next week and had wanted to be there, but both men had decided to get together without an intermediary.
“I may or may not like him, but it doesn’t matter in the end. We don’t have to work together.”
“And you know he’ll love you?” Ned grinned.
The cold water had woken him up pretty effectively. Long-lost cure for jet lag: freezing pools.
“Everyone loves me,” Edward Marriner said. “Even my son.”
“Your son,” said Melanie, darkly, “is a terrible person.”
“Really,” Greg agreed, shaking his head.
Steve kept quiet, possibly thinking about snails in his bed. Ned decided he was going to have to do the snail thing at some point, and live with the consequences.
IT TURNED OUT the three others were going to drop his father in town then drive east towards Mont Sainte-Victoire, which Paul Cézanne had apparently painted, like a hundred times. The painter had been born and died here. He was Aix’s main celebrity and he’d made the mountain famous.
Ned remembered his father grumbling about Cézanne on the flight over, leafing through Barrett Reinhardt’s notes: how it was almost impossible to get a picture of that mountain that wasn’t a cliché or some sentimental tribute to the painter. He wasn’t looking forward to it, but Barrett had said it was simply not possible to be in Provence working on a book of photographs and not shoot that peak. Especially if you were Edward Marriner and known for your mountainscapes.
“Simply not possible,” his dad had repeated on the plane, imitating the art director’s voice.
This afternoon’s drive would be partly an outing in the country, and partly to check some places Barrett had marked on local maps as where they might set up. Ned’s father would make that call himself, but the others were good at eliminating locations they knew he wouldn’t go for.
“You coming?” Steve asked Ned.
“Ah, I have to be in town by five-ish, actually. I’m meeting someone.”
“Who? What? How?” Greg demanded. “We just got here!”
Ned sighed. “I met a girl yesterday morning. We’re having a Coke.”
“Holy-moly,” said Melanie, grinning.
Greg was staring. “A date? Already? Jeez, the boy’s a man among men!”
“Don’t rush him, or me,” Edward Marriner said. “I feel old enough as is.”
“We’ll get you back in time,” Melanie said, checking her watch. “But change into running shoes, Ned, we may climb a bit. Sandals are no good.”
“Okay. But will you tie my shoelaces for me?” Ned asked. Melanie grinned again. He was glad the subject had changed. This date thing was not something he was easy with.
They dropped his father in Aix and then took the ring road around the city and headed into the countryside along a winding route Melanie said Cézanne used to walk along to find places to paint.
It was a fair distance to the mountain if you were on foot. Ned thought about that: in the nineteenth century, the Middle Ages, Roman times, people walked, or rode donkeys or something, and the road would have been way rougher. Everything was farther, slower, back then.
And at the beginning of the twenty-first century here they were, cruising these curves in an air-conditioned Renault van, and they’d be out by the mountain in twenty minutes or something and then back in the middle of town in time for him to meet Kate Wenger.
Cézanne, or the priests who had paced the worn walkway of yesterday’s cloister, or those long-ago medieval students who’d prayed in the cathedral and then gone across the square to lectures, they had allmoved through worlds with different speeds than this one—even if the students were late for class, and running. Ned wasn’t sure what all of that meant, but it meant something. Maybe he’d put it in an essay—when he decided to think about his essays.
It was a brilliantly bright afternoon; they were all wearing sunglasses. Melanie’s were enormous, hiding half her face; Steve’s blond hair and tiny round
“I may or may not like him, but it doesn’t matter in the end. We don’t have to work together.”
“And you know he’ll love you?” Ned grinned.
The cold water had woken him up pretty effectively. Long-lost cure for jet lag: freezing pools.
“Everyone loves me,” Edward Marriner said. “Even my son.”
“Your son,” said Melanie, darkly, “is a terrible person.”
“Really,” Greg agreed, shaking his head.
Steve kept quiet, possibly thinking about snails in his bed. Ned decided he was going to have to do the snail thing at some point, and live with the consequences.
IT TURNED OUT the three others were going to drop his father in town then drive east towards Mont Sainte-Victoire, which Paul Cézanne had apparently painted, like a hundred times. The painter had been born and died here. He was Aix’s main celebrity and he’d made the mountain famous.
Ned remembered his father grumbling about Cézanne on the flight over, leafing through Barrett Reinhardt’s notes: how it was almost impossible to get a picture of that mountain that wasn’t a cliché or some sentimental tribute to the painter. He wasn’t looking forward to it, but Barrett had said it was simply not possible to be in Provence working on a book of photographs and not shoot that peak. Especially if you were Edward Marriner and known for your mountainscapes.
“Simply not possible,” his dad had repeated on the plane, imitating the art director’s voice.
This afternoon’s drive would be partly an outing in the country, and partly to check some places Barrett had marked on local maps as where they might set up. Ned’s father would make that call himself, but the others were good at eliminating locations they knew he wouldn’t go for.
“You coming?” Steve asked Ned.
“Ah, I have to be in town by five-ish, actually. I’m meeting someone.”
“Who? What? How?” Greg demanded. “We just got here!”
Ned sighed. “I met a girl yesterday morning. We’re having a Coke.”
“Holy-moly,” said Melanie, grinning.
Greg was staring. “A date? Already? Jeez, the boy’s a man among men!”
“Don’t rush him, or me,” Edward Marriner said. “I feel old enough as is.”
“We’ll get you back in time,” Melanie said, checking her watch. “But change into running shoes, Ned, we may climb a bit. Sandals are no good.”
“Okay. But will you tie my shoelaces for me?” Ned asked. Melanie grinned again. He was glad the subject had changed. This date thing was not something he was easy with.
They dropped his father in Aix and then took the ring road around the city and headed into the countryside along a winding route Melanie said Cézanne used to walk along to find places to paint.
It was a fair distance to the mountain if you were on foot. Ned thought about that: in the nineteenth century, the Middle Ages, Roman times, people walked, or rode donkeys or something, and the road would have been way rougher. Everything was farther, slower, back then.
And at the beginning of the twenty-first century here they were, cruising these curves in an air-conditioned Renault van, and they’d be out by the mountain in twenty minutes or something and then back in the middle of town in time for him to meet Kate Wenger.
Cézanne, or the priests who had paced the worn walkway of yesterday’s cloister, or those long-ago medieval students who’d prayed in the cathedral and then gone across the square to lectures, they had allmoved through worlds with different speeds than this one—even if the students were late for class, and running. Ned wasn’t sure what all of that meant, but it meant something. Maybe he’d put it in an essay—when he decided to think about his essays.
It was a brilliantly bright afternoon; they were all wearing sunglasses. Melanie’s were enormous, hiding half her face; Steve’s blond hair and tiny round
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