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behind them?”
    “I would rather not talk about my personal life.”
    “Of course, I understand. As you wish.” He smiled kindly. “But if you ever want to talk, I am here.”
    Emptying his glass, he peered towards the kitchen. “Where has our dinner gotten to? Let me go and see if they have opened the wine.” He stood up and brushed cigarette ashes from his trousers. He was wearing his habitual blue linen jacket but had put on a clean white shirt for the occasion. His floppy beret sat on the table.
    I was left alone in the gathering dusk. The moon had come up behind the trees, almost full, white and gleaming. Of course I could talk to Père Caron, I knew that, sensing his kindness and genuine desire to help, and perhaps I should confide in him, or at least tell him about Piero and Claudine. On the other hand, better not to open up old wounds. As for the boy, well, I would find him myself.
    A glow of light threw itself across the grass as Linda appeared bearing two candelabra, followed by Père Caron cradling a wine bottle.
    “A few more minutes,” Linda said. “I’m just waiting for the haricots to finish cooking. Victor is carving the lamb now.”
    The priest resumed his seat and poured wine into our glasses. As I reached for mine, he held up a halting finger. “Not just yet. Give it five minutes of the night air.” Pushing the breadbasket across the table he said, “Eat a piece of this and clear your palate of the anise taste.”
    I waited. Finally, he took a swallow of his wine and leaned back with his eyes closed, pursing his lips. When he opened his eyes he said, “
Délicieux
. Truly. What do you think?”
    I tasted from my glass. The scent of black currant wafted up to my nostrils. I was no wine connoisseur, but after all these years in France I knew a very good wine when I tasted it.
    I thought of Serge Bruneau, my friend, who ran the gallery where I used to show my paintings. He often used to take me out for lunches to restaurants he’d discovered, and he always had his little rituals with wine. He would have enjoyed an evening like this. I missed him suddenly. But if I thought of Serge then I thought of my old life in Paris, and I didn’t want to remember it, I didn’t want to know it continued to exist. Better to be here on this island, where I knew no one and nobody knew me.
    “I have a proposal for you, Leo. If you agree to clean the painting, I will provide a cottage for you, rent free, over in LeBec, and any materials you need. You can take your meals here at the hotel if you don’t cook. It won’t cost you anything.”
    “I have money. More than I need.” Serge had been selling my work steadily over the past couple of years, and without Claudine and Piero there was nothing to spend the money on.
    “Well then?”
    “Why is it so important to you that the painting is cleaned, Père?”
    “Perhaps it is more important for you, Leo.” He looked down to the darkening harbour, holding his wineglass to his nose, swirling the liquid back and forth.
    I thought about this statement as I watched the white moon slowly rising over the sea. Below it on the calm dark water a long carpet of shimmering reflection stretched towards me. The night was warm, the air was pleasant. What reason did I have to leave this place?
    “All right,” I said. “I’ll do it.”
    “You’ll stay on, here on the island, until it is finished?”
    I shrugged. “I have nowhere else to be.”
    “Très bien
. Very good. I am glad, for both of us.” He leaned across the table and squeezed my arm. “I’ll make the arrangements first thing in the morning. And I have just the cottage in mind. Sheltered from the wind but with a view of the sea. Perfect for a painter.”
    I was going to ask him about the woman I’d seen in the chapel, if he knew who she was. But I’d already made him suspicious with my questions, and anyway, just then the kitchen door opened and Victor and Linda emerged bearing platters of