It’s my choice, Lucy. The three young men exchanged expressive glances. ‘Ah, no,’ Gerald uttered at once, lowering his voice and infusing it with all the promise he could command. He could remember when women laid away their gowns in lavender—as this girl's mother had. The freezing water lapped around her ankles as she ran along its edge, marveling at the thousands of tiny white spiral shells the tide had brought in. Monsieur could rely upon his special attention, and for the cooking—well, he had his customers, who came from their homes to him year after year. Ray Plote would not leave a written explanation. ‘Dieu du ciel, for what do you take me?’ ‘I don’t know,’ he threw at her.
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