They argued about it on the way down.

"You didn't even call," Laura said. "How can we just drop in with no warning?"

"I wrote to her a couple months ago, I told her we were coming in July." Kevin shrugged off her protests. Y-chromosome, Laura muttered to herself, half annoyed and half envious.

At least, she thought, the stop would break up the trip. The drive from the dock at Calais to the Touraine region was a long one; Brigitte lived in a Paris suburb, a good halfway point. Laura felt the familiar boredom and restlessness that long car journeys always induced in her. She smiled over the back of the seat at three-year-old Sean, securely strapped in and good as gold. He was listening to his tapes now, sometimes singing along in his high baby-sweet voice.

Laura noted with grim amusement that Kevin adapted at once to the breakneck speed at which the French drove the autoroute. In mid-afternoon, they pulled up in front of a large house in serious danger of being overtaken by roses. Roses lined the drive, clustered in beds, climbed trellises, arched over doors and around windows; the warm air seemed solid with their scent.

An old man was snipping away at dead flower-heads. He wore a beret and a jacket in spite of the July heat, and looked up curiously as they got out of the car.

"Bonjour, Monsieur Lemieux." Kevin's French exhausted itself at this point, and he looked at Laura for help.

"Bonjour, Monsieur. Est-ce que vous vous-rappellez de mon mari, Kevin Sheedy? Il est un copain de Brigitte, et il vous a rencontre il y a sept ans, je crois."

The old man's eyes showed no recognition, but he greeted them politely. Of course, of course he remembered Kevin, had it really been seven years? And this must be your lovely wife, and what a fine boy you have! But Brigitte no longer lived at home, she had moved to an apartment of her own, in La-Celle-Saint-Cloud. Another suburb several miles away.

Laura could not keep the I told you so look from her face as she translated for Kevin.

The old man put down his shears and walked them to the house. Please, come in and have something to drink, my wife will be delighted.

This proved to be true. In the foyer, tiny Mme. Lemieux looked up from one face to another, shaking her blonde head in honest puzzlement at first. But when Laura said, do you remember, the trip Brigitte took to Ireland—that's where she met Kevin, then they hitchhiked through Europe together and came back here? Mme. Lemieux threw up her hands in excitement and began to speak in a flood of French to the tune of hugs and multiple cheek-pecking.

"She remembers you," Laura managed a brief translation through the babble and crush of hugs.

They were escorted into the sitting room, full of too much furniture and too many knick-knacks. But Laura saw that some of the pieces were lovely, an old eighteenth century sideboard, Laboreur prints, an Art Deco lamp. Cut-glass vases and bowls of roses rested wherever there was space.

They had a drink, pastis for the grown-ups, fruit juice and biscuits au chocolat for Sean. Mme. Lemieux chattered away: No, Brigitte hadn't lived here for years, she'd moved out as soon as she graduated and got a job, young people are in such a hurry to grow up these days. But they would call her, right now, she'd be at work but that was all right, a visit from Kevin all the way from America, this was special.

So they called Brigitte and by the time the phone had passed from hand to hand in a full circle, plans had been made for a grand fete. Dinner at 8 p.m., when la famille Sheedy would stop by again on their way back to Calais in a week's time. They drove off with the old couple waving, waving, from the doorway beneath a tangle of yellow roses.

Their week on a farm outside Tours was idyllic; no other word would do. They rented bicycles and rode for miles on blessedly flat roads, a picnic basket on the back of Kevin's bike, Sean on the back of hers. The little bistros where they ate dinner were shabby but clean, feeding them rough, delicious meals of tomatoes and sausage and crisp-crusted bread. Laura's French came back in fits and starts, but it was wonderful to be speaking it again. Sean picked it up so easily, playing hide-and-seek with the children who lived on the farm. Cache-cache, he called it, and would jump out from behind a tree with a triumphant cry of "Voila!"

It was a contented trio that arrived back at the maison Lemieux, to be greeted at the door by Brigitte herself. She was pretty, of course; what else did Laura expect of a French ex-girlfriend. And to Kevin's astonishment, Brigitte had managed to locate a mutual friend from all those years back. Tran, a Vietnamese expatriate, still lived in Paris. He and his wife would be joining them for dinner.

