Page 59 of Across Time

I struggle to return it. I’m probably being paranoid, but I don’t want to be anywhere in that house alone with André. Henri, no matter what words come out of his mouth, sees me as an equal. André treated me like property out on the balcony. And something about that strikes me as a dangerous, especially in a time when women have so few rights.

Henri walks me to the door. Today, it's Andre who answers. He and Henri exchange a look before André gives him a broad smile, one that is too amiable to be believed. Did I actually think he was attractive the first time we met? Because the sight of him is making my skin crawl now. His lips press to my hand for longer than they should and I hear a low noise, a growl, coming from behind me.

"Your cousin is in good hands," André says to Henri as I walk in. He starts to shut the door and Henri puts one large foot over the threshold. "I will be back in precisely ninety minutes," he says to me, and then he leaves with one lingering, particularly hostile glance at André.

"If you're not in the mood to read to my grandmother today," says Andre, "perhaps we could go have lunch somewhere? It's a bit warm out but fortunately we live in town so things are close."

I smile. "That's kind of you, but I love reading to your grandmother,” I lie. “She was so helpful last time, correcting my accent."

"Come to lunch with me. Your accent is already quite good, as is your French,” he says. He smiles conspiratorially at my look of surprise. “I heard you with my grandmother the last time—there’s no way you could have read as well as you did without knowing the language. Don’t worry. I won’t tell your cousins."

I tighten my grip on the crutches. I am not interested in sharing secrets with André, and if he thinks this gives him some leverage over me, he’s very mistaken. “I made a promise to your grandmother," I say, passing him to reach the stairs. "You don't need to show me the way. I remember the room."

He bows his head. "Your dedication is admirable. I'll come up to check on you in a while."

I scurry up the stairs as fast as a woman on crutches can scurry and tap on the door, which is not fully shut and swings open with little pressure. The old woman gives me another narrowed-eye glance and tells me to get on with it.

"It's so lovely to see you today, Madame Perot," I reply in English.

Stop speaking to me in your gibberish and start reading, she replies.

I open the book where we left off and begin, but within seconds she is yelling at me. Your American accent is like oil in my ears, she yells. It's not guh, it's gah. My God they must teach you nothing over there.

Fortunately, when I ignore her she dozes off. I continue to read, because Henri won't be back for another hour and I'd rather spend time up here than with André downstairs. I begin to read more slowly, though, finally capable of saying the words and translating them as I go.

Madame Perot wakes, her eyes beady, all pupil, and accuses me of talking to the gypsies outside.

I decide there's no sense in pretending I don't know what she's said. I didn't see any gypsies outside, I reply, but they’ve never caused me any problems.

They're a dirty people, she says, still glaring at me as if I'm lying. They stole my husband's car once, at the end of the war. A very, very dirty people.

I’ll keep that in mind, Madame, I reply, hiding my smile.

I begin to read again and she soon falls back asleep, which is my preference, as it means I'm being neither hit nor yelled at. Unfortunately, it also means she is snoring loudly when André pokes his head in the door.

"Come have tea with me," he says. "My grandmother won't wake again for hours."

I return the book to her nightstand and reluctantly leave the room. "I don't have time for tea, I'm afraid. Henri will be here to get me soon."

"Then come," he says, "we can sit outside until he arrives."

I follow him to the garden on the side of the yard, which is flourishing in the warm July air. "It must be so dull for you, out on the farm," he says.

My dislike for André intensifies. "Not at all. Henri and Marie-Therese are very pleasant company."

"You're very good to them," he says diplomatically, walking closer than seems reasonable, given that I'm on crutches. His hand extends toward the garden. “So here it is. We've created a little bridge over this pond. A sort of mini Giverny if you will. You’ve seen Monet’s paintings, yes?"

I give him a tight smile. His garden is not Giverny by any stretch of the imagination. “Yes. I study art history, remember?”

"Ah, yes, of course," says André, stepping an inch closer. "We should go visit Giverny together. I know the current owners and it's just a few hours by car. Next Saturday perhaps? We will make a day of it."

I blink. I do not want to be alone with this man even here, a mile from the farm. I certainly don't want to be alone with him in a car, hours away. "I'm not sure my cousins would approve."

He raises a brow. "Henri seems rather proprietary of you, don't you think? It's a bit unseemly."

I move forward quickly, toward a small stone bench. "I'm sure you are mistaken," I say firmly.

He stills, as if he will argue, but then nods slowly. "Either way, I have no right to interfere. I just worry about you. So what do you think of our little garden?"