Chapter EightMolly was an early riser and Frances a late one, so Molly got up and had coffee and breakfast by herself. She screwed up her courage for a phone call, still a difficult hurdle even though her French had improved dramatically over the months she had been in Castillac. There was something about that disembodied voice over the phone, with no facial expression or body language to help the communication along. Dread was not too strong a word for how Molly felt about phone calls in France.
She was calling a mason, recommended by her neighbor Madame Sabourin, who she hoped would be able to repair the external wall of the pigeonnier down in the orchard, the first necessary step toward turning the outbuilding into a habitation she could rent out.
“Bonjour, Monsieur Gault. I received
