Chapter 34In August, she and Macaire stole away to the Jasmine Festival in Grasse, on the French Riviera. After showing Ruth around the perfume factory, which seemed to her a chemistry lab of sorts—though an elegant one, to be sure—Macaire had ushered her to the flower fields where they strolled for acres and acres amid waist-high green and purple shrubs while Ruppik the dog loped on ahead, eagerly sniffing the lavender-infused air.
“What does Ruppik Moy mean, anyway?” Ruth asked.
“What took you so long?” Macaire smiled mischievously. “It’s Yom Kippur run backward.”
“Ha!” Ruth said, giving her head a smack. “Some linguist I am.”
He let off a loud whistle. “Ruppik! Par ici, mon vieux!”
As the dog circled back to them, his pointy ears standing at attention, Macaire continued. “Yom Kippu
