20
Molly and Ben had agreed to meet for dinner at Chez Papa. Molly arrived without going home first, and found the bar crowded with a tourist group from London.
“Bonsoir, Nico,” she called over the din. He jerked his head at her and kept taking orders for drinks.
Molly looked for Frances at her spot at the end of the bar, but her friend was nowhere to be seen. No sign either of Lapin or his wife Anne-Marie, no Lawrence, not even anyone she recognized from the village but had not yet met. She parked herself on a stool and waited for Nico to have time to make her a kir.
“Hullo, hope you don’t mind my saying so but you’re not from around here, are you?” said a lanky man dressed in vintage tweed.
“I am and I am not,” said Molly. “Molly Sutton, formerly of Boston, Massachusetts, now of Cas
