12

Because of course he has a girlfriend. He’s way too fabulous not to-that little keeping-his-true-identity-a-secret-from-me thing aside.

The thing is, she seems really nice. She’s definitely gorgeous, with all that hair and her slim tanned shoulders and long, equally tanned legs. She’s wearing a very simple black tank top and a longish peasant skirt (new, not vintage, and expensive-looking, too) with jeweled flip-flops. She’s definitely in vacation mode.

Although my fashion radar may be off, because Dominique Desautels-that’s her name-like Andy, is foreign. She’s Canadian. French Canadian. She works at the same investment banking company in Houston that Luke does.

And they’ve been going out for six months.

At least that’s what I’m able to gather from my careful questioning of them both from the backseat of the Mercedes before my voice dies.

Because it’s very hard to concentrate on gathering information about the two of them when we’re whizzing past such beautiful scenery. The sun has set, but the moon’s rising, so I can still make out enormous oaks, their branches twisting across the road to make a sort of canopy of leaves above us. We’re careening down a twisting two-lane country road that winds alongside a wide, burbling river. It’s hard to tell, judging by the scenery, where, exactly, we are.

Or even when we are. Judging by the lack of telephone poles and streetlights, this could be any century, not just the twenty-first. We even pass an old-fashioned mill-a mill! With one of those big paddle wheels on the side of it!-with a thatched roof and beautiful garden.

There are electric lights on in the windows of the mill, though, indicating that this isn’t the 1800s.

Still, I see a family in there, sitting down to dinner.

In a millhouse!

It’s very hard to remember that I am depressed about my boyfriend turning out to have a gambling problem when the scenery whizzing past me is so picturesque.

Then we pass out from beneath the canopy of trees and I see towering cliffs above us, with castles on top of them, and Luke explains that this area of France (known as the Dordogne, after the river) is famous for its castles, having over a thousand of them, as well as for its caves, on the walls of some of which are paintings dating back to 15,000 BCE.

Then Dominique adds that Perigord, which is the part of the Dordogne we are in, is also known for its black truffles and foie gras. I am barely listening, though. It’s hard not to be distracted by the sight of a set of high-fortified walls-Luke says they belong to the ancient medieval village of Sarlat, and that we can go there to shop if I want to.

Shop! They couldn’t possibly have a vintage store there. But maybe a thrift shop…God, could you imagine the finds just waiting for someone like me? Givenchy, Dior, Chanel…who KNOWS?

Then we turn off the road onto what appears to be a very steep gravel-covered mountain track, barely wide enough for the car to pass. Branches, in fact, are whipping the side of it-and nearly me, as well, until I move into the middle of the backseat.

Dominique notices when I move and says, “You’ve got to get the men to trim that back before your mother gets here, Jean-Luc. You know how she is.”

Luke says, “I know, I know,” and then, to me, says, “You all right back there?”

“I’m good,” I say, clutching the back of the seats in front of me. I am being bounced around quite a bit. The driveway-if that’s what it is-needs some maintenance.

And then, just when I think the shuddering car can’t take it anymore-and am starting to wonder if we’ll ever reach the top of this hill, or if tree limbs are going to whip our heads off first-we burst through the last of the trees onto a wide, grassy plateau overlooking the valley below. Bright torches line the driveway, leading up to what appears to be-if my eyes are not deceiving me-the same house Mr. Darcy lived in in the A amp;E version of Pride and Prejudice.

Only this mansion is bigger. And more elegant-looking. With more outbuildings.

And it has electric light, which is making what looks like hundreds of windows blaze brightly against the blue satin sky. Arcing out from the circular driveway is a wide lawn dotted with huge, elegant oak trees, a massive swimming pool-lit up and gleaming like a sapphire in the night-and a scattering of white wrought-iron lawn furniture.

It is the most perfect place for a wedding that I have ever seen. The entire well-manicured lawn is fenced in with a low stone wall. All I can see beyond the wall, which appears to drop off into thin air, is a vast expanse of moonlit trees, far below, and then, off in the distance, another cliff like the one we’re on, topped by a chateau that could be a sister to this one, its own lights blazing in the night sky.

It is breathtaking. Literally. I find I’ve stopped breathing, gazing at it all.

Luke pulls the car into the circular driveway and switches the motor off. All I can hear is crickets.

“Well?” he says, turning around in his seat. “What do you think?”

I am, for the first time in my life, speechless. It is an historic occasion, but Luke doesn’t even know it.

The crickets sound very loud in the silence that follows Luke’s question. I still can’t breathe.

“Yes,” Dominique says, getting out of the car and heading toward the chateau’s massive oak doors, the garment bag with the wedding gown in it in both her hands. “It tends to have that effect on people. It’s pretty, isn’t it?”

Pretty? Pretty? That’s like calling the Grand Canyon big.

“It’s,” I say, not finally finding my voice until Dominique has gone inside and Luke is helping me pull my suitcases from the trunk, “the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen.”

“Really?” Luke looks down at me, his dark eyes hooded in the moonlight. “Do you think so?”

He keeps saying he’s bad at telling jokes. But he has to be kidding me. There can’t be any more beautiful place on the entire planet.

“Completely,” I say, though even that seems like a total understatement.

And then I hear familiar voices from the grassy terrace overlooking the valley.

“Is that Monsieur de Villiers, returned from Paris?” Chaz, striding out from the shadows of one of the massive trees, demands. “Why, yes, it is. And who is that with him?”

Then, midway across the circular drive, Chaz stops, recognizing me. It’s hard to tell, with the moon at his back-and the bill of his University of Michigan baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, as always-but I think he’s smiling.

“Well, well, well,” he says in a pleased way. “Look what the cat drug in.”

“What?” And Shari appears behind him. “Oh, hi, Luke. Did you get the-”

Then her voice trails off. And a second later she shrieks, “LIZZIE? IS THAT YOU?”

Then she’s leaping across the driveway and all over me, and shouting, “You came! You came! I can’t believe you came! How did you get here? Luke, where did you find her?”

“On the train,” Luke says, smiling at the panicky look I throw him over Shari’s shoulder as she’s hugging me.

But he doesn’t elaborate. Just like I’d asked him not to.

“But that’s amazing,” Shari cries. “I mean, that you two, of all people, would run into each other-”

“Not really,” Chaz says mildly. “I mean, considering they were probably the only two Americans heading for Souillac-”

“Oh, not another one of your philosophical speeches on the nature of randomness,” Shari says to Chaz. “PLEASE.” To me, she cries, “But why didn’t you call? We’d have met you at the station.”

“I did call,” I say. “About a hundred times. But I kept getting your voice mail.”