And the beautiful daughter-in-law.

All of a sudden, the precise memory of his mother coming down those stairs in a black strapless dress hit him in the chest like a blow. Her long black hair, still damp from the shower, twisted up into a chignon, her tiny, slim feet in suede slippers. Everybody watching as she glided into the room with that dancer’s step she had passed on to Mélanie. He could see her so clearly it hurt. The freckles on the bridge of her nose. The pearls in her earlobes.

“What’s wrong?” Mélanie asked. “You look peculiar.”

“Nothing,” he said. “Let’s go to the beach.”

A few moments later they were heading on foot toward the Plage des Dames, a couple of minutes away from the hotel. He remembered this little jaunt too-the thrill of getting to the beach, and how slowly the adults used to walk, and how aggravating it was to have to linger behind with them.

The path was packed with joggers, cyclists, teenagers on scooters, families with dogs, children, babies. He pointed out the large brown red-shuttered villa that Robert and Blanche nearly bought one summer. An Audi van was parked in front of it. A man his age and two teenagers were hauling groceries out of the trunk.

“I wonder why they didn’t buy it in the end,” said Mélanie.

“After Clarisse died, I don’t think anyone came back to the island,” he said.

“I wonder why,” said Mélanie again.

Antoine pointed one more time across the road.

“There used to be a little grocery shop right there. Blanche would buy us candy. It’s gone.”

They walked on in silence for a while. Then the beach appeared at the end of the road, and they both grinned, memories rolling in like waves. Mélanie pointed to the long wooden pier on the left while Antoine gestured to the uneven row of beach cabins.