Then, abruptly, the elderly woman glanced away. She peered at Joey, looking her up and down much as Claire had done. Joey endured this scrutiny as well, when the old woman’s face cracked into a smile, it startled her.
“Alors, petit-fils, c’est ça, ta derniere petite amie.” The old woman put her hands on her hips and flashed a glance full of hidden meaning at Luke. Joey struggled to interpret it, startled when the dry voice switched suddenly to heavily accented English. “Didn’t think you’d ever bring one here, boy. Something special, hein?”
Glancing at Luke in mute appeal, Joey suffered a second shock. A dull red flush had appeared along the angle of Luke’s cheekbone, his lips settled into a grim line .The old woman cackled, and Joey almost jumped.
“J’ai raison, hein?” Once again the woman’s attention was riveted on Joey. “Well, do the introductions. Where are your manners, boy?”
Joey was aware of a sudden shift in the demeanor of the people who had watched the confrontation. It was as if all the tension had drained away, to be replaced by something approaching goodwill, all at once soft voices were exchanging comments and glances and nods as the small knot of villagers loosened.
The deep tone of Luke’s familiar voice was a relief, even sharp with annoyance “Grand-maman, this is my friend Joelle Randall.” He turned to Joey for the first time, his expression easing just enough to reassure her. “Joey, this is my grandmother, Bertrande.”
Searching Luke’s face for some clue as to a proper greeting, Joey took a chance “Bonjour—Bertrande. I’m very happy to meet you.” When she extended her hand, the old woman took it in a surprisingly firm clasp. In fact, Bertrande’s hand was so far from fragile that Joey blinked. The old woman grinned, revealing several gaps where teeth had been.
“Joelle.” The way Bertrande said her name was like the way Luke had said it once or twice, with a rolling lilt at the end. “A good name. It may be you’ll do.” Abruptly she dropped Joey’s hand and winked broadly at Luke. “I was right, hein? Elle est differente. P’t-être que c’est elle…”
Once again Joey was treated to the rare sight of Luke’s blush. If circumstances had been only a little different, she would have demanded a full explanation then and there—but one careful look at Luke’s face told her clearly it was not the time. Explanations would have to wait. She understood enough to grasp that Luke’s grandmother was a person of importance in the village, and if she accepted Joey, the others would do so as well.
As if to confirm her guess, several of the villagers stepped up to greet Luke, many with hugs and slaps, which he returned with some reserve. In fact, Joey noted that there was always something a little odd in the way he met their greetings, with some, including the few children who circled about him like dervishes, he was openly affectionate, as he’d been with Claire. With the women he was gravely courteous regardless of their age, with the men there was more reserve, almost a kind of testing similar to what had passed between him and his grandmother. But none of it made much sense to Joey, and she allowed herself to be distracted from her thoughts when Luke brought a man of about his own age over for introduction.
“This is my cousin Philippe,” he said above the chatter of conversation that flowed about them. “Claire is his daughter. I’ll be staying with him tonight.” Philippe met her extended hand with his own callused palm, nodding to her gravely; his hair was jet black like Claire’s. He murmured a greeting to her in French, looked at her for a long, searching moment, and turned at last to Luke. With a few final words to his cousin Philippe moved away, one by one the other villagers followed his example, until only Claire and Luke’s grandmother accompanied them.
It was then that Joey registered Luke’s last sentence. “You said you’d be staying with Philippe. Does that mean I’ll be staying somewhere else?” Her voice sounded challenging even to her own ears, but Luke hardly so much as glanced at her. His face was still grim and set.