to school most of the week, not wanting him to miss the fun of playing with Leonard and the others, but had stayed, leaving only to go to the market. In the end, sitting at a low table at the garderie and helping to play a variety jouets educatifs—educational games like pasting beans in designs and of course Legos—turned out to be just what she needed to regain her own equilibrium. Looking at this gathering of well-wishers, happily sipping grape juice and eating the best brioche she'd ever tasted in her life, Faith resolutely turned her thoughts away from where she'd been a week ago. And it might have remained that way, except for the car just now pulling to a halt at the gates, scattering gravel and discharging none other than Chief Inspector Ravier.
Michel Ravier had cursed himself repeatedly all week for not having sent the guard to the Fairchild's apartment sooner. They knew Christophe had not been acting alone and it should have been obvious that another attempt would be made to keep Madame Fairchild from talking. Michel knew she didn't know who else was involved, but whoever they were did not. Now, it might or might not be over. Christophe had vanished, presumably to Italy. Valen-tina Joliet had miraculously survived her fall—much to Faith's relief, who, while not relishing the idea of joining the clochard in the poubelle coffin herself, did not want to be the cause of another human being's death, however justifiable. Also, knowing a bit about the French legal system, she realized she had been spared an endless amount of questions and paperwork that would have made grandmother's sister's husband's place of birth seem a mere bagatelle.
Valentina would be hospitalized for a long, long time and would never walk again, but after some days, she was able to talk. She just wouldn't. Meanwhile, Ravier had had Faith discreetly followed all week, deciding to take on today's duty himself. He loved country weddings and it wasn't often he had the chance to attend one, particularly since becoming a police officer. Besides, the Fairchilds were leaving on Monday and it would be his last chance to see Faith—and Tom—until the trial.
“Inspector Ravier, how nice to see you," Faith said in genuine delight, thinking what a stupid word nice was. "Friend of the bride or groom or both?"
“Neither, but they were gracious enough to allow me to come.”
In fact, Adele Picard nee Veaux was looking upon her wedding as one of the events of the decade. The press had gotten wind of the missing Americaine's attendance and reporters and photographers had surrounded them at the mairie and the church before the bride's father had ordered them off. All week, Faith had been having her fifteen minutes of fame over and over and now Adele was having hers. It would be something to tell her grandchildren. When Chief Inspector Ravier asked to come to keep an eye on Madame Fairchild, they had not only agreed, they had been honored. Then there were those big boxes from Cambet in Lyon that arrived, expensive crystal and china underneath the shredded tissue. No, Adele was not unhappy at all. All this and Jean-Jacques, too.
Ravier had arrived just as Act Four was about to commence. The wedding guests bid adieu to those from the village and jumped in their cars to report to a scenic spot for the photo. The cars pulled up to an open field, grass neatly mown, surrounded by Lombardy poplars. A small Renault truck roared to a stop and in the twinkling of an eye, two young men had pulled stacks of risers out of the rear and assembled them at the far end of the field. Then rapidly, they began to assemble the group for the wedding souvenir. It was like her eighth-grade class picture, Faith recalled, thankful that her braces were off. The children flanked the newlyweds in front on the first level, Ben included, and all the rest stood on the risers behind them. The photographer took a long look at the group and made a few adjustments. You there, you there. Madame, remove your hat. Then click, click, click and he was hurrying them off. They'd packed the gear and were gone in a cloud of dust before the wedding party had reached their cars for, at long last, the reception.
The salle des fetes was indeed a room for parties, actually a hall with several rooms. There was a dance floor with a small stage overlooked by a large room with floor-to-ceiling windows on one side. This room was filled with long tables covered with white paper punctuated by small colorful bouquets of flowers at regular intervals, besides the requisite glassware, cutlery, and napkins. The kitchen was behind some doors on the left and the smells made Faith faint with hunger, not an unusual state for her these days. What a happy baby he or she was going to be! They'd located their place cards and she sat expectantly between Michel and Tom. Ben had joined the children again, twirling about madly on the dance floor to the lively music produced by an elderly but accomplished accordian player and an only slightly younger drummer.
“You won't hear any heavy metal here tonight," Paul said. "Maybe 'le canard,' some tangos, walzes, an apache dance, if people really loosen up, and so forth. What was played at their parents' and even grandparents' weddings and all the village fetes."
“ 'Le canard?" Tom asked. "The duck?"
“Wait and see." Paul laughed.
After the melon au porto and the saumon a I'oseille, perfectly poached salmon with sorrel sauce, and while Tom, Michel, and Paul were proclaiming the Beaujolais Leynes the best Beaujolais ever to cross their lips, the music changed from stately Strauss to something more sprightly. Couples waddled onto the floor for "le canard," which looked exactly like its name, performed with much enthusiasm and high spirits. Faith declined when approached by Clement, saying all too soon she would look like the dance. The others were also content to watch and wait for the next course. The whole affair reminded Faith a little of the dance she'd gone to on an island off the Maine coast the summer before. Grown-ups danced with children, women with women, men with men, as well as the more traditional pairing of men and women. There were all ages, all sizes, and all abilities. Watching the couples alternately glide and jump about below her in a series of remarkably athletic dances, Faith wished the evening could go on and on forever. Of course at that point relatively early in the evening, she didn't know that it would.
It was Ghislaine who first broached the subject on everyone's minds.
“Faith, cherie, be honest. We are here together and you are safe. Could we ask Michel some questions? There is still much I am unclear about. But if it brings back bad memories, we will watch the ducks and feed ourselves."
“I had actually been going to suggest something along those lines myself. Michel and his buddies have been asking me questions all week, but I have a few of my own." She raised an eyebrow in Ravier's direction in an attempt at a Gallic gesture. He replied in land with a shrug. It sent a slight tingle up and down her spine.
“For myself, I don't mind. Tom?"
“I know my wife very well, my good inspector"—the ambience-inspiring phrases normally absent from the good reverend's speech, Faith noted—"And if you don't answer her questions, she'll try to find out some other way, and we know what happens then.”