“Like a girlfriend?”

He sighed.

“No girlfriend.”

The thought of his recent affairs made him want to stop the car, get out, and weep. Since the divorce there had been a string of women. And a string of disillusion. Women he had met via the Internet on those infamous websites. Women of his age, married women, divorced women, younger women. He had thrown himself into the dating process with gusto, determined to find it exhilarating. But after the first couple of sexually acrobatic stunts, coming back heavy-hearted and drained to his new empty apartment and his new empty bed, he found the truth staring him in the face. He had shied away from it long enough. He still loved Astrid. He had finally admitted that to himself. He still loved his ex-wife. He loved her so desperately it made him feel sick to his stomach.

Mélanie was saying, “Probably had better, more exciting things to do than to take your spinster of a sister on a long weekend.”

“Don’t be silly, Mel. This is what I want to do. I want to do this for you.”

She glanced at a signpost on the highway.

“Hey, we’re heading west!”

“Clever girl!”

“What’s west?” she asked, ignoring the affectionate irony in his voice.

“Think,” he said.

“Um, Normandy? Brittany? Vendée?”

“You’re on the right track.”

She said nothing, listening to the old Beatles CD Antoine had turned on. As they drove on, she uttered a little scream. “I know! You’re taking me to Noirmoutier!”

“Bingo,” he said.

But her face had sobered up. She looked down at her hands in her lap, her lips tightening.

“What’s wrong?” he said, concerned. He had been expecting laughter, whoops, smiles, anything but her static face.

“I haven’t been back there.”

“So?” he said. “Neither have I.”

“It’s been”-she paused to count on her slim fingers-“1973, right? It’s been thirty-four years. I won’t remember a thing! I was six years old.”