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called Brigitte to tell her about the girl. Is that a problem for you?”
    “Of course not.”
    “I called her because they had such a tremendous catfight when Brigitte accused Lisette of stealing from me. Everyone in town knew there was bad blood between them. I wanted to see if she’d heard from Lisette lately. I’d prefer Brigitte not be dragged into all this.”
    “And did she know anything?”
    “Nothing, Madame Prosecutor. Now, is this inquisition going to go on all afternoon, or can we order something to eat?”
    “I apologize, Luc.”
    “You don’t doubt that Jacques is going to show up at Le Relais tonight, do you? I promise you he won’t be able to resist. It will only cost me a good meal—a big one—with some serious wine, and you’ll know all the dirt he’s dug up by nine o’clock.”
    “I’m sure you’re right.”
    “You’re like everyone else who comes to Mougins after all. You see our precious hilltop from the highway and you think it’s Camelot. You believe it’s a magical medieval village where time stands still and only good things happen.”
    Since our relationship began, my frequent jaunts to the south of France had become a form of escape for me. I didn’t delude myself about that. More than a decade of prosecuting the most heinous crimes in a city where violence flourished 24/7 made me especially susceptible to the nonurgent lifestyle that Luc so enjoyed.
    When I was alone in New York, I tried to separate out how much of the pleasure and excitement of the relationship was my love for him and how much was the fairy-tale aura of life in this romantic enclave. Once I reached Mougins, it was a hopeless task to even contemplate making that decision.
    “Now I know it’s like every place else in the world. That’s a good reality check for me,” I said, pulling the crewneck sweater over my head and realigning the straps of my bathing suit. There was no purpose to a menu when I was out with Luc. “What’s for lunch?”
    The waiter stepped forward to take our order. “We’d each like to start with the salad of tartare de crabe et saumon. And then we’ll have grilled langouste to follow, okay?”
    The spiny Mediterranean lobster was entirely different from its American cousin. I had a home on Martha’s Vineyard, where I’d first met Luc at the wedding of two of my best friends. I’d introduced him to all the culinary treasures of my little island in the Atlantic—clam chowder and fried clams from the Bite, lobster hauled in the same day and harpooned swordfish from Larsen’s Fish Market, lobster rolls and root beer at the Galley, grilled striped bass at the Chilmark Tavern, and mussels steamed in garlic and oil at the Beach Plum Inn—and Luc reciprocated with all the most delicious foods in the South of France.
    “I’ll never be able to eat dinner,” I said, sipping the cool champagne as he reached over to pat my stomach.
    “It’s my goal to fatten you up.”
    “You’ve got a good shot at it this time. I don’t know how many laps I can do after a few glasses of champers.”
    I put my head back on the cushioned pillow of the lounger. This was only Sunday, and I didn’t have to fly home for another week—enough time to put behind me the trial of the serial rapist I had just taken to a successful verdict, and before I needed to prep for the more difficult child abuse case I would prosecute in June.
    “Laps? I’m thinking more like a late afternoon nap, Alex.” We had both stretched out on our lounge chairs, facing each other. Luc was tracing the outline of my shoulder with his fingers. “You need to make up your mind about Saturday night, you know. It has to be exactly as you like.”
    April 30 was my birthday—thirty-eight this year—and we were going to celebrate it together in a week. “I told you, Luc, no party. Last night was enough of that.”
    “The restaurant, then?”
    “No. You’ll end up working the room with your fancy guests instead of sitting with