“Hi.”

Max turned from the contemplation of his future to see Christie, dressed in fresh jeans and white T-shirt, her wet hair brushed straight back. She looked about eighteen.

“Congratulations. You worked out how to use the shower.” Max poured a glass of wine and held it out to her.

“Thanks. Is that all you ever get? A trickle?”

“The French aren’t great at showers. But they do wonderful sunsets.”

They sat for a moment without speaking, looking at a sky streaked with gold and pink and decorated with small, rose-colored clouds that could have been painted by Maxfield Parrish in one of his more extravagant moods. Water splashed from the fountain, the sound mingling with the chirrup of cigales and the croak of frogs calling out to one another across the bassin.

Christie turned to look at Max. “What was he like, my dad?”

Max stared into the distance, consulting his memory. “I think what I liked most about him was that he treated me like an adult instead of a schoolboy. And he was funny, especially about the French, although he loved them. ‘Our sweet enemy,’ he used to call them; or, if they were being particularly obstinate and difficult, ‘bloody frogs.’ But he rather admired their superiority complex and their good manners. He was a great one for good manners. I suppose nowadays he’d be considered very old-fashioned.”

“Why’s that?”

“He was a gent. You know, honorable, fair, decent-all those things that have rather gone out of style. You’d have liked him a lot. I did.” Max sipped his wine and glanced at his watch. “I thought we might go down to the village to eat. I’ll tell you more about him over dinner.”

Chez Fanny was noisy and already crowded with people from the village and a handful of tourists, these easily identified by their sun-flushed faces and their logo-spattered clothes. Fanny came over to greet Max, a look of surprise on her face when she saw he was not alone.

“It’s been so long,” she said, patting Max on the arm as she kissed him. “At least two days. Where have you been? And who’s this?”

Max made the introductions and watched the two women sizing one another up as they shook hands, a searching mutual inspection that neither bothered to conceal, almost like two dogs meeting in a park. Why was it that men were never as open in their curiosity? Max was smiling as they sat down at their table.

“What’s so funny?” asked Christie.

“You two,” he said. “I thought for a moment you were going to start sniffing each other.”

Christie’s eyes followed Fanny as she snaked her way through the tables. “They wear their clothes pretty tight over here, don’t they? If she sneezed she’d be out of that top.”

“I live in hope,” said Max. Seeing Christie raise a censorious eyebrow, he hurried on. “Now, what would you like? Have you ever had rabbit stuffed with tapenade? Wonderful.”

Christie seemed unconvinced. “We don’t do rabbit in California. Is it, you know, gamey?”

“Tastes like chicken. You’ll love it.”

The topic of Uncle Henry occupied most of dinner, and Max told Christie as much as he could remember of those summers long ago. His uncle had given him what amounted to a haphazard education, introducing him to tennis and chess and wine, good books and good music. Max recalled in particular one endless rainy day devoted to the Ring cycle, preceded by his uncle’s comment: “Wagner’s music isn’t as bad as it sounds.”

There had also been lessons on elementary tractor maintenance, gutting chickens, and the care and handling of a pet ferret whose job it was to keep the rats down. Tossed into this informative stew were other diverse ingredients, such as the unpredictable nature of red-haired women, the virtues of Aleppo soap, the importance of a good blue suit-“Remember your tailor in your will; it’s the only time you should pay him”-and a proven system of winning at backgammon.

“I loved those summers,” said Max. “It was just like being with an older boy who knew a lot more than I did.”

“Where were your parents?”

“Oh- Shanghai, Lima, Saudi Arabia, all over the place. My father was a kind of minor diplomat. Every four years he’d be sent somewhere they didn’t play cricket and where it was considered generally unsuitable for little English schoolboys.”

Evening had given way to night, and the terrace was lit only by the flicker of candles on each table and the line of colored bulbs that had been strung along the front of the restaurant. Most people had finished eating, and were sitting over coffee, smoking, chatting quietly, and listening to the Edith Piaf album that Fanny had put on-hymns to heartbreak, a sob in every song.

Max could see that Christie was getting drowsy, ducking her head as she tried to stifle a yawn. The wine, the food, and her long day were catching up with her, and he signaled for the check, which Fanny brought over with a glass of Calvados.

She pulled up a chair and sat down. “Your petite amie,” she said, nodding at Christie, who seemed to be two seconds away from sleep. “I think you’ve worn her out.” Fanny’s expression was amused and curious, her eyes almost as black as her hair in the glow of candlelight.

Max tasted the Calvados, like apples on fire, and shook his head. First Madame Passepartout, now Fanny, both leaping to the same conclusion. Perhaps he should feel flattered. “It’s not like that,” he said. “She’s come all the way from California. Long flight.”

Fanny smiled, and leaned across to ruffle Max’s hair. “Better luck tomorrow then, hein?” Her hand dropped to his shoulder and rested there, warm and light. Without thinking, he ran his fingertips along the inside of her bare, caramel-colored arm, tracing the fine line of the vein that led from wrist to elbow. Their heads were close enough for him to feel her breath on his cheek.

“Am I interrupting something?” Christie had roused herself, and was watching them with half-open eyes.

Max cleared his throat and sat back. “Just paying the check.”

Driving back to the house, Max could still feel the touch of Fanny’s skin, as if his fingers had their own memory. Christie yawned again. “Sorry I pooped out. But thanks a lot. It was a nice evening. And you were right about the rabbit.” Max smiled in the darkness. “Glad you enjoyed it.”

Although neither of them knew it at the time, this was the high point of their relationship for several days to come.

The enforced proximity of two strangers is frequently awkward, because having a guest in your life demands a certain consideration that may not come naturally. And sometimes, if old habits are sufficiently entrenched, it may not come at all. That is how it was between Christie and Max.

By its nature, it was a strange and slightly uneasy arrangement for both of them, and one that wasn’t helped by what Christie later described as a clash of lifestyles. Max was an early riser; Christie liked to sleep in. She would come down to the kitchen to find that Max had eaten the last of the croissants and finished off the orange juice. Christie was tidy by nature; Max was not. He liked Mozart; she preferred Springsteen. Neither one of them could cook, a daily problem. Christie found Madame Passepartout nosy and intrusive; Max considered her a jewel beyond price.

There were also the minor inconveniences common to many old houses in rural France: the erratic water supply, by turns scalding, freezing, or almost nonexistent; the unpredictable quirks of electricity that falters and dims and, for no apparent reason, extinguishes itself; the racket of a tractor under the bedroom window at six a.m.; the odd taste of the milk; invasion by insects-all of these quickly began to chafe at the nerves of a girl used to the comfort and efficiency of life in the more modern, cushioned, and opulent surroundings of the Napa Valley. And then there were the French: formal one minute, familiar the next, talking like machine guns, obsessed with their stomachs, perfumed with garlic, and, in Christie’s opinion, suffering from a permanent attack of arrogance.