Mme Lemieux had evidently slaved for days over the meal. Slices of homemade game pate surrounded by tiny cubes of aspic that glowed in the lamplight. Scallops in their shells in wine and cream sauce topped by the delicate crunch of golden breadcrumbs. A mighty tenderloin of beef, roasted simply but perfectly. Tiny French beans no thicker than pine needles, little crisp brown coins of potatoes. Salad, cheese, and a strawberry tart all scarlet and cream and gold. Mme Lemieux herself did the serving; Brigitte explained that a local girl had been hired for two days to help with the cooking.

The wines were even better than the food, making the conversation—a wild amalgam of dreadful French and not-quite-English—almost comprehensible. Kevin talked to Brigitte most of the evening, as she was the only other person who spoke English. Laura was seated next to Tran. His French was not much better than hers; if she understood correctly, he had spent the war years in Vietnam working for the CIA.

Monsieur Lemieux sat quiet, but his wife talked constantly, even when no one was listening to her. As the evening wore on, she grew shrill, drawing annoyed glances from her daughter. Otherwise, the elder Lemieuxs seemed to be enjoying the evening; Laura sensed that it had been a while since young people had gathered there.

After coffee and brandy, with Sean long since asleep on his father's knee, Laura caught Kevin's eye and nodded that it was time to leave. She rose to go to the bathroom; Mme. Lemieux gestured down the hall with a tipsy wave.

The hall was long and dark; Laura passed a narrow staircase on her right. The back stairs, these would be; there was a grander set at the front of the house. She could see the bathroom up ahead, its door partly ajar.

For some reason, she looked to her right as she passed the stairs. She didn't know what had drawn her eye, no movement that she could recall. But tucked into the triangular space under the stairs was a neatly made bed. A young man, in his twenties perhaps, sat motionless on the bed. He wore a blue tracksuit. On a shelf at the head of the bed lay a plate with the remains of a meal. Spaghetti, from an open can beside the plate.

Laura saw all this in a moment; she was so startled that she kept moving. In the bathroom, she replayed in her mind what she had seen. She washed her hands, trembling.

When she stepped out into the hall, she had a clear view of the space under the stairs. It was a little world: the bed, a radio on the shelf, more cans of food. The man still hadn't moved.

His features, she saw, bore traces of Downs' syndrome, the small eyes and squared jaw superimposed over a clear resemblance to Brigitte. He was looking away from her, deliberately, it seemed. Laura paused as she passed by and kept her eyes on his face until at last he looked back at her. She nodded and bowed her head with a little smile. He looked away again.

When Laura stepped back into the dining room, Brigitte was in the midst of a sharing yet another laugh with Kevin. She glanced at Laura quickly. "My mother is a little drunk," she said in English, still smiling. "You should have used the guest bathroom upstairs."

Laura smiled back, her face feeling like plaster of Paris. "Pas de problem," she said. Then she raised her eyebrows at Kevin and he rose, Sean heavy on his shoulder. The good-byes seemed to take forever, and in a final grand gesture, Monsieur Lemieux presented Laura with an armful of roses so enormous she could barely see over them.

Brigitte walked them to the car. Kevin ducked halfway into the back seat with Sean, fastening straps and tucking blankets.

Laura and Brigitte kissed good-bye, three times alternating cheeks, the roses awkward between them. Laura did not pull away at the third kiss; she kept her face close to Brigitte's. "Please," Laura whispered in English.

Brigitte's eyes were bright and hard. She stared back at Laura, then dropped her eyes.

"His name is Pascal," she said. "He's my twin." She turned and kissed Kevin quickly, then went back to the house.

No one waved as they drove away. When they reached the autoroute, Laura opened the window. "I'm feeling a little sick," she said.

"You want me to stop?" Kevin asked at once.

"No." Laura shook her head. "It's just these flowers—I think the smell is too strong." And a few at a time, she flung the roses out the window, leaving behind a trail of broken stems, torn leaves, crushed and beaten blooms.

© Linda Sue Park