And that is it. Door shut. End of conversation. End of communication. All the way to Paris.

SEVEN

THEY’RE WAITING FOR US IN THE PRIVATE PLANE terminal: Ambrose is a huge, hulking form coming at me for a crushing embrace, and Charlotte’s a sparkling ball of effervescence, hopping up and down like popcorn and grabbing me around the neck as soon as Ambrose lets go.

“You’re here!” she squeals, and then does the jumping thing some more, practically dislocating my neck in the process.

“Couldn’t miss the big day,” I say, although that’s exactly what I had been planning to do. I glance over at Ava, and she’s pure cynicism. She knows I’m full of shit. She strides up to Ambrose and holds her hand out.

“Ava Whitefoot,” she says.

Ambrose smiles his million-dollar smile and says, “Damn, I miss that accent. Raised in New York?”

“Long Island,” Ava responds, and matches his smile watt for watt. And I have to admit: It looks truly genuine. Ava is a people person, except, it seems, when it comes to me.

Charlotte detaches herself from my neck and turns to give Ava the bises, leaning up slightly to reach the taller girl’s cheeks. “I’m Charlotte. I don’t think we’ve met.”

“I don’t go to convocations,” Ava explains. “I’m a bit of a hermit. Prefer not to wander far from home.”

“Well, we’re honored you came all this way for our wedding,” Charlotte says, and sticks out her hand for me to inspect the elaborate emerald-and-diamond ring on her left hand.

“Renaissance?” I ask.

“Yes,” she says fondly. “Ambrose chose it from the treasury.”

“It’s exquisite,” Ava remarks, looking from the ring to Charlotte’s face. “It matches your eyes.” She smiles, and the connection is palpable: A new friendship has been born.

Meanwhile, Faust has walked up to Ambrose, and they do a testosterone-charged handshake that makes all their arm muscles bulge. “Faustino Molinaro,” Faust says. “Nine eleven.”

Ambrose whistles, impressed. “Fire, police, EMT?” he asks.

“New York City Fire Department, Ladder Company Three,” Faust replies.

Ambrose clasps Faust by the shoulder and says, “Man, we’re honored to have you here. True American hero.”

“Not any more than you, from what I’ve heard,” Faust replies. “World War I, first African-American tank battalion. Took out an entire German guard post single-handedly. Man, you’re legend among the kindred back home.”

Ambrose laughs. “This is home now. And if I get any time off from wedding preparations”—he throws a worried glance at Charlotte, who gives him a happy smile and blows him a kiss—“I’ll be happy to show you around.”

Ambrose grabs an overstuffed suitcase—Gold has sent gifts for the couple and books for Gaspard. I pick up my own bag and reach for Ava’s.

“I’ve got it,” she says crisply, and, taking the bag from me, follows Ambrose and Faust out the door.

Charlotte raises her eyebrows at me and whispers, “Are all New York girls tough like her?”

I put my arm around her, bury my nose in her hair, and breathe in that spring-fresh Charlotte smell. My sister. My kindred. “I don’t know about tough,” I say, “but they’re scary as hell.”

We pull up to La Maison. The high walls and solid metal entry gates block the view of what lies inside. Then Ambrose buzzes them open, and it’s like we’re driving into a fairyland. The garden’s trees are decorated with tiny glimmering lights, and white and green garlands have been hung atop the massive double front doors.

“Welcome to Wedding Disney,” Ambrose jokes, but his expression is one of pure enjoyment. He parks the car next to the fountain, where someone has crowned the angel statue with a flowered head-wreath.

“There’s still almost two weeks till the wedding,” I say, gesturing at a newly built pagoda with a mountain of chairs stacked inside.

“They got started a month ago. It’s mainly Kate and Gaspard going crazy with the decorations, although he pretends he’s not as excited as he is,” says Ambrose, throwing a love-struck glance toward Charlotte, who is beaming.

I clap him on the back. “Man, I’m really happy for you,” I say, and mean it with all my heart. Ambrose and Charlotte found love. Like Vincent and Kate. I never thought I’d say it but they . . . they are the lucky ones.

The doors fly open, and Jeanne bursts through, arms wide, heading straight for me. “Mon petit Jules,” she cries. “You have come back.”

“Just for the wedding,” I say, but can’t help melting in her maternal arms. Jeanne is the one human presence in La Maison. Her grandmother was the housekeeper when I arrived, and then her mother cared for us as if we were her own. But it is Jeanne who stole my heart. Who acts like a mother hen although I’m a half century older than her.

“You left without saying good-bye,” she scolds, and then, when I can’t find an easy reply, gives me a look of pity that suggests that she knows exactly why I’ve stayed away. She’s probably known this whole time.

She lowers her voice, although no one is listening. “I had her go run some errands. That will give you some time to get settled before you have to see her,” she confides.

Yep. She’s known this whole time.

“Thank you,” I respond, not even pretending that I don’t know what she’s talking about.

Jeanne nods with satisfaction. She knows that I know that she knows. Which means she can take care of me. Which is exactly what she wants.

Charlotte is leading Ava and Faust into the house, and I follow. Jeanne bustles in behind us, organizing everyone. “Jules, dear, you have your old room, and Mademoiselle Whitefoot and Monsieur Molinaro can stay in the east wing,” she instructs.

Gaspard appears at the top of the double stairway, wearing an ancient silk waistcoat and a cotton shirt with enormous open cuffs over a pair of high-waisted dress pants. “Jeanne, I really don’t think period dress is necessary except for the bride and groom,” he calls, as he fiddles with a cufflink. And then he looks up and sees us.

His crazy gray-threaded black hair sticks up as if electrified—as per norm—and an uncharacteristic broad smile spreads across his face. “You’re here,” he says to me, and makes his way down the stairs. “We didn’t expect you for another half hour. Traffic must have been light.”