They had a late lunch at the Café Noir in Noirmoutier-en-l’Île, the largest town on the island. It was a crowded, noisy place, obviously a favorite hangout for the locals. Antoine ordered grilled sardines and a glass of white wine. Mélanie had a plate of bonnottes-the famous little round potatoes of the area-sautéed with bacon, butter, and coarse salt. The weather had grown hot, but a fresh wind kept the heat at bay. The café’s terrace gave onto the small harbor and the thin strip of a murky canal lined with old salt warehouses and jammed with rusty fishing boats and small sailboats.

“We didn’t come here much, did we?” asked Mélanie, her mouth full.

“No,” Antoine said. “Blanche and Robert liked to stick to the hotel. They never got farther than the beach.”

“We didn’t come here with Solange or Clarisse either, right?”

“Solange took us to visit the Noirmoutier château once or twice, and the church. Clarisse was supposed to come, but she had one of her migraines.”

“The château is a blank,” said Mélanie. “But I do remember Clarisse’s migraines.”

He watched the nearby table fill up with tanned teenagers. Most of the girls were wearing tiny bikinis. Barely older than his daughter, Margaux. He had never been attracted to women considerably younger than he, but the ones he had met since his divorce, through the Internet or via friends, had amazed him with the unabashed boldness of their sexual behavior. The younger they were, the cruder and more violent they proved to be in bed. At first he had been terrifically aroused. But then, very quickly, the novelty had worn off. Where was the romance? Where was the emotion, the pang, the sharing, the charming awkwardness? These girls flaunted the smooth, knowing moves of porn queens and gave head with such blasé nonchalance it repelled him.