Page 21 of Where the Snakes Sleep

5

Camille

Ryan thanks me with a note.

Not a visit, not a knock upon my door followed by an invitation to share the wine I selected for him, nor even an awkward attempt at conversation through the crumbling passage in the wall.

A note.

I find it folded beneath a smooth stone on the front step the following morning, the paper torn from what appears to be a cheap notebook and his message written in hurried blue ink.

Camille,

Thank you for the basket. It was very kind, and everything has already been useful.

Ryan

No suggestion that he would like to repay the kindness. No questions about the village or cottage or anything else.

I turn the paper over, as if he might have continued on the other side, but it’s blank.

The stone he has chosen to hold it in place is from the eastern bank of the river, pale and oval, polished smooth by decades of current. He must have walked some distance to find it, unless he picked it up without thought during one of his trips beyond the cottage.

The possibility that he selected it deliberately is the only reason I do not discard it, and instead carry both rock and note into my study and place the paper beneath a glass weight on the corner of my desk.

I tell myself I keep it because his handwriting may prove useful.

By the third day, I understand that Ryan Smith is either far more self-sufficient than he appears or far more stubborn than is reasonable.

He walks into the village each morning despite the heat, returning with bags cutting into his fair skin and perspiration darkening his clothing. The first time, I assume necessity has driven him to it, which is understandable. The second time, I leave my car near the wall with the keys in my pocket and make certain I am visible in the western garden when he comes outside.

His gaze passes over the car, then me, and lingers long enough that I expect him to cross the garden and ask whether my offer of assistance still stands.

Instead, he lifts one hand in a distant greeting, nods politely, and continues down the road.

The third time, I intercept him.

“There is a larger market in Saint-Cyprien,” I tell him. “I am driving there this afternoon.”

Ryan adjusts the canvas bag slung over his shoulder. His hair is damp at the temples, and a thin streak of dirt marks one side of his jaw, suggesting he has already attempted some manner of work in the cottage or garden.

“Thanks, but I only need a couple of things. The market in town is fine.”

“The selection in the village is limited.”

“It is, but I don’t need much today.”

“I can take you.”

“I’m good, thank you.” The answer is immediate, almost reflexive, and delivered with a smile that seems intended to soften the refusal.

It does not.

I look at the faded red mark one of the bag’s straps has left against his neck. “You would rather walk several kilometres in this heat?”

“It’s not that far.”

“It is five kilometres each way.”