Page 18 of Where the Snakes Sleep

The heat had followed me indoors, heavy and vinegary, and I felt myself wilt in the stuffy air. There was a refrigerator case along the back wall, its compressor wheezing with every cycle, and the only relief was standing in front of it, pretending to choose which milk to buy. But the longer I lingered, the more I felt the pressure, as if the village was waiting for me to finish and get out.

And the clerk—God, the clerk. I’d practiced my French on the walk there, rehearsing simple phrases. But when I’d attempted to speak, my accent mangling the words, she’d responded in English after scoffing.

“American, yes? English okay.” She’d said it in such a way that it made me feel like she’d scold me if I tried to continue in French.

I’d tried to smile, to be friendly. “Yes, um, I’m new here—”

“Legrand.” She’d cut me off, her eyes narrowing.

It wasn’t a question. The way she said my grandfather’s name made my skin prickle.

“Oh, um, did you know my grandfather?” I’d asked, trying to keep my voice casual.

She’d turned away, busying herself with something behind the counter. “Oui. Everyone knows him.”

The implication hung in the air between us, heavy with meaning I couldn’t decipher. I’d completed my purchases in silence after that.

Now, as I trudge along the path that leads back to the cottage, I can’t shake the feeling that something is deeply wrong. And I don’t think that it’s just that I’m an American outsider. What I experienced in that market was something else entirely.

Camille’s words echo in my mind, so similar to the shopkeeper’s. “Everyone here knew of Alberte Legrand.”

I should have done a hundred things differently, but most of all, I’m starting to think I should’ve asked more questions about my grandfather before coming here.

By the time the cottage comes into view through the trees, my arms have gone past aching and entered a state of distant, buzzing numbness, and the rough paper handles of the grocery bags have carved deep red grooves into my fingers.

I stagger up the last stretch of path, fantasizing about dropping everything onto the kitchen floor and lying face down beside it until either the sun sets or someone finds my dehydrated corpse.

Then I notice the basket on the doorstep.

It is the sort of thing displayed in the window of an expensive shop around Christmas, deep and rectangular, woven from dark wicker and lined with cream-colored linen. A black ribbon has been tied around the handle in a neat bow, and a sprig of something green and fragrant has been tucked beneath the knot.

Rosemary, maybe.

Or some poisonous French plant designed to kill unsuspecting American homeowners.

Considering how today has gone, I’m not ruling anything out.

I remain several feet away, staring at it as sweat trickles down the side of my face.

The basket had not been there when I left. I’m certain of that. I’d spent several minutes fighting with the front door before realizing I had to lift it slightly while turning the key, and there had been nothing on the step except dirt, dead leaves, and a spiderweb stretching from the door frame to the rusted porch light.

Now there is an expensive-looking gift sitting in the middle of all that as though it has been delivered to the wrong house.

A white card rests against the handle.

My name is written across the front.

Ryan.

Not Mr. Smith. Not Monsieur Legrand. Just Ryan.

Camille.

No one else here knows my first name. Honestly, based on my reception at the market, I’m not sure anyone else would bother learning it before running me out of town with torches and farming equipment.

Fuck, no. I’m sure they’re just not used to new faces, especially non-French ones. I take a deep breath in and out, trying to dispel the paranoia growing inside me.

I drag myself the rest of the way to the cottage, lower the bags onto the ground, and flex my throbbing fingers. The relief is so immediate I almost moan.