27
Chez Papa was indeed crowded; Molly could hear the noise a half block away, which was unusual since the French were not shouters. She parked the scooter and looked inside the plate glass window in front.
She could see Lawrence at the bar, talking to Nico and waving his hands in the air. Rémy stood next to him, still dressed in his work clothes. Lapin and Anne-Marie were at a table eating steak frites; Molly could see the high pile of glistening golden fries and her mouth watered. An everyday view of Castillac—friends and food—that never failed to warm her heart.
“Molly!” said Lawrence, seeing her come in. He spun on his stool and held out his arms, which she fell into.
“Bonsoir, you old coot,” she said, squeezing her friend tight. “I hardly see you anymore—and I feel like I say that
